Life’s Challenges

Threading the Needle

/ Quirky Girl / 20 Comments

Fasting and physicals both start with the notorious “f” sound. The very same “f” that starts off fabulous words such as failure and faint.

Sounds so promising, doesn’t it?

I don’t like doctors.

I don’t like physicals.

I especially don’t like blood.

Or perhaps more specifically, I don’t like the blood work that’s part of a rather unfortunate package deal with the aforementioned physical.

And the requisite fasting before the blood work? That right there is my worst nightmare.

Well, that, along with passing out from loss of blood.

It’s not the needles that freak me out. It’s the fact that my body protests riots whenever it’s forced to part with five vials worth of blood.

And for the record, passing out sucks.

But back to the whole fasting nonsense.

No food or drink for eight hours prior to having blood drawn? What’s up with that?

Right around the three hour mark, I typically start exhibiting signs of feral beastly hunger so intense that this vegetarian becomes pathologically unpleasant while getting dangerously close to resorting to cannibalism.

But seeing as how cannibalism is frowned upon in most parts of the world, that’s probably not the way to go.

So anyway, no food or drink prior to the sadistic practice of drawing blood is truly a hardship for me.

But according to the doctor, in addition to water, I can also enjoy a nice cup of black coffee.

Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather be a zombie.

Given my track record of passing out every time I have blood drawn, going solo is simply not an option for me.

As I’m getting ready to head out to my impending doom, my husband is forced to monitor me closely.

“Hey! What are you doing? Are you actually eating that toothpaste!?!”

“Maybe I am!”

“Come on. Spit it out. NOW!”

As we drive toward the blood work lab, a similar conversation ensues.

“What are you doing with that Do Not Eat packet?”

This time, he doesn’t bother waiting for a response before snatching it out of my hand.

Maybe I can enjoy that as a treat after the blood work.

By this point, I’m seriously contemplating eating the wrapper off my water bottle; just yanking that sucker right off and chomping away like an uncouth mule grazing in a pasture.

We arrive 15 minutes before the lab opens, so I have more than enough time for a quick trip to the restroom.

But I’m clearly not moving fast enough for my husband’s liking.

“What’s taking you so long? You’d better not be eating the toilet paper!”

Ha! Like I’d really do that.

I desperately scan the contents of the trash.

But it’s early in the morning. The trashcan is practically empty, with the exception of a used tissue and an empty bottle of Victoria’s Secret lotion.

We eventually enter the dreaded lab and get down to business.

It’s over fairly quickly, actually.

Holy crap! I didn’t pass out this time, even after all three huge vials are filled.

Of course, this is solely due to the fact that I’m laying flat across the table like roadkill instead of sitting in the chair like a normal human being.

But whatever. It worked.

After a few minutes, the room is no longer spinning. I peel myself off the table with as much dignity as I can muster as my husband guides me out the door like a stumbling drunk.

We stop at the first store we come across, which happens to be 7-11. We go in and grab a few munchies.

Oh Thank Heaven for 7-11.

I devour a Family Size bag of popcorn in ten minutes, tops.

It’s a huge victory, overall. I didn’t pass out, and I didn’t starve to death.

Perhaps more importantly, I didn’t resort to inhaling yet another Do Not Eat packet.

Things are about to get ugly...

Things are about to get ugly…

Much Ado about Lemons

/ Quirky Girl / 13 Comments

Pop Quiz!

Relax! There’s only one question and no wrong answers. It’ll be fun!

Here we go!

WHEN LIFE HANDS YOU LEMONS, YOU ARE MOST LIKELY TO:

a) Pull on your sweatpants, grab a few pints of Chunky Monkey, and indulge in a three day marathon of tear-jerkers, including John Q and The Pursuit of Happyness, then bawl for days over the myriad of injustices in life.

b) Find your inner peace after thoroughly exhausting yourself by going postal on random objects-  the neighbor’s hideous Halloween scarecrow, the coffee maker that just kicked the bucket, the freakishly large rat scurrying by…

c) Throw those lemons at someone deserving. A few helpful options:  that toxic frenemy you can’t seem to cut loose, a particularly infuriating coworker, or the out-of-control maniac in a semi who just cut you off on the freeway.

d) Use your pent-up aggression to squeeze every last drop of lemon juice out with your bare hands like a Viking masseuse and make a badass (and probably dangerously potent) lemon martini.

e) Other (please elaborate)

While these are all very logical (and highly acceptable) approaches, I’d personally go with option c.

Afterall, research clearly shows that actively doing something to alleviate troubles can be highly beneficial. And how much more proactive can one get than hurling objects across the room?

So…which did you choose?

No Viking masseuses were available, so I made this one myself.

No Viking masseuses were available, so I made this one myself.

The Baddest Apple

/ Quirky Girl / 13 Comments

You know those little preservative packets in food and shoe boxes? They’re desiccant packets. But I’ve always called them Do Not Eat packets.

Ever wonder what happens if you consume a Do Not Eat packet?

It’s not really something I ever gave much thought to, personally. Until last Sunday.

The thing is, I may have accidentally eaten one.

You’re probably wondering how that’s even possible. Either you ate it or you didn’t, right?

Believe me, I’m still scratching my head on this one, too.

It all started innocently enough.

I was ravenous, so I bought a bag of freeze dried Fuji apples to devour on my drive home from work. I don’t even know how I lasted from my lunch break until the end of my shift without passing out and landing flat on my face.

Anyway, apples are supposedly good for you, so it seemed like a smart choice.

Shoveling handfuls of apples into my mouth, I found myself backed up in traffic near a busy mall about 10 minutes into my drive home.

Figuring I had a minute or so to pass while sitting at a red light, I turned over the bag to read the nutrition facts.

What can I say? I’m crazy like that.

It was a single serving bag, which was great, because the thing felt surprisingly close to empty already.

The ingredients were simple enough: freeze dried apples, ascorbic acid and citric acid.

Not bad at all.

And 220% of vitamin C per serving.

Whew! That ought to ward off any threat of scurvy.

More importantly, it was made in the USA.

After all, if I wanted to eat a toxic Chinese import, I’d eat a box of so-called “non-toxic” crayons.

Or one of those questionable McDonald’s toys with 500 microscopic parts. On second thought, those toxic little toys could also lead to asphyxiation.

Disturbingly enough, those aren’t not the only things that could present a safety hazard.

Further down on the apple bag was a warning.

It was just some nonsense about a desiccant packet.

Yada yada yada.

Hey, wait a minute…

Holy crap!

The Do Not Eat packet! Where the hell was the Do Not Eat packet?!?

Still sitting in an endless line of traffic, I dared a hasty peek into the bag.

There was hardly anything left in it. Mostly crumbs, really.

And no sign of the distressing packet.

Maybe they had forgotten to put one in this package?

Could I seriously have just eaten the stupid thing? I mean, really?

I can only assume it’d be like eating a packet of sugar. So how would I have missed that? Even among a generous fistful of apples, surely I’d have noticed a difference in texture or flavor.

Especially once biting into the packet and unleashing sand-like particles.

Were my senses that off? Were my standards that low?

And I may very well have reached a new low with this dilemma.

You might think I’d have been more concerned for my safety. After all, I could have ingested a potentially hazardous substance, for all I knew.

Yet, I found the whole thing mildly amusing. Did this kind of stuff actually happen to other people? Or was it truly just me?

By this point, I’m pretty well convinced it’s just me.

When I arrived home 20 minutes later, I Googled “accidental ingestion of desiccant packet,” which immediately directed me to the poison control website.

The information was surprisingly reassuring. Apparently, one can safely scarf down the equivalent of an entire shoebox-worth of those packets and likely only experience stomach discomfort.

Okay, I can (almost) understand accidentally wolfing down one of those suckers, but who would unknowingly devour a whole box of that crap?

A dog, maybe? One with lower standards than me, perhaps?

Continuing on with my online self-diagnostics, I grabbed a couple of mini blueberry muffins. I still needed a little more reassurance, so I decided to test out a theory.

Leaving the wrappers intact, I made a simulated attempt at eating a muffin, wrapper and all. Would I notice when I bit into a chunk of the thin paper?

Would I? I was genuinely intrigued now.

I immediately noticed the texture difference between the yummy moist muffin and the bland little paper. But then, I also wasn’t distracted the same way I had been while driving.

Huh.

I still wasn’t convinced.

When I ended up at a restaurant for dinner a few days later, the tray of sugar packets caught my eye.

I swiped one and shoved it in my purse.

I figured I might have to test something out a little later, just for kicks.

And test it out I did. Let’s just say I didn’t get too far with that one.

The paper had the consistency of loose leaf notebook paper, and the sugar felt like grains of sand.

There was no mistaking a foreign substance’s assault on my palate.

Even so, a Do Not Eat packet was still definitely smaller than and not quite as grainy as a packet of sugar.

I swear, distracted eating is as hazardous as driving in your sleep.

Whether I did or did not eat the desiccant packet remains a mystery. But the fact is I’ve lasted a good part of the week since that incident, and I’m still more or less okay.

I think.

Do not eat? A little late for that, don't you think?

Do not eat? A little late for that, don’t you think?

Life’s a Pajama Party

/ Quirky Girl / 4 Comments

No matter what time of the day, no matter the season, life is simply better in pjs.

Summer break is notoriously the worst offender. Sometimes I don’t even realize several days have passed since I’d last gotten out of my pajamas.

And there are definitely some lazy days when my boys and I just lounge around, eating animal crackers for breakfast and root beer floats for lunch.

I might need to get out more.

I do go outside every afternoon to get the mail. Occasionally, I even go to the trouble of putting on a more decent top or bottom to do so.

Then I get pissed if the mailbox is empty. All that ordeal for nothing.

But it’s like that saying, put on your good underwear in case you get in an accident and end up in the hospital.

I mean, do I really want to take that chance of stepping outside in my pjs and getting plowed down by the garbage truck?

Talk about crappy luck.

But I still do it anyway.

It doesn’t even matter what time of the day it is. Some mornings I get dressed, take the kids to school, and immediately slip right back in to my pajamas.

Come to think of it, I often do the exact same thing on weekends, after getting home from work at noon.

Huh.

Oh well. Comfort is so underrated.

And yet, it clearly comes at price.

Here’s a fun flashback from last August:

The Hotel Incident

After a late start this morning, I really needed coffee. Badly. So I decided to take my chances and stumbled into the hotel lobby in my pjs- hot pink penguin shorts and a thin tank top- only to walk right in to a business meeting in progress.

The room fell completely silent for a moment, and I figured it was already too late to turn back, so I proceeded to pour my coffee nonchalantly before strolling back out, like this was perfectly normal.

Once bitten, twice shy?

Not exactly.

I had another similar experience last Friday.

The Mailman Incident

It’s 9:30 am, and I look out the window to make sure nobody is around before stepping outside in a semi-sheer pajama top and jeans to empty the bin of recyclables and drop a handful of mail into my mailbox.

I fling open the front door and gasp in disbelief. The mailman is practically sprinting toward my door, unassumingly approaching the house with a package.

Oh no! He’s spotted me! It’s too late to run back inside and slam the door shut. And judging by his momentary pause, he’s equally taken off guard by my bedhead and/or lack of appropriate clothing.

I make a quick grab for the package. The flustered mailman actually has to ask me if I planned on mailing those letters clenched in a death grip in my left hand.

I’m sure this, too, passes for perfectly normal human conduct. In some other part of the universe, perhaps.

I could make this stuff up, that’s true. But I don’t have to.

I have a knack for experiencing these things first hand.

At least there is a silver lining in all this!

If I am in pajamas, then I don’t get out (or go very far past the driveway, anyway.) And if I don’t get out, surely I’m saving money on gas and other unnecessary expenses.

Right?

That’s got to count for something.

If my pjs had a cape, I could fly away from awkward situations.

If my pjs had a cape, I could fly away from awkward situations.

Southern Inhospitality

/ Quirky Girl / 5 Comments

The struggle of being a former New Yorker/Washingtonian/Arizonan in an excessively friendly southern state is all too real for this girl.

One of the hardest things about being a transplant in the south is the challenging adjustment of having to talk to people. Especially extraordinarily friendly people, because they make me feel like a sorry excuse of an ill-mannered human being.

For someone naturally reserved, such unexpected conversations with enthusiastic random strangers can be grounds for a full-blown anxiety attack.

On an exceptionally good day, I can plaster on my most natural fake smile.

Then I cross my fingers, in hopes that my face won’t actually freeze that way. Especially if I am unintentionally bearing teeth.

When I’m out bicycling around my neighborhood and people go beyond the perfunctory wave and vocalize their greeting, or worse, initiate a conversation? What am I supposed to do?

The obvious answer, of course, is to make a run for it.

I go outside to throw away the trash in my pjs in broad daylight and the neighbor twelve houses down to the left with the terrifying horse-sized Scottish Deerhound smiles and starts waving a little too enthusiastically.

My typical instinct is to discreetly crouch down and scuttle away like the stealthy ninja that I am.

Suddenly, my brain is rapidly firing off panic signals.

Crap! You made eye contact! What were you thinking?

“How ya doing? Nice day out, don’t ya think?”

Great. Now the neighbor wants to make conversation while you’re standing outside like a fool in your Hello Kitty pajamas!

“A shame about that field being plowed down for another housing development, ain’t it? Where all them cows gonna go now?”

Might as well be standing outside naked. Maybe that’d be less awkward.

Must. Get. Out.

Quick! Excuse yourself! Get out of there NOW!

The last time I had been caught off guard by a neighbor, I managed to back out of there after a record time of 1 minute and 28 seconds…by pleading a bathroom emergency.

Classy, I know. But it was the best I could do after my overactive brain presented the pitiful excuse on a silver platter.

Yet once again, my brain is tasked with conjuring up “logical” excuses while my neighbor continues on with his riveting monologue about cows.

I’ve narrowed down my choices.

I have to go because:

a) Dinner is almost ready, and I need to go turn the oven off

b) The house is now on fire because dinner has been in the oven 5 minutes too long

c) The kids are beating each other within inches of their lives with Nerf swords

d) All of the above

While all of these seem like perfectly rational justifications, I naturally go with the most plausible one.

The house is on fire.

Not seeing the thick gray smoke?

Really?

Well, gotta go! See ya later!

I made eye contact, and now it's all over. This must be the end.

I made eye contact, and now it’s all over. This must be the end.