Europe is for Pussies

GAR uttered these words to me on day 5 of our adventure in Peru. We had been ATVing through the streets of Urubamba, a sleepy town in the foothills of the Andes, and we caused quite a stir. We were essentially revving through people’s backyards. Kids screamed, locals shook their firsts at us in frustration, some terrified sheep baaed frantically as they unsuccessfully attempted to leap over tall fences, little girls were crying, and a very angry bull was snorting and preparing to charge … and one member of our group, a 12-year-old boy, had rolled his ATV right over, breaking his arm (the doctors would later say it wasn’t broken, but we were all fairly certain a human wrist doesn’t bend that way all on its own. So he used the belt from his hotel room robe to fashion a sling for it as he soldiered on for 5 more days with a swollen, purple – and clearly broken – arm in tow). Never mind the fact that this youngster wasn’t old enough to have so much as a learner’s permit back in the States, he had passed the “training” lesson for the ATV – which consisted of the leader saying “You ever ridden one of these? No? Okay, you’ll be fine” and then giving us a 10 second rundown of how to shift gears before taking off – and that was “good enough” by South America standards.

And the whole trip had been that way. We had been thrust onto whitewater rafts and set adrift into the (admittedly pretty mild) rapids. Taken a hair raising bus ride up the side of cliff and then left to pedal (well, not so much pedal, but hold on for dear life while our wheels whizzed furiously fast beneath us) down the face of a mountain. Climbed up and down ruins and craters using “steps” that were nothing more than shingles that protruded slightly more from the rock face than others. And performed Olympic caliber balance beam maneuvers to slither along a tiny ledge that abuts giant salt pans – don’t fall in or else you’ll be left to turn to jerky in the hot, hot, too close to the heavens, midday sun.

Now don’t get me wrong – up until the ATV accident I’m not sure that we had actually ever been in any real “danger” along the way. Oh sure, some kids ended up with scraped knees from taking a wrong step, and a subsequent tumble (one thing I learned during our excursions is that kids sneakers just do not have sufficient traction on the bottom. Oh sure, they have multi-colored lights and pop-out wheelies and every bell and whistle you can dream up. But treads? Nope, just not a feature they value I guess)… plus there were some cases of altitude sickness – both mild and more severe – which can happen to anyone who’s visiting a place that’s more than 12,000 miles above sea level (seriously, the people who live there develop enlarged hearts just to be able to pump enough blood through their weak little veins. How could our normal size hearts ever live up to theirs?) … and white water rafting (regardless how mild) always has some risks (no spinal injuries on our trip but we did have someone end up with a really nasty eye infection due to having too much dirt and mucky river water kicked up into her cornea) … but overall we hadn’t been exposed to anything too terrifying. But what did crack me up was just how laid back everyone was about safety. In North America we’re all bubble wrapped, covered in caution tape and secured into a harness before we even are allowed to go bumper bowling. And frankly, it takes the fun out of things. Oh sure it protects you from broken limbs, dismemberment and a perilous death – but at what cost?

All I’m saying is that up North, where we live, the thrill is gone. Where’s the excitement? Even on our recent cruise to Mexico, a decidedly third world country, GAR and I signed up for an “extreme” adventure – zip lining hundreds of feet off the ground, rappelling down waterfalls and crossing “unstable” rope bridges (right … it was totally just like the skeleton piano bridge scene in “Goonies”) high in the jungle – that included a hefty security briefing before being buckled and strapped into every means of protective garb imaginable. Oh sure, we all came back safe and sound (except for some nasty mosquito bites and a bruise I picked up when I lost my footing rappelling down a cliff), but I was never once worried that I WOULDN’T make it through okay. And, as a result, the whole thing felt so sterile. What was supposed to be an “exhilarating, once-in-a-lifetime thrillfest” was, instead, a little hum drum actually. (When we got home we saw an episode of “South Park” where the boys went zip lining and were so bored they spent the next 6 hours just trying to break free and go home – hilarious!)

That’s just how we roll in North America … and, to GAR’s point (and the title of this post), it’s the same problem in Europe. All beauty with none of the thrill. And this is where South America kicks all of our asses.
I tried to keep this in mind later that evening as I puked my brains out.

Now let me tell you something about the incredible, edible egg – it can’t be trusted. If you’re sitting at home right now noshing on some raw cookie dough as you read this I implore you to bake that shit before you eat it – please. In the summer of ’09 Nestlé’s delicious pre-made batter gave me eColi and it’s the sickest I’ve ever been. Bad eggs I learned later. In the summer of ’12 (on this very trip actually – see, this wasn’t a total tangent with no purpose, I promise) I suffered the second worst case of food poisoning I’ve ever had, once again the result of some serious egg mishandling. Oh sure, I should have known better – swallowing raw eggs is for Hans and Franz type bodybuilders. Cartoon characters and cocky jocks who are trying so hard to be macho that it comes off as comical. And yet … well … I am a sucker for liquor. I mean, come on, we all know that by now, right? And in Peru the local liquor is Pisco – a type of brandy that is traditionally served in a sour drink that is topped off with frothy (and raw) egg whites. And who am I to doubt an entire nation? Who am I to question the safety of drinking what millions of Peruvians drink?

Which leads me back to the part of the story where I’m vomiting up all of my internal organs and reminding myself that – oh right, you forgot … safety is not the top priority in South America.

The next morning I told my tour guide about my stomach pains and she had me drink some fizzy medicine and then told me to jump up and down as fast as I could – “It will make you throw up,” she announced. A fact that I wished she would have shared BEFORE I drank the mysterious liquid since, honestly, throwing up MORE was not really what I had in mind. Plus, I had already taken some mysterious, unmarked pills the night before that the front desk had given me. And some energy pills that were in an incorrectly labeled Bayer bottle (which did NOT cure my serious headache but instead caused me to be forcefully awake while suffering from a migraine). I mean, really, how many shady, unknown medications should one person ingest in one day? And yet here I was, a belly full of acid, and now some sort of bubbly mixture as well, bopping up and down until I literally collapsed. But I didn’t puke anymore. And it didn’t help with the pain either.

Not wanting to be the type of pussy who can only handle fancy panty European vacations I sucked it up and boarded the bus, which lead to the train, which led to a much more terrifying, drive you nearly off a cliff (but hey, I don’t question why they don’t make the roads big enough for two cars to pass each other but instead make it so that it’s barely big enough for one, resulting in a pissing match to see which person will put their car in reverse and nearly drive backwards to their doom so the other one can squeak by on a dirt path the width of two pebbles side-by-side with no guard rails on either side … I guess that’s just how they like it), bus to Machu Picchu. And behold! It was glorious! Until I threw up some more all over it.

Which is how I ended up in the infirmary right there in the side of this former Incan civilization … along with several of my dinner companions from the night before (do you still need MORE proof that you really shouldn’t eat raw eggs?) Rough translations of bodily functions were attempted in Spanish before people just resorted to miming “explosive diarrhea.” I like to think it brought it us all closer together … but mostly because there were only two dingy cots in the clinic and half of a dozen of us huddled together to use them. Oh – here’s another fun fact about Peru. They don’t believe in outfitting bathrooms with toilet seats, paper products or running water. This is true even in doctor’s offices. Which brings me back to my previous point about bodily functions and food poisoning … fun times all around. From what I could tell the doctor was anxious to give me IV fluids and, despite my previous points indicating safety be damned, I decided that I’m not quite THAT much of a risk taker given the overall cleanliness of the place in general (the infirmary was littered with an oddly large number of dead butterflies – and live bugs too ... but I focused on the butterflies. It was kind of beautiful actually, but also seriously haunting).

Finally I persuaded the doc to skip and the IV and instead load me up with the thing South Americans are largely known for – drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. He freely doled out antibiotics, meds to kills off any parasites that might be living inside of me (yes please!), some pills with a purpose that was not clearly outlined but (I’m assuming based on the results) seemed to be aimed at helping me expel any remaining poison from my system, and some shady unmarked “pain pills” … which I conserved and tried not to take too many of lest I was accidentally taking opium or crack or some other drug I’ve only read about in my high school “Just Say No” drug pamphlets. (Incidentally I brought some of these pills back with me into the U.S. I’m not sure if this qualifies as drug running, but it should be noted that I was searched by 3 different airport officials … coincidence? Eh, maybe.)

While the heavy doses of narcotics did help some, nothing could have prepared me for the train ride back to town. I drifted off only momentarily before awaking to find the devil in my face. Yes, the devil.

Actually, at the time I had no idea what this creature was, but it was screeching and dancing down the train aisles and (or so I’m told) he was supposed to represent some sort of Incan devil (though that still in no way explains WHY he was on our train). And, stranger still, his “performance” proceeded a fashion show made up of finely woven alpaca goods. The Peruvian people are nothing if not random. (It should be noted that earlier in our trip we were introduced to another member of Incan folklore – the God of Prosperity. This short, stout masked creature grunted loudly while marching around bearing items that represented wealth around his neck – American money, a house, cigarettes and other random items adorned his attire. Between the God of Prosperity grunting and the trilling, haunting sounds made by this devil creature my drug induced dreams quickly turned to nightmares over the next few evenings.)

Nevertheless, I made it back to the hotel and slept … and then looked at some llamas … and then slept … and struggled to breathe in Cusco, the crazy 2-mile-high city … and slept … and I think there were more ruins maybe? The rest of the trip was a little hazy actually, what with the lack of air, my inability to keep down any food and the onslaught of meds the docs in “The States” are reluctant to prescribe. But I think I had a blast. And, honestly, I lost a ton of weight. It was practically like spending a summer at fat camp … or some sort of cleansing spa (but with more hiking).

And to top it all off I even went paragliding (not to be confused with parasailing, which involves being pulled by a boat. Gliding, on the other hand, involves jumping off a cliff and praying for dear life). That’s right, I snuggled myself into some strange man’s crotch (I’m not kidding, you sort of “sit” right in his crotch), loaded a tiny sail on our backs and jumped. And it was … not nearly as scary as it seems actually. But I did it. I made it. I survived South America bitches. Not poison or the devil or a strong gust of wind could take me down. Take that Europe – with your fancy croissants and berets and lispy accents … you can’t light a candle to our neighbors down South.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should probably see a proper doctor and figure out why I’m still having waking nightmares of brim fire and finely crafted alpaca wool sweaters.

From Vegetable Lasagna to Putumayo and Beyond: A Travel Memoir

Have you seen that episode of “Seinfeld” where Elaine and Puddy go on vacation to Europe and break-up and the whole plane ride home they are fighting, getting back together, breaking up again, and so on? This used to be my life.

But I’ll get to that in a minute …

Ahhh – that moment when you realize that the person you’re dating is “the one.” It comes at different times for every relationship, but once it hits you something in your brain just screams out “I am never letting you go!” (Though hopefully your brain doesn’t do this in a stalker, creepy, “Every Breath You Take” kind of way.) For me that moment came while on my first vacation with GAR.

Of course I have travelled with previous suitors before. And every single time it ended in disaster. And we’re not talking a “Oh, I learned that he’s really more of a ‘lay on the beach’ kind of guy whereas I’m a gal who prefers mountain climbing” type of vacation incompatibility. No, I’m talking about a full-scale, all-out, complete lack of respect or understanding for how we should be spending time together while on holiday. I don’t think you can really comprehend unless you’ve been in my shoes, strolling around Paris, debating where to grab some lunch and your current significant other insists that he MUST have a chili dog – a decidedly un-Parisian food item – and demands that you take him to Disneyland Paris (1 hour away) to acquire one and, when I laugh at what I think is quite obviously a joke (it HAS to be a joke, right?), he plops himself down on the ground in front of Notre Dame and begins to throw the world’s biggest temper tantrum, refusing to go anywhere else with me.

Yes. THAT happened. THAT is the type of vacation incompatibility I’m talking about here.

I once spent an entire weeklong cruise playing bingo alone, lounging by the pool alone, dining at the buffet alone and heading into port alone while my now-ex stayed in the stateroom catching up on books 3 & 4 of the Harry Potter series. I’ve strolled along the canals of Venice alone, spent hours alone in Barbados watching “Golden Girls” in Spanish, sat at a New York City diner alone drinking “the world’s best cup of coffee” (2 different times, at 2 different diners with the same claim to fame, after ditching 2 different guys) and tucked myself into a new age London hotel room “pod” alone – all due to similar type nonsensical blow outs with former beaus. So when an opportunity arose for GAR and I to take our first trip together – to Ireland and Scotland – I was more than a little nervous about the whole thing. After all, I was really pretty darn sure that this guy actually was THE ONE, but I knew from experience that things could all go downhill in a heartbeat (or should I say, go downhill in a meltdown at Europe’s oldest McDonald’s – because that’s been my experience).

The truth is that I’m a pretty laid back traveler. I’m not really so complex in my needs. I just want to see the typical sights, eat whatever food item that area is known for and have some fun surprises along the way (not surprises like watching my current “sweetheart” lay on the Parisian pavement and wail “I want a chili dog!” but, you know, FUN surprises). And I totally found everything I had been missing with GAR. We drank and laughed in just about every Dublin pub, almost got stranded on the west coast of Ireland when we missed our bus at the Cliffs of Moher, went hunting for Nessie on Loch Ness, found ourselves cheering on a team we’ve never heard of in a sport we didn’t really understand at the Hurling championship game, sampled haggis and blood pudding, blew out all the power in our rundown motel when I plugged my American hair straightener into a European outlet, and taunted a ghost named Mr. Boots in the Edinburgh vaults (which led GAR to believe he was being haunted for several days by a ghost who wanted to chop off his toes). In short – it was amazing. And I knew then that I had finally found my partner for life.

Since then GAR and I have had endless adventures together – at home in our day-to-day life and abroad. We got desperately lost in Monaco (a country that’s smaller than Central Park), drank endless liters of beer at Oktoberfest while dressed in lederhosen and a dirndl, rode out violent 25-foot waves in the Mediterranean – dodging puking cruisers as we attempted to walk upright, taught a bartender in Cabo how to make avocado margaritas, climbed the Alps, partied on Bourbon Street, bartered for goods in a Tunisian souk, drank wine made from garlic in LA, peered into the smoking crater at Mt. Vesuvius, engaged in snowball fights in 3 different countries, and feasted on everything from delicious charbroiled oysters in New Orleans and scrumptious crepes in Corsica, to flavorless schneeballen in Germany and foul, mysterious street vendor fair in Villefranche, and beyond.

Oh sure, some people prefer to head off the beaten track. A couple I know recently packed up all 4 of their kids and set off on a 21-state driving adventure that took them to wacky places that claim they have the biggest ball of twine or the largest wooden armadillo – stuff like that. And while I do see the fun in seeing those types of quirky things (aside from the fact that spending 17 days trapped in a car with 4 children is pretty much my ultimate idea of what Hell must be like), I don’t feel like I need to go out of my way to have an unexpected adventure – those moments can just as easily happen while visiting the Coliseum or touring Savannah … and many of my best vacation memories come from all those touristy spots.

And we even, somehow, manage to bring back the most generic souvenirs, no matter how hard we try. The giant beer stein debate we were embroiled in while in Germany led to us buying the same exact one I later saw at Epcot (for less money). We wandered through Mexican flea markets to track down an Aztec calendar (since the world is ending this year after all and we want to countdown to destruction ourselves), another item that, apparently, was on sale for cheaper at Epcot. And my Italian glass necklace? You guessed it – it’s also easily found (for less money) at the E(xperimental) P(rototype) C(ommunity) O(f) T(omorrow). From now on I should just save my money and efforts and buy everyone souvenirs from my own place of employment. “Here Mom, I got you this authentic Norwegian wood carving during my recent trip to ‘Scandinavia.’” (wink wink)

But now GAR and I are off to our next destination – a visit to continent #4 for us, South America (which, thankfully, is a place that is completely unrepresented at Epcot – ha ha!! Take that Walt Disney – you won’t foil me again). We’ll be heading to Peru to hike Machu Picchu, take a million stereotypical photos of the ruins at Moray and Maras, buy the same Alpaca wool scarves that everyone probably gets at the Pisac Market and learn how to make the classic Peruvian drink, a pisco sour. And even if our itinerary isn’t entirely unique, I’m sure we’ll find more than a few moments along the way that will make the whole thing completely extraordinary. ‘Cause that’s just how we roll.

And since I started this post with a Seinfeld reference I figure I should end it with one too  ...

I’ll be sure to post some photos of me feeding a llama while wearing a woven poncho when we get back.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some last-minute Al-paca-ing to do. It’s winter in Lima right now and I need to Peru-se my closet for sweaters. I South American’t wait to get going!

The Rooting Effect: A Sports Memoir

Do you know what the Rooting Effect (or Reflex) is? If you’re a parent, a person that works in any human development field or just paid attention during your educational experiences, you should. If you don’t know and you’re part of the first two groups I sincerely judge you and please picture me waving my index finger at you with disappointment and disgust. Actually, please stop reading this blog post immediately as you should be quite ashamed of yourself. If you are in the latter group? You’re cool … because school can be a bore. Well, except when pertaining to the movies Back to School, Summer School, and Old School.

OK, I think we’ve lost the others … let’s continue. The Rooting Effect is actually a reflex that can be seen in newborn babies. When touched on the cheek they will automatically turn their face toward the finger and make sucking (or rooting) motions. Essentially, it’s a basic instinct that assists to ensure successful breastfeeding. So what does this have to do with sports? I’ll get to that in a bit.

Countless people have come up to me and asked, “Hey Doc! Am I allowed to root for this team?” I always respond, “Why that’s an incredibly foolish question and of course you can root for that team, HOWEVER …” Now it’s the “however” that really alters things. We are ALL allowed to root for any team, but our rooting comes with different levels of credibility (As you continue reading please be mindful that I am only tackling – get it? “tackling” - collegiate sports. At this time you’re allowed 100% credibility in rooting for any professional and non-NCAA sport or the Olympics. This has been allowed for millenniums and I do not have the ability nor the power to change those guidelines. Why? Well that’s a totally different blog post.)

Credibility you say Doc? Yes, credibility I say. If you’ve attended a sporting event or simply watched a game at the bar you’ve certainly seen t-shirts and excited patrons, heard impassioned cheering and oodles of booing (or boodles). Have you ever wondered if these people are allowed to do this? Well of course they are. As I said earlier this is only about credibility AND you should pay attention better. We are typically molded to root for particular teams through socialization. This stems from our primary or extended family and our peers. You’ll see it everywhere from the baby that’s spitting up on a Texas Tech bib to that tween rocking a San Diego State hoodie with a heap of angst. Just like the infant that roots for survival, children root as well … maybe not for survival but household affection sounds pretty good. And since a newborn’s rooting is essentially sucking, a child’s rooting, of course, just plain sucks. But it’s a natural behavior and one that is and should be accepted. You wouldn’t expect a child in their sensorimotor phase to be able to pick a team (If you don’t know this term and are a parent or in any human development field it’s now your turn to please stop reading). Infants eventually grow out of the rooting effect and this behavior becomes extinct – and this is a great metaphor for life. Rooting should only occur as long as it is needed for "survival.” My point is this - You have until the age of 18 to breastfeed on any college team you choose. After that, you must autonomously create your own plight towards rooting credibility. 

Some may wonder what gives me the right to lay down these rules. Well, I have a Ph.D. in Counseling, so I’m automatically and overwhelmingly awesome in the areas of logic and emotion. So trust me when I say, “I got this and what I’m about to tell you is gospel.” Rooting for college sports may have 100% creditability in your world, but let’s be honest, that’s not the reality of how rooting is truly accepted. I now bequeath to you: THE GOSPEL of ROOTING.

Rooting counts 100%!
• There are three definitive rules for this category. Either
(1) you attended the main campus of that school for a minimum of one academic year including one summer session,
(2) you are under the age of 18, or
(3) you currently work for said school’s main campus (in any capacity) for a minimum of 5 years.
• For example: I attended the main campuses and graduated from both the University of Florida and the University of Arkansas therefore I can root for them with100% credibility. While growing up in Connecticut, I rooted for UCONN. This rooting had 100% credibility, until I was 18. I did not attend this school and I moved away, so when I yell “Go Huskies!” (and I love yelling that) my rooting credibility is reduced to 25%.

Rooting counts 75%!
• Your child attended the main campus of a school for a minimum of one academic year including one summer session.
• You currently work for said school’s main campus (in any capacity) for more than 3 years and less than 5 years.
• For example: My mother and father who did not attend the University of Florida or the University of Arkansas can root for them with 75% credibility.

Rooting counts 50%!
• You are in any form of domestic partnership with someone that holds 100% credibility.
• You are in a relationship for over 8 months and are not officially living together with someone that holds 100% credibility.
• You are in a relationship (with someone that holds 100% credibility) and have been officially living together for 3 months (you may ignore the 3 month guideline if you have been dating for a respectable amount of time prior to officially moving in together).
• You currently work for said school’s main campus (in any capacity) for less than 3 years.
• You currently live in the county where the main campus of school resides for a minimum of 4 years (if you previously did and moved, or you have lived there under 4 years, then you go to the 25% credibility level).
• One of your parents played on the college team for the specific sport you are rooting for (e.g. you father was on the football team so your football rooting credibility is 50%).
• For example: My lovely wife graduated from Michigan State’s main campus. When I yell “Go Sparty!!!” with 100% love and good knowledge of the team, that rooting only holds 50% credibility. Also, I currently reside in Orange county (for over 4 years), the same county that has the University of Central Florida (UCF). If I choose to I can root for UCF with 50% credibility. But just because I hold this power, it doesn’t mean I’m going to exploit it.

Rooting counts 25%!
• You are in a relationship (with someone that holds 100% credibility) for less than 8 months and are not officially living together.
• You grew up in the area where this college was located.
• You attended a satellite campus of this school for a minimum of one academic year including one summer session.
• You are in any form of domestic partnership or relationship with someone that holds 75% or less rooting credibility.
• For example: If I attended school for a minimum of one academic year, including one summer session, at the University of Minnesota’s satellite campus in Rochester, and not their Twin Cities main campus, when I cheer for good ol’ Goldy Gopher it’s only holds 25% credibility.

Rooting counts 10%!
• Your parents attended the main campus of that school for a minimum of one academic year including one summer session.
• You are dating and/or friends with benefits, and/or got “lucky” you crazy chap or chapette with an individual that has 100% credibility.
• For example: Ann Curry say’s “Yo! I totally crushed it last night with that rad sophomore from Gonzaga!” Ann Curry’s father says, “Well then you can root for Gonzaga with 10% credibility. When do we meet this fine young man?”

Rooting counts 0%!
• You know if you’re here, but don’t feel too bad about it because you’ll always have professional sports and the Olympics
• You have wooden words in your house (this has nothing to do with sports, I just think it’s weird)
• You truly like “Cleatus” the FOX Sports robot. If this is the case you actually lose credibility in general life and may Darwin Bless Your Soul as you continue through your existence.

THE GOSPEL of ROOTING is very clear (except for the parts that aren’t that clear) but I am open to amendments. I may be the wisest in this area, but I will still hear you out and then probably drink a milkshake. In addition, this list may confirm your beliefs or make you feel yucky. As a professional I encourage you to look deeply into that yuckiness and sit with it. Feel the yuckiness and I promise you that the pain will go away eventually. And hey! I never said you couldn’t root for your team; just understand that credibility defines it a bit more. You also may be thinking, “I don’t care what others think” but that’s never been true for anyone in the history of life … the history of life. Go Sports!

My Dirty Little Secret

Psst … I have a secret for you. Or maybe I don’t. Not really anyway. Because, quite frankly, if I want something to be known – I say it. And if I don’t – I don’t. And if you’ve read this blog before you likely have figured it out by now that I’m a sharer. There’s not too much about myself that I’m not willing to tell you. Oh sure, there are some things. Everyone has some things (though to be fair it’s not like I’m holding back any major doozies here ... I’m not hiding unknown involvement in an underground drug/sex/Cuban cigar ring, I’m not performing bizarre genetic breeding techniques in my basement in an effort to create some sort of adorable purse-size hamster/Pekinese hybrid that I can sell on the black market (although I think I did just stumble on a brilliant idea here), I’m not sporting a forbidden membership to the female version of “Fight Club” and I’m not secretly a dude or anything like that … so it’s not like there’s any major skeletons in that closet of mine). But, don’t worry, I’m never going to put you in the position of swearing you to secrecy over something. Because I don’t work that way. And, honestly, I don’t want to be your secret keeper either. I’m not good at it. It doesn’t sit well with a sharer like me. Oh sure – I can do it. I can. But I will hate it.

When my sister told me she was pregnant “but you can’t tell anyone!” it was, essentially, like entering me into some sort of water torture. Every day I knew this secret and I was so excited. I wanted to scream it to the world! Dole out the news in big heaping handfuls to everyone I met! Shout it out on Facebook! But I couldn’t – not until she was ready. Drip. Drip. Drip. Every single day this torturous, slow, drawn out drip until finally, at her long last command, the floodgates opened and I was finally free – FREE!!! And I practically ran around like a headless chicken – no, that’s wrong, I was nothing BUT the head – squawking repeatedly (whether you cared to hear it or not) “I’m going to be an Aunt!!!!!!” (The longer you make me wait to share the big news the more exclamation points get attached to the end of my declaration when I’m finally let loose to share it.)

So, yeah, that’s what it’s like for me when you tell me a secret. From now on, please don’t. I’m flattered that you want to confide in me – really I am – but don’t.

But I know that secret telling ... secret keeping ... these are the cornerstones of a BFF relationship. Women have this give and take that's expected of them and it's what makes one person your must trusted confidant. But what's a girl like me to do? I don't hold secrets and share them with just my most favorite friend – I hand them out like party favors: You get one, and you get one, and you get one – thanks for being a friend! It's like an episode of Oprah's Favorite Things. I'm the slut of secret giving – everyone gets a little taste.

It’s not like I’m totally putting myself out there. I’m not walking around with my heart on my sleeve. My emotions can, at times, be really hard to guess. But I'm easy to get to. Simple to unlock. There's no special code – If I’ve neglected to say something out loud (which, come on, is pretty rare), then you only have to ask. And then wait for all the beans to be spilled. And it's that sort of “giving” attitude towards sharing all those little bits of my life that can make another gal feel not so special around me. I mean, if I'm just giving it away to EVERYONE then it’s not really so great, is it?

I guess I could try to be more withholding. I've always dreamed of being that woman who's mysterious ... hard to read (you know, the type of woman that men always SAY they want but, when they try to deal with her for any extended period of time end up becoming frustrated with and eventually, once they do somehow figure out how to get her in bed, completely lose interest in her because, eh, the thrill is gone). Right now I'm about as difficult to see through as a pane of freshly Windexed glass (which, incidentally – going back to my previous point – always worked really well for me when it came to men. I’ve always found that the blunt “I’m interested, you interested?” approach leads to a really high success rate … not to mention that it’s a whole heck of a lot more efficient than secretly pining over someone for ages). But perhaps I should try to smudge up the windows a bit – cast some clouds ...

But, nope, I can't. I just can't. I am not an enigma wrapped inside a riddle. I can't play the game. And I don't want to either. But don't worry, you're still very special to me. I just express myself more openly than most. And I don’t bother with the turmoil and drama and decoding that comes along with being in the secret keeping business. But this personality “flaw” of mine doesn’t have to come between us, does it? After all, it should be a good thing (unless I suddenly find myself in need of going into the witness protection program, in which case I’m fucked). Nonetheless, if you’re feeling like you know me a little too well and you’re tired of hearing every single little thing about me just imagine how my husband, GAR, must feel – I tell that man literally EVERYTHING. Repeatedly. Ad nauseum. Imagine having to live like that. The man is seriously a saint.

So are we cool? Great. Now, let me tell you about the time I ...