So I’m going to be 35 this year. That feels symbolic somehow, and yet it also seems hardly worth mentioning. Oh sure, I’ll finally be eligible to run for president (because, obviously, that was something I was seriously considering), but other than that, there’s nothing especially interesting about turning any particular age anymore (until I turn 40, at which point I am sure I will FREAK THE FUCK OUT … or I’ll believe that 40 is the new awesome age to be – whichever). But I have to say that 35 sure doesn’t look anything like what I thought it would.
Age 35 – How it feels to me now
Gosh I am young. Sooooo young! I feel vibrant and youthful and okay, yeah, sure, coloring my hair is no longer so much of a fun, whimsical experiment as it is an absolute necessity to hide those gray pieces that keep popping up. But, other than that, I am totally, totally just as awesome as ever. I go out with my friends, we stay out to the crack of 11:30 sometimes, and we drink, laugh, party – you name it. This is an awesome age to be. I’ve finally worked myself up to a stable point financially, I’ve got a long-term meaningful relationship, a good job and a big ol’ house with my very own swimming pool. It’s pretty much the best time ever.
Age 35 – How it thought it would feel 20, or even 10, years ago (and how I assume anyone under the age of 29 feels about me now)
Oh my gawd, 35 is soooo old. Ancient! Pretty much your whole life is over. You’re so lame, you don’t like anything cool and, worst of all, you still try to BE cool – you think you’re cool, and that makes you even more lame! You have this totally boring life where all you do is pay bills and save for retirement and mow your lawn. Yawn! You go out to dinner like once a week and you think it’s like the highlight of your life … and I guess it is because other than that all you’re even doing is working at that lame office job of yours. Thank gawd I’m not that old!
Obviously my perception of 35 had changed quite a bit but I know that, for others, their feelings on the matter have not. Just this week a girl (and no, in this case I refuse to use the term “woman”) in my office consulted with me on some copy – she wanted to know if the writing was “too modern” for her audience, who she described as “stuffy” and “old.” When I asked her “how old exactly?” her response was “oh, you know, mid-30s.” Somehow I managed to stifle the words that wanted to come out of my mouth (“You better back the fuck out of my office right now you smug, fat-ass whore!”) and replied with a tight-lipped “Oh, I’m sure they’ll manage.” And this is hardly the only occasion. More than one 20-something in my office has made the shocking realization that I am 30-something and remarked “I had no idea! I totally thought you were my age!” And I’m sure that in their mind this was a compliment as to how young I look for someone of my advanced years – gee… thanks… how kind of you. Let me tell you what you can do with that “compliment” of yours … Plus there was that one time, 5 years ago, when I was at a club (yes, a REAL club) and some boy (again, I refuse to use the word “man” in this instance) danced on up to me and flirted for awhile before asking me for my age and, upon hearing me reply “30,” not so stealthily danced backwards away from me.
And, hey, look – I get it. I sat in my high school sex ed class at age 15 and heard the teacher explain that men reach their sexual peak at age 18 whereas women don’t reach theirs until their mid-30s (finally my time has come!!! Watch out world!) and thought – “That is soooo unfair! I’ll be all old by then and I won’t even CARE about sex anymore.” (Dear lord in heaven above can someone please smack teenage me right across her stupid little face?) So I know … I know how the world sees a woman of “my age.” But I promise that I don’t own a single pair of pants with an elastic waistband, I don’t live for driving my imaginary kids to soccer practice, I do have actual friends with actual interests who I spend actual fun times with, and, I assure you, I do still know what’s “in” and what’s not (it’s just that I don’t care about Bieber and Selena’s relationship and I don’t think that One Direction is a legitimate band to listen to).
And, you know what, looking at my Facebook friend list – people I knew in high school, college classmates, you name it – I am surrounded by the status updates and photos of many people my age. And it’s amazing the different life stages we’re all in – married for 10 years with 3 kids, divorced with a kid in high school (HIGH SCHOOL! Okay, that does blow my mind I must admit), divorced and remarried with kids of all different ages, newly married with no kids (like me), single and ready to mingle, corporate exec, middle management, blue collar, self-employed, PhD, back in school – you name it. And while it totally amazes me that we can all be the same relative age and yet have taken such vastly different paths, what we do share in common in that very few of us look the way I thought 35 would “look” (okay, there are SOME exceptions but, come on, that’s just the law of averages). And 35 certainly doesn’t feel how I imagined it would at all.
In fact, it pretty much kicks ass. It’s a Hell of a lot more satisfying than 25, that between time when you no longer find pleasure in all those things you thought were awesome in college but are desperately still clinging to them in a fruitless effort not to grow up while, at the same time, trying to establish yourself in your career, striving to be taken seriously, paying your own way for what could possibly be the first time with a far-too-small paycheck and are completely convinced you know everything (and conversely you believe that everyone else is a moron) – a misconception you’ll forcibly insist upon for sometime longer before realizing what an ignorant ass you were. And it’s soooo better than 15 for hundreds of reasons that I doubt I need to explain to anyone reading this (and if you are reading this as a high schooler you no doubt see this as some pathetic attempt for a washed up hag to justify her now meaningless existence … and that’s cute. You just keep thinking that …)
And so I say – bring it on 35! I welcome everything you represent. And to the haters out there – that’s fine, you go right on squeezing your butt into skinny jeans, blowing your whole paycheck on $30 martinis at the “hottest club in town” and fantasizing about the billionaire you’re sure you’re going to marry. I’ll be erasing all traces of my younger years from my record in preparation for my 2016 Presidential bid while enjoying that libido I was promised by my 10th grade health teacher …
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
The Real World
Hi there! Remember me? Well, even if you don’t – I’m back. Nice to see you.
I know I’ve been gone awhile – and I apologize. I’d like to say that I was too busy … off living some wild and crazy adventure that I can tell you about … but that’s not really true. I’ve been busy, yes. I’ve been having lots of fun, yes. But too busy to write? Never.
Actually, the problem is that I haven’t really known what to write about – I mean, without sounding smug. The truth is – life is pretty perfect right now (and now just saying that makes me want to track down a large piece of lumber and knock on it profusely). And if I’ve learned anything from books, tv, movies and living a life that’s full of well-adjusted, normal, drama-free relationships – going on and on about how terrific things are just isn’t that interesting. You people want mayhem, serial killers, giant spiders, betrayal in the name of winning cash prizes – the works. And, I’m sorry, I just can’t offer you that right now. There’s no Puck to mess up my Real World. No Omarosa trying to be my Apprentice.
My marriage – fantastic. The house – still hasn’t caved in on me. Social life – fun as always. Travel plans – looking bright. Work – well, at the risk of sounding far too chipper for someone who works for “the man” as a cog in the giant corporate machine, work is going really well. I mean, not saving the world, ending pollution and curing cancer good, but downright decent nonetheless.
Actually, if I look back on my life thus far (call it a mid-30s crisis), it’s work, sadly, that is the thing I’ve done most right overall. Okay, sure, I could have done better. Certainly if I could turn back time I might be at least a little tempted to choose a field that pulls down enough annually for me to have my own yacht or own a football franchise – something like that (those jobs exist, right?) But in the realm of oh-so-right life choices I’ve made, my career is sitting pretty high on that list. What I mean is this – I’ve changed a lot since I was 18. I’m not dating the same guy, living in the same state, sporting the same style haircut, wardrobe (except I am still rockin’ the Chucks – that’s never going to change), eating habits, decorating style, hobbies, drinking watery beer from a keg or, with a few exceptions, hanging with the same friends as I was in 1995. And yet, as a freshman in college, I was somehow (miraculously) able to select a course of study that I would still enjoy as a career choice 17 years later.
And honestly, that is pretty freakin’ amazing. I mean (and those of you who know me even slightly can back me up on this point), I pretty much hate everything. I like to think I’m objective, but let’s be real – I’m critical. And I’m fickle as Hell. But somehow I managed to get this one thing right – and it hasn’t changed.
I read some statistic (which I could look up now but why bother) about how many career changes people tend to have in their lifetime and it was something like (and I would know for sure if I bothered to look it up now) 5 … or maybe it was 7 … but, in any case, I’m not surprised. How can you know what you want to do with your life at age 18? You haven’t worked in the “real world” yet. All you can do is make an educated guess and hope for the best. I just got lucky in my guess (despite making many, many other poor life choices along the way).
There’s got to be a better way of making this important decision though. I remember taking a career aptitude test in high school – a series of questions aimed at determining what fields you’d be best suited for. And I even remember my results:
1. Stunt artist
2. Judge
3. Social worker
Ignoring the fact that I am horribly clumsy and, quite honestly, a giant chicken, and these results nailed my 10th grade self right on the head. Back then I was someone who was obsessed with doing right in the world … helping people … upholding the highest standards for all people … and was fairly certain that I was, above all else, completely invincible in every way.
But that was before I was all knowledgeable about how the world works and realized that – fuck it – life isn’t fair so every (wo)man for herself! And perhaps that’s what drew me into the seedy, corrupt world of Advertising. (Okay, so maybe I work for a totally wholesome, family-friendly company and it’s nothing like Mad Men and I’ve never stabbed anyone in the back in my slow but steady climb to nowhere near the top, but stay with me here, will ya?) So what about now? If I were to take one of these career aptitude tests now, in the real world, when I actually do have an idea what I should be doing for a living, I bet it would totally get it right – right?
And so I did. And I thought long and hard about how to honestly answer each and every one of the 485 questions put before me. In the end I think I painted a pretty accurate picture of modern-day, no longer in high school, me.
As for the results? Well, they got off to a decent start by telling me my biggest strengths and weaknesses. Turns out that my biggest asset (according to the test) is that I’m “gregarious,” which I’m not so sure is really a good thing at all. But if we’re throwing out nice sounding words to define me honestly, I suppose that’s a pretty polite way to describe what I am. So, hey, I’m an overly honest, loud-mouthed jerk – I get it. But at least I’m a self aware overly honest, loud-mouthed jerk … maybe that should be my biggest strength. My weakest areas? Understanding and sympathy. Take that 10th grade me – I totally kicked your ass completely to the curb!
Next the results went over all my traits and the types of jobs that go best with gregarious, unsympathetic “leaders” (yes, leadership rated really high for me too – I can only assume the test maker actually meant that I was “bossy” since none of the other “favorable” traits I was given were even remotely nice in any way) like me I was sure I had this in the bag. Marketing, Advertising, Sales, Writing, Communication – all of these fields were at the very top of what expressive, free thinking (these are the words I’ve chosen for myself, obviously, not ones picked by those tight-ass, narrow-minded, prim and proper test makers) people with my skill base are good at. But then I clicked through to my very own, personalized just for me career list, and it said …
We have compiled based on your personality profile the top 3 jobs most suited to you:
1. Accountant or auditor
2. Loan officer
3. Aerospace engineer
What the fuck is this shit? Your greatest skill is socializing – you should work with numbers! Clearly this test was made by an angry, spiteful introvert who wants to lock up all the extroverts in some cubical (okay technically I am already holed up in a cubical of sorts – but somehow I picture the office of a loan officer being significantly more oppressive than the bland, gray walled cube I currently call my own), crunching number and battling spreadsheets until we wither away or, more likely, hurl ourselves out the window of the 50-story high rise we work in at Gambitt, Smith & McGillicuty, Esq.
Now don’t get me wrong – I can balance my checkbook to the penny, and I would never (knowingly) cheat on my taxes, but clearly I am a woman with a passion for words, not numbers, and I just don’t see how any of these careers relate to my – what was it? – gregarious nature. Which makes me wonder if perhaps this test maker is simply another example of someone who made the wrong career choice when he was 18. I mean, CLEARLY, this isn’t what he’s good at.
So for now I’ll just keep with my excellent (at the current moment) life choices. Because, let’s face it, I spent a long time getting to this level of perfection. And if you’re not quite as happy with your youthful choices – never fear. Unlike that butterfly tramp stamp, the DUI you have on your record after the “Boones Farm” incident of ’93 and that wicked scar on your forehead from when you attempted to dive into your pool from your roof during your sophomore house party, these are things you CAN change.
And here’s to hoping I continue to evolve. After all, when I was 18, Mel Gibson was the sexiest man alive, “Ace Ventura II” was the most hilarious movie ever, Roseanne was doling out television parenting wisdom and the waistband of my jorts actually sat firmly on my waist.
I know I’ve been gone awhile – and I apologize. I’d like to say that I was too busy … off living some wild and crazy adventure that I can tell you about … but that’s not really true. I’ve been busy, yes. I’ve been having lots of fun, yes. But too busy to write? Never.
Actually, the problem is that I haven’t really known what to write about – I mean, without sounding smug. The truth is – life is pretty perfect right now (and now just saying that makes me want to track down a large piece of lumber and knock on it profusely). And if I’ve learned anything from books, tv, movies and living a life that’s full of well-adjusted, normal, drama-free relationships – going on and on about how terrific things are just isn’t that interesting. You people want mayhem, serial killers, giant spiders, betrayal in the name of winning cash prizes – the works. And, I’m sorry, I just can’t offer you that right now. There’s no Puck to mess up my Real World. No Omarosa trying to be my Apprentice.
My marriage – fantastic. The house – still hasn’t caved in on me. Social life – fun as always. Travel plans – looking bright. Work – well, at the risk of sounding far too chipper for someone who works for “the man” as a cog in the giant corporate machine, work is going really well. I mean, not saving the world, ending pollution and curing cancer good, but downright decent nonetheless.
Actually, if I look back on my life thus far (call it a mid-30s crisis), it’s work, sadly, that is the thing I’ve done most right overall. Okay, sure, I could have done better. Certainly if I could turn back time I might be at least a little tempted to choose a field that pulls down enough annually for me to have my own yacht or own a football franchise – something like that (those jobs exist, right?) But in the realm of oh-so-right life choices I’ve made, my career is sitting pretty high on that list. What I mean is this – I’ve changed a lot since I was 18. I’m not dating the same guy, living in the same state, sporting the same style haircut, wardrobe (except I am still rockin’ the Chucks – that’s never going to change), eating habits, decorating style, hobbies, drinking watery beer from a keg or, with a few exceptions, hanging with the same friends as I was in 1995. And yet, as a freshman in college, I was somehow (miraculously) able to select a course of study that I would still enjoy as a career choice 17 years later.
And honestly, that is pretty freakin’ amazing. I mean (and those of you who know me even slightly can back me up on this point), I pretty much hate everything. I like to think I’m objective, but let’s be real – I’m critical. And I’m fickle as Hell. But somehow I managed to get this one thing right – and it hasn’t changed.
I read some statistic (which I could look up now but why bother) about how many career changes people tend to have in their lifetime and it was something like (and I would know for sure if I bothered to look it up now) 5 … or maybe it was 7 … but, in any case, I’m not surprised. How can you know what you want to do with your life at age 18? You haven’t worked in the “real world” yet. All you can do is make an educated guess and hope for the best. I just got lucky in my guess (despite making many, many other poor life choices along the way).
There’s got to be a better way of making this important decision though. I remember taking a career aptitude test in high school – a series of questions aimed at determining what fields you’d be best suited for. And I even remember my results:
1. Stunt artist
2. Judge
3. Social worker
Ignoring the fact that I am horribly clumsy and, quite honestly, a giant chicken, and these results nailed my 10th grade self right on the head. Back then I was someone who was obsessed with doing right in the world … helping people … upholding the highest standards for all people … and was fairly certain that I was, above all else, completely invincible in every way.
But that was before I was all knowledgeable about how the world works and realized that – fuck it – life isn’t fair so every (wo)man for herself! And perhaps that’s what drew me into the seedy, corrupt world of Advertising. (Okay, so maybe I work for a totally wholesome, family-friendly company and it’s nothing like Mad Men and I’ve never stabbed anyone in the back in my slow but steady climb to nowhere near the top, but stay with me here, will ya?) So what about now? If I were to take one of these career aptitude tests now, in the real world, when I actually do have an idea what I should be doing for a living, I bet it would totally get it right – right?
And so I did. And I thought long and hard about how to honestly answer each and every one of the 485 questions put before me. In the end I think I painted a pretty accurate picture of modern-day, no longer in high school, me.
As for the results? Well, they got off to a decent start by telling me my biggest strengths and weaknesses. Turns out that my biggest asset (according to the test) is that I’m “gregarious,” which I’m not so sure is really a good thing at all. But if we’re throwing out nice sounding words to define me honestly, I suppose that’s a pretty polite way to describe what I am. So, hey, I’m an overly honest, loud-mouthed jerk – I get it. But at least I’m a self aware overly honest, loud-mouthed jerk … maybe that should be my biggest strength. My weakest areas? Understanding and sympathy. Take that 10th grade me – I totally kicked your ass completely to the curb!
Next the results went over all my traits and the types of jobs that go best with gregarious, unsympathetic “leaders” (yes, leadership rated really high for me too – I can only assume the test maker actually meant that I was “bossy” since none of the other “favorable” traits I was given were even remotely nice in any way) like me I was sure I had this in the bag. Marketing, Advertising, Sales, Writing, Communication – all of these fields were at the very top of what expressive, free thinking (these are the words I’ve chosen for myself, obviously, not ones picked by those tight-ass, narrow-minded, prim and proper test makers) people with my skill base are good at. But then I clicked through to my very own, personalized just for me career list, and it said …
We have compiled based on your personality profile the top 3 jobs most suited to you:
1. Accountant or auditor
2. Loan officer
3. Aerospace engineer
What the fuck is this shit? Your greatest skill is socializing – you should work with numbers! Clearly this test was made by an angry, spiteful introvert who wants to lock up all the extroverts in some cubical (okay technically I am already holed up in a cubical of sorts – but somehow I picture the office of a loan officer being significantly more oppressive than the bland, gray walled cube I currently call my own), crunching number and battling spreadsheets until we wither away or, more likely, hurl ourselves out the window of the 50-story high rise we work in at Gambitt, Smith & McGillicuty, Esq.
Now don’t get me wrong – I can balance my checkbook to the penny, and I would never (knowingly) cheat on my taxes, but clearly I am a woman with a passion for words, not numbers, and I just don’t see how any of these careers relate to my – what was it? – gregarious nature. Which makes me wonder if perhaps this test maker is simply another example of someone who made the wrong career choice when he was 18. I mean, CLEARLY, this isn’t what he’s good at.
So for now I’ll just keep with my excellent (at the current moment) life choices. Because, let’s face it, I spent a long time getting to this level of perfection. And if you’re not quite as happy with your youthful choices – never fear. Unlike that butterfly tramp stamp, the DUI you have on your record after the “Boones Farm” incident of ’93 and that wicked scar on your forehead from when you attempted to dive into your pool from your roof during your sophomore house party, these are things you CAN change.
And here’s to hoping I continue to evolve. After all, when I was 18, Mel Gibson was the sexiest man alive, “Ace Ventura II” was the most hilarious movie ever, Roseanne was doling out television parenting wisdom and the waistband of my jorts actually sat firmly on my waist.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
I’m Untouchable Bitch!
A few years ago I went to Italy. While in Florence I did not visit the Accademia to see the famed Statue of David by Michelangelo … I didn’t even see the replica of this statue in front of city hall. Instead I spent a few hours touring the Serial Killer Museum. Heck, I even sprung for the audio tour. Why? Because, while I’m not a fan of overly dramatic horror films, I am fascinated by the real thing … the actual sick, twisted, psychopathic minds that – for reasons I am completely incapable of comprehending – feel motivated to murder people in cold blood. And, while I am also intrigued by crimes of passion, what really captivates my attention are serial murderers … you know, people who kill for sport … the sicker the better.
My only explanation for this fascination with the macabre is that I am drawn to it simply because it is something I absolutely, completely cannot begin to understand (which is also why I tune into “Toddlers and Tiaras” – what sort of sick people are these?). My logical mind cannot process the path that a killer’s mind takes to commit such heinous acts. Why? It’s baffling … and fascinating. And while I’m sure I’ll never understand it I just can’t stop myself from examining it from every angle.
But it also scares the bajeezus out of me. Years ago I had to give up watching television shows that highlight actual serial killers because I would spend the next week being too terrified to open my closet, or walk into a dark room, or pull back a shower curtain – always certain that, as soon as I did, some maniac who was hiding there would lunge out at me and slit my throat (in my twisted nightmares the killer always slashes my throat. Always. I also instinctively clutch my neck whenever anything scary happens. It’s a totally unconscious response I have to fear. I suppose this could lead some quack past-life regression con artist to tell me that this was how I died in a previous incarnation. I’m much more likely to attribute it to my broken dorm room tv Freshman year of college that, for the last month of school, was stuck on some movie channel that just played “Braveheart” on repeat. After seeing the love of Mel Gibson’s life die tragically about 6 dozen times in a row it must have really stuck with me. Side note: never do I fear that a serial killer is going to disembowel me – it just seems so much more time consuming. But, if he lunges out at me while wearing a kilt and some mean face painting I’m sure the thought would, at the very least, flash through my head for a second or two).
Case in point: Once, in 1998, I watched a show that provided a detailed account of Ted Bundy’s many murders. At one point the program recounted his attacks on several members of a sorority at Florida State by showing a map of the sorority house and the path he took when traveling through the house, including where each attack took place. Coincidentally the floorplan of the sorority house they showed nearly matched that of my own sorority house in Michigan and – even worse – one of the murder victims lived in the room located in the same spot as mine, and her bed was (according to this computer reproduction of events) located in the same spot as mine as well. Needless to say I spent the next month trying to convince my roommate to switch beds with me (taking a complete “If someone’s gonna die, it ain’t gonna be me” attitude) lest Ted Bundy were to somehow rise from the dead, make his way to the Midwest and decide to recreate these famous murders in the exact same manner.
THIS is why I’m not allowed to watch this type of tv! And I’ve been pretty good about steering clear of it for the most part. But then, a few weekends ago, while GAR was out of town (incidentally these types of things ONLY happen when GAR is out of town) I turned on my television one night and it was tuned to Lifetime. Now, while that fact alone is terrifying enough, it gets worse – one of their original movies was starting … and it was a dramatic portrayal of the life of alleged multiple wife murderer Drew Peterson (I feel obligated to say “alleged” since he has not yet been convicted of murder and, you know, there’s that whole “innocent until proven guilty” thing. But, this Lifetime movie left no room for doubt that he is, indeed, a killing machine). Initially I started watching the movie thinking it was a story about Scott Peterson, who also was convicted of murdering his wife (and their unborn child). About halfway through I was like “Hey, his wife already had the baby – I thought she died when she was still pregnant. What gives?” What gives is that, apparently, all men with the last name “Peterson” are wife killers (consider yourself forewarned) and this Peterson was a different wife killer than the one I was thinking of. Better still – Drew Peterson didn’t just kill one of his wives, he killed 2! (Granted he’s had 4 wives so far and is working on a fifth so, averages wise, he’s still only batting at 50%.) Best of all – The role of Scott Peterson was played by a gray-haired Rob Lowe wearing a cheesy mustache and talking with a bad Minnesota accent. Pure awesome!
And it really was tremendously corny. Bad acting, ridiculous over dramatization of events and poorly written dialogue made a complete comedy out of the whole affair. But, naturally, this didn’t stop me from being ridiculously scared after watching it. Why? Because it was based on real events (no matter how loosely). What freaked me out the most was this scene (one the most ridiculously stupid scenes ever featured in a made-for-tv movie), featured heavily in the show’s promo below, in which the aforementioned Rob Lowe threatens his neighbor by repeatedly opening and lowering her garage door. The line he delivers at the end of this scene is the epitome of hilarity – I’m untouchable bitch! Enjoy!
I mean, really, how could you NOT be terrified after watching that? All night I couldn’t sleep as I lay awake examining every noise. What was that? Did I hear the garage door opening? ARRGHH!!! I’m going to die! To top it all off, I realized that the front door had been left unlocked all day so, clearly, someone had snuck into my house earlier that day, left everything in the house untouched, hid out in one of the guest bedrooms, and was now just waiting the many hours it would take me to fall asleep before he would jump out and slit my throat, of course. Well no – I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of all that! I stayed awake nearly all night and – I can only assume – this would-be killer missed his chance to do me in and, instead, left without a peep. Victory is mine! This time anyway … And I celebrated my triumph over certain death by spending the whole next day watching a back-to-back marathon of the equally mind-boggling murder-based program “Snapped” with the covers pulled up to my eyeballs until GAR got home.
And now I can’t stop. I’m back on the wagon (or is it off the wagon?) that is real-life murder mystery television. And, as a result, I’m back to being convinced that someone is going to hide out in the oh-so-sizeable backseat of my Mustang and pop out with a knife while I’m driving down the road at night and, well, you know. But it’s worth it – this stuff is just too fascinating!
Which reminds me, I need to track down a copy of the made-for-tv movie about that other wife murdering Peterson, Scott. I think Dean Cain portrays him in “The Perfect Husband: The Laci Peterson Story.” Time to check my local listings for that one (and then install a new home security system, commission a panic room to be built off my bedroom and construct some sort of shiv to hide in my nightstand).
Sweet dreams!
My only explanation for this fascination with the macabre is that I am drawn to it simply because it is something I absolutely, completely cannot begin to understand (which is also why I tune into “Toddlers and Tiaras” – what sort of sick people are these?). My logical mind cannot process the path that a killer’s mind takes to commit such heinous acts. Why? It’s baffling … and fascinating. And while I’m sure I’ll never understand it I just can’t stop myself from examining it from every angle.
But it also scares the bajeezus out of me. Years ago I had to give up watching television shows that highlight actual serial killers because I would spend the next week being too terrified to open my closet, or walk into a dark room, or pull back a shower curtain – always certain that, as soon as I did, some maniac who was hiding there would lunge out at me and slit my throat (in my twisted nightmares the killer always slashes my throat. Always. I also instinctively clutch my neck whenever anything scary happens. It’s a totally unconscious response I have to fear. I suppose this could lead some quack past-life regression con artist to tell me that this was how I died in a previous incarnation. I’m much more likely to attribute it to my broken dorm room tv Freshman year of college that, for the last month of school, was stuck on some movie channel that just played “Braveheart” on repeat. After seeing the love of Mel Gibson’s life die tragically about 6 dozen times in a row it must have really stuck with me. Side note: never do I fear that a serial killer is going to disembowel me – it just seems so much more time consuming. But, if he lunges out at me while wearing a kilt and some mean face painting I’m sure the thought would, at the very least, flash through my head for a second or two).
Case in point: Once, in 1998, I watched a show that provided a detailed account of Ted Bundy’s many murders. At one point the program recounted his attacks on several members of a sorority at Florida State by showing a map of the sorority house and the path he took when traveling through the house, including where each attack took place. Coincidentally the floorplan of the sorority house they showed nearly matched that of my own sorority house in Michigan and – even worse – one of the murder victims lived in the room located in the same spot as mine, and her bed was (according to this computer reproduction of events) located in the same spot as mine as well. Needless to say I spent the next month trying to convince my roommate to switch beds with me (taking a complete “If someone’s gonna die, it ain’t gonna be me” attitude) lest Ted Bundy were to somehow rise from the dead, make his way to the Midwest and decide to recreate these famous murders in the exact same manner.
THIS is why I’m not allowed to watch this type of tv! And I’ve been pretty good about steering clear of it for the most part. But then, a few weekends ago, while GAR was out of town (incidentally these types of things ONLY happen when GAR is out of town) I turned on my television one night and it was tuned to Lifetime. Now, while that fact alone is terrifying enough, it gets worse – one of their original movies was starting … and it was a dramatic portrayal of the life of alleged multiple wife murderer Drew Peterson (I feel obligated to say “alleged” since he has not yet been convicted of murder and, you know, there’s that whole “innocent until proven guilty” thing. But, this Lifetime movie left no room for doubt that he is, indeed, a killing machine). Initially I started watching the movie thinking it was a story about Scott Peterson, who also was convicted of murdering his wife (and their unborn child). About halfway through I was like “Hey, his wife already had the baby – I thought she died when she was still pregnant. What gives?” What gives is that, apparently, all men with the last name “Peterson” are wife killers (consider yourself forewarned) and this Peterson was a different wife killer than the one I was thinking of. Better still – Drew Peterson didn’t just kill one of his wives, he killed 2! (Granted he’s had 4 wives so far and is working on a fifth so, averages wise, he’s still only batting at 50%.) Best of all – The role of Scott Peterson was played by a gray-haired Rob Lowe wearing a cheesy mustache and talking with a bad Minnesota accent. Pure awesome!
And it really was tremendously corny. Bad acting, ridiculous over dramatization of events and poorly written dialogue made a complete comedy out of the whole affair. But, naturally, this didn’t stop me from being ridiculously scared after watching it. Why? Because it was based on real events (no matter how loosely). What freaked me out the most was this scene (one the most ridiculously stupid scenes ever featured in a made-for-tv movie), featured heavily in the show’s promo below, in which the aforementioned Rob Lowe threatens his neighbor by repeatedly opening and lowering her garage door. The line he delivers at the end of this scene is the epitome of hilarity – I’m untouchable bitch! Enjoy!
I mean, really, how could you NOT be terrified after watching that? All night I couldn’t sleep as I lay awake examining every noise. What was that? Did I hear the garage door opening? ARRGHH!!! I’m going to die! To top it all off, I realized that the front door had been left unlocked all day so, clearly, someone had snuck into my house earlier that day, left everything in the house untouched, hid out in one of the guest bedrooms, and was now just waiting the many hours it would take me to fall asleep before he would jump out and slit my throat, of course. Well no – I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of all that! I stayed awake nearly all night and – I can only assume – this would-be killer missed his chance to do me in and, instead, left without a peep. Victory is mine! This time anyway … And I celebrated my triumph over certain death by spending the whole next day watching a back-to-back marathon of the equally mind-boggling murder-based program “Snapped” with the covers pulled up to my eyeballs until GAR got home.
And now I can’t stop. I’m back on the wagon (or is it off the wagon?) that is real-life murder mystery television. And, as a result, I’m back to being convinced that someone is going to hide out in the oh-so-sizeable backseat of my Mustang and pop out with a knife while I’m driving down the road at night and, well, you know. But it’s worth it – this stuff is just too fascinating!
Which reminds me, I need to track down a copy of the made-for-tv movie about that other wife murdering Peterson, Scott. I think Dean Cain portrays him in “The Perfect Husband: The Laci Peterson Story.” Time to check my local listings for that one (and then install a new home security system, commission a panic room to be built off my bedroom and construct some sort of shiv to hide in my nightstand).
Sweet dreams!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
How To Be A Grown-Up Without Really Trying
Something bad has happened.
Something very, very bad.
Okay, perhaps I’m overstating things … maybe it’s better to say that something completely normal has happened but that it’s giving me the willies … the heebie jeebies … you know, freaking me out. It’s just that, well, I’ve become - *gulp* - a yuppie. Kinda anyway.
Now don’t panic – I’m almost as anti-generic white-bread America as I ever was. And I’m certainly not running off and doing anything totally wacko like voting Republican or anything nutso like that. But I have to admit that little bits of the Young Urban Professional lifestyle have crept up on me (though, let’s face it, soon I won’t be able to desperately cling to the “young” part of that statement anymore).
And that’s how it always gets you – by sneaking up little by little. Of course there’s the obvious things, like buying a house in ‘burbs (but, to be fair, all I did was buy a different house in the ‘burbs because, let’s be honest, I have never NOT lived in the ‘burbs). And getting married is, naturally, considered to be fairly yuppie-ish behavior. But then there are some things that are just a symptom of growing up – like how one day you have enough money to dine at an establishment that doesn’t feature a drive-through window and you think to yourself “Wow, this food that isn’t cooked in a microwave is actually quite tasty.” And, naturally, one’s ability to survive in a professional work setting somewhat necessitates that you learn how to fake being a mature adult, maintain a certain amount of responsibility and, generally, regard everyone you work with – including those that you find annoying in every way – with the type of refrained civility you would have never had the fortitude to exude in your younger, “Jersey Shore” (or if you’re my age use this reference: “Real World”) years.
Of course there are some people who refuse to do these things. Those who believe that the mere process of growing as a person means that they are being untrue to themselves (which is sort of hilarious in my opinion. Imagine being a child and refusing to grow up … insisting that if you learn your ABCs that you’ll totally be “selling out”). But, growing up doesn’t, by default, mean that you lose yourself … it isn’t growing up and doing “adult” things that makes you a mindless, zombie yuppie.
No, that manifests itself in different ways … like when it’s New Years Eve. And here you are – married and living in suburbia – and you get an invite to a NYE party at a friend’s house. You spend the whole day debating if you should get dressed up and drive 20 minutes to the party when, in reality, all you WANT to do for New Years is put on some fuzzy pjs, pour a few fingers of finely aged Scotch into your Crate & Barrel tumblers, curl up by the fireplace and ring in 2012 watching Anderson Cooper on CNN. Of course you don’t want to be lame so you force yourself to go to the party, picking up a case of crappy Bud Select 55 along the way. At the party you look around at your friends – nursing their cheap beers and strawberry wine (you know who you are – you rebel who refuses to accept that any beverage could surpass the flavor of the Arbor Mist you’ve been drinking since Freshman year), knowing that no one wants to drink too much because, well, we’ve all got to drive home. When someone suggests beer pong we all agree but have long forgotten the rules for said game and, naturally, we decide to play the game in the garage so as not to damage the carpet inside the house. For a table you use the pantry door – of course you know how to properly remove a door from the hinges and you use one of your many power tools to get the job done effectively. Between turns you discuss the virtues of your friend’s garage, impressed by the sealant he used on the floor – it looks so clean! At 12:05 you wish your friends goodbye, drive home and immediately curl up in bed.
Now don’t get me wrong – GAR and I are still very fun-loving, active people. And I have, naturally, noticed a greater appreciation for the simple, relaxing things over time. And, honestly, wanting to spend the evening at home with the one you love is pretty much the ultimate sign of happiness – not anything more sinister, Again, I think this is a normal shift associated with not being 19 anymore. This scenario in itself is not new – nor do I think that most of the events of that evening make me a yuppie. But discussing someone’s garage floor with actual interest and envy? Okay, you got me – that’s a new one. And that’s what’s got me concerned.
If only I could say it was just that one time. That it didn’t mean anything to me. That I would never do it again. But then it happened a second time, just a few days later, and this time it was an intense discussion over another friend’s solar heating system for their pool. I’m so ashamed.
What’s next? Will I soon be coveting a new garbage disposal system? Pining over Brookstone air purifiers?
I thought I was okay … it didn’t seem wrong to want to renovate my outdated bathroom, paint over the teal shutters on my house or even to make my yucky pool swim-worthy again. These are “cool”-ish things. Pretty things. Things that anyone would want in order to have a kick-ass pad. But garage flooring? No – I’ve clearly gone too far. My candy apple red mid-life crisis Mustang does NOT need a posh place to rest its tires. Only a totally white-bread yuppie would want something like that.
Somehow I have to undo this. Maybe I can go out this weekend and make a totally irresponsible, immature purchase – like a futon or, at the very least, a “What Would Scooby Doo?” t-shirt.
Or maybe I can just continue to be me. And I can do that while allowing myself to grow up a little and be okay with that. I learned my ABCs, perhaps now I can master my colors. And, who knows, once I figure out what exactly “persimmon” looks like I might just realize that it’s the perfect shade to paint that unused guest bedroom of mine.
Something very, very bad.
Okay, perhaps I’m overstating things … maybe it’s better to say that something completely normal has happened but that it’s giving me the willies … the heebie jeebies … you know, freaking me out. It’s just that, well, I’ve become - *gulp* - a yuppie. Kinda anyway.
Now don’t panic – I’m almost as anti-generic white-bread America as I ever was. And I’m certainly not running off and doing anything totally wacko like voting Republican or anything nutso like that. But I have to admit that little bits of the Young Urban Professional lifestyle have crept up on me (though, let’s face it, soon I won’t be able to desperately cling to the “young” part of that statement anymore).
And that’s how it always gets you – by sneaking up little by little. Of course there’s the obvious things, like buying a house in ‘burbs (but, to be fair, all I did was buy a different house in the ‘burbs because, let’s be honest, I have never NOT lived in the ‘burbs). And getting married is, naturally, considered to be fairly yuppie-ish behavior. But then there are some things that are just a symptom of growing up – like how one day you have enough money to dine at an establishment that doesn’t feature a drive-through window and you think to yourself “Wow, this food that isn’t cooked in a microwave is actually quite tasty.” And, naturally, one’s ability to survive in a professional work setting somewhat necessitates that you learn how to fake being a mature adult, maintain a certain amount of responsibility and, generally, regard everyone you work with – including those that you find annoying in every way – with the type of refrained civility you would have never had the fortitude to exude in your younger, “Jersey Shore” (or if you’re my age use this reference: “Real World”) years.
Of course there are some people who refuse to do these things. Those who believe that the mere process of growing as a person means that they are being untrue to themselves (which is sort of hilarious in my opinion. Imagine being a child and refusing to grow up … insisting that if you learn your ABCs that you’ll totally be “selling out”). But, growing up doesn’t, by default, mean that you lose yourself … it isn’t growing up and doing “adult” things that makes you a mindless, zombie yuppie.
No, that manifests itself in different ways … like when it’s New Years Eve. And here you are – married and living in suburbia – and you get an invite to a NYE party at a friend’s house. You spend the whole day debating if you should get dressed up and drive 20 minutes to the party when, in reality, all you WANT to do for New Years is put on some fuzzy pjs, pour a few fingers of finely aged Scotch into your Crate & Barrel tumblers, curl up by the fireplace and ring in 2012 watching Anderson Cooper on CNN. Of course you don’t want to be lame so you force yourself to go to the party, picking up a case of crappy Bud Select 55 along the way. At the party you look around at your friends – nursing their cheap beers and strawberry wine (you know who you are – you rebel who refuses to accept that any beverage could surpass the flavor of the Arbor Mist you’ve been drinking since Freshman year), knowing that no one wants to drink too much because, well, we’ve all got to drive home. When someone suggests beer pong we all agree but have long forgotten the rules for said game and, naturally, we decide to play the game in the garage so as not to damage the carpet inside the house. For a table you use the pantry door – of course you know how to properly remove a door from the hinges and you use one of your many power tools to get the job done effectively. Between turns you discuss the virtues of your friend’s garage, impressed by the sealant he used on the floor – it looks so clean! At 12:05 you wish your friends goodbye, drive home and immediately curl up in bed.
Now don’t get me wrong – GAR and I are still very fun-loving, active people. And I have, naturally, noticed a greater appreciation for the simple, relaxing things over time. And, honestly, wanting to spend the evening at home with the one you love is pretty much the ultimate sign of happiness – not anything more sinister, Again, I think this is a normal shift associated with not being 19 anymore. This scenario in itself is not new – nor do I think that most of the events of that evening make me a yuppie. But discussing someone’s garage floor with actual interest and envy? Okay, you got me – that’s a new one. And that’s what’s got me concerned.
If only I could say it was just that one time. That it didn’t mean anything to me. That I would never do it again. But then it happened a second time, just a few days later, and this time it was an intense discussion over another friend’s solar heating system for their pool. I’m so ashamed.
What’s next? Will I soon be coveting a new garbage disposal system? Pining over Brookstone air purifiers?
I thought I was okay … it didn’t seem wrong to want to renovate my outdated bathroom, paint over the teal shutters on my house or even to make my yucky pool swim-worthy again. These are “cool”-ish things. Pretty things. Things that anyone would want in order to have a kick-ass pad. But garage flooring? No – I’ve clearly gone too far. My candy apple red mid-life crisis Mustang does NOT need a posh place to rest its tires. Only a totally white-bread yuppie would want something like that.
Somehow I have to undo this. Maybe I can go out this weekend and make a totally irresponsible, immature purchase – like a futon or, at the very least, a “What Would Scooby Doo?” t-shirt.
Or maybe I can just continue to be me. And I can do that while allowing myself to grow up a little and be okay with that. I learned my ABCs, perhaps now I can master my colors. And, who knows, once I figure out what exactly “persimmon” looks like I might just realize that it’s the perfect shade to paint that unused guest bedroom of mine.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Shawshank Restoration
No, I’m not crawling through a river of poo and hoping to come out clean on the other side (though we did pull out our toilet and didn’t quite seal up the hole well enough to avoid some nauseating gases) … but I am digging a really big hole and looking for ways to squirrel away the evidence.
If you haven’t seen “The Shawshank Redemption” you’re really missing out here. Go watch it now in fact – it’s almost always playing on tv (and don’t I know it because it’s one of those movies I just get sucked into watching every darn time I find it while flipping through the channels … so I’m guessing I’ve seen it approximately 500 times now) – then come back and read this.
My hole isn’t hidden behind a sexy pinup poster (though I suppose I wouldn’t mind tacking up a full-size shirtless Bradley Cooper on my vacant bathroom wall), but it is growing larger every day – no matter how fast we work to rebuild it.
After the burglar scare on my street subsided we all went back about our daily routine. We didn’t install a high-tech security alarm system, or even buy some fake ADT signs off the internet like Dad suggested, but we did spring for a new, more sturdy set of front doors (complete with actual working locks! I mean, they will have locks … eventually … after Home Depot comes to install them) and some fancy new exterior lighting (thieves are TOTALLY fooled by motion detector lights, right?). And a friend told me about a news report of some robbers in our area dying in a fiery car crash when they attempted to flee from the cops and, while I found no actual evidence to support the fact that these were the criminals who invaded our neighbors (nor did I even find any evidence to support the fact that this deadly crash really happened in the first place), I have chosen to believe that this was the event that will end any thoughts of a future crime spree in our area. And, thankfully, GAR is back at work now – alive, out of the house and breathing in fresh air (hooray for not being a widow!)
And the mold is gone too! All it took was Dad coming to visit to help GAR rip everything out of the infested bathroom – walls, vanity, toilet, tile – cleanse it and rebuild it brick by brick (or, rather, waterproof durarock by durarock). And while the reconstruction portion of the project is still in development we have turned our attention to the disposing of the demolished, unwanted rubble left behind.
What to do with all this linoleum, tile, mirror fragments and assorted ‘80s jetsam?
On home improvement shows they always order a dumpster to dispose of, and subsequently haul away, this sort of thing – suckers! No, we are far too cheap for all that. The garbage men often refuse to haul away larger chunks of debris, so for our previous bathroom remodel we spent months afterwards slyly breaking it all into smaller, lighter chunks and hiding it in our weekly trash disposal. We broke tiles into fragments, squirreling them into the middle of our waste cans where they likely wouldn’t be seen – bit by bit over time until all that was left was a giant mirror too sizeable to discard of so easily. But minimizing all this rubbish and stuffing it down our pants Shawshank style was tedious and this time we decided to just go for it, carried it all out to the curb (except the wood chunks we used as kindling for our fireplace – waste not, want not) and took a chance that the porcelain pirates would want it.
Ah yes, the porcelain pirates – the pick-up truck warriors of America who troll the street looking for booty in the form of discarded yellow appliances, musty armchairs, warped two-by-fours and other assorted “treasures” that others no longer find valuable. In our case we’ve been visited mostly by those who pray to porcelain gods. They’ve “rescued” 2 toilets, a bathtub and several sinks from our front curb already and it didn’t take long for them to scoop up the salvageable scraps from our most recent construction. Brazenly they appeared in broad daylight as I was painting approximately 700 sets of closet doors yesterday and rummaged through our refuse, plundering as they saw fit. Oddly (though really it is just a fine line between what they’re doing and “stealing” - which I take great … or, rather, some … protection against) I was glad to see them cart off most everything the garbage men wouldn’t take – no Shawshank smuggling required.
But we’re still far from done … not just with the bathroom but with everything. As is the case whenever Dad comes to visit, my home improvement “to do” list starts spiraling, snowballing out of control. The holes in my house grow bigger and the dilemma of debris disposal continues. And my bank account suffers. Suddenly I NEED new flooring, new cabinet finishes, a new wine rack, wainscoting, sprinkler systems, energy-efficient windows, pendant lights … and I need for my dining room not to catch fire (but that is another story for another day).
Mostly I’m just worried about the impact this has on my career. No, not my day job – my other, back-up, someday dream job as a hand model. I was “discovered” a few years ago (okay, fine, it was freshman year of college … but it seems like just yesterday) by some friends who were doing some modeling and encouraged me to take some “hand shots” of my practically perfect digits to use to promote myself. I always figured that someday, when I grew weary of corporate life, my appendages would be used for margarine commercials or to show off authentic looking faux gemstones on QVC and I’d settle into a quiet, less hectic lifestyle where I can’t lift a (carefully gloved) finger lest I get even the tiniest of scratches on my moneymakers.
But, no, the more the renovation pit grows, the more I need my hands for hammering, nail gunning, sawing … okay, fine, mostly I’m just in charge of painting. But it takes its toll man … and these calloused, semi-construction worker hands aren’t getting me any callbacks for the new Land O’Lakes campaign … regardless of the “perfect length of my nail beds.” Sigh – farewell dreams of a pampered, perpetually moisturized existence.
If you haven’t seen “The Shawshank Redemption” you’re really missing out here. Go watch it now in fact – it’s almost always playing on tv (and don’t I know it because it’s one of those movies I just get sucked into watching every darn time I find it while flipping through the channels … so I’m guessing I’ve seen it approximately 500 times now) – then come back and read this.
My hole isn’t hidden behind a sexy pinup poster (though I suppose I wouldn’t mind tacking up a full-size shirtless Bradley Cooper on my vacant bathroom wall), but it is growing larger every day – no matter how fast we work to rebuild it.
After the burglar scare on my street subsided we all went back about our daily routine. We didn’t install a high-tech security alarm system, or even buy some fake ADT signs off the internet like Dad suggested, but we did spring for a new, more sturdy set of front doors (complete with actual working locks! I mean, they will have locks … eventually … after Home Depot comes to install them) and some fancy new exterior lighting (thieves are TOTALLY fooled by motion detector lights, right?). And a friend told me about a news report of some robbers in our area dying in a fiery car crash when they attempted to flee from the cops and, while I found no actual evidence to support the fact that these were the criminals who invaded our neighbors (nor did I even find any evidence to support the fact that this deadly crash really happened in the first place), I have chosen to believe that this was the event that will end any thoughts of a future crime spree in our area. And, thankfully, GAR is back at work now – alive, out of the house and breathing in fresh air (hooray for not being a widow!)
And the mold is gone too! All it took was Dad coming to visit to help GAR rip everything out of the infested bathroom – walls, vanity, toilet, tile – cleanse it and rebuild it brick by brick (or, rather, waterproof durarock by durarock). And while the reconstruction portion of the project is still in development we have turned our attention to the disposing of the demolished, unwanted rubble left behind.
What to do with all this linoleum, tile, mirror fragments and assorted ‘80s jetsam?
On home improvement shows they always order a dumpster to dispose of, and subsequently haul away, this sort of thing – suckers! No, we are far too cheap for all that. The garbage men often refuse to haul away larger chunks of debris, so for our previous bathroom remodel we spent months afterwards slyly breaking it all into smaller, lighter chunks and hiding it in our weekly trash disposal. We broke tiles into fragments, squirreling them into the middle of our waste cans where they likely wouldn’t be seen – bit by bit over time until all that was left was a giant mirror too sizeable to discard of so easily. But minimizing all this rubbish and stuffing it down our pants Shawshank style was tedious and this time we decided to just go for it, carried it all out to the curb (except the wood chunks we used as kindling for our fireplace – waste not, want not) and took a chance that the porcelain pirates would want it.
Ah yes, the porcelain pirates – the pick-up truck warriors of America who troll the street looking for booty in the form of discarded yellow appliances, musty armchairs, warped two-by-fours and other assorted “treasures” that others no longer find valuable. In our case we’ve been visited mostly by those who pray to porcelain gods. They’ve “rescued” 2 toilets, a bathtub and several sinks from our front curb already and it didn’t take long for them to scoop up the salvageable scraps from our most recent construction. Brazenly they appeared in broad daylight as I was painting approximately 700 sets of closet doors yesterday and rummaged through our refuse, plundering as they saw fit. Oddly (though really it is just a fine line between what they’re doing and “stealing” - which I take great … or, rather, some … protection against) I was glad to see them cart off most everything the garbage men wouldn’t take – no Shawshank smuggling required.
But we’re still far from done … not just with the bathroom but with everything. As is the case whenever Dad comes to visit, my home improvement “to do” list starts spiraling, snowballing out of control. The holes in my house grow bigger and the dilemma of debris disposal continues. And my bank account suffers. Suddenly I NEED new flooring, new cabinet finishes, a new wine rack, wainscoting, sprinkler systems, energy-efficient windows, pendant lights … and I need for my dining room not to catch fire (but that is another story for another day).
Mostly I’m just worried about the impact this has on my career. No, not my day job – my other, back-up, someday dream job as a hand model. I was “discovered” a few years ago (okay, fine, it was freshman year of college … but it seems like just yesterday) by some friends who were doing some modeling and encouraged me to take some “hand shots” of my practically perfect digits to use to promote myself. I always figured that someday, when I grew weary of corporate life, my appendages would be used for margarine commercials or to show off authentic looking faux gemstones on QVC and I’d settle into a quiet, less hectic lifestyle where I can’t lift a (carefully gloved) finger lest I get even the tiniest of scratches on my moneymakers.
But, no, the more the renovation pit grows, the more I need my hands for hammering, nail gunning, sawing … okay, fine, mostly I’m just in charge of painting. But it takes its toll man … and these calloused, semi-construction worker hands aren’t getting me any callbacks for the new Land O’Lakes campaign … regardless of the “perfect length of my nail beds.” Sigh – farewell dreams of a pampered, perpetually moisturized existence.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
The Untimely Demise of My Marriage (and My Husband)
Once upon a time I had a blog…
And on that blog I wrote about many things. But then I got married, and went on my honeymoon, and I swore I’d write … but I didn’t. Oh sure, I started a few messages. My computer is full of half-finished blog entries. But as time passed I found there was so much to catch up on and so little time. But that’s all ending now. No, I’m not going to catch you up on what you’ve missed (though if you’d like a photo recap of the wedding you can look here. And a photo recap of the honeymoon can be found here), but I will start writing again … starting with the story of how my 3-month marriage is coming to an abrupt end.
Oh sure, we’ve already surpassed the current Kardashian marriage record but I know it’s not going to last much longer. Why? Because our house is going to kill us. Not “us” really, just GAR. And, well, you know, then our whole “’til death do we part” thing will pretty much be fulfilled (although, now that I think about it, those words were never spoken at our wedding … but, nonetheless, if one of us croaks this marriage is automatically null and void).
Now, if you’ve read this blog previously then you know that our house has afflicted many a wound upon us in the past – fires, floods, gang graffiti, tarantula infestations (which, actually, are still rampant … though it turns out the ones we have are actually wolf spiders – just as scary but, thankfully, far less deadly), locust infestations, poor design choice infestations – you name it. But over this past month our 1980’s Golden Girls-esque abode has really pulled out all the stops in its efforts to kill us off.
It started small – while painting the outside of the house (yes, we’re STILL painting the exterior of our home … after all it’s only been about 10 months since we started) GAR threw out his back – AGAIN (funny how every time he’s required to do manual labor he turns into an 80-year-old man). But he healed … and we paid someone to finish the job for us (well mostly … but that’s a whole other story). And then we moved on to more manageable tasks – like decorating (somehow in the hustle and bustle of renovation we sort of forgot to, you know, buy décor and things that actually make a place look “pretty”) – and things were calm again. Our daily routine of watching endless hours of HGTV were back on schedule and we even picked up a few accent pieces that really “tie the whole room together.”
But then our neighbors got robbed. That’s sad, but it happens, right? Nothing to be worried about … until it happens again a few weeks later ... in the middle of the day. And suddenly we realize that in the past month 3 out of the 5 houses in our cul-de-sac have been burglarized. And really it makes sense – we live in one of the more wealthy areas of town but we’re in one of the only neighborhoods that isn’t gated. Plus the homes are older – easier to break into and less chance of encountering a security system. Oh, and my neighbors all have giant boats just sitting there in their driveways screaming “Come rob me – I have enough money to buy a boat!” Or something like that.
And it sucks, but I don’t worry too much (plus, you know, we don’t have a boat – but we do have a security system … assuming you count 2 tiny yipping dogs as “surveillance”). I just head to Home Depot and price out some new front doors that actually shut all the way (unlike the ones we currently have that bow inwards and don’t completely lock correctly … but I guess that’s okay because they are mostly glass anyway so it’s not like we even need to lock them I suppose when they can so easily be demolished … and now I’m telling you all of this too so I might as well just put up a giant neon – no, LED, that’s more environmentally responsible – sign out front declaring us open for business).
But not GAR. No, he does not handle this news nearly as lightly. And this is the problem.
Since the most recent string of break-ins my dear husband has been on high alert – monitoring every car he sees in the neighborhood and putting us on total lockdown day and night. He’s hiding all our “valuables” and guarding the meager gifts we put in each other’s stockings like they are made of solid gold. Getting him to leave the house for even an hour to go to the store takes some convincing as he’s positive that the second he leaves that the “bad guys” will come steal his record collection and maybe smuggle out the pups while they’re at it. Heaven help me if TBS decides to air a “Home Alone” marathon this holiday season – I know that if GAR sees that I’ll come home to find our house booby trapped with all sorts of crotch-kicking homemade protection gadgets.
Alas I am finally getting to my point – the whole “how my husband is going to leave me a widow after mere months of marriage” portion that I promised up front. Here’s how it goes down …
Amidst all this chaos something even more sinister has happened. Ah yes, this is the beauty of our home – it’s the gift that keeps giving. And its latest gift to us has been mold. Mold which we uncovered when ripping out the second of our guest bathrooms, “The Cave,” and has now infiltrated every inch of breathable air in our house. It turns out that not only was The Cave hideous, it also was built with absolutely no waterproofing – no shower tray, no water-sealants, nothing behind the shower tile at all except some drywall – and, apparently, that tends to allow mold to fester over the course of, oh, let’s say, 25 years. And then (after those 25 years have passed), when you demo it all you uncover the motherload … and all those mold spores are free – FREE I TELLS YA!! – to fly out into the air and dance around until they find new places to settle ... in our bedding … in our curtains … into the carpet … And suddenly you find your allergies kicking in. Breathing is harder. Sneezing is more rampant. And what you really need is some nice, clean, fresh air in your lungs.
And I escape! Off to work, off to the gym, out for a run … and I breathe. But GAR. Well, not GAR who, thanks to his sweet professoring gig, gets to stay home all winter break. And who, unthankfully, has recently become a recluse vigilante Hell bent on locking himself into our home airtight and protecting our abode from any would-be wrong doers. No, sadly, poor GAR is doomed to live out his last days choking down moldy air as he rigs buckets of tar and feathers above all our doorways “just in case” (and frankly the feathers are a bad idea too – he’s horribly allergic to those as well) until the stale, allergen-filled pollutants overtake him completely. And I’m alone. But, hey, at least the thieves weren’t able to get to my awesome collection of Steve Guttenberg DVDs!
Well, my love, this whole marriage thing was good while it lasted.
And on that blog I wrote about many things. But then I got married, and went on my honeymoon, and I swore I’d write … but I didn’t. Oh sure, I started a few messages. My computer is full of half-finished blog entries. But as time passed I found there was so much to catch up on and so little time. But that’s all ending now. No, I’m not going to catch you up on what you’ve missed (though if you’d like a photo recap of the wedding you can look here. And a photo recap of the honeymoon can be found here), but I will start writing again … starting with the story of how my 3-month marriage is coming to an abrupt end.
Oh sure, we’ve already surpassed the current Kardashian marriage record but I know it’s not going to last much longer. Why? Because our house is going to kill us. Not “us” really, just GAR. And, well, you know, then our whole “’til death do we part” thing will pretty much be fulfilled (although, now that I think about it, those words were never spoken at our wedding … but, nonetheless, if one of us croaks this marriage is automatically null and void).
Now, if you’ve read this blog previously then you know that our house has afflicted many a wound upon us in the past – fires, floods, gang graffiti, tarantula infestations (which, actually, are still rampant … though it turns out the ones we have are actually wolf spiders – just as scary but, thankfully, far less deadly), locust infestations, poor design choice infestations – you name it. But over this past month our 1980’s Golden Girls-esque abode has really pulled out all the stops in its efforts to kill us off.
It started small – while painting the outside of the house (yes, we’re STILL painting the exterior of our home … after all it’s only been about 10 months since we started) GAR threw out his back – AGAIN (funny how every time he’s required to do manual labor he turns into an 80-year-old man). But he healed … and we paid someone to finish the job for us (well mostly … but that’s a whole other story). And then we moved on to more manageable tasks – like decorating (somehow in the hustle and bustle of renovation we sort of forgot to, you know, buy décor and things that actually make a place look “pretty”) – and things were calm again. Our daily routine of watching endless hours of HGTV were back on schedule and we even picked up a few accent pieces that really “tie the whole room together.”
But then our neighbors got robbed. That’s sad, but it happens, right? Nothing to be worried about … until it happens again a few weeks later ... in the middle of the day. And suddenly we realize that in the past month 3 out of the 5 houses in our cul-de-sac have been burglarized. And really it makes sense – we live in one of the more wealthy areas of town but we’re in one of the only neighborhoods that isn’t gated. Plus the homes are older – easier to break into and less chance of encountering a security system. Oh, and my neighbors all have giant boats just sitting there in their driveways screaming “Come rob me – I have enough money to buy a boat!” Or something like that.
And it sucks, but I don’t worry too much (plus, you know, we don’t have a boat – but we do have a security system … assuming you count 2 tiny yipping dogs as “surveillance”). I just head to Home Depot and price out some new front doors that actually shut all the way (unlike the ones we currently have that bow inwards and don’t completely lock correctly … but I guess that’s okay because they are mostly glass anyway so it’s not like we even need to lock them I suppose when they can so easily be demolished … and now I’m telling you all of this too so I might as well just put up a giant neon – no, LED, that’s more environmentally responsible – sign out front declaring us open for business).
But not GAR. No, he does not handle this news nearly as lightly. And this is the problem.
Since the most recent string of break-ins my dear husband has been on high alert – monitoring every car he sees in the neighborhood and putting us on total lockdown day and night. He’s hiding all our “valuables” and guarding the meager gifts we put in each other’s stockings like they are made of solid gold. Getting him to leave the house for even an hour to go to the store takes some convincing as he’s positive that the second he leaves that the “bad guys” will come steal his record collection and maybe smuggle out the pups while they’re at it. Heaven help me if TBS decides to air a “Home Alone” marathon this holiday season – I know that if GAR sees that I’ll come home to find our house booby trapped with all sorts of crotch-kicking homemade protection gadgets.
Alas I am finally getting to my point – the whole “how my husband is going to leave me a widow after mere months of marriage” portion that I promised up front. Here’s how it goes down …
Amidst all this chaos something even more sinister has happened. Ah yes, this is the beauty of our home – it’s the gift that keeps giving. And its latest gift to us has been mold. Mold which we uncovered when ripping out the second of our guest bathrooms, “The Cave,” and has now infiltrated every inch of breathable air in our house. It turns out that not only was The Cave hideous, it also was built with absolutely no waterproofing – no shower tray, no water-sealants, nothing behind the shower tile at all except some drywall – and, apparently, that tends to allow mold to fester over the course of, oh, let’s say, 25 years. And then (after those 25 years have passed), when you demo it all you uncover the motherload … and all those mold spores are free – FREE I TELLS YA!! – to fly out into the air and dance around until they find new places to settle ... in our bedding … in our curtains … into the carpet … And suddenly you find your allergies kicking in. Breathing is harder. Sneezing is more rampant. And what you really need is some nice, clean, fresh air in your lungs.
And I escape! Off to work, off to the gym, out for a run … and I breathe. But GAR. Well, not GAR who, thanks to his sweet professoring gig, gets to stay home all winter break. And who, unthankfully, has recently become a recluse vigilante Hell bent on locking himself into our home airtight and protecting our abode from any would-be wrong doers. No, sadly, poor GAR is doomed to live out his last days choking down moldy air as he rigs buckets of tar and feathers above all our doorways “just in case” (and frankly the feathers are a bad idea too – he’s horribly allergic to those as well) until the stale, allergen-filled pollutants overtake him completely. And I’m alone. But, hey, at least the thieves weren’t able to get to my awesome collection of Steve Guttenberg DVDs!
Well, my love, this whole marriage thing was good while it lasted.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Wedding Photos
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