A Shot That Only A Farm Animal Could Love

It's the end of May, the weather is warming up, people are wearing jeggings in public, OBVIOUSLY it is time for me to get a head cold.  When you are sick, people love to offer you advice.  Sometimes, it is a helpful tip like, "get the Kleenex with aloe", sometimes it is a more subtle tip like handing you a cough drop.  Then there are the bold and unashamed who just spray you from head to toe with Lysol and run screaming from the room.  (You can't help but laugh at this last group, once you are able to suck in oxygen again).  Today's helpful tip was...a shot of wheatgrass.  He had me at shot.  It is rare that I meet a shot that I don't like.  I shouldn't have stopped listening after shot, or I would have heard "WHEATGRASS". 

I walked into my local Jamba Juice with my game face on.  I would suck down this nutrient rich shot of nature and then get on with the business of a Razzmatazz Caribbean Dream Peachtastic Summer Harvest Smoothie of Goodness.  I ordered the shot.  (Fun Bonus Fact about Wheatgrass: a single shot has 5 calories, and a double shot has 15 calories.  Maybe this is some sort of health fanatic math)  I should have known something was up when the lovely lady behind the counter asked if I would like an orange slice as a compliment to the shot.  What she was really saying was, YOU NEED A CHASER, because you do not want to walk around with this flavor of funk in your mouth. 

I enthusiastically agreed to the chaser, and at this point I started paying attention to the shot-making process.  Have you ever seen those specialty "potty patches" that are advertised in magazines like Sky Mall?  These fabulous grass squares give your dog the sensation of being outdoors, but let them relieve themselves, INSIDE YOUR HOME.  Apparently it is ok, because they feel like they are outside and won't be confused into believing that they are going to the bathroom inside.  Maybe this works for the dog, but I can guarantee that the smell won't give me the sensation that they are outside.  Anyways, there is a square patch of grass growing in the store.  Grass is plucked from the patch, put through some sort of scary meat grinder and then put into a tiny teapot with questionable liquid.  The shot is artfully arranged on a small plastic plate with a bamboo design.  This is the last positive thought you are going to have about the shot. 

In the summer, grass grows quickly.  Thus, people are constantly mowing their yards and the scent of fresh cut grass permeates the air.  Have you ever thought that the smell was so strong you could almost taste it?  Well now you can!  A shot of wheatgrass tastes exactly how grass smells, with a finish that can only be described as milky-textured-sort-of-sweet ickiness.  I'm pretty sure I had that orange wedge in my mouth before my brain even released the "Code 5-Tastebud Threat Level Red-Oh-Dear-Lord-Warning".

I feel healthier already. 

Rapture

Let's face it, rapture is funny.  Oh sure, it might happen, but I think that is an even better reason to joke about it now.  I'm not 100% sure where I'm going yet.  Much like the DMV, you can't know for certain which line will call your number, you can only guess and pray it won't be the one with the angry man with a unibrow.  I think I find the rapture scheduled for tomorrow to be funnier than your average rapture for one reason, billboards.  Strategic billboard placement has allowed me to rationalize all my decisions.  Coconut Mocha Frapp at Starbucks, don't mind if I do!  There's no fitness exam in heaven, and even if there were, I'm not interested in being part of the Elite Angel Forces.  12 packs of toilet paper on sale at King Soopers, why bother?  When the end is so near, who needs more than a roll?  A vacation to Central Illinois, now is the time!  I'm guessing there aren't any Midwest region ice cream parlors down "South".  So I say, embrace the end!  Celebrate!  If the predictions are wrong, all you did was enjoy yourself.  And if they're wrong, there's always next year.  Literally.

Saucy Siren or Tepid Tease?

Sassy, Seventeen, Teen magazine- they held the answers to all of your burning questions in the 80's, or at least the answers to the following questions:

Are you popular?
Does your crush notice you?
What do your friends REALLY think of you?
Are you a good kisser?
Would you dare?

My sister and I would read these quizzes, take them with each other, take them again with our friends, and then tear them out of the magazines.  We kept the pages, complete with our initials and scores, and revisited the questions at each sleepover.  We couldn't possibly get bored with the questions, because the answers were constantly changing.  While I may have been a "Calm Chick" on Friday, by the next Saturday I was a "Wild Child".  Depending on the week's drama and who said what about who at lunch, or what happened during Truth or Dare at Mandy's sleepover, you could easily go from a "Popular Princess" to a "Dorky Do-gooder/Doofus/Doormat".

Everyone had that friend, maybe it was you, who would always be in the middle category.  They would be the "Girl Next Door/Far From French/50-50/Nice but not Nasty/Blossom (complete with hat)".  You never really knew if they were always picking "B" because they really meant it, or because they wanted to fall in the middle category.  EVERYONE knew that the middle category meant you were normal, well-adjusted, and unlikely to be pregnant by 8th grade.  The middle was safe, and boring.

So, were the quizzes right?  Are they still right?  Have you grown out of your "Waiting Wallflower" stage and embraced your inner "Dancefloor Diva"?  Have you given up on being "Totally Tongue" and mellowed into the "Polite Peck"?  I think we should all aspire to be in the "Braggy Babe/All About You/Thrill Junkie" category now and again (and be there HONESTLY, not by looking at the point values- you know who you are, quiz cheaters...).  With that said:

You see a boy you are totally crushing on at the mall.  He has spilled Icee down the front of his shirt.  Do you...

A) Politely whisper that he spilled his drink and should buy a new shirt (that shows off his abs, from Hollister)
B) Laugh at him and say, "Smooth move, Ex-Lax!"
C) Offer him your Tide-to-Go pen and tell him that no one will notice the wet spot
-or- (take that "C" people!)
D) Dare him to go shirtless until the mall cops catch him
       

Heather's Tanzania

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Fitness- Hold the Exercise

"There's no fun in fitness. There's no fit in funness. There's a reason. Burning, aching, pain, and frustration are closer related to STDs than they are to a good time. To recap- fitness equals syphilis." -Me...Monday, May 9.

Fear not, my opinion on the subject hasn't changed.  I am fully convinced that fitness is never fun, no matter what 24 Hour Fitness, Gold's Gym, Curves, or my trainer says.  I will agree that exercise is necessary, and that it does things to your body that are classified as "good, healthy, and sweaty", but in no way does that translate to FUN.  Eating a double cheeseburger is fun (or, for my veggie readers, a tofurkey burger with extra furkey), feeling the burn is not.  Lounging on the couch in your p.j.s after a long morning of making coffee is fun, chisel'n the "V" is not.  Jumping on a trampoline and pretending that discoordination is actually technique is fun, a major calorie burn is not.

By no means am I using this blog to judge those who seem addicted to fitness (I prefer to do that in person), but I do want to share a fundamental belief with you.  PEOPLE WHO SAY THAT THEY CRAVE FITNESS ARE LYING.  Whew, I feel better.  I believe that people like the satisfaction of working out.  I believe that people like losing weight, developing some sick pythons, and feeling the sense of accomplishment that comes from a workout, but I do not believe that they just don't feel right about the world if they don't get in a run.  All of us know what it feels like to crave- to want something so much that it can permeate your thoughts to the point that are looking at your best friend and seeing a scoop of ice cream where her head should be- this is normal.  Craving a nap so badly that you actually test the hardness of your office flooring- this is normal.  Craving an elliptical?  Give me a break.

Someone, somewhere, did research on how long it takes to develop a habit and stick with it.  I have been working out regularly since last September and the only thing that forces me to stick with it is the knowledge that my trainer knows where I work and would actually show up outside my office with a whistle, stopwatch, and a full supply of bizarre Canadian motivational sayings, and force me to learn how my stapler can actually help me tone my traps.  The fact that I show up at the gym doesn't mean it is a habit because, I can promise you, if I could get the results of exercise without actually exercising, I would.  Merely doing something every day doesn't make it a habit, and doesn't mean you would choose to do it if you didn't HAVE to do it.  Just because millions of people go to work everyday doesn't mean they would show up if someone offered them the benefits (health care, paycheck, bad coffee, quality time with people they don't like) without the actual work.  

A final thought on this topic- people who run/jog/speedwalk/do that weird thing that elderly men do when they think they are running but actually look like they are having some sort of bizarre speedwalk seizure while wearing a sweatband...there are people who do this everyday- rain, heatwave, hail, parade days....how can I explain what causes them to do it everyday?  Mental Illness.  Just because it doesn't appear in the DSM doesn't mean it doesn't exist.            

Peppers and Policies

My mom, sister, and I are all well-traveled, very well-traveled.  My mom, so much so, that when she waltzes through security in the Quad City International Airport, mere moments before boarding, the TSA agents say, "Hey Linda! Running ahead of schedule?"  Given our airport know-how, all three of us are the perfect TSA-compliant passengers.  We have our ID and our boarding pass together, we had our shoes off before we ever got to the airport, belts/bling/and bulky hoodies have been removed, and we are holding our liquids in perfect 3-1-1 style.  It is also important to note that all three of us are budget conscience and there is no way we are paying to check our bags.  When it comes to our carry-on luggage, in true RuPaul fashion, "You better work it, girl!"

With all this in mind, you know that we all take great caution in shopping while traveling.  If it doesn't fit in the 1 quart bag, and it can't consumed before security, it isn't coming home with us- that's our motto.  Mom was in town for Mother's Day, and at the farmer's market she fell in love with some jalapeno relish.  There was no stopping her, throwing caution and the TSA guidelines to the wind, she bought it.  We all looked at the jar and said, "We'll get it down to three ounces, no problem!"  As of 4:30 p.m. today, there were several ounces left in the jar and we were creatively brainstorming the 3 oz. packaging which would fit in the handy Ziploc. 

I had some brand new toiletry bottles, so we decided to stuff the peppers and juice into the "shampoo" bottle.  Six peppers into the project, my sister Jen says, "Peppers aren't liquid!  Just take the peppers, and leave the juice."  This was a brilliant epiphany- now known as Jenni's Pepper Epiphany of 2011.  Great plan, except now, we had to pull said jalapenos from the narrow-mouthed bottle.  Thank heaven for fondue forks.  With the peppers safely and roomily ensconced in a Tupperware, and a confident, "Good thing I don't have to declare my peppers", we were ready for the airport.

En route, there were many pepper jokes and discussion of Backup Plan A and B if the peppers were questioned (not the actual peppers, they're to shy to talk to a TSA official).  We debated whether Mom would eat all the peppers rather than have them confiscated (Mom takes her pickled veggies seriously).  Before leaving Mom at the gate, she left us with this seed of wisdom- "This is the Denver airport.  You can't tell me that there's an airport employee who didn't eat peppers at some point today, with at least one meal.  They'll understand."

Mom made it safely onto the plane, WITH her peppers.       

Name Tags

If I could have a wish, a personal, completely self-serving wish, I would wish that everyone had to wear a name tag.  Now, don't misunderstand, I am making this wish because I have been offered one for my own benefit only.  If I were making a wish without this restriction it would be for world peace, or the cure for deadly diseases, or the absence of poverty, suffering, or Donald Trump.  But this wish, the name tag wish, is just something that would make my life easier.  Everyone wears a name tag (but not with stickers like the people at Panera Bread).  Everyone, except me.  I don't wear name tags.  I don't like it when strangers say my name as though we know each other, mostly because it is entirely possible that we have met before and I just don't remember.  Also, because if you use my name, I feel obligated to use your name and then it becomes one of those awkward conversations where we both keep using the other's name when CLEARLY we know who we are talking to at that moment. 

I don't remember names, it's a fact.  You could be meeting me RIGHT NOW, we could be in a room completely devoid of distraction and you could have a voice as mesmerizing as Sean Connery, and I would already be forgetting what you said.  Instead, I'm busy thinking, "Are we going to shake hands, give a pathetic "hey" wave (which, if you think about it, is completely ridiculous when we are two feet from each other, it's not like we are trying to make sure that the other person sees us), or (shudder) is this person a stranger hugger?" 

I'm sure that wise researchers would tell me that I don't remember names because I am not invested in the conversation, that I am mentally dismissing the person I am meeting, or that I have an inability to focus.  Not true.  Actually, after we meet I will be able to tell you all sorts of things about yourself, just not your name (and really, you need to know that more than I do).  For some reason, rather than knowing what you are called in polite society, I'd rather assign an identity to you based on your appearance, voice, demeanor, the company you keep, or who/what you remind me of....heaven help you if we meet on Halloween. 

Case and point- if you look in my cell phone, you will likely see contact ids of "Not scary Dave", "Cindy? PR", "Jon don't answer at night", "Vacation Jess drunk", "Spain guy mayb dr?", and (my favorite), "Mike alhsbhism"  (Mike acts he's single but he is married).  Every now and again I get a wild hair and decided to delete people who I don't know/remember/don't want to know or remember, but then I think...do I really want to be blindsided by Mike alhsbhism?  Name or no name, the answer is no.    

Urban Sprawl

Urban Sprawl- it would be a much more appealing concept if it referred to modern, extra-cushy furniture that yuppies lounged in while watching The Voice, but alas, it makes me think about a city with a bad case of muffin top.  The more the city sprawls, the further out the wildlife has to travel.  Not travel in the sense of finding a wooded, Bambi-esque home away from me and the big, bad city...oh no.  We're talking about travel in the sense of appearing on my morning commute, en mass.
 
Each morning I cruise along the Dam Road on my way to work.  For those of you not living in the Denver metro area, the Dam Road is nothing like it sounds.  It's a road, that goes over a Dam.  It is NOT an overcrowded, bumper to bumper wasteland where punctuality goes to die.  The Dam Road is fantastic because it lets me skip the freeway drama and coast to work, with occasional thoughts of how much it would suck if an irresponsible driver hit me on the this single lane road which is hundreds of feet above the very cold-looking dam waters.  These thoughts are only occasional because, let's face it, the irresponsible and distracted drivers get up way earlier than I do.

So, there I am this morning, cruising along thinking about men who cheat on their wives with escorts, but who talk about their family to said escort, when I see a coyote.  Wiley is just standing there on the road, checking out the traffic.  I stop.  He looks at me, I look at him, we give each other the "head nod of mutual acknowledgement" and he lopes off.  I think, odd...I thought coyotes were night creatures, but maybe he is getting a late start on his lope of shame home from Coyote Ugly.

I exit the Dam Road and begin to drive past Cherry Creek State Park, where I am forced to stop (again), this time for the Party of 5 deer reunion happening on Dayton.  I sit there, staring at them, and they refuse to make eye contact.  I briefly consider honking the horn, but on my right is a middle school and I really don't want to draw their attention.  Middle schooler's like to get involved and the next thing you know, boom, you are a science fair judge.  Also, I am flashing back to the Yellowstone Buffalo Incident of 2000, where I was driving an Olds Cutless which was quickly surrounded by buffalo.  I was just dumb enough to honk at them, and these animals were NOT too shy to stare.  I had to casually put up my window as they surrounded my car.  Luckily, the long version of "American Pie" was playing, so the beasts and I had plenty of time to bond over our shared love of Chevys. levees, whisky and rye.  I didn't want to recreate this animal ambush, so I waited patiently.

On my lunch break, I ran an errand and a few minutes from my office I was roadblocked...again.  This time, prairie dogs- three of them.  At this point, I was starting to entertain the notion that I was either a soon-to-be princess who was going to get a makeover from my furry friends and they were going to handle my emails and appointments, OR that I was missing some obvious warning and, had I read my dream book more carefully in the mid-90's, I would know that I was supposed to be preparing for The Great Event, and preparations do not include returning my library books.

On the upside, if The Great Event is coming and I don't survive due to my failure to heed the warnings of nature, I know that I can spend eternity next to my local librarian with a clear conscience, knowing that Wild Man Creek was returned on time.

That's What It's All About

Life is about more than just the Hokey Pokey, but what the HP teaches us is
a) If you put it in, you have to put it out
b) You're gonna wanna shake it all about
c) You shouldn't keep entertaining things all to yourself, they're much better shared with others (preferably in a circle)

Grab your spot on the magic carpet, keep your milk carton out of your mouth while reading (I don't want any unfortunate milk-out-the-nose incidents on my conscience), and enjoy this mental "smoke break".  Those of you who know me, know that I can talk and tell stories all day, night, and well into the Early Show the next day.  This blog is the "constructive, focused activity" that my 5th grade teacher always encouraged me to find.  Who knew it would take me 20 more years to actually get around to it?  I guess this is why I never achieved a check + in time management.