The Risk of Dirty Roses

It's amazing how something that lasts only about three minutes can make me feel so dirty. One bad decision before 8 a.m. and for the rest of the day I'm wishing I could take another shower. You would think that feeling this way just once would be enough to teach me a lesson, but I'm ashamed to say that I continue to go back for more.

The temptation begins around 7:20 a.m. when I consider my arrival time in the parking lot at work. I know I'll be there before 7:40, but will it be 7:30 or 7:39? Those few minutes make all the difference. I'm not so far gone that I'm willing to wait for 10 minutes, but a minute or two is a different story. If the timing is right, I wait. The regret will come just minutes later.

I blame one of Rob's coworkers for turning me on to this cheap thrill.  He once told me his daughter is obsessed with War of the Roses on MIX 106.1 FM. It airs at 7:40 a.m. The premise is simple. An insecure man or woman has suspicions about their significant other. Rather than speak with the individual whom they purportedly love, they call a radio station to air their concerns. The morning show host Chio involves "Marie from Accounting" who calls the presumably unfaithful, pretending to be from a flower shop. Said flower shop is giving that individual a dozen long stemmed roses, the only hitch is that said individual cannot accept them him/herself, but rather must send them to someone special. If that someone special is not the suspicious partner listening online, well then Houston we have a problem. What follows is ugly. Screaming, crying, general nastiness, and most recently threats of bodily harm when a guy played this game to see if another guy was into his girl, which naturally he was, otherwise they wouldn't have bothered airing it.

I've learned a lot listening to this program:

1. There are entirely too many people in this world happy to air their dirty laundry for a couple minutes in the spotlight.
2. There are bunches of people who should not marry, and most definitely should not procreate.
3. There's something seriously wrong with those who listen to this shit. 
4. This is a great example of what happens when you hang out in the wrong neighborhood.

Just like the wrong crowd can lead you astray, apparently, so can the wrong radio station. Not only have I heard stories that involve cheap whore earrings and lip gloss found in the husband's toolbox, but I now know that Kim Kardashian and Amber Rose had a huge blow up on Twitter. Thank God for Mario Lopez or I'd never stay up to date with this stuff. And, did you know that this past weekend more than a dozen teenage Sudanese boys were kidnapped by a militant group while studying for school exams? It's obviously not that important because Mario didn't mention it. I stumbled upon this bit of news while skimming the paper. It was only a short paragraph in small type in the back of the national/international news section, so don't feel bad if you missed it. 

I confess that prior to this fall from grace, I'd felt pretty damn superior to the rest of America. I read "real" literature, I watch independent films, and my television program choices are, for the most part, respectable. (Although I watch America's Next Top Model, I do fast forward through the tawdry portions.)

So why this, why now? Perhaps it's nothing more than the same sick need we have to look at car wrecks, in which case God is responsible for messing up our hard wiring. Or maybe I listen to that relationship absurdity to feel downright giddy about the blissful state of my marriage. Whatever the cause, I know it's a habit I must break if I ever want to regain my place of superiority in our great nation of fools.

If you've personally experienced an unhealthy addiction such as this, please share your story. I hope it will be more disturbing than mine. That way I'll feel better about myself. But I promise I won't judge.

Taking a Walk on the Wild Side

I recently finished reading Cheryl Strayed's Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail. I'd heard good buzz about this book, which recounts Strayed's 1,100 mile solo hike on the PCT. A few chapters into it, however, I questioned why it made the best seller lists. Here was a woman who suffered the loss of her mother to cancer at the too-young age of 44, whose remaining family drifted away, who sought solace in the company of men despite her marriage to a good man, who gave heroin a try one-too-many times, and who had an abortion just days before she began her hike. If you watch television, you know that this is all fairly typical stuff. The hike itself was full of challenges, the biggest being that Strayed had no real experience that prepared her for such an arduous journey. One could say that she was a dumb ass for considering it. When you look at all the heartbreaking memoirs out there, Strayed's is just another in a long line of stories of redemption. Interestingly, it took a day trip to NYC to help me see Wild in a different light.

Rob and I were in the Big Apple on Black Friday to see Big Fish, a Broadway musical with its own story of redemption. That's not what triggered the connection for me, however. It was the ride home, beginning with the PATH to Journal Square where we'd parked our car. The train was packed, standing room only, and I was bundled up against the cold from our walk. Now inside, I felt like I was melting. I couldn't easily remove my coat and scarf and didn't want the burden of carrying them, so I "suffered" in relative silence. Then, just a couple stops into our route, a very intoxicated and/or mentally ill man boarded the train talking loudly to anyone and everyone. I was relieved that I wasn't the unfortunate individual standing right next to him, and I was quite glad that the train was full and that I wasn't alone, feeling anxious and concerned for my safety.

With the exception of the heat and the somewhat sketchy company, the ride to our station was otherwise uneventful and Rob and I walked to our car, happy to be out in the fresh air, about to head home. Soon, however, I became exceptionally hungry. We'd eaten lunch at noon and it was nearly 6:00 p.m. Anyone who has spent a day with me is well aware that I have to be fed at more frequent intervals. I'm like a zoo animal. My hunger had given me a headache and made me irritable. It doesn't take much to make me irritable. And that's when it hit me. I am a chronic complainer who could never in a million years take on a challenge like Cheryl Strayed's. This past Sunday I got a blister while trudging through the snow to meet my son who'd picked one hell of a day to run away from home. Limping with that blister reminded me that I needed to write this post. Ian running away during a snow storm reminded me that I need to get him boots and gloves and possibly have his head examined.

As I reflect more on Strayed's book, I believe one of the reasons I didn't think it was all that it was cracked up to be was because she didn't tell it right. She didn't make it sound exceptional. She didn't lay it on thick enough. She forgot the gratuitous play-by-play of her drug-fueled liaisons. The gory details of her every misstep on the trail. The book was terribly light on the melodrama, opting instead to communicate in honest and reasonable terms the realities she faced both before and on the trail. The news media is way more salacious in its story telling. But that's a post for another time.

With Strayed's story in mind and my Black Friday + Sunday revelations, I decided to challenge myself. I needed to see if I could survive something that would test me and push me to my limits. I wanted to prove to myself that I am stronger than I think I am. That I can do anything I put my mind to. And so...

I've given up soda for the month of December.

I know you think I've lost my mind. I should have started small, taken baby steps. But it's time to go big or go home. No more gliding through life with nary a care in the world. I am woman, hear me roar!

While it's still early in the month, I'm proud to say I've only broken down in tears of frustration on three occasions and only once have I become verbally abusive with my coworkers (it was during my lunch hour when I used to enjoy my daily Coca-Cola). The good news is that I think the candy bars are helping. I no longer shake uncontrollably or glaze over around 3 p.m. each afternoon. I've gained five pounds in less than two weeks, but at least I'm sticking to my commitment.

Most importantly, I now have confidence in my "wild" side, and the next time I set a challenge for myself, I'm going to go even bigger and braver. I may start making my bed and making dinner. I may stop cleaning up after my children and refuse to take them to school when they're running late. I might go crazy and start following through on all the idle threats that have been dramatically diminishing the effectiveness of my parenting. Perhaps I'll commit to a sport or activity that I've never been good at (which gives me many, many options). Maybe I'll vow to meditate and read the Bible daily. Oh, the choices. I welcome your suggestions as I prepare to face yet another challenge in my already dramatic and remarkable life. Be gentle.

My Down Time is Bringing Me Down

When I woke from my two-hour nap on Saturday, I engaged in a bit of self-psychoanalysis. The sheer fact that I reflect on the state of my mental and emotional health as often as I do, is probably a sign that I'm worse off than I think. Or I'm just completely self-absorbed. But that's beside the point. The important thing is that these self-examinations provide me with blog material.

Speaking of blog material, you may be thinking that the reason I don't write as often anymore is because I have less to say. Nah. It's this new job. It's cutting in to my writing time. When I get to the office I actually need to hunker down and get right to work. No easing into my day with a period of self-discovery. You might argue that I could write when I get home from work, but anyone who has a full-time job and kids at home who expect a meal and a ride to soccer practice, and a church or synagogue that needs you at weekly meetings, clothes that demand to be washed, and a body sorely in need of a workout recognizes that writing probably isn't high on my list of things to do in the evenings. No, when I have down time, I want it to mean something. That's why I play Words with Friends or 7 Little Words, or I watch the TV shows on my DVR, or try to get caught up on Scandal before the new season starts. If my head's in the right place I might actually read, but writing? Well that requires entirely too much thought.

For the most part I'm okay with the way I choose to spend my down time. Or I was until Rob pointed out that someday I'm going to die. He pointed this out after I woke from my nap. He suggested perhaps I sleep too much and noted that there will be plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead. Well, damn. When you look at life through that lens, spending my time playing word games or watching television seems pretty ridiculous. When I'm gone, what will I have contributed to this world? Will someone go back and read my WWF scores? Will my TV viewing habits warm the cockles of someone's heart? I think not.

My blog on the other hand, well this sucker is leaving its mark. It will live forever. I know this because I've tried to delete posts that I later regret, and it's true what they say about things in cyberspace never truly disappearing. This means my uber-honest, somewhat snarky, frequently funkapotomusized, periodically painful and gladly grace-filled random thoughts will live on in perpetuity. Woo hoo!

SIDE NOTE: There's something to be said for the old fashioned written journal. The one you could burn before your parents, sister, boyfriend, best friend, husband or children read it. Those were the good old days. I think I have about 13 of those embarrassing tell-alls hiding in the back of my closet. Does anyone have a match? Perhaps I should do my own Freakin' Angel version of Throwback Thursday. I'll share an old journal entry and we can laugh together over how I've grown and matured stayed pathetically the same since I was 13. I won't make it more painful by adding an old photo to go with it. Some things really should remain private.

Back to the issue of my poor use of time. As is the American way, I refuse to take responsibility for my choices in this regard. Al Gore, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and that Zuckerberg kid are to blame. If they hadn't gone and created the computer, the internet, social media, e-books, on-demand video, etc., I would probably be a published author by now. And my son, whose technology addiction makes me look like a Luddite, well who knows what he would be doing with his life. He probably would have discovered some kind of new insect (he wanted to be an entomologist until he discovered the computer), written a comedy sketch for Saturday Night Live or made his mark in community theater. Yes indeed, we are being controlled by forces greater than ourselves. In fact, I think computer technology is the new Darwinism.

Think about it. Thousands of years ago "man" lived with the constant threat of being eaten alive by dinosaurs (I know this because I watched Land of the Lost). Natural selection meant that only the strong survived. Survival of the fittest, if you will. Today, we no longer are being chased by dinosaurs. Instead, we are chased by technology that wants to pin us down - mind, body and soul - and trap us in a  never-ending web (pun intended) of useless information. Those who are not strong enough to rage against the machine are destined for chunky thighs and a big butt, distorted thumbs and wrists, and a future spent in their parents' basement. Our "natural" selection has been replaced by man-made selection. Only those who break free from this technological tyranny have a chance to survive and live as the actual human beings we were created to be. I feel a doctoral dissertation coming on.

In conclusion, between the demands of my new job (how long can I consider it "new?"), my need for sleep and the distraction of technology, I'm lucky if I can write one blog post a week. I promise that once the kids leave home and I'm off these committees at church, and I've given up on trying to keep in shape, I'll resume my more prolific output. In the meantime, I'm sure you can find something to amuse you on the web or my DVR.

Like Many Addictions, It Started Innocently Enough

For most of the past two and a half years I have used my blog to embarrass my family. On a few occasions, however, I have used my powers for good instead of evil. Unbeknownst to law enforcement, I have been singlehandedly exposing the secret, silent killers of suburbia. First I brought to light the criminals you may unknowingly have living around the corner. In April I debunked the (sub)urban myth of spring cleaning. Most recently I addressed the fitness epidemic that's claiming the lives of many middle-aged adults. Today, I want to tackle the exceptionally difficult topic of addiction.

I was one of those people who thought it would never happen to me. And the friend who introduced me to it was someone I trusted completely. Someone who seemed so innocent and good. I gave it a try and within hours I was hooked. I started sneaking moments away from my family, friends, and my job for just a little bit of action. Just enough to give me that rush. And now I've reached the point where I can't sleep at night because I know it's right there waiting for me.

Damn you, Gale for starting me on this path to self-destruction.

Damn you, Words with Friends.

The only comfort I can take is in knowing I'm not alone. In fact, last night my WwF app told me that more than 125 of my Facebook friends are also players. These folks range from seminary presidents and esteemed business professionals to college students and homemakers. No one is immune. In some cases I have multiple games going with the same person. As soon as one game ends, we start another. We're like chain smokers. All in need of an intervention.

On the off-chance that you're not familiar with this diabolical virtual word game, it's basically Scrabble online. You can start a game with anyone anywhere in the world and take turns making words on the board.  And if you start enough games with enough people, you can almost be assured that you'll always have a move waiting for you. It's delightfully addictive and, like most things we do online, a major waste of time.
 
Should you choose to give WwF a try, despite my tragic story, allow me to suggest a number of folks with whom you should avoid playing:

1. Writers and English professors. Their vocabulary gives them a completely unfair advantage.
2. People you know are significantly smarter than you. They will make you feel stupid, and really, that's what your friends are for.
3. Those you don't trust. There are apps that can figure out words from the letters you have available. My "pusher" is one of these cheaters, though she does me the courtesy of not tapping her secret source when playing with me. Or so she says.
4. Lucky bastards

You will find that, much like Scrabble, there are different approaches to playing WwF:

• Go for the points, regardless of whether it screws up the whole board for later moves
• Try any letter until something works, even if you have no clue what the word means
• Spell whatever is easiest and moves things along quickly because you're in a hurry (most likely to get to the next game in your queue)
• Impress your opponent with your superior vocabulary
• Make nice long words so that there are more places to build off of for future moves

I fall into that last category. Longer words, rarely impressive, and generally worth a measly 8-13 points. But look! I opened up an "R" and "E" and a "T" for my opponent! The point monger then adds an "S" onto your nice long word and hits triple word score for 42 points. It's a cruel game; you just take your licks and keep on keeping on, or you get out of dodge.

I hope you'll heed my Words with Friends warning, however, if you're curious (which is how all addictions start), look me up. I'd be happy to take you on. As long as you're not a writer, English professor, genius, cheater, or lucky bastard.