Lessons Learned and Ladies Rooms

                  “What if I don’t know what one of my cards means?” My mom inquired, as we sat down to play a family game of ‘Cards Against Humanity’ each armed with a ‘non’ alcoholic beverage (not thinking that ‘non’ was the case, but whatever).

                “Urban dictionary it mom.”  My sister states.  I love that urban dictionary started as a website and by all intents and purposes was classified as a noun, it has now morphed into a verb, like google. 

                “Well what is the word mom?  Maybe I know what it means.”  I’m trying to be ‘helpful’, but I’m certain that not only is it 99% likely that I know the meaning, but it’s an equal percentage that I probably don’t want to be the one to define it for my mother.  After she flashed me her card it was clear that I was indeed correct on both points.  Well shit.  Lesson learned.  If you don’t feel comfortable providing a definition to your mom, don’t bring it up in her presence.  This is a lesson I will most likely never really get a grasp on (no worries on hiding your own mothers, I only have this verbal vomiting with my own mother.  You’re welcome mom!)

                “I’ll be right back niecey.  Aunt Angie has to run to the restroom, and by run I mean sprint because there’s good chance that I may not make it in time.”  (Speaking of yourself in third person to small children does no real good.  It just seems the only true time in real life to use third person without sounding like a huge dick bag.)

                “Oh, well if you don’t want to walk all the way to the potty you can always take this out into the woods and go in it.”  With a serene and serious, devoid of the eventual sarcasm that all in my family possess at some point, smile she extends her hand, in it a doggie ‘business’ bag.  It’s purple, logically. 

                ‘”But I just have to go number one.” was clearly the appropriate response.

                “That’s fine, it’s not just for poop.”  This last line came with a little turn and mimed demonstration, complete with a bounce and then dropped the bag right into my hand.  Oooookkkkay then.  Lesson learned.  A five year old is the master at procuring a temporary potty, even if it’s indecent exposure by some state laws.  I suppose when you’re only a few years removed from just going whenever the mood strikes you and then that transforms into the ‘get a treat for bodily functions’ year, it’s easily to feel that taking care of business in a one gallon purple baggie isn’t such a bad plan.  I kept the baggie, just in case.  

 

                “Look mom, I don’t mind going into the men’s room alone during the day, but at night it really gives me the creeps.  Someone drew a faceless face in the first stall and I just don’t feel comfortable after dark being in there long enough to change and brush my teeth.  If there is no one else in the lady’s room, can’t I just come in with you and Grammy?”  My son pleaded as we prepared ourselves for another night in a tent.

                “Well honey, I don’t see anything wrong with that if there’s no one in there.” My mom stated and I concurred her opinion.  At twelve my son is right over the cusp of being 'ok' to be in the lady’s room.  Under nonfiction circumstances, like the grocery or target or school, there’s NO WAY I’d find it acceptable.  Yet something about being in a campground after dark and all logic was thrown to the wind.

                I checked the coast, and while it wasn’t completely clear, there were no women in the immediate vicinity so we sneaked ('snuck' is not a real word, I always thought it was until this week when my mind was blown by that knowledge) the boy in.  After entering we realized the both of the shower stalls at the end of the row were occupied, (I should preface this with the fact that the showers were stalls with an area to dress in.  It was not a large community shower room filled with nozzles and steam and naked women.)  Seeing as how usually females shower for an extended period of time and we were only looking at 5 to 10 minutes to complete our nightly mission of tooth brushing, contact removing and face washing we figured that there would be plenty of time to get in and get out before anyone was the wiser about the fact that a male had breached the women’s room boundary.  Alex, looked around with a wide eyed look of one having opened Pandora’s box and shuffled quickly into the first bathroom stall (clearly different equipment than the shower ones at the end).  He went to work changing into his nighttime garb of sweatpants and a hoodie, his silence for once can only be interpreted as reverence.  Mom and I went about our rituals at a quickened pace when suddenly both shower takers finished up.  We did not expect that the teenage girls would be quick change artists and they both emerged before I could collect my preteen son and mosey on out.

                ‘I have soooo many layers on.’

                “Oh my god so do I.  I have three shirts on and two pairs of pants.”

                ‘I’m wearing two pairs too!  One is like a legging and the other more like a sweat pant.’

                “Yeah, and for shirts I’ve got on a tank top, a long sleeved and then this sweatshirt.  Do you think we’ll be cold?”

                ‘Oh I think we’ll be fine tonight, we’re both wearing a lot of layers.’

                As this very current event filled conversation flooded the bathroom I quietly in more of an Austin Powers type more than James Bond-like, retrieved my kid, flipped up his hood and walked him outside.  Relieved that we weren’t busted I immediately started laughing.

                “So is that REALLY what girls talk about when boys aren’t around?  How many clothes they’re wearing?” He said practically aghast as all of his hope and dreams were washed right down the drain of an insect infested campground bathroom. 

                “Yes son, that’s really what girls talk about.”

                Lesson learned.  Contrary to what visions of the ‘forbidden land’ my preteen son had, that women’s restrooms are simply fraught with topless ladies busy fondling each other/themselves in front of mirrors while simultaneously reciting Roman gods in alphabetical order and interesting facts about ancient Egyptians (he’s into anthropologist stuff right now, don’t judge), this is simply not the case.  I almost regret the whole experience because of the despondency in his voice when he stepped out of the sacred Land of the Ladies with his boobie colored glasses shattered, knowing that girls really just talk about what they’re wearing.  Almost. 

When I Think About You I Sext Myself

                “I noticed last night that so and so ‘liked’ one of your pictures from awhile ago.  I think maybe he has the hots for the Angie.” a friend texted me.

                “Yeah, I saw that.  I guess I was uncertain of what that meant.  What am I supposed to do now?  ‘Like’ one of his pictures from awhile ago?”  I replied, (and with proper grammar and punctuation because I can’t stand lazy texters, also I have a hard time deciphering what all the acronyms stand for.  I feel like it’s a slippery slope that once I throw the first LOL out there people will get the idea that I KNOW what they’re talking about when they fire me back a BTW ATOL AFK…… I don’t.  Plus if it also happens to be a real word as well as some whipper snapper speak I may think there’s just emphasis on it and not that It’s a whole phrase.)

                Six months ago I walked away from a four year relationship that for most of which I thought would be my last (not in an ominous if-I-can’t-have-her-no-one-can sort of a way).  I of course had become lax in dating, for obvious reasons, (not that I was ever really good at it to start with) but when I looked around and found myself in the land of Social Media Dating and Undating I felt as if I needed a tutorial.  By ‘tutorial’ I mean like maybe a semester at the community college or even an Associate’s degree. 

So to start things off I did all the things that I believed to be required in a break-up in the age of social media, you know, changed my status, blocked his Instagram, de-friended all of his work friends, and deleted any pictures of the two of us in relationshipped bliss.  Gone are the days of just throwing away his number and hoping you don’t ‘remember’ it when a few drinks makes a 2 AM conversation sound like the best idea EVER!  No, now like a near death experience, you’re quite literally having your relationship flash before your eyes in the form of tagged and posted photos as you listen to a Nine Inch Nails/Fiona Apple/Scissor Sisters break-up playlist (hey, don’t knock that ménage trois until you’ve tried it, you won’t know whether to dance, cry or cut yourself) trying to remember the bad times while you publicly delete all the good ones.  It is a necessary Facebook evil though.  Heaven forbid that I meet a large manlier version of Prince Charming who is gainfully employed with emotional baggage that is carry-on sized, and he creeps my Facebook only to come across a camping picture of myself and the ex that I missed when ‘cleaning house’.  (Side note, after writing this I went and creeped my own Facebook only to realize that I did indeed miss photos.)

Next step, get rid of my relationship status entirely.  After careful consideration I found that for an over thinker such as myself it’d be best to just do away with that little baby.  I mean there just weren’t enough choices to adequately sum up what my ‘relationship status’ has been over the last six months.  Options that would make me change my mind on this (and in timeline order):

‘Fragile.’

‘Completely emotionally and mentally unavailable, but if you’d like to make out sometime I might be game….. but maybe not.’

‘I’m not sure if I want to date anyone when I’m sober, but after a few drinks…..’

‘I might be seeing someone…. um, maybe not.... hold on I could be.... nope nevermind’

‘I’m awkward, but your face is neat.’

‘Recovering commitmentphobe.’

‘Coffee and blow j’s.’

‘Is in a really great place in her life and holding out for someone who’s looking for imperfection.’

These, make sense. 

Now originally I had a whole paragraph devoted to what my idea of ‘dating’ was in years gone by and after careful review of this it seemed that I had never ‘dated’ like I did in my mind, or that of the movies.  There were no grand chance encounters that ended with a romantic, not too eyebrow raising, kiss while ‘Endless Love’ played in the background.  Only one time in my illustrious 32 years of life has a man picked me up and brought me flowers. Hell if I get all ‘age of smartphone’ on you I can say that being on the receiving end of someone who’s just ‘fired off a dick pic’ (affectionately called) is like a partridge in a pear tree for me (you know, once).  I’m more ‘Girls’ than ‘Sex in the City’.  I’ve always just ran into someone, had a conversation, traded numbers, got all sweaty (sweaty like nervous, not like all porny sweaty.  Ok, well that was certainly involved as well.  I’m no saint.), swapped some spit and called it exclusive!  I guess playing the coy lady waiting on a man to make the move while I sit back and fan myself wasn’t in my repertoire.  I’m becoming more and more ok with it.  I mean I’m still susceptible to all sorts of ‘lady’ things…. Flowers, flattery and bourbon to name three, and  I’m certainly not implying that I’m a closet dominatrix just waiting for a less than strong willed male to come by so I can don my leather and force my will upon them (I’d look awful in leather, and I’d be sooo sweaty!  This time not ‘nervous’ sweaty but actually sweaty.)  More of an acceptance of the blurring of the gender roles in the dating game is all.

  I also had written a good portion about Facebook and all the nuances about ‘what it all meant’ (thus the intro), but as I mentioned earlier, I’m an over thinker.  My twelve year old son put it very succinctly today for me on our drive home. 

“Mommy, I just don’t get the guys at my school.  They all want the hot chicks!  Well that’s plain dumb.  I mean, they’re good looking and all, but they KNOW they are and all the guys flock to them.  So they think they can be soooo sassy and you have all that competition.  I like my girls in the middle.  You know, the ones that are cute, not hot, smart, and funny.  Then once you find out how smart and funny they are, you are the guy that knows the secret………. that your girl is hotter than theirs.”

And that happened.  I may be the proudest mommy on the whole planet.  With all the media, social and otherwise it’s easy to get caught up in how it all SHOULD be instead of how it actually is.  Dating is confusing and messy.  It has highs and it has lows and we all do it differently.  Sometimes it takes a twelve year old on the verge of getting a new voice with no experience past a ‘Will you be my boyfriend?’ written on a bubblegum wrapper, to remind me that we make it waaayyyy more than it should be. 

Now, if you need me I’ll be busy enjoying being in the best place I’ve ever been….. Comfortable with who I am and holding out for someone who’s looking for imperfection.

Putting My Best Boot Forward

                As I type this I am sitting in my lounge chair, on my balcony, and drinking a cup of coffee.  The weather is 80 degrees with the wind whispering of the storm to come.  Sounds marvelous right?  What I left out was that my left foot is propped up with a bag of Trader Joe’s frozen white corn masquerading as an ice pack.  I am also continuously forcing myself to not open the bag and pour them directly onto my foot while speaking in a British accent to poorly re-enact a scene from one of my favorite movies.  It’s swollen, it’s painful, it’s a weird color orange, a flesh colored band-aid marks the spots of my multiple injections, and when I attempt to put weight on it I feel even more unstable than usual (hard to believe I know).  The exciting part is that this is supposedly….. the end.  Now as all things medical there are chances of sequels, but I’m of course hoping that this was more like a short story.

                Over the course of the last two months I’ve had multiple appointments, three X-rays, two CAT scans, and one boot cast (I like things listed sequentially).  I went from working holiday hours of forty plus on my feet to ‘limited light duty’ of maybe twenty five and contemplating picking up work on my back to help keep the lights on.  (Of course things were never that dire, I just wanted to use the phrase ‘work on my back’ somewhere in this rambling.  It makes me giggle.)  The diagnosis from my delightful podiatrist was a broken foot bone.  Yeah I cracked it.  As many times as people asked me while wearing the cast I’ll admit I never did find out how exactly I broke it or when.  I was hoping that when we got to the 300 mark the answer would magically appear and I was indeed ‘doing something fun’ as everyone had hoped.  In all seriousity I probably knocked the damn thing against the coffee table, or I stepped funny on a stair and then just kept walking through the pain, because I’m brilliant.  In my mind I was of course saving baby gorillas from poachers or I fell off the stage after being asked to judge ‘Northern Territories Next Top Lumberjack’ (ß I wish this were a real thing.  *sigh)

               For four to six weeks I was sentenced to the cast.  I could remove it only for showering and sleeping and let me tell you, I was soooo thankful for that (and so were all those around me). 

                “For the next four to six weeks you’re going to have to limit your physical activity to swimming, rowing, bicycling, and other low impact sports.  Running, jogging, jump rope and Zumba are all out of the question.”  This is what my podiatrist explained to me while I stared at his gold chain strategically viewable due to the extra button unbuttoned.  (Well played sir.  One more and you’d feel uncomfortable, right now only I do a little.  But I can’t.  Stop.  Staring.)  Now clearly my doctor took one look at my size ten, six pounds away from being ‘overweight’ body and thought, ‘This here’s a girl that’s into Zumba’.  I almost feel guilty that it was false…. Almost.  I instead did something that is completely unlike me and I did what I was told.  Shocking right?  First thing in the morning I put on pants, then the boot.  Every night I wore it until I climbed between the sheets and dreamed of a world filled with two working feet.  I wrapped it in a very stylish plastic shopping bad when venturing out into the winter that we actually had this year in Ohio and I definitely tried my damnedest to put my best boot forward every day. 

                On check up day I was loath to tell my doctor’s gold chain, I mean face, that my foot was not only still a considerable pain in the…. foot, but that said pain may have increased even though during my boot confinement I followed all the directions.  After my second CAT scan (which I lovingly refer to as a very slow, very expensive carnival ride through a hole) it was finally determined that the bone had healed but that my foot bones had been dry humping this whole time.  This is also known as the arthritis.  Thus the pain.  Man do I know how to mess up a foot!  The tunnel light is that today I walked, ok, hobbled into a hospital to have a date with some injections.  (Not the hot beef kind either!  Zing!)  After finding my way to the EPIC suite (and that’s not me trying to throw out some hipster lingo to make myself feel younger after having the arthritis, it’s really called EPIC) I signed my life away and sat in a room with two other ladies having foot issues of their own.  I’m no mathematician but I’m 80% certain that our combined ages would be in the 190 range.  The TV was playing a health show to help inform us about other concerns and at the bottom scrolled, “Up next, 7 ways to have a better sex life!”  I figured I knew what number one was….. find a willing participant (after much debate in the last 24 hours I’m quite certain that willing is a key word.  Yelling SURPRISE first does not make it some sort of a present and less rapey.  Schucks thought I had found a caveat.) I was wrong, the first step was ‘hanging her head over the bed’.  REALLY?!  That sounds more like the first step to getting me to pass out, but I suppose that could make it better for the other person.  When they called my name I was more than a little excited to be done in the lobby, watching a ‘sexologist’ in a room with grandmas was making even me uncomfortable. 

 

               “Please sign this form.  All it says is that you’ll try not to fall down while you’re here.”

                I signed that paper while in my head thinking, ‘you’re lying Angie.  If anyone is going to fall down, it’s you.’  Don’t tell my mom I’m a liar, but I did get to keep the socks with treds on both sides.  Maybe in case I'm crawling?  Then they wheeled me back, ‘numbed’ my foot, a very tall, large handed, not bad looking radiology tech put my foot under the X-ray and they went about injecting me with what I can decipher from the medical jargon to be ‘free range organic grass fed unicorn tears’.    My sister (otherwise known as One of the Greatest People on the Planet aka OGPP- I just made that up) came with me and drove me home, helped me walk up the stairs with my very swollen, very painful, weird color orange foot and put me in this lounge chair complete with a bag of frozen corn and a netbook. 

Which now if you’ve managed to make it through my long winded story will bring me full circle to my point (I had one).  To some it may seem I have an unending supply of optimism and positivity, but being forced to slow down and walk one.  Step.  At.  A.  Time.  Gets old, real fast.  I had days that I faltered, I’m not superwoman, but with the help of all the wonderful people I’m blessed to have in my life I made my way to this lounge chair now.  I easily could have let all the appointments and missed work drag me down, but instead with the help of a very amazing cast of characters I was able to make it a funny adventure instead of an ‘ordeal’.  Thank you, everyone.  I’m humbled and honored to be so blessed.  No one should be as lucky as I, but you know what?  I’ll take it.  CHEERS!!!!!

Happy in the Face

            “So I don’t want to be rude or anything, but that guy smelled like Mexican cologne.”  Says my sweet son to I while we are walking to our car after the most favorite Sunday tradition of ‘Books and Brunch’.

            “Mexican cologne?  Like hot sauce or salsa or lime and cilantro or something?  I’m confused.  Is this some hip preteeny slang thingie that I know nothing of?” 

            “OMG mom!  I said, ‘Maybe too much cologne.’  I’d accuse you of being racist, but I’m certain you were just stereotyping.  If you were being racist you would be implying that you were better than someone, which you would never do, you were simply making a bad joke.  Can you play the song ‘Thrift Shop’ on the car ride home?”

            “Yes, yes I can; bet I can out ‘car dance*’ you.”

           

            “Maybe, but only because you can move all funny.”

            We proceeded to get into our rusted out green 94’ Honda, turn up the volume on my ipod to full blast (partially to drown out the fact that the exhaust system may or may not have taken a permanent furlough and because, well, it’s a super fun song) and made our way back to our modest two bedroom walkup.  I looked at my son while we were firmly immersed in our dance off and thought….. happy. 

            I have this most wonderous guy friend who, not only puts up with my endless forcible huggings, but also is consistently sending me life lesson quotes and bits of wisdom that help keep me on my path of positivity (I liken it to inflatable bumpers in a bowling alley, I’m going to end up at the pins, but he helps keep me from starting as a gutter ball, which would be helpful in nonfiction bowling for me by the way).  I was sent a great link to the ‘22 Things Happy People Do Differently’ a few days back and I read the blog/article like a check list for life.  (I linked, you should read it.)  I am not going to list off all 22 because that seems a bit of overkill and I know from experience of talking with my son that after the first five most people start to drift off….. ‘Am I catching a ‘niner’ in there?’  Even with my fountain of feelgoodedness I find that I struggle with a few of the 22.  Living in the present and meditating seem to be my Achilles heel of straight up 24/7 merriment (right now I’m hovering around a 22/6 ½ ratio, which isn’t bad I must say.)

            H-A-P-P-Y  Such a grand feeling that comes from just those five letters.  It’s an emotion that seems to be constantly sought after, like there is some great journey past the Eye of Mordor, beyond all the seven seas, through a wardrobe and then only with the help of the great Yoda do you find yourself sitting at the finale of a trek surrounded by happy.  I don’t buy it.  I like my happy like I like my bourbon, plentiful and always within arm’s reach (maybe even being poured by a lumberjack….. but then we’re just getting into my own weird fantasies.  Everyone know lumberjacks don’t pour bourbon, they squeeze it out of the charred oak barrel and directly into my mouth.  Ok, I’m digressing).  I take the little robots of happy I find all around and I build a great Voltron Defender of the Universe, ready to hug rape a smile on your face or shoot off general bits of ridiculousness that cause permanent laugh scarring.  I also find that any time you can reference a fairly obscure 80's cartoon you're winning.  (I'm reasonably certain that this one was also showed in the states, I have a nasty habit of referencing Canadian TV shows I grew up watching under the false pretenses that they were wide spreadly watched in the US, my friends love to point out when this is not the case.  Again, digression.)

What I'm round-aboutly getting at is that a lot of little things can add up to one big pile of smile.  The coffee mug that my lovely little Val bought me, makes me smile.  This song on my ipod that was in a movie I watched and a boy held my hand, makes me warm.  That ‘good morning’ text I send every single day, makes me laugh.  My son, my family, my friends, my job, my cat, my duvet cover, the smell of my favorite coffee, fabric softener, bacon, cuddling, kissing, a pot roast in the crock pot, chicken tortilla soup from the Trolley Stop, the feel of the Century Bar, the fact that I’ve been referred to as a neurotic serial hugger, the middle of an exciting book, yelling when the Red Wings score, car dancing, singing (poorly) while I cook, laughing until my face hurts, the poems “Hector the Collector” and “Lester” by Shel Silverstein, getting dirty (like in the dirt gardening dirty, of course the other ‘dirty’ makes me happy, that makes everyone happy), sitting still in the sun, my cowboy boots……..  My list could go on until infinity, because I make it.  The question if I’m really always in this good of a mood comes up more frequently than I would think that it should, and let me tell you my best not kept secret to happiness in one little sentence; I don’t wait around for someone to serve me ‘happy’ on a platter with an apple its mouth, smelling of bacon, roasted and ready to go; I go out and ninja chop awkwardly until it produces the desired results, then I dance like everyone is watching whilst wearing duct taped shoes.  It’s all around you, even on the bad days, you just have to be strong enough to find it. 

*car danc-ing: n. a type of dance that is most likely a series of hand motions strung together in a way similar to that of a seizure or Madonna in the video for Vogue.