Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Hurricanes and Earthquakes

Did you hear about the Earthquake on the East Coast? Well, I think it might have been a conspiracy. You see, I live on the East Coast in the exact proximity of the 5.9er and I didn’t feel a thing. Not one little shake. My theory of the actual culprit that caused the "earthquake" is this:


an underground worm-like character from a 1990’s movie called tremors. The movie stars Kevin Bacon. And since Kevin Bacon is in it, tremors must have some real merit (even though this argument doesn’t) because Kevin Bacon is awesome. But tremors can’t be everywhere at once, thus leaving some to feel the “earthquake” and other to not. Conclusion: Tremors did it.

The Hurricane however was no conspiracy. Unless some mean-ol’ teenager pulled the plug out from under my house, Irene left us without power for 72 hours and counting. That’s right, I am still without power. The only reason I’m able to write this post is because I’m at the local Barnes & Noble where the internet is accessible. All my ice cream melted and I threw away two ready-to-eat freezer meals. TWO! As well as what what appears to be the entire contents of my refrigerator. That is no conspiracy, people. That is a real hurricane.

On the bright side I did get to eat Oreos, bagels and cereal all day long due to lack of refrigeration.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

The M Word

Of late my husband's car and I have a few things in common--screeching, sputtering, and stalling.

I'm a good(ish) driver and the car is in great condition except for the fact that its a manual transmission. I have not yet been successfully schooled in the ways of stick-shifting finesse. My husband's been trying his darndest (he has the bald patches and ulcers to prove it).

And here's my rant for the week...why do they not teach you how to drive manual transmission in driver's ed? How difficult is it to drive an automatic? I think we were all cheated. Driving a manual transmission is an art folks and it's becoming a lost one. One that is only passed down through loved ones and wannabe boyfriends in pickup trucks (of which, I never had).

Really I shouldn't be taking out my frustration on the driver's education programs. The biggest problem with this situation is that I'm learning something about myself that I've always guessed but never wanted to say out loud...

I'm a terrible multi-tasker.

There, I said it. I know--what kind of a woman am I? Aren't we all supposed to be master multi-taskers?

I'm terrible at it. How can I shift, break/gas, clutch, watch the road, and be a civil driving companion all at the same time? It's preposterous! On a  good day I can't even be bothered to answer a question while I'm stirring the pot, it will get messy (either for you or the burning food).

Not fitting into neat boxes and stereotypes might not usually bother me, except that I think multi-tasking is a motherhood pre-requisite. I think I'll fail.

Did you all start so great, or do I have hope?

Monday, August 29, 2011

Flatlands


Once upon a time, I had boobs. Great boobs. You know the kind. The pre-baby, pre-weight gain/weight loss, pre-nursing boobs. They were cute and perky. Sometimes I miss them. Sometimes I realize it doesn't matter. But, I still hold a tiny bit of hope that they will return to their former glory...without a surgeon becoming involved.

I used to massage an older couple years ago. The wife was a little crazy (to put it mildly). She would take a sleeping pill and a muscle relaxer before each massage. I would like to blame the following story on her pill popping, but I'm afraid she would have done it without impaired judgment.

Here I was, quietly massaging, enjoying the lovely music and calming aromas, when suddenly she sits up and says, "You know, you really have nice breasts. What kind of bra are you wearing?" And before I could react, she felt me up. Two hands and a firm grip. No joke.

Still wanting to get paid for the massage (and at this point wondering if I am going to get my license revoked) I kindly helped her lie back down onto the table and told her I got my bra at Target.

I've gotta say, boobs can be a blessing and a curse. But, since I really don't have any, I don't have to worry about it.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

A "Fun" Story to Get You By


If we are on course, I am currently somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania right now. So obviously, I have time to write this post.

No.

Actually, this post was scheduled prior to my taking off on my long journey across the country. And since I can't tell you of the mishaps we've experienced this week because I'm sure there have been some, I thought I'd share a quick story about my adolescence to get you by.

There's nothing like remembering puberty to make you feel really good about yourself now, no matter where you are in life (even 34 weeks pregnant).

As I've mentioned before, I had a bit of an acne problem in Jr. High. At around the age of 14 it was at an all time low (or high on the grease scale, it all depends on how you look at it).

I had spent about an hour in front of our bathroom mirror one day, obviously feeling really confident and secure.

When I finally came out of my cocoon of sorts, my dad said,

"You know, Lindsay, you've got good skin. It might just take awhile to get here."


Well played, Dad. Well played.

Note: This story was funny to tell before I was a parent myself. But it became hilarious to me after I became a parent. Dad, I'm not offended by this in the least. In fact, thank you for giving me something to blog about 16 years in the future.

And awhile it did. In fact, I'm still waiting.

Only now, I'm battling wrinkles on top of the acne stuff.

Friday, August 26, 2011

The Bubble

Last week I left the bubble. I traveled to the other side of the United States and into a whole different world.

There is only one word to describe this other world: DIVERSITY

It only took five years inside the Utah County bubble to forget what the word meant. In case you forgot too, I'll remind you:

People with all shades of brown hair and skin are EVERYWHERE.

I was a minority. And surprisingly, I loved it.

Walking around JFK airport my blonde locks stood out. So did my Utah clothes. I was different...and so was everyone else (irony?). I felt beautiful (and trust me ladies, this is an accomplishment after 24+ hours of standby anxiety).

I boarded a cruise ship and things just got better. I would say that 95% of the 4000 passengers were of African American descent (am I allowed to say "black"? I'm still not sure about what's PC. Someone help me out here. Remember, I'm deprived of diversity and have no one of authority to ask.). I only saw two women with platinum blonde hair over the course of 10 days. I exaggerate a lot, but I swear on the translucency of my skin--this is not one of those times. I think the whole state of New Jersey up and took a cruise with a few natives from Barbados to provide genuine Caribbean authenticity. They were generous enough to let us poor pale sun starved outsiders along for the ride.

I'm sure if I had to live with being in the 5% minority I would feel less pleased and probably less beautiful. But boy-oh-boy was it nice to escape the homogeneity of Utah.