Mmm Rageohol

Yesterday, I was at the doctor. It was my first appointment with her, and long, grotesque story short, she ended up administering a Generalized Anxiety questionnaire. The question was asked how often are you easily irritated and/or annoyed, none of the time, someone of the time, half the time, more than half of the time or almost every day. Surprisingly, I answered the question honesty, because you know, an anxious person doesn’t want to be labelled as such. So, I said most of the time. (But that wasn’t an option.) I figured I’d give the doctor an opportunity to use her judgement.

The look on her face when I answered was totally hilarious. She said I didn’t seem the type. All I could do was shrug. I didn’t feel like telling her that as a mental health professional, I’ve been taught to keep my reactions to a minimum; she doesn’t need to know the industry secrets. Then, for a second I thought perhaps, I’m not actually THAT irritable. It was actually longer than a second, because as I drove home I was still thinking perhaps, just perhaps, the doctor was correct.

She wasn’t of course. I mean how often does the doctor actually know what she’s talking about? (Hint: Not that often.) I kid. It’s a joke. Despite my distaste of going to the doctor, I do think they know stuff and at least 60% of the time know what they’re talking about. Right… I’m waaaay off topic. Back to the rageohol. Driving. That’s all that it takes to get me irritated. “All that it takes.” A study was just released saying Seattle has the worst drivers in the US. I know the arguments about how Seattle has so many people from all over, and thus there are too many driving styles. Blah, blah blah. The fact remains driving in Seattle sucks ass and makes me angry.

By angry I mean, vein in neck bursting, eye bulging shrieking. I could go on about how sometimes I wish my car were a tank so I could just run over the people in my way and have access to guns to blow people up. I don’t think you’d ever describe me as “peace-loving”. But normally, as I mentioned earlier, I’m able to control the emotional reaction. Yet I get me behind the wheel, and suddenly I weave a tapestry of profanity like a pro. It’s quite incredible really. Even thinking about it, gets my heart beating faster.

One of the worst things is when my clients complain about driving in Seattle. And they talk about some pretty horrible road rage incidents. All I want to say to them is that it is totally normal to yell and flip people off. I realize that they’re triggered and have anger issues. BUT sometimes, it’s called for. That’s all I want to say. But noooo. I have to not collude with them. I have to help them figure out why they’re getting triggered and not tell them that there’s an evil spirit in Seattle that makes everyone a shitty driver. EVERYONE. Yes, I’m included in that as well. I’ll admit it. I’m an angry and terrible driver. At least I can admit it. That counts for something, right?

Wanderlust

Imagine if you will, a smiling, excited adventurer with a backpack on her back exploring the world. Sounds great, doesn’t it? Now, pretend said adventurer is me. And this is the image I have in my head whenever the seasons change. It’s not as though on any given day, if you were to invite me on a trip, I’d say hell no, fart all you farters. It’s just at certain times of the year, I view anywhere but here as if it were Legolas or Human Legolas or even Aragorn or maybe even Frodo. Okay, I’ll stop with the hot Tolkien creations.

Back to discussing the wanderlust… In case you couldn’t tell, it’s the time of the year where my life begins to feel like an itchy sweater. I could make a different analogy but one nearly as succinctly descriptive. No matter what I do, the itchiness doesn’t go away. The only answer in this circumstance is a complete and utter change of pace. (You mean like getting a job that requires you to use your education as well as think about humanity?) That’s not nearly enough. I believe a trip out of the country is in order to take care of the present itchy sweater of life.

I signed up for conversational Japanese lessons with the hopes it would have tricked my mind into thinking a trip is looming. Unfortunately, my mind is too smart to be outsmarted by myself. The feeling isn’t helped by hearing about other peoples’ trips and/or watching travel shows. It’s like having a “case of the Mondays” but every day until the feeling ebbs. Sometimes it lasts months. MONTHS! I don’t know if I can survive much longer at my job with the beckoning of the wind.

Must stay at the job. Must stick to the plan. Must go away on a weekend just for the hell of it, because sometimes that helps.

Pasta Account

Once again I find myself living alone this weekend. Mostly good news except… I don’t have anyone to cook for me, and working with the crazy folk made me tired. However, when the rents return on Sunday there will be a family pizza party. (I feel perhaps I ought to have used an ! rather than a . on that last sentence, but you know, it’s Friday.) What is one to do when one hates talking on the phone but one is too lazy to leave the house and one is going to be having pizza in two days time? Open a pasta account, that’s what! (See that deserved an ! rather than a . because, mmmm carbs.) There’s an Italian/Mediterranean joint around the corner from my house, and I ordered from them.

Yes, I could have ordered pizza but I didn’t because of the aforementioned reason. (Also I had pizza last Friday and I wouldn’t want to get stuck in a routine.) I ordered pasta and salad and dolomades. Like I said it’s a Friday and I just want to eat, sleep and watch anime. Right, moving on. So when I got my email from the restaurant, it listed the name of the place and since I had to open an account with them, it added account on the end. Pasta and Account were placed together. Thus I opened my pasta account.

When I hear the term pasta account, it makes me sit back in wonder and hope. Surely there has to be some parallel world where pasta is currency. They don’t have bank accounts. They have pasta accounts where each type of pasta is worth a different amount and no one has gluten/wheat issues. It’s such a magical place. Then I get sad thinking about it, because I live in a world where pasta is villainized and outcasted. They blame everything on poor delicious pasta; obesity, gluten issues, several wars I’m sure. But just know, in my head and heart, pasta is currency. Also, I realized I ought not to blog when I am hungry or have been around food recently.

For the Love of Cake

Quickly, before I delve into my love of cake, I apologize for not posting yesterday. Not that it really matters to anyone in particular. I just like to keep my commitments, even if it is just for myself. However, I was too busy eating delicious food and drinking drinks to write yesterday. Oh also the good company to go with the consumables.

Right now to the cake…

In case you couldn’t tell by looking at me, I fucking love cake. I really do. Chocolate. White. Pound. Red Velvet… not carrot. Vegetables do not belong in cake. I realize that is a controversial stance, but I stand by it. I feel there’s only a small population of people who actually like carrot cake but they’re a loud minority. Thus it is offered begrudgingly at bakeries everywhere. Wow, that tangent was quite unexpected. I didn’t realize I had such strong anti-carrot cake feelings.

Today, I dragged my parents down the street to the bakery by our house. (A much tastier option than going to Sam’s or Costco, albeit more costly. But sooo worth it.) I sat them down and forced them to look at photos of cake-oh did I mention this was before dinner. Because it was. You read that correctly, I made my diabetic parents look at photos of cakes on an empty stomach, because I’m that daughter. As my mom was hmming and aaahing over what design to have, my dad sat there cursing me for making him look at photos of cake on an empty stomach. So, his curses were silent, but I could read it in his eyes. I knew what he was thinking.

My dad didn’t care what was ON the cake as long as it tasted good. And that’s when it hit. I have my dad to thank for my love of cake. I don’t care if there are flowers or swirls or clowns, as long as it’s a tasty delight. It was a moment all the same. As I stared longingly into the cases as my mom was trying to find, just the right design, my mouth began to water as I thought about the cake. (Remember, I too was there on an empty stomach.)

They opted for a white cake with marionberry mousse filling and marzipan icing. Right! Good choosing the rents! Now, I’m actually excited for their party. I can put up with the hoards of people, just as long as I have a piece of that cake and get to bring at least some of the leftovers home. Because there had better be leftovers. Leftover cake is such a tasty breakfast. I mean the first couple of days, after a week or so, it’s time to cut ties with the leftover cake. Even as I write about it, I want to have a damn piece of cake. Unfortunately, there’s over a week until the party.

Cake. It makes or breaks a party. You know who I don’t get, people who don’t like cake. Seriously. What is wrong with you? I can ask the asshole questions, because I hear them all the time about my distaste for cilantro and cherries. But cake? C’mon! Cake is proof God loves us.

Ready for a Bar Fight…

I got a new ring today. I will neither confirm nor deny its level of magic. However, I will admit I bought it online. And I wasn’t expecting the main stone to be nearly as protruding. So, regardless the level of magic this one ring contains, I’m ready for it to come to blows. Okay, okay, okay, I haven’t been in a fist fight with anyone since I was in my early 20s or maybe my late teens. The fact remains my brothers taught how to throw a punch, and my alleged magic ring could cause some damage. All this to say, if I wake up in the morning with a huge scratch on my face, it’s because I fell asleep with the ring on and me not attempting to become a Bond villain.

I must apologize for the lateness of the post. I was seeing my friend one last time. Now you may ask, oh is s/he moving? To which I chuckle quietly to myself and reply, of course not. She’s having a baby, and that’s all she wrote. I’m not a pessimist; I’m just real. It’s her first kid. Her family will swarm her like flies to… honey. I know how these things work. So, we enjoyed our swan song of our friendship. Or at least as we know it, I may be being “over dramatic” by saying I’ll never see her again. Or at least using hyperbole and metaphor rather than being literal. Then again… she is giving birth.

This is why she loves hanging out with me. Because I’m a ray of sunshine like that. She’s known me for ten years; she gets my sense of humor might run a bit “dark”. I offered to tell her all the horror stories I’ve heard over the years about births gone wrong. (Sounds like a straight to video Fox special.) She declined, because she knows her boundaries and that it’s my way of coping with this upcoming change however, joyful it may be. (I totally made a pun because they’re calling the baby Joy.) Oh my side. Anyhow, instead of raising her anxiety to an 11, we discussed the pros and cons of meth and heroin.

Working at a methadone clinic has added to my knowledge base about drugs. Not saying I was completely naive before, I just now know a whole hell of a lot more than I did two months ago, and I’ll probably know more in another six weeks than I do now. I was explaining to my friend, who grew up in rural Washington state, so she knows a thing or two about meth. Not that’s she’s tried it, but seriously, throw a rock out in BFE and you’ll hit a meth lab. Anyhow, when it was all said and done, the question remained, if you had to choose to be an addict which one would you choose. As it turns out we were on the same page, which is part of the reason why we’re friends.

And once again I feel I must end a blog abruptly lest it become twice as long. Also, I probably should opt my outfit for tomorrow so I can avoid the random grab bag in the dark.

Enter Sandman vs. Mr Sandman part deux

It’s a bonus Sunday blog as I try to block out the fact that later today I will be taking my nephew to a kid’s birthday party. He barely knows the kid. I don’t know the adults at all. Must. Not. Think. About. It.

Before I started writing this, I listened to both songs back to back. And I actually listened to the lyrics. Because I’m just that big of nerd. Even by the end of the introductions you know they’re going to be different. Hell, probably after the first line of music, you’re at least suspicious these songs have very little in common. However, what if Metallica covered Mr Sandman, and The Chordettes (at least that’s who performing the song on the version I have) or similar did a remake of Enter Sandman.

I think about the song Hurt performed originally by Nine Inch Nails. Then Johnny Cash covered it. Honestly, I heard Cash’s version first and was nearly moved to tears. Here was this old man at the end of his life dealing with end of life issues through song. It was kinda (totally) beautiful. Then I heard the Nine Inch Nails version… Clearly this young whipper snapper needed to put on his big boy pants and stop whining. Same lyrics. Different experience. Thus, I wonder if the imaginary version of Metallica’s cover of Mr Sandman would cause the world to shit itself in fear. I already have some sort of idea what it could be like if The Chordettes covered Enter Sandman (Thanks a lot Garage Band).

However, there’s an innocence to the lyrics of Mr Sandman I am unsure that even Metallica couldn’t make sound not innocent. Lets face it when they use Liberace as some sort of standard as a dream guy, huh yeahhhh… I don’t care if it’s only using his hair as the standard. It just seems a bit naive because given the time of when the song was writ, I doubt the general populace recognized Liberace as gay. I keep trying to imagine Metallica doing Mr Sandman, and it does not work. I may have to youtube Mr Sandman the metal version just to help me get over my mental block.

Um no. NO. If you have any sort distaste for clowns, hard pass that shit. Once the images of the terrifying clowns were no longer in front of me, yeah, the innocence is still there. FYI thanks German metal band Blind Guardian for that cover. And you all need to chill with the clowns. Seriously. So, apart from the terrifying images of the songs was just a metal cover. I was hoping for a Hurt experience. But I guess sometimes the lyrics are just too powerful.

Enter Sandman vs. Mr Sandman

In one of the recent text exchanges regarding the songs for my parents’ photo montage, my sis-in-law texted me a list of ideas. One of which was Enter Sandman. I read the text and thought it an interesting choice. my brother (her husband) enjoys Metallica; my parents not so much. But I told myself I told him whatever he felt like. (Then I added a gosh in my head, because I had recently watched for the millionth or so time Napoleon Dynamite.) Not being able to shake the feeling something was a bit off, I reread the text. As it turned out, she had suggested Mr. Sandman.

Totally different songs, albeit both about the same piece of lore? myth? legend? What is the Sandman classified as? Okay. That’s not the point. The point is, these songs are the ying and yang of the Sandman. Which is slightly odd, because I don’t think there was ever a time when the Sandman got a lot of publicity, ya know? I mean we can all point out times in history when people believed myths and unscientific ways of explaining the world around us. But when thinking about the Sandman, I can’t think of a time where he was on Santa’s level or even the tooth fairy’s. Hell! Even Slenderman seems to have more of a group of believers than the Sandman ever had.

Right back to the topic. This dichotomous nature of the Sandman got me thinking about how similar it is to online dating. As we fill out our profiles and look at the models posing as users on the home page, there is a certain level of hope. Hope that we will find the person (to be PC) of our dreams or at least so we won’t have to have a lonesome night. However, if you talked to anyone who did any amount of dating, more than likely, s/he will have at least one horror story about how the person they met was a beast who got into their head. (Probably a strobe light is involved… Just kidding. But how else was I going to reference the video to Enter Sandman? At least I think it was the video, and not an actual nightmare about Metallica.)  I’ve heard some stories that are borderline Criminal Minds fodder. But seriously, there have been way better blogs written about the adventures of online dating. And if you’ve tried it, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.

Side notes: 1)The first time I heard Mr. Sandman, it was on Family Ties when Alex managed Jennifer’s band, and he made them sing Mr. Sandman. 2)I cannot for the life of me sing Enter Sandman properly on Garage Band. I get the words in the chorus mixed up, and I feel like I sound like Kids’ Song when I sing it. 3)Since putting together the photo montage, I’ve had Mr. Sandman randomly stuck in my head for days. 4)I feel it should be noted that in the writing of this blog, I went on several tangents mentally and did not write them down. So, You’re welcome. 5)I need a nap stat otherwise this blog will go on for 500 more words.