Facebook

Facebook, I hate you. You give me anxiety like I haven’t felt since the playground days of grade school. Yes I used to feel anxiety on the playground. “About what?” you ask. To name a few: Will someone save me a swing if they get to recess before me? What if we play Smurfs and everyone says I’m Gargamel? What if I make my friend April play jump rope with myself and Jill Whitecross and then turn into the devil and force April to wrap the jump rope around Jill until she can’t move and then get sent to the office? What if we all decide to bring our Cabbage Patch dolls in to school so we can play with them at recess and I bring my Koosa thinking it will be just as cool as a Cabbage Patch Kid and it isn’t, like, at all? Anyways, I do realize the irony of posting this blog post on Facebook while saying I hate Facebook. Is that actually irony? Or is irony like when I am told by a soothsayer that my child will die because of her lover so to keep her safe I lock her in a tower where she is fed by crows only to have her kill herself because she can’t be with her lover? Maybe that’s Greek Tragedy. Wait, I got it, irony is like what Alanis Morissette said about having a shit ton of spoons but needing a knife. Yes, that’s it. It’s all about silverware, people, silverware.

First off, since I’ve been on the Face I could be categorized by some as an “over” Facebooker. I over use, I over post, I over comment, I over stare at your pictures, I over friend. And then I over process questioning if I have over used, over commented, over stared (is that even English?) at your pictures, and over friended. I’ve had friends say, “I don’t want to post anything on so-and-so’s photo because I’m scared they may think I’m stalking them.” Comments such as these make me sweat. I comment on at least six photos a day. Once, a friend of mine who I met at school dared me to comment on every one of her photos. I did. All 380 of them. It took me 2 1/2 hours. You’re welcome. But I can typically self sooth (For you laymen out there ‘Self Sooth’ is a counseling word which means to sooth yourself. I know, I know. Tricky stuff. I had to go to school for two years to learn that). I feel better by reminding myself that stalking is when someone is sneaking into your life uninvited. An example of stalking is someone breaking into your home, standing over your bed, snapping Polaroid’s of you (No I have no idea why it’s a Polaroid camera. I don’t make the stalking rules, I just convey them) and then sending you the Polaroids in the mail with a letter that says, “You drool when you sleep” written in magazine cut out words. Whereas Facebook is more like you putting your bed outside on the sidewalk and someone staring at you. You can't blame the person staring at you. You can't dammit! Put your bed back inside if you are creeped out by me staring at you! 

Of course, because I over friend, I have had to deal with being defriended. My first experience with defriending was about two years ago. I was defriended by a girl who I went to high school with, she was a year older than me and I had exchanged, like, ten, maybe even twenty words with her in my lifetime. Which totally constitutes a Facebook friend request. I mean, she was practically in my top 100 people who were closest to me on the Face. She accepted my friendship request and I looked at her page to see how she sold herself. Solid pictures (although not many of them) she hadn’t changed much since 1992, she had a cute family and even a dog. Then, one day, I saw that she posted something on a mutual face friend page, I clicked her name to look at her page and we were no longer friends. Oh the humanity! I did a search for her name thinking maybe she was done with Facebook and that post was old. I wasn’t even sure that was possible but it was worth a shot. There she was. Facebook asked me if I would like to friend request her. (Dear Facebook, Should refriend requesting someone after they have defriended you really be an option? Dear Deidre, What kind of crazy distressed person is so desperate for others to validate them that they would convince themselves that they were defriended by mistake and that they should therefore refriend request someone? I don’t know Facebook! Maybe that crazy person’s name rhymes with Schmeidre Schally, maybe it doesn’t. I’m not a detective) I digress. Yes, I actually thought about about refriend requesting this person. And by thought about it I mean I refriend requested her. She must have silently ignored. I replayed the ten word (possibly twenty word) conversation we had over our life time in slow motion in my head to the song “The Way we Were”…which reminded me of movie theater popcorn and movies so I went to go see Iron Man because I want to have Robert Downey Jr.’s children. Question: Why is movie theater popcorn so much better than any other popcorn you get? I often wonder if you can go into the movie theater, buy popcorn and leave. It took me several weeks to get over my first experience of being defriended...and then silently ignoring. Now I’m a defriended pro.

So this leads me to defriending someone. Defriending someone makes me approximately two to three times more anxious than being defriended does. I never defriend someone because of them. I don’t stare at the persons Face page, shaking my fist in the air screaming, “Why are you my friend?! God, I hate you friend! I wish you were never born!” I usually defriend due to post traumatic stress disorder from over Face Friending. I will go through my friends now and then and think, “Dear god man, did I friend that person? Why did I do that? I don’t think we’ve had one exchange on here. They must think I’m the weirdest person ever for having friended them.” So I’ll eventually delete them. I typically ponder sending a message to them saying, “Hi, I’m Deidre Daly. As you can see by my page, I have a dog named Duke, a niece named Lily and I hate carrots so much that they make me angry. By our ‘mutual friends’, you may be able to tell that we are connected by my sister’s ex’s friend’s mom’s daughter. I friend requested you about a year ago and I now realize that makes me bat shit insane. Therefore; I’ve decided to defriend you. Not because I don’t care about you; although, we’re both aware of the fact that I don’t really know you at all. Rather, I defriended you because I care that much about what you think of me. And I don’t want you to think I’m crazy. Sincerely, Schmeidre Schmaly”.

The last thing, and relatively new to my Facebook anxiety is parents being on Facebook. And by parents I don’t mean my friends who are now parents (which is pretty much all of them), I mean the parents OF my friends. Initially, I get extremely excited every time I see a parent of my friend on Facebook. Then I friend request them. Then I forget about them. Then I post something like, “I want to tongue punch your mother in the fart box”** as my status and wake up at one in the morning a week later with the realization that a parent may have seen this post (assuming they haven’t already hidden me because they don’t care about my posts). However, I do realize the entertainment potential there is to staying on Facebook long enough that I can be that ‘parent’ to my friend's children. I can’t wait until they get old enough to be on Facebook and I can friend request them and chastise them for saying things which are ‘inappropriate’. Who am I kidding? They’ll probably defriend me before I can get to that point.

So this is the sad truth about my Facebook anxiety and why I hate Facebook. I am fully aware that most people don’t think about Facebook ever, never mind think about it neurotically to the point where they are losing sleep. Of course this doesn’t make me less neurotic; instead, it gives me something else to worry about. What kind of a 35 year old woman is that wrapped up in Facebook? Awesome. Facebook, I hate you.

*I credit my friend Ken’s buddy for this phrase. He said last Saturday at which point I threw up a little and then committed it to memory and have been waiting to use it ever since.

Guest Blogger...Sort of?

So, I follow some blogs here and there and I love the idea of guest bloggers. However, since I only write in my blog once every year or so (because my life is that lame), I was not sure how appealing it would be for someone to guest blog on here. The reason why I was thinking this in the first place was that I realized I have a lot of funny friends. I often find myself saying, "You should write a blog so I can be more entertained at work." Yes, you are all responsible for my work free time entertainment and I must say, you guys need to step up your game. I have resorted to reading US Magazine online. I've been reading it so much in fact that I know to check it at 8 AM when I get into work and that I should check it again at 3 PM because new stories have been posted. NEW STORIES! What is most peculiar about this is that Connor and I don't have TV so I have no idea who any of these people are. But I know a lot about their weight fluctuation, dating habits and how often they are wearing outfits that readers find down right hateful. Side note: I often do the "Who wore it best" quizzes where they pit two people wearing a similar style outfit together and you have to vote on who wore it best. After you choose, they show you what everyone else voted. What I find shocking is that 90% of the time I choose the landslide losers. I'm talking only a select 6% of US readers and I think a person rocked the crap out an outfit that 94% of people probably found more offensive than what is going down in Darfur. Ok Ok, sorry, now where was I. Right, funny friends and guest blogging. So what I decided to do was to compile some of my friends quotes and post them as an anonymous list. However, I didn't keep my family anonymous because I have the right to throw them under the bus at will. So you, Mr./Ms. reader, you may find a quote of yours in here. If you don't, well, it's not my fault you aren't funny. Hahahaha. HEY! Calm down. It's a joke.

Alright, well here it be. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did when I heard them:

East Coaster explaining sarcasm to a West Coaster:
Buddy, if nobody is making fun of you, nobody likes you.

On traveling out of the country:
I'm only going to go if I don't have to get immunizations... I'm not going anywhere that I can get a communicable disease...

On saying you're the number one Red Sox fan when you haven't seen a game at Fenway:
Saying you're “the number one fan” without having actually been to a game is like being the club water boy: You may consider yourself a part of the team, but everyone else just thinks you're semi-retarded.

On his wife being pregnant and not able to drink:
I was getting sick of drinking in the closet by myself in the dark. I kept spilling my drink on my shirt because I couldn't find my lips.

My sister in response to her husband asking her what her plans were for the day a month after giving birth:
I don't know maybe I'll just stay home and breastfeed today.

My brother on moving his graduation party a week after he actually graduated for me:
This is almost as bad as when I came home to Holden one weekend and you and your friend were sitting in the living room obviously hung over from a party you just threw at our parent's house. The place was a mess, and somehow you convinced me, your younger naive brother, who was still in Middle School, to clean the house for you. You said if I didn't somehow the parents would be upset at me. Of course I obliged. Stupid Jimmy Daly.

On waking up hung over:
I can't believe I'm an alcoholic. I had such high hopes for myself when I was younger.

On hating basketball:
When watching a basketball game I'm pretty sure TV networks are showing you people a static test screen and you're actually falling for it.

Friend's theory on how women break up with men:
Women break up with guys about 2-3 months before they actually break-up, but don't tell them. After deciding they start to slowly construct a case against them like little lawyers. They then lay in wait for the poor sucker to do something wrong. When they don't after a couple weeks and they get tired of waiting they explode at the next thing that comes close. I'm pretty sure my last girlfriend broke up with me before she even met me.

On her husband and father's day:
I think every day that he gets to go to work and not be home with the kids is Father's Day.

On eating Pho and the Vietnam war:
Pho, pronounced Fa, a Vietnamese delight, translates loosely in English to "We may not have won, but we sure as shit didn't lose that shit in the 60's so F off Saigon".

My Dad on doing errands after my mother had a hip replacement:
One of my high points of this week was when I got out to the Mall, (that's right Dee, me in a mall shopping) and purchased a high end stir fry pot. On sale at $34 down from $82. Now we’re talking good times.

On tending to the driveway:
I decided that I would blow the leaves off our driveway this weekend with our shop vac. However, it still didn't look "neat" enough, so I switched nozzles and basically vacuumed the driveway of all the leaves. Never mind the fact that I'm 7 months pregnant. I really hope the new neighbors didn't see me. They are going to be scared.

On getting off of Chat:
Ok. I have to go mow the lawn now. That is not code for anything either I am really going to do that.

On knowing that I was diagnosed with a learning disability and prank calling me at work:
"Good morning, this is Deidre."
"Have you seen my baseball?"
"Excuse me?"
"Franks and beans!”
“Ah, I think you may have the wrong number.”
“Oh, sorry, wrong retard."

On loving being tagged on Facebook:
When I log onto my email and I have a message from Facebook saying I've been tagged in a picture I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve. You know, one of the only reasons I take pictures of other people is because there is a higher chance that they will in turn take a picture of me. And then they'll tag that picture of me on Facebook.

On friends and germs:
I just went to a baby shower this weekend, and after standing in line and seeing 30 people use the same serving spoon to get the lasagna, I was trying to decide what to do about this germ-infested utensil until I saw a giant oven mitt in the middle of the table. I put it on when it was my turn so that I did not have to touch the serving spoon with my bare hand. Several people looked at me like I was nuts and my sister whispered "you are crazy". I yelled at her because I think she spit on my food.

My friend's reply to me saying I'd flip him the bird as we passed by each other in the air on different flights:
Flipping me the bird in an airplane. That's irony Dee. Or is it tragedy? No wait, it's alchemy. Alchemy.

On my boyfriend and I celebrating Thanksgiving in Maine:
Did you kill a wild turkey in your backyard? I can just see it now - you and Connor in loin clothes running in the Maine wilderness with spears - grunting and drooling over each other chasing a poor bird around the yard. Awesome image. Awesome.

My mother yelling out the window to a truck driver who cut her off when she was driving me and the rest of my 7 year old Blue Bird troop to an event in Worcester:
Son of a bitch (as she flips the truck driver the bird)! I have young kids in the car!

Thanks friends and family for being so funny. If any of you people want to take credit for your quote, I guess you can do so by commenting. Had to err on the side of caution. Not really, but I wanted to use the word 'err'.

Taking Baths

The other night Connor and I went out to dinner with my friend Jacque who has known me since we were wee tots. We got onto the subject of my bath taking habit. Most of you probably know (and by 'most' I mean the four people who read this blog who also happen to be related to me) that I don't take showers unless necessary. So literally, every morning, I wake up about 30 to 40 minutes earlier than necessary, I make a small pot of coffee, pour myself a mug and drink it...in the bathtub...at five forty-five in the morning. Is that weird? When I get freaked out, I take a bath. When I'm sad, I take a bath. When I'm bored, I smoke crack and troll the neighborhood for my next trick and then I take a bath. Jacque said she had no idea that I took ONLY baths. How did this all start you ask? What's that? You didn't ask? We'll TOO BAD, you are my family and you will keep reading!

When I was growing up I shared a room with my sister who is a little under a year older than I am. It was really difficult for either of us to have any sort of privacy. There were two phones in our home, one was downstairs in the kitchen and the other was upstairs in my parent's room. I quickly realized it was impossible to talk about anything I wanted to keep private on the phone downstairs. My mother would always be listening. She would spray 409 on the kitchen counter and wipe it down. She'd repeat this process the entire time I was on the phone. Sometimes, she would even be so bold as to make random interjections into the conversation. Other times she would forget her cleaning ruse all together and just stare at me as I talked on the phone, motionless, wash cloth suspended in the air with one hand and the 409 bottle in the other. I couldn't work under those conditions. So, I took my plan making action to the tub. I'd drag the phone from my parent's room into the bathroom and sit it next to the tub. When someone would call for me, I'd hang my head out of the tub and make plans. If you knew me in high school and we spoke on the phone there is a 90% chance it was from my bathtub. Although this tactic proved to work better than talking on the downstairs phone, it was far from fail proof. There would be times when someone would call for my sister, brother or parents. Then I'd have to get out of the tub, wrap a towel around me, run to the top of the stairs and scream "PHOOOOOOOONNNNEEE!" as I dripped water all over the floor. Not only did I make plans on the phone from the tub, I started receiving guests from there as well. When my friends would come over my dad would point upstairs and say, "She's in her office." They'd knock on the bathroom door and announce themselves. I'd close the bathtub curtain and tell them to come in. They'd walk into the bathroom, step over the phone and sit on the toilette across from the tub. Sometimes they'd sit on that toilette for ten minutes and then I'd get out and other times I'd be in there for an hour. There were even times when the entire visit was nothing but me being in the tub and them talking to me from the toilette and then they'd leave.

That is how my bath taking habits began and I'd like to say that a lot has changed in this respect but I'd be a big fat liar. In fact, I started school this past June and my bath time increased three fold because I find I do my best studying in there. I STILL talk to the same friends from the tub that I did growing up, now it's just on my cell phone. I am Deidre Daly, and I take baths. Just reason one million eight hundred eighty four that I have issues.

Superpowers

I was just thinking the other day of how cool superpowers are and how useful it would be to have one. But then, upon further reflection, I realized that there are a couple of superpowers out there which I actually wouldn't want. Here are some of them:

1. Wonder Twins' superpowers

Please tell me some of you remember these two clowns? Twin boy and girl, boy can turn into any form of water (yes, that says water) and the girl can turn into any form of animal. The only way they can activate their powers is by touching hands and announcing together "Twin Powers activate!" Then separately they each state "Form of...." and they say what they are turning into. I think we can all agree that once you announce what you are going to do, it instantly makes it less cool. It would be like Superman stating "I am going to fly now." every time he flew. It would get awkward and people would be annoyed. And seriously, I want to meet the genius who thought that turning into a form of water was a good idea. Someone was paid to come up with that crap. "Oh, well, you better watch out, or I'll ah, make a puddle at your feet. And then whatcha gonna do punk? Huh? HUH? Oh wait, where's my sister?" I remember getting hives watching these two because I was embarrassed for them. I was 8. If you know something is not cool when you are 8, it's clearly not cool.

2. Aquaman's superpowers

Did anyone really care about him? I just remember all these superheroes doing all these cool things, flying on their own or in their invisible jet, running at the speed of light and making large explosions and then this dude dashing to the nearest waterbody. "I'll warn the fish!" Ah. Gee thanks Aquaman, that's really awesome. Honestly, I don't even think the other superheroes cared about him. They just felt bad for him because they knew he had a lame superpower. Did Aquaman ever really save the day? I don't think so. They would show some crazy fight or chase scene and then pan back to Aquaman, still swimming real fast like with weird sound waves coming off of him. Thanks Aquaman.

3. Robin's superpowers

Enough said.

4. The Incredible Hulk's superpowers

If my super power was that I got big and green every time I was angry, I would be so pissed (and then I'd get big and green). Seriously though, what a horrible super power that would be. Imagine talking to your boss with Hulk superpowers:

You: "No, I'm not upset that I didn't get a bigger raise."
Boss: "Really? Are you sure? I just hope you understand the position our company is in."
You: "Yes. I am totally fine, I completely understand. What kind of jerk would I be if I was upset about not getting a larger raise when you have had to fire forty percent of the company? You know me, I'm just not that person."
Boss: "OH thank you for understanding! I'm so glad to hear...."

You start to turn green.

Boss: "Oh. I see."

Awkward silence.

You: "Ok, maybe I'm a little upset."

Your shirt starts to tear off because you are growing huge.

You: "I'm pissed."
Boss: "Clearly."

I'm sure there are others, for example, I can't even think of one positive result of being able to hear other people's thoughts like Matt Parker in Heroes can. Oh, and anyone named "Elastic Man'', can't possibly have cool superpowers. Yes, this is the way in which I make myself feel better about not being born with any sort of power....well...except for the power of being AWESOME.

The Ins and Outs of Buffing and Polishing

I’ve had many an unpleasant job as I’m sure you all have. However, looking back I can now see that they have taught me a valuable lesson: marry someone rich. Just kidding there folks….sort of…but not really. Sorry Connor, we are done, consider this my two week’s notice. Unless you become rich in the next two weeks in which case, I love you, I always have, I want to marry you.

So, one of my favorite horrible jobs was buffing and polishing jewelry for the home shopping network at a local factory in Keene, NH while attending college. I started there as seasonal help before Christmas one year so I could make some extra cash and buy my family gifts. Why? Because I’m pretty much da’ bomb, also, I’m clearly in my mid-thirties because I just said ‘da bomb’. You got a problem?

The first day on the job I was told several things from my supervisor:

1. Always wear your safety glasses lest some Dimondique (just a little something I learned on the job, no big deal) stud comes flying out of your hand and stabs your eye.

2. Never over buff or polish hollow jewelry or you will put a hole in it.

3. Always put a wad of medical tape around your thumb as to not buff or polish the skin off your finger.

4. Lastly, never, under any circumstance wear loose clothing. The issue with loose clothing is that your sleeve can get caught in the steel rod (which sticks out at the end of your machine and spins your buffing and polishing wheels).

“If your sleeve gets caught on the metal rod then it will twirl up and break your arm off. “

That’s what my supervisor said but I was pretty sure she added the breaking of the arm piece to make our job seem more dangerous, sort of like being a Navy Seal. And since being a Navy Seal and buffing and polishing jewelry are pretty much interchangeable they have also become interchangeable on my resume as well. Moving on.

The things that my supervisor didn’t tell me yet I learned relatively quickly on the job:

1. There are approximately ten buffing and polishing machines which are attached to one central ‘blower’. The blower suctions all of the buffing and polishing debris from your machine into a central bucket so you don’t inhale any harmful substances. Well, the closer you are to the ‘blower’ the better this works. Conversely, if you are on one of the machines that are the farthest from the blower, you can pretty much go f’ yourself because you spend eight hours inhaling crap. As a new person, you don’t know this and may wonder why your coworkers always stick you at the end machines. You also may wonder why at the end of every shift your face is totally covered in gray dust and everyone else’s seems just fine. Lastly you may wonder why people point and laugh at you. I actually still wonder that.

2. People don’t want you to work too fast. This is simply to create job security. As a veteran buffer said to my friend Amy when she too decided to take a job as a jewelry buffer and polisher, “Girl, you better slow down. You’re going to put us all out of work. This aint no damn race.”

3. Lastly, the people who do this line of work are a tight knit bunch. It takes a lot for them to warm up to new people. They pretty much assume when you walk through that door, that you will not be able to adhere to the instructions which were laid out to you on the first day. What were they thinking? Did they think I couldn’t handle this job? Pffffft, apparently they never met the likes of me.

Day two, buffing and polishing 12K gold cat pins. Hollow. Must be careful and not make any holes. Wearing my safety glasses. Sitting at the end machine with dust flying all over the place. Solid concentration. Nobody, I say nobody, will out buff and polish me today. I’m focused. I’m in the zone. I’m showing these people what’s what. I’m feeling a small tug on my men’s extra large J Crew cable knit sweater sleeve? Hmmm…what could that…? F.

I realized that the cuff of my sweater had gotten caught on the spinning rod at the end of my machine and within a fraction of a second I pulled my arm out of my sweater sleeve. The sleeve spun around the metal rod all the way up to my shoulder and I was stuck against my buffer and polisher. The wheels could not turn anymore and the whole contraption made a loud noise sort of like a fog horn which turned everyone’s attention in the factory to me. I could not reach the on and off switch with my other hand so I did what I always do when I’m at a loss. I smiled. Yes, I sat there smiling like an idiot while the machine that I was attached to was letting off large plumes of smoke and making sounds that probably woke up the neighborhood.

I locked eyes with my supervisor who was pushing chairs and open mouthed coworkers out of her way to get to my machine. There was a smell of burning and I committed to going down with my buffer and polisher. We had a good run of it. We shared some moments. We had some laughs. But fate had other plans for me. My supervisor turned the switch to ‘off’. The noise slowly ceased and silence filled the factory. I stood there for a few more seconds; smile still plastered on my face. It took a bit of time to finally muster up enough courage to move. I unrolled my sweater from the machine and put my arm back into my sleeve which was so stretched out that it hung to the floor. I looked at my supervisor and thanked her ‘for saving my life’. Yes, I actually said that.

With a couple of quiet laughs and murmurs everyone went back to their work. I did the same, after a brief second rundown of rules 1-4 with my supervisor, and spent the next three hours of my shift contemplating coming home empty handed for Christmas.

Food, Folly and Work

So I did the most embarrassing thing yesterday. When people have extra food at work that they dont' want, they leave it on the counter in the kitchen. I went in there at two pm and saw a sandwich sitting on a paper plate. I was so excited because I was starving and hadn't eaten anything since eight in the morning. I was also exited because it looked like corned beef and it was Saint Patrick's day, much better then the salad I was planning on eating. So, I took half of the sandwich (I didn't want to be the office a-hole and not leave some for others) and brought it to my desk. With in two minutes I had inhaled the meat off the sandwich and threw out the bread. I have a hard time digesting white flour, yes, apparently I'm 80.

Approximately five minutes after I had finished the sandwich, I hear my boss yelling from the kitchen, "Someone ate half my sandwich?!". There was a moment of silence and I could feel the blood start to rush to my face. Another coworker yelled, "What? No!" then I heard their speculation "Maybe it was one of the auditors. Jack, you should confront them!" and another, "Who would just take a sandwich? That's so strange." Then my boss again: "I can't leave my food on the counter for five minutes without someone taking it?"

Oh. My. God. What to do? I contemplated my dilemma and options for the next 5 seconds or so. Maybe I should just not say anything. But then I remembered that the bread was still in my trashcan. Maybe I should smuggle the bread into the bathroom and flush it down the toilette piece by piece. No, it will never work, the walk to the bathroom is too long and I would surely pass someone on the way. Damn that bread. Stop staring at me bread. Maybe I should eat the bread from the trashcan. I looked in, picked up the bread and held it in my hand for a second. I peered back into the trash and saw old candy wrappers (they are mine, no big deal), pieces of paper (whatever, paper is pretty clean) and old tissues from my daily allergy attacks (It's my own snot...No. Pull yourself together woman!). Oh god. I sat listening to my coworkers plotting their confrontation of the auditors. They were getting more and more incensed. The poor auditors, I can't let one of them take my fall. I put the bread back in the trash can and executed my plan.

Taking a deep breath I walked over the circle of coworkers which had formed pretending like I hadn't heard them talking. One said, "Did you hear? Someone stole half of Jack's sandwich". My boss adding, "Preposterous!". I feigned letting the information sink in and then allowed shock to register on my face and stated, 'OH MY GOD! It was me! I ate your sandwich, I'm so sorry. I just saw it sitting there, and thought..someone was giving it away". The first part of my sentence was loud due to a sort of false confidence I had from having not eaten out of my trashcan, this girl has standards, yes. But by the end of my statement I had trailed off to being almost completely inaudible and ended with a strange cough noise to punctuate that I was finished speaking. I sat there with a stupid grin on my face as if to say "Silly me!". They all looked at me with deep confusion as I shifted from one shocked coworkers face to another trying to find someone to meet my gaze. However, each coworker would avoid my sandwich stealing eyes and look at the floor or the wall or at each other. I finally locked at one coworker who appeared to be on the verge of something. Yelling? Crying? Screaming 'Oh the humanity'? Then it came out, a deep loud from the pit of the stomach laugh as she stated, "That is the funniest thing I've heard in a long time. Seriously, hysterical." My boss, whose sandwich I ate, looked wounded at first (I mean, I had almost quite literally taken the food out of his mouth). But then his face turned red (I think he was so embarrassed for me that it made him embarrassed) and he too gave a good laugh. I offered to buy him another sandwich to which he graciously declined and walked to his office with the non eaten half of his sandwich.

So now, I'm that girl. I'm the girl that eats other people's office food. Sweet.

My Family (Not a funny post...sorry!)

There are very few things that are so important in my life that I dare not speak of them. As if my thoughts alone could break the fragile glass bubble that holds those very things together. My family is sustained there.

It’s strange to think about the bond between my mother and father and what it grew from and what grew from it. A young sales man in New York City meeting a youthful nurse in a hospital cafeteria and such is how the idea of my life began. I often try to picture them, so novel to each other and the journey that lay before them. I imagine my father in a derby hat with his cleft chin and laughing eyes, introducing himself to my mother. My mother with her infinite style, sensitivity and fire which I’m sure claimed many hearts but my father was the last to lay claim on hers. It has been said that my mother innately has the kind of style that people try all their lives to have but never quite achieve. Above all, my parents laugh. They share a bond that makes it hard not to believe in the kind of love that can endure a lifetime. Sometimes I wonder if my fear of marriage is that of seeing in their relationship a mythical perfection.

My parents love brought them to marry and my father’s job brought them to Chicago where my sister was born. My protector. My sister came out of the womb with a maturity which took me decades to understand and even longer to reach. She has always taken care of me so subconsciously but entirely that I have found it hard to find a specific occasion to thank her. She has a laugh that fills a room and a kindness that sooths. There is understanding of me in my sister that I myself do not possess and that has guided me to answers which questions I hadn’t even thought to ask. Growing up we shared a room and being only eleven months apart shared a disparity of personalities. I made sure I was everything that she did not wish to be. That is how I found myself, by looking up to someone and trying to find the differences to live inside of.

My father's job relocated them to Canada after my sister was born. I can't grasp the task at hand for my mother, having a one month old baby girl, being newly pregnant and moving to another country. So far away from her home and her family with her husband traveling for weeks on end, I am amazed at the strength she must encompass to have gotten herself over the border to create another home thousands of miles away. There must have been lonely nights when she realized, as she put her head to the pillow, that she hadn't spoken one adult word throughout the entire day. My mother may breakdown now and then but she is unbreakable. Ten months later, I came into this world, into a foreign country that is so similar to ours yet a bit tilted. I still believe that this somehow explains at least a portion of my oddness.

Two years after I was born my family made its last voyage to central Massachusetts where my father’s past of moving from school to school decided for him that he would not move his children again until they graduated high school. Regardless of the offers that surely would come in, we would stay.

Three years later my brother entered our lives with weak lungs, a sensitive heart and his own way of doing things. He was my biggest fan and shadowed me for the following seven years of our lives giving me a sense of worth that I had lacked in being only a younger sister. I found reasons to teach and guide, to boss around and to be in charge. But the three years between us was an eternity of difference and through the eyes of my adolescence he was stuck at the same age and would never grow up. Until, that is, I graduated from college. I remember a party in New Hampshire that my brother had invited my boyfriend and me to. We stopped by for a few beers and I met my brother again as well as for the first time. Out from the depths of the boyish façade that I had created for him emerged the confident, secure, mature young man who could make even the most severe crumble to the ground with laughter. I saw the lightness and the wisdom of my father. It was apparent that his friends had known this man for a long time.

And these are the things that stir in the quiet of my mind. I know that family, like all things in life, are fleeting. For humans are born to this earth with only one piece of certainty, knowing that they too will die. But on this day, I speak to the now and I am indebted for it. For this has been by no choice or will of my own that I should have been placed in the hands of those whom I not only love but who I like. And when we sit together at a table sometimes the laughter builds to a level that makes those around us uncomfortable. I try and make a photograph in my mind. I hold my breath. I try to not disturb the balance and I think to myself, remember this. Remember always what was your family.

THINGS THAT USED TO NOT HAPPEN:

I have really been noticing some drastic changes in me as I get older. I often wonder if these changes are things that only I go through or if it’s something commonly shared by others. I decided to make a list of the top three changes I’ve noticed over the years.

FEELING GUILTY
I was raised catholic, went to church every Sunday, attended CCD and was confirmed yet the term ‘Catholic Guilt’ perplexed me even though I had plenty to feel guilty about. I was the girl who:

1) Had a friend drive my dad’s car and total it when I was 15, penniless and unable to repay my father
2) Broke into my brother’s piggy bank and stole five dollars in change which took him over a month to save so I could go to Friendly’s with my friends
3) Convinced my brother that he had to clean up the house after I threw a party or else I’d tell my parents he was the one who made the mess (he was in the fifth grade)
4) Gladly accepted a chance to break up with my friend’s boyfriend for her because I thought it would be fun. He was devastated. I was satisfied. And Guiltless.

That is, until I got older. It seems I’ve decided to make up for all of the times I never felt remorse, and then some. I feel guilty about everything. I feel guilty if I don’t walk my dog for at least 45 minutes a day because I’m certain he gets extremely depressed and finds it hard to go on when he hasn’t been on a walk. I feel guilty about throwing away a shirt I haven’t worn in years because I feel sad for the shirt…for the memories we’ve shared and the good times we’ve had. I feel guilty when I don’t go to see my parent’s for dinner at least twice a week, even when I’m not invited. In reality they have only made enough supper for the two of them, they are toasting their Scotch Old Fashion’s and are enjoying the rarity of being Deidre-less for an evening. In my head they sit at their little table in silence, staring at a empty third place setting and wondering why I have forsaken them. I sometimes feel so guilty about things that I cry. This leads me to number two…

I CRY
I have no idea when it happened but it seems I woke up one morning as a bonafide pussy. I used to cry once or twice a year…TOPS. And now I cry at least once a day. I do everything I can to be alone when I am having my strange fits of emotion. Things that now make me cry? I’ll just brush the surface here. Hallmark commercials throw me into the depths of despair. Pre-game football shows when they do ‘personal stories’ of the players are pretty bad. “His Father passed away eight years and five months ago on THIS DAY. HE has heartburn that has plagued him for the past two months. Can HE OVERCOME his grief about the loss of his father? Can he overcome the crippling heartburn that has plagued him for the past two months? Can he be the champion that HE always knew he could be? That his DAD always knew he could be. That his heartburn DOCTOR always knew he could be?” Nobody is paying much attention to these dramas unfolding on their TV screen. They are focused on eating wings and chili or they are checking their stats on the computer. As for me? I’m in the bathroom with tears streaming down my face, staring up at the sky whispering “Why God? Why does he have agida?” Whate else? Oh yes, any song reminding me of anything from my past, I cried the other day when I heard Janet Jackson’s “Control”. Don't ask. Weddings. I was running on the treadmill at my gym yesterday and watching an episode of Bridezilla. The bride was a total douche and spent the whole episode screaming at everyone. At one point she was howling because one curl was not ‘flowing the right way’. I was thinking about how the women on these shows define every terrible stereotype about my gender, about how phony they are. I couldn’t even imagine why anyone was AT these weddings never mind marrying these women. My thoughts were interrupted by the crazy bride walking down the isle. A familiar tingling sensation happens in my nose, I get the notion that maybe I'm going to sneeze. No, it wasn’t a sneeze coming to surface, it was tears. I was crying. On the treadmill. At my gym. Because of Bridezilla. Speaking of the gym…

MY BODY
If I used to want to shed some unwanted weight, I would go to the gym or outside and run for 3 to 3 ½ miles three times a week. One month later I would be ten pounds lighter. Everything would be tightened up and all would be well. Now? Now I run for 4-5 miles four to five times a week, I’m careful about what I eat and yet…nothing. Now, I don't have to excercise because I want to shed some inches, instead I have to exercise in order to not become the size of a house. The whole idea of ‘tighter’ is a very fond but very distant memory. And, every inch of my body has decided that it wants to be on the ground. It is moving a little closer to it every day. It’s as if one day gravity decided to reassert its control all over my body and face. Oh, and my arms. What’s strange about my arms is that each arm has two different entities now. The ‘Upper Arm’ (from the elbow up) and ‘Lower Arm’ (from the elbow down). “Lower Arm” has been a stoic member of my body which has been impervious to change. “Upper Arm” however, well, seems to have given up all hope. It grows larger from day to day. I woke up in the middle of the night recently because my ‘Upper Arm” was being restricted by my ten year old men's large T-shirt sleve. All circulation was being cut off from my "Upper Arm" to my "Lower arm". I'm pretty sure "Upper Arm" was trying to take its own life.

Well, that’s all I have time for folks. Not that I am done with the list, I could go on for days. Fortunately for you though I won't, I have to get back to work and get to the gym. I haven’t done either today…which is making me feel bloated, guilty and like crying. I can't wait to get even older.

The Comeback Kid

The Comeback Kid

I am the queen of delayed comebacks. I typically let people release their anger by verbally beating me and I just take it. It’s not because I am a wimp, I mean, on the rare occasion when I can think of something to say, I say it, but mostly I just sit there, mouth open and stare. I believe this is why I make a good administrator in high stress corporations. When I am asked at interviews “How do you handle people when they are highly stressed and volatile” my response always includes such adjectives as “laid back” and “very patient", however, if I were being one hundred percent truthful, those two adjectives would be replaced by “slow” and “thick witted”. Don’t get me wrong, when I am amongst friends and people I am comfortable with I often enjoy witty banter but in situations where I am truly upset, I just sit there and drool on myself. This is something which has plagued me ever since I was young.

The earliest memory I have on my path to becoming the “No Comeback Kid” was in the third grade at soccer practice. Our soccer team was in a line doing a shooting drill. I loved shooting drills because for such a short person I had quite the foot. I was four people away from taking my turn when Jack Cranston took a shot ran in a circle and then cut in front of me. I had decided during the prior school year that Jack Cranston was somewhat of my nemesis. The reason being, he looked like me. He and I had the exact same bowl cut (thanks mom), we were the same height, we dressed the same and we had almost the same Huffy dirt bike. However, let the record show that my dirt bike had pegs and his didn’t. That’s right Jack, STICKEN IT! Of course I wanted to be a boy so looking like Jack was mostly my fault, but still my third grade mind had decided that he needed to die. So when he cut in front of me, I was enraged. I grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him around. “Who said you could cut?” I asked crossing my arms and widening my stance. You know, just in case he wanted to fight. Seriously, this is how my young brain worked. “I did” he replied. Maybe he didn’t notice my fighting stance, because if he had, I am sure he would have been afraid. I sat there in silence squinted my eyes and turned red. I had no comeback. ‘I did’? “I did’? Genius. That may have been the best comeback I had ever heard. I was completely befuddled. I brewed about it for the next half hour. Jack’s “I did” ran through my head during the rest of the shooting drills, the corner kick drills and it wasn’t until we started moving to the end of the field to do sprints that it came to me…that’s right… a mere 30 minutes later.

I tenaciously walked towards Jack, going over the glory that was about to befall me when everyone heard my masterminded comeback. This moment was going to be that epic moment that the third grade talked about for years, maybe even until we graduated to middle school. I walked up to Jack and his friends, stood directly in front of him raising my voice just a little so his friends could hear and stated “Of course you did because who else would?” Jack looked at me dumbfounded. That’s right Mr. Cranston, take that. I saw a fellow team mate, Tom Jordan, shift from one foot to the other and thought he was going to shake my hand. I started to bring my hand towards him when I realized that he was just shifting his feet so I diverted my hand to my hair and tucked one side of my bowl cut behind my ear. Oh that was close. I wasn’t going to ruin a heroic comeback with a mistaken handshake. I was smarter than that. After a couple of seconds Jack looked me dead in the eyes and said “Huh? What are you talking about?” All of Jack’s friends started laughing. At this point most people, even third graders, would know enough to let it go, drop it, move on to the sprints and save whatever pride they could. But I wasn’t most people; I was Deidre Daly with a bowl cut, boys clothes and a dirt bike with pegs who had the comeback of the year. I decided to just repeat it louder, “OF COURSE YOU DID BECAUSE WHO ELSE WOULD?” Everyone turned towards me. I shook my head and smiled. Nobody knew what in the name of all that was holy I was talking about. The silence that followed could ruin a person and was broken by a random voice, “Gaylord.” What's worse is I would have repeated my statement a third time and possibly added an explanation had my coach not saved me. He walked over turned me around to face the field and blew his whistle. We all started sprinting.

Of course throughout the rest of the year I retold the story and added the necessary changes. These changes involved a quick retort which flew out of my mouth not seconds after Jack cut me, with teammates picking me up onto their shoulders and cheering and a hand shake from Tom Jordan. I would have added to my tale a trophy for “Best on the Field Comeback” at the town soccer awards ceremony had I been able to get my hand on one. But the reality, as I said before, comes down to two adjectives: "Slow" and "Thick Witted"

"Taxi!"

It was a Thursday during the spring and I had been living in San Francisco for well over a year. My friends Tim and Alex had asked me to join them at a bar in the Upper Height to meet Alex's girlfriend, Ann, whom had just moved to San Francisco from Boston. I gladly obliged. I had heard a lot about Ann and was excited to meet her. Tim asked me to stop by his place after work first because he lived a couple of blocks from the bar. I went over and he made us some drinks and then we headed out to the bar.

We were at the bar for approximately one hour, or three drinks, when Alex and Ann showed up. We went through the typical introductions and I asked if they'd excuse me while I went outside to the back patio to smoke a cigarette. When I went outside there was a large group of approximately 10 or 15 people. I stood on the out skirts and lit up my cigarette. After some time I realized they were passing a joint around and when it came to the person closest to me she turned around and asked me if I wanted some. In my head: "No I really shouldn't, but thank you." Out my mouth: "Sure, thank you!". If you have read my 'Wine, Weed and Rebecca' post you know this is a bad idea. If you haven't read my "Wine, Weed and Rebecca' post well then I'm going to let you in on a bit of a secret: This is a bad idea. I smoked a couple of hits off the joint and proceded to do what I always feel it necessary to do when in such a situation which is to power smoke 5 to 20 cigarettes.

I smoke a lot of cigarettes when feeling messed up for several reasons.
A) I like to buy as much time as possible in hopes that in just a few short minutes I'll feel less…well, just less, period. This has never worked yet I tell myself it does.
B) I like to be fucked up amongst strangers because I don't worry about acting weird. Strangers have no frame of reference.
C) I like cigarettes. A lot. It's rare now a days that I smoke them (not as rare as I tell people...MITCH, but still rare) but that doesn't make me any less fond of them.

So I'm boiled as an owl as the kids say these days…and chain smoking like Courtney Love in the 80's…and 90's…and now? and one of the group members who had left the patio comes back with a Bacardi Limon visor. Two things which should have been obvious to me but weren't at this moment:

1. The visor is obviously a free promotional gift being given out at the bar with little mini shots. You know, the free shots that are called 'lemon twists' or 'lemons drops' but are really just vodka in a plastic mini cup served by not so mini boobs?
2. Free promotional visor = terrible.

"OH MY GOD, I LOVE THAT VISOR!" What? What kind of a foolhardy person loves that visor? Well apparently when I am drunk and stoned and chain smoking on a patio in the Upper Height, I do. The guy wearing the visor looked at me with great pride as if finally someone else understood just how special his new head wear was.

"Really? They are giving them out free inside,I'll go get you one!" he turned to run inside with my voice trailing after him, "Oh. My. God!!! That is so awe-some!" Was it Deidre? Was it really awesome? The boy returned with the visor, which I placed directly on my head. Sideways. And upside down. This said something...and what it said was:"Deidre Daly, you are distressing".

I decided I had had enough 'outside time' and was fine to go back in… with my new hat. It was safe to say that I left my friends as Deidre and came back as…well, a crazy lady.

"Um, what happened to you?" Tim asked, as he pushed a new drink in my direction.
"I was just smoking outside". I replied not knowing if he was asking why I took so long or if he was commenting on my general appearance.
"Weed?" Anne asked.
"Yeeees…weeeeed." I answered. How did she know?
"Oh man, I would love to smoke."

I grabbed her hand and headed straight out back telling her my tales of the visor and my 'new friends' outside and how they were 'a great group of people' and how 'they'd LOOOVE to share their weed with her'. I opened the door and everyone turned around. It was dark out there and the only light was pouring out from behind me. They saw me as a shadow. My silhouetted visor which was sideways..and upside down. Have I mentioned that? My frantic ponytails were flying out the top. Standing next to me the unknown figure of Ann. There was silence.

"Hey Everyone! It's me! Deidre Daly!" Yes I said my full name, even though I hadn't even told them my first name.
"HEY!" They all yelled back. I was with my people once again. I introduced Anne to everyone. She shared a smoke and a laugh and we returned back together. We had one more drink and Tim suggested we four go back to his place. I thought that was a splendid idea. I Took one step outside and realized I was in a bit more of a state then I had thought I was in. I let them get a couple of steps ahead of me, stuck out my hand and yelled "TAXI!". I got in and when they looked back, I was gone.

"Hello Miss, where to?" Asked the cab driver.
"The mission please, I live off of 16th". I responded while pushing into the middle seat and leaning forward to talk to the cabbie. I do this, ask Sue. The cab driver's name was Abdul, he was middle aged, overweight and middle eastern. Maybe Pakistani?
"How has your night been? Busy?" I asked.
"I just started my shift an hour ago" He replied while looking at me through his rear view mirror. "You are very beautiful" he added.
"Oh stop". But really, I WAS wearing my new head piece. The cabbie knew hot when he saw it.
"No really. You are beautiful and have a beautiful smile. What is your name?"
"Deidre Daly." Again, with the full name. "Turn Left please" I said while smiling largely and tilting my head to the side. The Pakistani cab driver made me feel like a woman. After two more directional instructions and raised eyebrows through the rearview mirror, we pulled onto my street.
"Here we are." I said as I dug into my bag for my money. I went to hand him the fare and tip. He reached back, there was no glass/plastic divider in this car, took the money...and my hand. He pulled me towards him slowly and started leaning in. Is he going to fix my visor? No. He wasn't. He was getting closer to my face and past the bubble of strangers, then past the personal bubble of a coworker, then past the bubble of a good friend, parent, boyfriend and gynocoligist. There was no denying it, he was going in for the kiss. And that was when I, Deidre Daly, paid my middle aged, overweight, middle eastern cab driver named Abdul, tipped him AND then proceeded to make out with him. He didn't even give me my money back.

Cargo Boats:

Assorted Observations regarding taking a cargo boat from Pulacallpa, Peru to Leticia, Colombia.

The travel books said that each cargo boat would have the day it was leaving written on the chalkboard on the side. This particular boat's chalkboard said "Martes", and luckily for us it was "Martes" (Tuesday). Therefore, we tied our hammocks on the boat. We sat on the boat all day. We waited all night on the boat, fell asleep on the boat. Got up on Miercoles (Wednesday), got drunk on the boat with our new friend Aryeh by eleven AM and the boat finally departed by three PM on Miercoles (Wednesday).

First observation...don't trust the chalkboards on the side of cargo boats leaving from Pullcalpa Peru. And when you try and verify the departure day with the captain and he says "Si Vaya Hoy" what he means is, "No vaya Hoy".

Second observation: You don't sleep in room's on cargo boats, you sleep on a hammock which you tie to the rebar of the boat.

Third observation: You can fit three hundred people in hammocks, 25-30 chickens, 3-4 monkeys in boxes, 10 pigs, 4 cows, assorted luggage, 200-300 cargo boxes, food stuffs, six toilette's two small 'stores' (which is a cooler of beer) all on one boat.

Forth Observation: Three hundred people in hammocks, 25-30 chickens, 3-4 monkeys in boxes, 10 pigs, 4 cows, assorted luggage, 200-300 cargo boxes, food stuffs, six toilette's two small 'stores' which is a cooler of beer all on one boat smells bad. And by bad, I mean a mixture of hot trash, Doritos and old diapers would smell better than the boat did. Balls.

Fifth Observation: When you ask someone if there is a 'basura' on the boat don't be alarmed when they say 'Si' and then proceeded to take the trash out of your hands and throw it over their shoulder into the river.

Sixth Observation: Breakfast looks like murky water and milk combined. It's hot and may come with two pieces of stale bread...and by stale i mean less like the 'day old' bagels that you can get in the states and more like the bread you find in the back of your cupboard that was from last year..if you shellacked it and then encased it in iron. When you get to the bottom of your bowl, you may see something...or two somethings. They are OATS. Two oats. This is oatmeal.

Seventh Observation: Lunch is the best meal on any cargo boat. Unidentified meat, rice and boiled Yucca.

Eighth Observation: Dinner on the cargo boat is soup. With chunks of meat. And by meat I mean random feet of chickens and hearts and such.

Ninth Observation: Monkeys like chicken hearts. But they do not like girls named Deidre and they scream and try and claw her when she walks by.

Tenth Observation: Pigs are gross animals. I would give up eating them all together...if bacon didn't taste so damn good. Bacon's the winner. Bacon wins.

Eleventh Observation: You can have the woman who sells the beer put in your "Ready to Die" CD on her boom box. Then you can listen to it in front of little kids and say "bitch, fuck, shit, and punk ass nigga" along to the lyrics and the kids smile at you because they don't know what in gods name you are talking about.

Twelfth Observation: Yes, I am obviously still immature and get a kick out of observation eleven. Madds can probably attest to this seeing as how pleased Emma was with "Do the Jane Fonda".

Thirteenth Observation: I'm pretty sure there were more babies sucking on their mother's teat at any given moment on this boat than you would find on a cow farm.

Fourteenth Observation: It is not uncommon to see the child finish up sucking on said 'teat' and then look up to their mom and say "That was great, thanks mom" and then walk away. OK, they didn't really say that...because they spoke SPANISH, silly readers.

Fifteenth Observation: Much of the serious business on Cargo boats goes down at two o'clock in the morning. Like paying your agreed fare to your destination point, drug checks and passport checks.

Sixteenth Observation: I am functionally retarded on cargo boats at two in the morning. There was a passport check once and the dude sleeping next to me woke me up and told me (in Spanish) that there was a passport check. What I heard was "Meal time". I proceeded to get out my meal ticket and my food bowl and stood up to get in line. Connor looked at me with a grin, shook his head and held up his passport. The two men standing there with machine guns were not amused.

Seventeenth Observation: I have an unhealthy relationship with food.

Eighteenth Observation: Most of the cooks on cargo boats are ginormous and gay. They can sometimes be seen rocking lip stick and heavy eye make up.

Nineteenth Observation: No one is shocked by observation eighteen and so act like this is old hat. Who says 'old hat' that is under ninety years of age? ME!

Twentieth Observation: If you get the chance to do this. Do it. It was one of the most unique experiences I've ever had to date.

DEIDRE COOKS

Pork Chops:

i was cooking pork chops the other night for connor and i. that in itself is humorous enough i'm sure but it gets better. i wasn't sure how long to cook them. i sat scratching my head wondering what to do. does anyone REALLY scratch their head or is it more figurative? sometimes i actually scratch my head just for effect. i digress, i remembered that we had one of those meat thermometer thingy-ma-jiggs (warning, all this technical jargon may throw you off, but try and keep up with me here). it was rumored that the thermometers come w/ instructions telling you what temperature certain kinds of meat are supposed to reach before you can safely consume them. the rumor was right, there were instructions and they said that the pork chops were supposed to reach 165 degrees. they had been in the oven for approximately twenty-five minutes. yes, it took me twenty-five minutes to figure out the intricacies of the meat thermometer...it's a complex tool. i stuck the meat thermometer into the pork almost bursting a blood vessel in my eye from having to push it in so hard. i was unsold on whoever designed this thing, i mean, c'mon why not make the end sharper? to top off my discontent it took the thermometer longer to register the temperature of the meat than it taks for my eighty-seven year old grandmother to get to the store...and she doesn't drive. i watched the thermometer, mouth open, waiting, it finally stopped moving at one hundred degrees. apparently these suckers took a long time to cook. so i kept waiting five minutes and then reinserting the thermometer back into the pork which now resembled swiss cheese because of all the holes i'd poked in them. the porkchops were registering at one hundred and fifteen degrees after they had been in the oven for fifty-five minutes. i hated pork chops. connor walked in and said that it smelled awesome. yes it did. i told him that i'd had two chops in the oven for over fifty minutes but they weren't even close to done yet. he looked perplexed by this piece of information. how did i know they weren't even close to done? well, because i'd been using the 'meat thermometer'. i went to show him the temperature of the meat and when i opened the oven and pulled out the rack exposing the pork chops connor doubled back. 'why do they have so many holes in them?' i explained that it was because of the 'meat thermometer'. which i said with a slight tone of arrogance. that's right, who was domestic? deidre was domestic. deidre's the winner..deidre wins. tee hee. I grabbed my new found tool off the counter and proceeded to search for an untainted spot on the meat. this must be what a heroin addict felt like trying to find a working vein. these are the things i tell myself from time to time to make my life seem a little more exciting. from my peripheral vision i could see connor slowly shaking his head. i turned to him and noticed a grin spreading across his face. he started reaching for my tool, "what are you doing?" he asked as he snagged the thermometer out of my hand. he proceeded to pull the thermometer OUT of it's round large plastic case. check please! "have you been sticking the thermometer inside it's case into the meat?" pause. more pause. "PFFFTT...no." And by 'no' i meant 'yes'. he proceeded to stick the sharp metal point into the pork chop (show off) and we watched the red line shoot up so fast and high that we both ducked a little as if it was going to explode in his hand. The temperature was over 180 degrees. i'm pretty sure I could have roasted an entire pig on a spit in the back yard and it would have been done at that point.

Drooling

I have grown up with allergies and asthma. So, most of the time my nose is stuffed up and I have to breath through my mouth. Because of this I have a habit of leaving my mouth open for no reason. I don’t realize I’m doing this until someone says to me, “Close your mouth” and by ‘someone’ I mean my Dad. Thanks Dad. Due to the open mouth issue, which is due to the allergy issue, I also have developed a drooling issue. I know, I’m so cute, wicked cute, you want me. I’m not quite sure when it started but my sister assured me the other day that I’ve always had this issue. So I thought I may recap some of my drooling experiences.

I was coloring in a map with four other people in the second grade. I was delegated to coloring North America. It was allergy season (which for me is January 1st through December 15th) and I was having a particularly difficult day. Michael George was sitting next to me. I wanted to marry Michael George, which I would profess to him several times a week by trying to cause him physical harm or by telling him he was short. He was indeed short but then again we were seven. As I was coloring in the southern hemisphere of North America, mouth agape, I heard Jill Whitecross make a noise that was a cross between a high-pitched scream and a gasp from across the desks. I looked at her and noticed that she was pointing at something. I took a closer look to find that there lay a pool of drool somewhere in the vicinity of New Jersey (well, if a state MUST go …just kidding…seriously Daen, kidding). Michael George took one look at the pool, looked at me and then to the boy to his left calmly stating “cootie spray” at which point the boy next to him held up the invisible can of aerosol cootie spray and sprayed him. Jill ran over and held out her arms, closing her eyes (smart girl, I mean who knows what happens when cootie spray gets into an open orifice) waiting to be sprayed. Several kids next to our desks witnessed this and also ran over. This caused a classroom cooties epidemic. Kids were spraying other kids from across the room, panicked and visibly shaken. There were so many questions, I mean, where did the cooties start? What kind of cooties were we talking about here? Person to person cooties, floor to person cooties or just visual cooties? By the time the teacher got control of the classroom everyone had been informed that the source of the cooties was Deidre, her open mouth and the pool of drool.

The second drool episode happened during the summer before my senior year in college. Because I was taking my English seminar class during the summer, I had to do a lot of reading. Therefore; my friend Amy (who also was taking the seminar class) and I had taken a job at a local jewelry factory because we knew it would be mindless work and leave a lot of brainpower for the reading. Our job was to buff and polish jewelry, fascinating, no? THAT is a story unto itself. I digress; during that summer I was also going through a huge feminism phase and had decided it was not fair that women had to shave their legs and armpits. Again, I know, I’m cute, wicked cute…you know the rest. Any-friggen-way, there I am with my legs unshorn, armpits bushy, buffing and polishing thousands of pieces of jewelry with my mouth wide open. From my peripheral vision it appeared that the guy who sat next to me, Larry, had turned in his seat and was staring at me. I slightly tilted my head in his direction as if to say ‘yes?’ and discovered that he was indeed staring at me. He wasn’t just looking at me; however, he was glaring with disapproval and shaking his head from side to side. I went to ask him why he was staring at me and noticed that I had a line of drool that hung from my lip to my knee gently swaying from side to side. However, the motion of going to talk dislodged the drool and it fell to the floor. I sat and stared at the small pool on the floor. “You know, you need to pull yourself together woman. You’re shaggy, generally unkempt and now you are drooling all over the place. Have some respect for yourself”. Larry was right. I shaved that night.

The last episode that I am going to share with you is also one of the more recent. I work at the Portland Symphony Orchestra, and we just recently hired a new Executive Director, Ari, in August whom I work for directly. He is twenty-six, intelligent and reserved. On his second day here I was in the kitchen area putting the Brita pitcher, which I had just refilled, back into the refrigerator when Ari came around the corner. I went to say “Hey”! But just as I went to say something I felt the familiar weightiness that one feels when they have drool attached to their lip. Yes, there is weightiness. Yes, I am gross. Ari looked at me there was a brief expression of inquisition, then of recognition, disgust and lastly denial. He shot his eyes down to the ground after a brief smile and I just started at the ground and made a strange sound that was neither talking or mumbling and walked to my desk.

I am not sure how to cure myself of this affliction. But I do need some serious help.

Weed, Rebecca and Wine.

It was a Saturday night, and my friend's Mary, Ira and Jeff were throwing a party at their house in the Oakland, CA. For some reason, whenever these three friends threw a party it was always a great time. I felt at home there. After being there for an hour or so, Mary turned to me and asked if I wanted to go smoke some weed in the bedroom and I gladly accepted. Let me interject that when I was in college I was a habitual pot smoker. Although I was a functioning pothead and would never smoke until I was done with classes and finished with my homework, I smoked every day for over four years. After I graduated, I moved to Surrey England for a small period of time and didn't know where to get weed so I took a break. When I came back home and started smoking again it had a completely different effect on me. I’d get paranoid and think that everyone wanted to stab me and whatnot. So, unless I felt completely comfortable and safe I wouldn’t smoke. However, this was one of those times that I felt completely comfortable. So I went into the room and a group of us smoked a joint. I felt good and walked out onto the large deck and garden area to have a cigarette and then I headed to the kitchen to grab a Mojito refill (the signature drink of the evening LA TE DA!).

As I was approaching the kitchen I noticed a group of girls I had met before at a prior party standing near the table. One of the girls was Rebecca Stein. My unspoken hero. I had met her a couple months after moving to San Francisco and liked her immediately. Her attributes included but were not limited to:

1) Ballsy
2) Walking into a room and instantly raising the energy.
3) Extremely outgoing without being obnoxious
4) Having strong opinions but being far from judgmental
5) Being friends with all kinds of different people.
6) Having no qualms making a move on a man she was interested in.

I have to admit, it was quality number six that bumped her from someone
I would like to become friends with to someone whose picture I put candles around and chanted to at night. No, not really. I found quality number six so astounding because I myself had a bit to be desired in the category of men. Hitting on a guy in my world consisted of two strategies. The first was a strategy where I would ignore the man I was interested in. This strategy was used on those whom had no idea I existed. Right. Strategy number two was for those men whom I was convinced knew I liked them and therefore would be downright mean to. Brilliant. O.K., enough of my dating advice to all the single readers out there and back to Rebecca. The issue with Rebecca Stein was that she just didn't seem to like me. At all. This turned my general interest in this girl to a bit of an obsession where I was dead set on making her like me. Hey, easy, this blog is called “I Have Issues” for a reason.

On the way to refill my Mojioto the weed started to kick in. There were two people standing in front of the ‘Mojito station’ if you will, so I decided to just have wine because it was easily accessible. I poured myself a glass of red and some guy I had never met started talking to me about the intricacies of wine. This was pre-‘Sideways’ where most people still didn’t say much about wine or scream "I aint drinking any fucking Merlot". I found what he had to say quite interesting. He then asked if I liked white wines. Pause. There were a number of things I thought of discussing. I started to think about how most of my friends from home drank white Zinfandel from a box. I thought about how I had spent many nights over a year ago draining box after box sobbing about a recent breakup which had briefly made me insane. (HEY, I’m much more sane now...well...no I'm not.) In fact, the smell of any white wine alone took me back to those days and made me want to curl up in a fetal position and sob like a small child. What good friends I had to listen to me night after night. Wow, I can’t believe that was a year ago...

“Okaaaay, cheers!” said the guy who had asked me about the white wine. Then he promptly walked briskly away. I just smiled and watched his back and wondered how long he had been standing there waiting for my reply before throwing in the towel. Great, apparently another fun filled side effect that weed had on me post England was daydreaming, in public, in the middle of conversations. I was trying to figure out if I was the most embarrassing person I know when I spotted Mary, thank god.

I walked over and stood beside her facing the room. "I'm all sorts of high", I said. "Yeah! Me too", said Mary and smiled at someone to my left. I looked over to see Rebecca Stein walking towards us. She was staring directly at me and a grin wrapped around her face. Everything was moving in slow motion. If I had a soundtrack to my life the song "You Light Up My Life" would have been playing.

"Hey, Dee. Hey Mary" she said.
"Steiny!" yelled Mary.

The two embrased. I stood and watched. I am many things; however, a premature hugger I am not. I know when I have reached that point in a relationship and Rebecca and I were not there yet. She looked at me and could see that I was trying to say something. I had noticed she too was drinking red wine. Should I say something about the guy from before or might it be better to say something about the Mojitos? They were quite refreshing really. The longer I waited the more panicked I became. I couldn’t have this huge pause only to come out with "hello" and I certainly could not play the part of mute girl twice in a matter of minutes. I had to say something witty, funny or at the very least something original. Between my confusion of which alcoholic beverage to comment on, the weed I had smoked and my excitement of Rebecca’s full on acknowledgement of me I was completely flummoxed. After what seemed to be an entire minute of silence I broke out and yelled "Mojitos!" loudly enough for everyone in the kitchen area to look over at me. My right arm had thought I was going for the story about the random guy asking me about white wines and so it pointed towards the kitchen counter and bottles of wine. My left arm, being all too forward, went to wrap itself around the poor and confused Rebbecca who was still visually stunned by my boisterous scream. However, as my arm was going towards her I twitched (side effect number 8,587,252 that weed now gave me) and knocked into her glass of red wine. The glass shattered all over the ground but not before it managed to spill it’s entire contents all over her shirt. Somehow in the mix I cut my elbow and was bleeding. Fabulous. I stood with my mouth open and drooled, which as you know, is my personal deviation from the typical fight or flight response and caught a glimpse of Rebecca heading in the direction of the bathroom. After a little bit of time I managed to help Mary pick up the pieces of the broken glass on the floor. It was official I was the most embarrassing person I know.

Shopping

It's official. I am old. I went to go shopping for clothes the other day and all the pants are now so low that they barely reach the top of my pelvic bone. Um..I feel three ways about this:

a) NO.
b) HELL no.
C) All of the above.

My shopping experiences over the past four years have all merged together in my brain to form one awful hellish experience that goes something like this.

I walk into the store and tell myself that I absolutely must, above all else, keep a positive frame of mind. I then proceed to go around the store and never have a problem finding a dozen or so articles of clothing that I like. I pick out all the things I'm going to try on in a size twelve. Which will most likely be too big but too big is more assuring than not getting it past my wide, flat, two dimensional ass. Seriously, it's like my body is stuck in a two dimensional world. When I gain weight I grow out the sides but my profile always looks the same. I'm like a wall. Strange.

I take said articles of clothing into the dressing room leaving the extras with the female employee that always seems miffed by my presence. In fact, these dressing room employees seem so annoyed that I usually say 'Hello', hand them my clothes and say "I'm sorry" right before I enter the dressing room. Once I get into the dressing room the same warning sentence scrolls through my head over and over, like the severe weather warnings on tv. "WARNING, FOR THE NEXT TEN SECONDS OF TIME WHILE YOU ARE NAKED IN THIS DRESSING ROOM, DO NOT..I REPEAT DO NOT.. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, LOOK IN THE MIRROR' Right. Yet, at some point between getting off my clothes and putting on the new ones I always manage to get a quick glimpse in the mirror of something, could be my calf, my elbow, and then suddenly, I can't look away. It's like road kill, I know it will be bad, I know it will be shocking, but I must see it. The next thing I know I am standing directly in front of the mirror, mouth open, staring at my pasty naked body in the dressing room mirror with fluorescent lights spraying over me. Oh. My. God. I didn't realize it was possible to have cellulite on your big toe, huh, that's nice. The seeing myself in the dressing room mirror naked part of the experience usually traumatizes me for about a year or so. When I manage to pry myself away from the mirror I put on the first pair of jeans. Too big. I end up exchanging all articles for sizes that are a wee bit smaller. Past angry dressing room lady and back into the horror story.

Now I put on a pair of jeans that are more my size. They pull up to my mid thigh without incident. Then they squeeze over the thigh and by the time they are at mid buttocks I am more than positive that they are not 'quite right for my build', as most people put it. By the time I finally pull them all the way up and the jeans reach the widest part of my hips and sit barely above my pelvic bone. The fly and button are wide open in such a manner that allows my lower stomach to hang out. Sweet. Needless to say that I will not be able to zipper these. I turn to look at my arse in the mirror and the top of my underwear is hanging out all over the place. It's less Jessica Simpson and more chick with plumber crack (Yes, I've tried the thong but I feel that I spend my entire life trying to get my underwear out of my ass, therefore, the last thing I want to do is shove it in). I take a deep breath and pull the pants off, my underwear usually come off right along with them because of the 'snug fit', and there I am again, naked in the dressing room mirror. This is right about when the worker girl comes over, knocks on the door and says 'Do you need another size?' What I want to say: "No, I need a therapist and a friggen pair of jeans that fit a woman and not a prepubescent girl". What I do say: "No thank you. Sorry". Yes, I am still apologizing.

I put my clothes back on, don't bother to try on the other five articles. I tell myself that these pants aren't made for ANYONE and that it's not just me. I leave the dressing room just in time to catch some 18-23 year old girl jumping out of the room next to mine in the 'cute jeans' I just tried on, with her 'cute ass' and she's bouncing all around saying to her friend "Aren't these cute?" To which her friend and I simultaneously reply "Yes". DOH! I finally get the remaining articles from hostile girl. Put the clothes back on the rack, leave the store. Go home, telling myself the entire way that I need to start exercising more. I run that evening for five minutes, get tired, get depressed and eat buffalo chicken. I refuse to return back to the stores for another six months or so. Am I the only one who experiences this nightmare? I have come to many conclusions and one of them is that it's official. I am old.