Lost in Translation, I Blah You Too.

Ever notice how you can say one thing, and someone will hear something completely and vastly different?

Annoying as hell, isn't it.

I can pull out of my personal verbal closet a thousand things I have said to my husband and I would have been better off slamming my fingers in a door it would be less painful. Not that he intends it wrong. He just doesn't hear it right.

It's okay though, I'm not too worried about it. I've heard it from a crapload of spouses so I'm pretty sure it's more often the rule than the exception.
Face it, ladies, men and women do NOT speak the same language.

I can say "It's on the top shelf somewhere"

And he will hear: "It's on the top shelf in plain view. If at first momentary glance you don't see it, be sure not to touch or move any item, and instead start hollering about how it isn't at all where I said it would be."

But don't be upset, men. We do it too.

You can say "I need that socket wrench right there, can you hand it to me? Yeah, right there next to the 1/8th inch and the phillips screwdriver. No, not that, that's a hammer. Yes, that's it. Ooooh, look at you bending over, look at that butt! mmmmhmmmm!"

And we hear: "blah, blah, blah, socket wrench, blah, blah, yes, blah, no, blah blah, you look kinda fat today."

Ahhhh. It's a complicated science.

Now, let's throw a scenario out there to complicate things even more. Let's take K and her fantastic husband and throw them into a alcohol-flowing, late at night situation with some friends. See, the thing about me is that once I get a little on the tipsy side, my mouth opens and starts pouring verbal atrocities.
I start talking all subjects taboo and making innappropriate jokes to go along with it.

The pros to such an affliction, is that once some friends go out drinking with us, you bet your bottom dollar that they like us if they ever attempt such a feat a consecutive time.

The cons to ordeal is that more often than not I get the evil eye in the morning when my husband informs me that me and my girlfriends were loudly comparing bra sizes, or sharing tips on 'married lady actions'.
Yeah....I usually feel a enormous wave of regret the next day, which might I add is always a fun addition to the hangover I'm suffering through.

What can I say. Men and women, we speak different languages. And sometimes, I get a little alcohol in my system and I speak a language all my own.
I can look on the bright side.

a. My husband must really love me, because he hasn't divorced me yet.

b. I have an inate ability to screen out friends that aren't true friends, i.e. Karen embarrasses them and they can handle it.

and c. We may speak different language and communication may at times be strained, but at least whether we're a slightly embarrassed, irritated husband or a half-drunk, crude-mouthed wife: 'I Love You' is still the universal language we understand. Kind of.

If you don't look behind you, you'll never see grandma giving you the bird.

Live your life by looking through the windshield, not the rearview mirror, they say.


What freaking idiot wrote that quote.

Live your life by looking at both.
That's why they're in the same damn place, obviously.


We are all looking up the road ahead, of course, we have to. Otherwise we would walk into other people, and you might get groped, or hit by a car. So we look ahead.
And we can't go approaching the hypothetical 'speedbumps' and hills and issues, without looking back on the ones that are already behind us.

I get the point of the quote. Yes, look forward, not behind. Be positive. Blah blah blah. But seriously, it's misleading, and kinda of downright wrong.

If you forget the past, and everything in it, you'd need to re-learn how to tie your shoes everyday. So then we would all be wearing velcro shoes. And that's....well....
That would incredibly ugly.
(and all the people with velcro shoes just slumped down in front of their laptops.....)

Anyways. Back to my point. You can't NOT look behind you for so many reasons.

I mean, you could. But it would be highly unintelligent of you, you moron.

Why walk through a dark alley without looking of your shoulder? Crazy psycho killer man will dub you an easy target and *boom* off with your head.
Or, emotionally speaking, do you not want to learn from your mistakes? For example, the time you substituted super glue for the evasive little white bottle that came with your fake eyelashes?
Not at all the same thing. Didn't you feel like a complete ninny going back to the office with eyes like Tammy Fae?
Well, you should have.

In Life, like in a car, we are equipped with receptors to look in all directions. To see what stupid things we've done, and enjoy and gloat about the fantastic brilliant things.

Biggest, of course, is the windshield. Most important. Avoid the little old lady crossing the street at a painfully slow pace. I know it's hard, but you have to wait.

To each side, a little bit of what is directly behind us shows. Also helpful in case you didn't wait long enough for the old lady's weiner dog. You might want to go back and apologize for that.

And, in front of us, conveniently so, up above is a little bit of the path we left disappearing into the distance in the rearview mirror.
We don't always want to see ALL of our past, but it's good to see certain things, so we're given a large span in which to do so, which we must pick and choose what is worth looking at.

The little old lady flipping you off? Bad. (but kinda awesome at the same time)
The fact that the little yapper dog is okay? I guess for her, Good.



So, I take this opportunity to write my own quote, which is indeed wiser and more accurate than the original.
A little "Unraveled Wisdom", if you will.

Live your life by looking through the windshield, but don't ever forget the rearview mirror. Learn from past mistakes, thrive on past accomplishments, and always laugh when elderly people perform obscene gestures in your direction.



p.s. I have to look in my rear view mirror. So much of who I am, is who I loved and where I have been.
If I lost that, I would not be the woman that I am.

A Farewell Letter to a Friend.

Saying goodbye is never easy. It never will be.
But remembering them in your life, is the one thing we can give them once they are gone.
I lost a friend on Friday.
So many things I wish I would have said, and could say now.
If I could write him a letter, it would go something like this:


Phil,

Oh, so many things that I will always remember.

Firstly, thank you for the memories, and for allowing me to be a small part of your life.
I know we went our separate ways, but I was always waiting and watching for that girl to walk into your life that was meant for you.
You were a charmer, I will give you that. :)

We could walk into a room full of strangers, and because of you, leave with a group of new friends. You had that magnetic personality, and were never afraid to strike up conversations with any random person who happened into your vicinity.

Often times, those encounters were quite humorous, and I have you to thank for many a crazy conversation with a character of doubtable mentality. :)

On a tamer note, I enjoyed our random and quiet outings, like listening to Dashboard and driving all the way to Grande Rhonde to go to the casino, then changing our minds and turning around just to drive all the way back. I was a cheap date, this I realize.

There are things I still laugh at to this day, like your talent for choosing the best driveways to park at so we could kiss without you driving off the road. Cos yes, I'm sure you knew that I love getting glared at by grumpy, suspicious farmers. It's my favorite. *sigh*

Remember the giggle fits at 3am while we're walking around the block in the dark because you "had to get some air"? Of course, while you were getting air, I was smoking a cigarette, but I'm sure I needed the exercise.

And no, I still don't know how to walk in the dark, I still trip over my own feet in the daylight. :)

I love the way you got kind of squeamish when you watched me get my belly-button pierced. You said the needles were too big, and you swore you heard a *crunch* even though in my defense, it was your idea, you know.

And lastly, I suppose for old times sake I will finally settle our constant argument. I always disagreed for the sake of disagreeing, so I will give it to you now. You are right, it is Colin Farrell.

We had a lot of adventures, and did a lot of things, and had a lot of laughs.
I will always remember them, and you, as being a very tender part of my past.
You will be greatly missed.

xoxo

John Philip Verd III ~ 1982-2009 ~

Well, THAT was stupid.

Hindsight is 20/20, they say.
I'm tempted to agree.

For, sitting here in a hungover haze, lyrics from Katy Perry's 'self inflicted' pounding in my head, trying to drink black coffee because I again forgot to by creamer, and dimly remembering singing kareoke and drinking far too much alcohol last night...

I can only want to go back to yesterday and slap myself in the face.


If, perhaps, I ever listened to myself, maybe I wouldn't have a headache, wouldn't have stayed up until 4am, and I wouldn't have eaten a burrito for breakfast.
And I surely would be able to rest assured I didn't embarrass myself yesterday, which I really can't say for sure.
I suppose the good thing is, I can't remember, so no dent on my self esteem. Though, is that really the problem?


Like so many things in my life, I look back and think "well, that was stupid".

I have an hour to shower and make myself presentable, and I'm off for a goodbye party and then dinner out with some more of my family.
When really, I wish I was neck deep in pillows hiding from the world while HBO plays a soothing hum in the background.

Alas, choices, choices. I drank myself into oblivion at ridiculous hours of the morning, so now I must stumble through the rest of my day and pretend I feel FABULOUS when I am just fighting the urge to throw up in my purse.

You would imagine that I would have learned my lesson, and that the next time I have a busy Saturday ahead of me I would do the right thing and keep my antsy butt home on a Friday night, but I can already tell you-

That'll never happen.

So excuse me while I go back in my head and ensue with that slap in the face, and while I'm there, I'm going to remind myself to buy some half and half....

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails, No Thanks, I'd Rather have Boobs.

Although it may explain a lot about me and my strange antics, it might surprise a great many people that from a very young age I always thought it would have been so much more appropriate should I have been a guy.


I now graciously embrace my gender as a female, after the curves formed and the awkward teenage years have ended, but I still reminisce fondly on the things I missed out on by not being a boy.


In such a blunt format, that is a freakishly odd remark, this I know. Allow me to more sufficiently explain.....

Better to be a boy reason #1:

My brother never had to wear embarrassingly poofy pink dresses.

As a young child, I often looked lamentingly at my brother on Sunday mornings, dressed in his relaxed fit khakis, collared shirt, and dress shoes. It took immense control to refrain from growling from beneath my foofy, poofy lacey dresses that made me look like an overstuffed babydoll as all the old ladies pinched my cheeks and 'oooh'ed and 'aaaaah'ed.

Better to be a boy reason #2:

Boys got all the cool toys.

I have always wondered what screwed-up idiot thought it would be an entertaining invention to create a humanesque shape out of plastic that once you shoved water down their gullett you were rewarded with the necessary task of having to change a wet diaper.

While my Baby Betty was pretend-urinating in my bed, my brother was feeding his gecko real live crickets. Need I say more.

Better to be a boy reason #3:

Shirts are optional.

Who can deny that it always seemed just so unfair that even before the introduction of female-parts, it was just inappropriate to see a little girl without a shirt?

I'm not implying that such requirements are not important, I'm just saying it pissed me off that my brother's 'wardrobe' could be comprised of a single pair of shorts and if he spilled chocolate ice cream, it wiped right off his tanned little chest.

Better to be a boy reason #4:

Temperment expected.

Anyone who was a little more rambunctious than a crocodile as a child remembers the incessant glares from mommy as you bounced from chair to table to couch because the floor was 'lava'.

The only thing was, boys apparently were blessed with the stereotype that energy is just part of their genetic makeup and thereby acceptable.

Girls, however, were expected to be quieter. And go play with the doll that peed on stuff.

Better than a boy reason #5:

One word: Tangles.

There wasn't enough "No More Tears" in the world to make me a happy camper. Whose brilliant idea was it to decide that little girls couldn't have buzz cuts????


Oh, the joy of being a stupid girl, right?

All of these things not-withstanding, at the ripe age of 26 I'm now okay with being a woman.

Because as it turns out, my husband considers himself a lucky man that he married a woman that never complains about the newest action movie, never turns down a shot of whiskey, and would gladly leave the laundry for tomorrow and play a friendly game of poker with a cigar in hand.
I love wrestling, and beer, and heavy metal music, and staying out late in dive bars kicking ass playing pool.

And I get to do all of that, and have boobs too.

So I will gladly accept my gender.
Even though I'm still a little sore about the fact I can't pee standing up, I guess in the big picture of life we can't have everything we want, can we.

No, I'm not a Vampire but Garlic can be a Weapon Anyway.

I'm convinced I'm genetically incomplete sometimes.

To the naked eye I appear perfectly normal, I speak normal (part of the time) and I posess all my appendages as you would assume, all attached in the proper places that biology would confirm to provide me with a proper human anatomy.

But I am irrefutably and unconditionally missing some sort of 'graceful gene'.

I have to be. There is just no way that any normal human is meant to be this unnaturally clumsy.

Oh pish posh, you say.


Really? Cos a perfect example of how unfortunately and embarrassingly talented I am at finding ways to injure myself occurred while I was preparing dinner last night.

I hurt myself on a clove of garlic. Yes. Garlic. No. I am not a vampire.
But really, I'm not kidding, I somehow managed to bend my thumbnail all the way back, ripping the skin beneath it.

That's only one of the things I did yesterday.


I have a friend (amazing, right? ha.) who never ceases to find joy in revealing my little discrepancies in grace. I am, in his words, "the most talented person I know. For, how many people in this world are capable of spilling coffee on their face???"

Me. Yup. I'm that damn fantastic.


Sometimes, while walking, I trip over things that are not there. Yes, I have been walking long, and no, it's not the first day in my new feet.

I once, much to my family's amusement, actually sprained my wrist while boiling pasta.
I consequently wore a wrist brace for weeks.
I count myself pretty lucky, simply because I managed not to drop the boiling water on my feet after my wrist popped in a way I'm quite sure they are not meant to. Crisis averted......sort of.

I know.
I'm downright agility challenged.


All in all, I probably cause myself pain at least once a day.
For years I thought it was common practice. Imagine my shock on discovering that people actually are typically capable of climbing stairs without missing a step and tumbling down four steps before righting themself.

I guess, depending on how I spin it, anything can sound like a good thing. So aside from the unfortunate self-induced pain I endure on occasion, what I have learned by being genetically incomplete is this:

If you hang out with me?

I will make you look like a freakin ballerina in comparison.


Just don't give me the garlic, please.

When Two Stubborn Hearts Become One.

My husband and I, like so many couples that stay together, have become annoyingly alike in our years together.
We disagree frequently, mind you, no marriage is without some opposition.

I think the couch is appealing and diverse with different colored pillows, he thinks they should be all the same color, shade and style for the sake of conformity.
(one guess as to who won THAT one....)

He thinks I should drink water instead of coffee in the afternoon, I think he should mind his own damn business.

Marriage. It's give and take, and at the end of everyday you just thank your lucky stars that you have someone who is willing to love you through sickness, depravity, and another year of American Idol.

But, back to the point I've so gracefully sidestepped.

When you're around someone as much as you're around a spouse, you find all those little irritating habits rubbing off on you. Eleven years ago I would have probably made a face at the idea of eating peppers with salt as a 'snack'. Yet, now I kind of like them because that hunk of a man I live with eats them. And let's just say if you've ever kissed a man with jalepeno breath and found that appealing, there is something wrong with you.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Let's flip back to annoyances, shall we? Those delicious little differences that add spice to every relationship. Peeves, if you will.

(I have many, by the way, but we're not going there today, sorry.)

I find it incredibly ridiculous that my husband will drop his smelly, dirty socks on the floor next to the hamper rather than wasting two additional seconds to drop them in it. (He fixed that one, by the way, after some incredibly kind and loving coaxing from me. *ahem*)

The biggest of all peeves for me, however, is all the little catch phrases that Gene says differently than other people do. The highlight of these joyful tidbits of literary expressions is a little thing he likes to say when we're watching a movie or listening to a story when an intruiging twist appears.

"oooOoooOO." he says. "Honey, look, The plot sickens."

Ugh. Makes my skin crawl.

"NO, Sweetie" I argue for the hundred thousandth time. "It's THICKENS."

He just smiles and averts back to whatever entertainment currently became more 'sickening'.

I can google it, chat it up with random strangers in bars, and implore to God above the true phrasing of the interjection, and no matter who replies that it is in fact "thickens"; My fantastic and handsome husband will just smile and shrug.

Ah, the sweet smell of disparity. If I ignore this one, small infraction of our similarity, he will ignore my occasional grumpy outbursts and my tendency to get hyper at the oddest of late-night hours. Fair enough, right?

Well, about two months ago I was curled up on the big comfy leather couch at my parents house watching a movie with my mom and eating some form of sugar with my wine. I can't remember what movie we were enjoying, but that could be partially due to the headache I had in the morning and the empty wine bottle I groaned at when I woke up. Regardless, the plot of said fantastic film (whatever it was) took a sudden thrilling plunge in another direction. Complete with the sporadic, eerie change in tone of the music that is so common, and of course the ominous glance between protagonists as the viewers lean forward in anticipation.

"OoooOooo, Mom." I say in a semi-wine-induced stupor. "Look, mom, the plot sickens."

(ohhhhh......#@!&@#!!!!!!)

Well. I guess I'll have to start forgiving my husband if he gets a fit of the giggles at 2am now, won't I.