Category Archives: Fix My Lighthouse
Poof and I have this tendency to go out on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It’s our default. I’ll put on nice shoes. We’ll take photos for her blog. We usually head to our favorite local coffee shop, MADCAP COFFEE…
…because it’s local, it’s delicious, and they do that thing where they make my Mocha look like a heart, and it’s nice to feel loved.
Well, since this is the rule, here is the exception:
Poof: Not in the mood.
Poof: Sure. I want a root beer float.
Poof had this thing when she was pregnant with LittlePoof where she always craved root beer floats. It was her food. My weakness when I was pregnant?
Cue to eating lunch yesterday.
Me: I’ll have the chicken tenders basket, please.
Mom: Didn’t you just get chicken tenders the other day?
Mom: And you want it again?
Me: I like chicken.
Boo: I like chicken too!
Mom: *Forceful Gaze*
Me: I’m not.
Mom: *Cynical Squinting*
Me: No, but really.
Mom: *James Marsden’s Character in X-Men*
Me: BUT FOR SERIOUS.
Mom: *Jedi Mind Trick*
Me: I HAVE ONE ALREADY.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “Why I have added giving up Chicken Fingers to my lenten promise.”
I made a New Year’s Resolution this year that I was going to try and stop over-analyzing things. Granted, I made this resolution about a week into the New Year, after over-analyzing exactly what my New Year’s resolution should be and how much of an impact it would make on my day-to-day life and if I was even really going to keep my New Year’s Resolution, because duh.
It’s a New Year’s Resolution.
So, I made this resolution and basically a week later, was on the verge of breaking it. It started simply enough – kind of the way that an old school AIM conversation would, if I remember 2004 correctly.
You: What’s up?
Them: N2M. U?
Except instead of acronyms, we used proper spelling, and instead of the ding-a-ling IM sound, it was the generic Apple text sound that everyone checks their phone when they hear because #teamiPhone. So, really, it went something like this:
Me: How’s Mohawk?
Mohawk: Mohawk is fine.
Simple enough. It should be, at least. Simple question, simple answer, and we all move forward in our lives. Except for the fact that I had made a New Year’s Resolution, and Resolutions are apparently meant to be broken.
One of the reasons I decided to try and give up on “over-analyzing” the shit out of everything is because I over-analyze the shit out of everything.
But I’m fine, guys, I swear.
There’s this assumption that comes with being a girl and being fine. Are you really fine, or are you, like, the completely fucked up not fine at all that is now associated with saying that you’re fine?
It’s to the point where I don’t even try and say that I’m fine — or even better, I disclaim my fineness to accentuate the fact that I’m seriously okay.
I’ve realized that hearing that someone is fine is really like going through the five stages of grief.
Stage One: Denial
Stages Two and Three: Anger and Bargaining
Stage Four: Depression
Stage Five: Acceptance.
Seriously, what was this post about again? [Scrolls to top of post, re-reads…]
I’m fine, guys. Really.
I gave up Red Bull three weeks ago.
This might explain why I haven’t been blogging, because I’ve been all…
…without the deliciousness of taurine and caffeine and whatever other -ines I was regularly putting into my system to allow the amount of foot tapping and body shaking that I normally do.
But without Red Bull, I’m suddenly feeling like I have a clearer head. I sleep better. I’m not jittering all over the place, and I no longer have the desire to try and turn cartwheels down the impossibly long hallway of my office.
Wow, I realize. What a wise decision I made to cut something so terrible out of my life. Out, damned energy drink. Out.
This got me thinking. What other terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things have plagued me in my life that I should probably think about giving the boot?
Here, in no particular order, is my list of guilty pleasures that I’m in the process of kicking.
Fuck, I love my coffee. I love it so hard. And with no Red Bull, Starbucks has been poised to make a killing on my wallet and in my heart. But then some asshole posted that my drink of choice, the grande white chocolate mocha-licious, is about 1290343098573 (add comments accordingly) calories of love handles and empty promises.
Seriously. Basic math shows that my coffee habit of $4.29 at least twice a week is almost $500 bucks out of my pocket for the year. And I am poor. I am poor and I am paying to get fat. Granted, it’s so much easier to drive to Starbucks than make a cup of coffee in the morning. But I’m trying. Starbucks, you’ve been downgraded to special occasions and pity parties.
2. Shopping on an empty spirit.
Do you read my blog? Then you know. I’ve been a very, very sad person. I have had some very low moments in my life, and I’ve had a very, very full closet for some of them. Did I ever wear that t-shirt from Forever 21 that had the bicycle on it because it looked like me? How about that sparkly gem headband during that phase of fashion life where everything was bedazzled?
I’ve made some terrible fashion decisions because when I get depressed, I shop. Some part of my brain told me that if I was sad, things would make me happy.
They didn’t. Neither did my empty wallet. But now when I shop, I’m able to look at my armload of stuff and think to myself. Do I need this stuff? Do I want this? Am I feeling sad? And if any of the answers are yes, I set the things down, back slowly away, and call somebody who knows me.
Friends. Good. Impulse shopping. Bad.
I don’t know why I do this. I can’t think about it though, because it defeats the purpose of trying to kick the habit.
4. One Tree Hill > 8 hours of sleep.
I’m such a guilty pleasure TV show-er. I loved One Tree Hill, and Gossip Girl, and Gilmore Girls, and Veronica Mars, and OMFG, Did you know there is a Veronica Mars movie coming out!?
This would all be well and good, but Netflix. And TV on DVD. And other ways to spend hours and hours of your life just watching TV. I work a normal job schedule, then spend the rest of my time with my son, which means that the time I have to watch TV falls during post bedtime for offspring time. Which would be well and good except…
L.A.’s thought process for TV watching
Episode 1: I love this show. I’m going to watch this episode then go to bed because I have to wake up early.
Episode 3: Oh. Em. Effing. Gee. I have to find out what happens.
Episode 9. I can’t NOT finish the season now. I just should finish it. There’s only two episodes left.
Episode 34549837: Fuck. Is that my alarm?!
5. Sticking to things.
…I acknowledge that the following things may not be kicking habits, but simply growing up and making mature decisions. THE HELL, guys. THE HELL.
I was filling out some paperwork the other day at work, and it asked me how old I was. I was running on autopilot, and immediately went to check the box that I’m most used to checking, when I realized.
Option 1: 18 and under
Option 2: 19 to 25
Option 3: 26 to 35
Option 4: You are old, Father William.
I am not the first option. I am not even the second option. I am the third option, and I am old. Buzzfeed keeps suggesting all these things on my timeline about “things you shouldn’t ask twenty somethings” and “how you know you’re in your twenties” and other such wonderful things expressing that I’ve aged.
It’s not that I really think that I’m old. It’s more that now that I’m old and falling apart with creaky knees and wrinkles, I’ve realized: my youth is over.
I saw my friend BlueSteel last weekend. He’s the same guy I’ve always known, beardy to perfection, with one exception.
“Blue Steel,” I ask him. “What is this?”
“Don’t remind me.” He shakes his head at me. “I don’t know how it happened.”
“Are we this old?!” I’m in shock.
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “I guess so?”
BlueSteel’s beard had gone from Henrik Zetterberg to George Clooney overnight.
“If it helps,” I tell him. “Whenever I shed. I have to stop and check. Especially if it’s a blond one. And I make sure it’s not grey.”
Poof turned the grand old 25 a few weekends ago. Quarter life crisis, yo. We had planned a nice, classy dinner with friends, followed by a drink or two. The day of the party, however, Poof’s husband Captain texted me with an idea.
All of a sudden, I wasn’t the DD anymore. We had the capabilities of “going out-out.”
Going out: putting on clothes that are not yoga pants, and going somewhere that is not your house. Out to dinner, out to breakfast, out to ice cream. Kids are possibly and most likely involved.
Going out-out: wearing heels. Wearing make up. Doing something to your hair, and staying out past your bedtime. Probably dancing. Probably loud music. Probably shots. Definitely a hang over.
And “out-out” we went. Next thing you know, it’s the next morning. I’m in my bed, in borrowed yoga pants and a t-shirt. GoldDust played responsible party and did not take a shot of Rumpleminze, and was much more bright eyed and bushy tailed. Then there was me.
Me: Yeah. Let me sit up. [Sits up]. Give me like five minutes now.
GoldDust: No breakfast? What if we just go to the mall?
Me: That sounds good. Let me just brush my teeth. [Heads to bathroom. Lays on floor. GoldDust finds me there.] Give me like five minutes now.
GoldDust: Do you think you can handle today?
Me: [Sits up on bathroom floor]. Give me like five…[GoldDust gives me look] I can’t do it. I can’t do today.
And I didn’t do the whole day.
Or the next day.
Two day hangover.
But, the big clue in that I’m out of my adolescence, and into the rest of my life I’m old and will continue to complain about it stage?
I was at work the other day, chilling, and one of my more amusing young patients came in. 16 years old, no filter, spiky hair. Probably a real catch on the high school scene.
Pt: I’m so old. Me: You’re 16. You can’t complain yet. Pt: You’re only like 20. Me: I’m 26. I was born in 1987. Pt: …that’s…vintage.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) September 25, 2013
That’s right. Vintage.