Crunchy Thoughts

Lydia has taken up a new addiction recently — the kids’ show Yo Gabba Gabba. Oh, how enthralled she is!

Thankfully, it’s a pretty snazzy show and both Steven and I are able to sit through it. In fact, it can be rather entertaining. Thank God our child was not born during the Age of Barney the Dinosaur.

Saturday morning found the three of us parked on the sofa watching Lydia’s newest video and learning about Greetings, with the Daddy’s Girl parked in Steven’s lap.

As the characters began a song about “goodbye,” my mind began to travel as it does and I found myself upon a horribly sweet and simultaneously morbid thought. This song, with its words of, “Goodbye, see ya later, we had fun,” would be a good pick for a kids’ funeral.

Why why why do I think of stuff like this? I think a lot of women, especially moms, inadvertently come up with these torturous mind trails. When your kid takes a tumble down the stairs; before you’ve reached the bottom after them your mind has already gone through an entire worst-case scenario that ends up with you having to call everyone in your contact list . . . . only to reach the bottom of that long staircase and your child pops right up, saying,”Uh oh.” And my sister says I don’t plan ahead. Hrmmph.

So there I am watching Yo Gabba Gabba with my husband and daughter, trying with my utmost effort not to burst into tears as they sing goodbye.

Trouble, oh I got trouble,
Right here on my MacBook!
With a capital “T”
That rhymes with “P”
And that stands for Pictures,
That stands for pictures.
I’ve surely got trouble!
Right here on my MacBook,
Right here!
Gotta figger out why
I thought my hard drive had space but I think I’ve been rooked!
Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble…

I really never thought that this would be a problem, or at least one that would irritate me. As a girl, I was raised to believe that girls are TOTALLY AWESOME and can do as much, if not more than, boys. Back then I thought it was great that while us girls could wear both pajamas or nightgowns, boys could only wear pajamas. Ha.

I still think us girls are quite kickass and I certainly know there are many perks to belonging to the gender. I just don’t think I should have to give up my respect or the desire for others to take me seriously just to have a guy hold the door open for me.

So I’m a woman — that puts me with 50% of the population. Amazing. Why is it so odd if I want to shove on some boots and get in the mud? I can see the wheels turning. Why is she driving that truck? Why isn’t she a guy? Why does he have boobs?

I hinder myself as much as anybody, though. Steven says, as only a husband can, “your problem is you’re too nice.” Nice. Curl your upper lip up and squinch your nose when you say it and you’ll see why I need to dial down the nice. Nice asks for people to walk all over you.

But what am I to do when I’m driving down the road and some large truck begins pacing me in the next lane? I refrain from looking over for a while because, hey, no need to be rude. Maybe he just needs the office number off of my work truck.

When I finally sneak a peek — curiosity getting the better of me — I see the driver doing this cutsie open-and-closed hand wave at me.

Geez, what the hell am I supposed to make of that? I don’t KNOW this dude, and I certainly don’t WANT to know him. Is he being a smartass? Is he flirting? He wouldn’t freaking do this crap if I were a guy; I know that much.

When I finally turn left and he speeds ahead, he is still waving at me from his side mirror.

I just hate crap like that because now all I have is second-guesses and assumptions as to what this goofball was intending. I don’t want to get so jaded that I immediately pull out the Gender Card — it’s best if that card does not get worn and faded before its time — but what else can I think? It’s certainly not an isolated event. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been honked at by large trucks . . . but why honk at all?

Why can’t I drive down the road in peace? Why can’t I ask the rental sales guy about a piece of equipment without him getting unnecessarily technical just to see if he can talk over my head? Why am I “that little landscaping girl” at almost 30 years of age?

I have got to make myself heard over my petite stature.

It’s good to know I can slap on my stomach like a drum and send my daughter into smiles and giggles.

Stomach flab can be used for good!

President Clinton was first elected president when I was in 7th grade. I watched his inauguration with the rest of my Social Studies class that January. Our teacher, Coach Adams, had taught us how the election system worked with the popular vote mingling with the Electoral vote so the swearing-in ceremony was a big Democracy in Action moment for our class.

We all stared up at the television screen as President Clinton finished his oath. I’m sure many of my classmates were wondering when they would be able to get down to the lunchroom.

Suddenly, Coach Adams kicked his chair across the room, — a few of us started in our seats — exclaiming that he had FINALLY voted for someone who became president.

I didn’t really understand political beliefs at that time — Republican versus Democrat — but I did get that it’s nice to know when your voice is heard. There is a sense of pride. Sometimes it’s so invigorating it even makes you want to kick chairs.

I felt like kicking a chair this evening — my own voice was finally heard. Though, as Coach Adams taught me, my state’s Electoral vote was what truly counted and Alabama runs quite red, my vote was counted all the same.

Sixteen years later, I was reminded of my teacher and that moment right before lunch on a January day. I can appreciate why Coach Adams was so happy.

I can finally look at our president and think, “See that man? I voted for him.” Me and so many others.

I looked up Hyland’s Teething Tablets the other day for Miss Lydia. Her gums are beginning to irritate her, much to the dismay of her poor knuckles.

Imagine my surprise to learn one of ol’ Hyland’s active ingredients is belladonna. Belladonna — seriously?!

No wonder kids get that ‘soothing’ effect. They’re too busy watching the pink elephants duke it out with the green-and-blue striped tigers on the ceiling.*

If I’m going to slightly poison anyone to the point of intoxication, I’ll just do it to myself with some Grey Goose, thanks.

________________________
* I realize what the manufacturers of Hyland’s says here as far as the safety of their product goes is most likely true. But still — belladonna?!

I read a story this morning found on Digg called How Does It Feel to Die? It’s a fascinating read if you’re into the scientifically morbid stuff, discussing the differences between a drowning death, a hanging death, decapitation, death by motor vehicle accident, and so on.

A reader on Digg’s site commented on a dream he had once where he died — it felt very real and the worst part was not being able to tell his family to not be sad. I stopped reading after that comment and left for work, leaving the page up on my computer and didn’t think another thought about it.

Later in the afternoon, I was driving my Elliott car to an appointment with a client. I do love my Elliott. He is great fun to drive and a very spiffy color. The only thing about the Honda Element is they have pretty large blind spots, as you’re about to find out here in a minute.

So Elliott and I were stopped at an intersection on Highway 119 heading towards 280 and about to go under the I-65 overpass. The 119 turn lane to get on I-65 South had the green arrow and various cars were making their turn.

I watched as I then got the green light and three more cars continued to turn left through the intersection. The last one was a white sedan. I remember thinking, “Asshole,” then the intersection opened up and I began to go forward.

The next thing I remember is a cloud of dust to my left and I look out my side window to see nothing but the grill of a huge 18-wheeler feet away from the side of my car, stopping just in time. He was turning left, too, though I had the green light. I didn’t even see him until he was beside me. That entire 18-wheeler fit into the blind spot created by my side mirror and door frame.

I’m not sure if his lane had a yield-on-green signal or an absolute red light, but that’s not the point. So what if I had the right-of-way? If his brakes hadn’t have worked or if he hadn’t have noticed me in time, he would have slammed into the driver’s side of my car, right where I was.

The reality of this, of what could have happened, hit me not ten seconds after I continued on my way from my non-accident, and I immediately became upset and shaky. I thought of my husband, my parents, my sister, and how quickly we almost came to having a very shitty day. The Digg user’s comment about not being able to tell his family not to be sad came back to me in a rush.

The quickness of how everything happened is what scares me most. One second I’m entering into an intersection and the next second I’m looking at the grill of a truck. I’m irritated because I consider myself a good driver and technically I didn’t do anything wrong, but there was more I could have done. I knew about the blind spot with Elliott; I should have checked the turn lane for idiots. I hate that I can only do so much and for the rest I must rely on the intelligence and good reaction times of others.

And so all these thoughts pour through my head as I continue on Highway 119. My tears threatened to spill over but I refused to let them only because I was on my way to an appointment with a client and I was wearing the wrong kind of mascara for a crying jag.

I forgot about my Vacation Curse(tm).

Thus, I have killed Don Herbert, better known as Mr. Wizard.

How very sad. He taught me things like how records work, mirror tricks, and ice facts.

It’s time to tour the planets that make up our solar system – come on!

The closest to the sun is the planet Mercury

Next the shouded planet Venus
Is as covered as can be

The Earth is next, we call it home
Let’s hope it stays that way

And then there’s Mars, it’s really red
What more can I say?

The Gassy planet Jupiter’s
As big as planets come

Then there’s Saturn with its mighty rings,
Made up of tiny crumbs

We travel on to Neptune
That’s a gassy-freezy ball

And cold and tiny Pluto
It’s the furthest one of all

Well, there you go, that’s our solar system

-You forgot Uranus

Goodnight everybody!

I’m one of the first to tell you that I’m a clumsy person — always writing on my pants, door frames running into me, counter tops getting into my way, et cetera. I’m never without a bruise. Despite this I don’t really drop or break too many things. In the past year I’ve only dropped one coffee cup and dropped that sack of hot aquarium rocks.

So why do I have such a problem with eye shadow containers? Yes, I admit, I drop them sometimes, and usually that’s all she wrote for those flimsy-ass things. But why do they have to make them so crappy? Blush and powder containers aren’t like that; they’re sturdy and well-built. Why does a plastic container made by the same company but for a different substance need to be constructed so shoddy that it breaks if you look at it funny?

The brand or price doesn’t matter, either. Even the expensive department store counter stuff snaps away — but only the eye shadow containers. Dude, do you know how much I paid for that silly little ice cube of solid color? Why the hell would you make the hinges out of a cheap plastic with a holow metal pin? How much makeup did you sniff before you designed this jewel?

See, a little eye shadow can go a long way so you can imagine I’m going to be dipping into this container for a good six months to a year. I will be opening it up and closing it back again EVERY DAY. It’s made of slippery shiny plastic that tends to get covered with a fine dust of powder. You know what — that gets pretty slippery. I just might drop it.

DESIGN FOR THAT.