Sick as a Dog Day

I’m sick. I hate being sick. Not that people enjoy being sick, but still.

There are a few things about being sick that are particularly irksome.

1. I’m weak and vulnerable like a 3-day old kitten. And yes, almost anything can make me cry. Especially if someone is nice to me – whoa, watch the waterworks then! Or if something is even moderately frustrating. Like, oh, say all your teaspoons are in the dishwasher and you’re trying to eat some yogurt. So you grab a tablespoon, but the spoon won’t fit through the wee opening of the yogurt container. And you think “Who makes yogurt containers this fucking tiny? Does everyone in the world hate me?” And then the pressure that is built up behind your ears starts throbbing and you think, “All I want is some fucking yogurt.”

And then the tears.

2. Everyone annoys you. Everyone is stupid and bugging you. The next door neighbor who just hauled a new piece of furniture up the three flights of stairs and caught the bottom on each step. At 4 o’clock in the afternoon for Chrissakes, like people aren’t taking drug-induced naps at that hour! Or the e-mail alert that dings with lovely messages from friends and family and the occasional head-hunter right in the middle of a Cameron Crowe marathon. It’s been years since I’ve seen Singles – can’t I just watch Campbell Scott in peace?

3. The Cashier at Walgreens. Most days I’m able to take my local Walgreens Cashier in stride. She’s a sweet lady, but she has never honed the intricacies of cashiering. These are things I figured out when I was 17-years-old working at a local grocery store.

While it’s nice to be quick on the keys or scanner (we didn’t have scanners in my day) and it helps to have memorized each and every produce code – the real key to being an awesome cashier is your ability to filter any and all commentary. Your main superpower is the ability to ignore what you have just rung up, stifle any sniggering and withhold judgement until the customer has left the store.

For example: If you ring up some French bread, bottle of wine, cheese and a box of condoms – it’s not appropriate to say “Wow, big night planned?” Similarly, ringing up Theraflu, ginger ale, cough drops and Chapstick and saying “Someone feeling under the weather?” It’s like – no, dumbass, I’m just trying to get you to think that someone is feeling under the weather to get some god-damned sympathy. Or was it the pale and pasty face (regardless of the pounds of make up I put on this morning) that gave me away? Oh crap, was that a welling of tears?

Anyway, I’m not a good sick person. In fact, when I’m sick, I’m actually a bad person. So all in all it’s probably best that the gick forces me to sit wrapped up like a mummy in comfy blankets on my couch all by my lonesome rather to inflict my evilness on the world.

So until I’m feeling well again, it’s probably best you leave me to my Puffs Plus and Vanilla Sky.

Art Is What You Can Get Away With

A friend recently shared the above sentiment with me and I have let it simmer in my little artist's wanna-be heart since then.

There are so many things I wish I could do and they are usually supplemented with "Talent notwithstanding, I'd be a..."

Where do I begin?

Ballet Dancer: It could be the addiction to teen-angst movies like Center Stage and Save the Last Dance and the slightly off-putting love affair that began with my sister's life-size poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov, but I've always loved the idea of donning some pink tights and a black leotard and pirouetting my way across stage. We'll pretend it's weak ankles that keep me from Swan Lake and not a fear of being lifted or my propensity for dizziness when turning in circles.

Sculptor or Potter: I love the idea creating beautiful hand-crafted pottery or artful pieces made of metal. And haven't I taken courses at local artists studios. But much to my dismay the outer limits lives of artists are cemented in one disturbing foundation - math. You'd be surprised how much measuring and arithmetic is involved in art. Stupid art.

Photographer: I hang out with some pretty awesome photographers. In fact, I was raised by some pretty good photographers. And while I can boast being Photo Editor of my high school newspaper - that was primarily because I was willing to spend a week of my summer vacation at MSU to tinker around with other geeky shutterbugs. And I was able to take an occasional "cool" photo. But then you see people who consistently take beautiful shots and you think "I am such a poser". For now, I'll have to settle for the occasional "cool" photo and some decent photo editing skills (see photo above).

Musician: This is a big one for me. "Talent notwithstanding" I'd chuck the Cube Farm and make my living as a singer/songwriter. And don't think for a second I haven't given it a go. I've taken guitar lessons and aside from the nasty callouses I was able to procure, the ability to make my left hand do one thing while the right did something completely different was beyond me. I've dabbled in some singing, but mostly of the harmonizing with the car radio variety. Sure, I'm the lead vocalist of a band called Two-faced Mary, but it wouldn't take you more than 3.2 seconds to figure out why we call it "vocalist" and not "singer". I've tried hanging out with singers and musicians to see if any of their ridiculous talent would rub off on me, but so far - no luck.

I suppose I should be happy that I can string a few words together in a way that is not all-together unpleasant, but that doesn't keep my heart from longing for a more "lead in the school play" talent. 'Til then, I'll just keep trying to get away with what I can.

Honesty Really Is The Best Policy

There are scant few things I know for sure. But here's one:

Always tell people when they have a boogie hanging from their nose.

Even if they are a co-worker, even if they are a stranger. Even, if you feel a little awkward and embarrassed. Because your awkwardness and embarrassment is nothing compared to what theirs will be if left to their own devices.

A simple "I think you have a little..." in conjunction with a quick brushing of your nose will do just fine.

Feel free to practice on me.

'Cause if I find myself with a booger at the end of the day and my bastard friends didn't tell me, well, I'll have a few less birthdays to remember is all I'm saying.

Like Liberace on the Keys

Back in the day, my grandmother preached to me the importance of being able to type. When I was younger I didn’t get it, but as my grandmother was a formidable woman – I listened to her and paid attention in typing class. Let me tell you, this was not an easy thing, as I had an insane crush on the guy who sat next to me. I have trouble remembering his name, but he was a soccer player (oh, they were all soccer players for me back then.)

But I digress, as I was tippy-typing away on a real typewriter (no keyboards for us in those days) and continuously being barked at by my typing teacher (also my basketball coach) – I considered my grandmother’s advice. Maybe she had antiquated views on the types of professions that women could have. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that women could be doctors, lawyers or professional wrestlers these days – that not every woman was destined for a steno pad.

But since I wanted to be a journalist, I figured that typing was a decent skill to possess, so I got an obligatory A- in Typing and moved on.

It wasn’t until today, nearly 20 years later, that I realized her obsession with typing. It wasn’t about pushing me towards a skill set that would snag me a particular job – it was about keeping me out of OTHER types of jobs.

I mention this because today I picked up my first pair of steel-toed boots.

I work in a factory environment, and while I reside happily in the land of office weenies, there are many opportunities to wear shoes that will withstand being run over by a forklift.

And while I don’t mind a hard day’s work or getting my hands dirty (let us talk one day of my stint as a corn detassler or my foray as a hotel maid) I am finally able to understand what my ol’ grams was up to with her badgering.

See, my grandmother wasn’t trying to saddle me with a life as a secretary – she was trying to keep me out of lives that included a hairnet, an apron, and most definitely the steel-toed shoes.

It's okay, Grandma – I’ve still got 60 words per minute in me. Don't worry about the assembly line just yet.

Peeping Thelma

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned once or twice or twelve times my abhorrence of working out. Aside from the sweaty and stinky parts of the work-out itself there are the other parts that aren't altogether enjoyable.

Like the locker room.

Now, I go to a pretty nice gym. That wasn't always the case. My friend, KB, and I have had our share or questionable gym memberships. Whoever was tauting a Buy 1, Get 1 or other deal of the century. But those gyms almost always go out of business and generally have stinkier than usual locker rooms.

But I'm a grown-ass woman now and can afford a slightly higher caliber of health club (not the top tier like my dad goes to, but then he's just a little more devoted to his workouts than I am). So, I go to the second nicest gym in town and it suits me pretty well.

It helps that it's connected to a hospital and I have to worry less about looking hot for the muscle heads and worry more about running over a geriatric on the indoor track.

Sorry, I digress...

Anyway, the locker rooms are pretty swell, in my opinion. And sure it still has the lingering aroma of chlorine, dirty laundry and Fritos - but it's a locker room - so I cut it some slack.

I remember going through middle school gym class and the anxiety of all the girls about changing clothes in front of one another. Everyone stood approximately 2 inches from their locker and changed from their Jordache jeans to their Nike sweats in 3.4 seconds. By the time I'd gotten to high school, I'd already dealt with basketball, softball and track and was used to the locker room scene.

As we get older, we come to realize that they are just bodies. And when you're standing around the locker room changing, no one is looking at you. Sure, occasionally you run into the woman who walks from the shower stall to her locker in nothing but a pair of flip-flops, but they are few and far between. And that is how you deal with dropping trow in front of a bunch of strangers.

That theory was tested today.

Sundays are a hard day to determine when to hit the gym. Normally, I try to bypass kiddie swim lessons and senior aerobics, because the locker room turns into either a scene from Kids Who Eat Too Much Sugar or Old Ladies Who Don't Know How Loud They Talk Without Their Hearing Aids In. I made a bad call today and hit a pretty busy post-aquatics class time. The older ladies where just toweling off, as I tried to find a locker and a wee bit of bench space to change and hit the treadmill.

I had successfully gotten my yoga pants on and was swapping my regular bra for my sports bar when two ladies descended on my locker culdesac. They were gabbing, but I didn't take much notice until I heard in a much louder voice - "Excuse me, is that a fish swimming up your back?"

Oh crap, some poor woman's blood sugar must have dropped and she was now speaking gibberish. I am a self-purported "bad in a crisis" girl, although in reality - people always look to me for direction when things are hairy. I looked over my shoulder, as I was still in-between boob coverage. And this lady in a bathing suit was looking right at me.

"The tattoo, on your back, is that a fish swimming?"

Note: Yes, I have tattoos on my back. No, none of them are a fish swimming.

"Oh, no," I responded, "It's a Celtic symbol." I hurried along my wiggling into the ol' sports bra.

Then her friend piped in, "What did you say? What kind of symbol?"

Me, still half-naked, "Celtic. An Irish symbol." My elbow gets caught up in the arm hole of the bra and begins to look like I'm playing with a Stretch Armstrong.

"Oh, yes, not a fish at all. So, what's it mean?"

Me, one twin hanging out, "Uh, inner soul to outer life."

"Oh, that's lovely. I have a tattoo too. Betcha can't see it."

Oh, please. Oh, please - do not make me look.

"It's my eyebrows! You couldn't even tell, could you?!"

And then the two chatted on about tattoo eyebrows and eyeliner and I managed to finish dressing myself.

Aside from my lack of grace-under-pressure, I have to say I was most disturbed by the idea that I was not invisible in the locker room. The idea that no one was looking at whether or not my underwear matched my bra, or if my hair was a mess or if I, in fact, had fish swimming up my back was a fallacy.

The anonymity of the locker room is gone. And now, in addition to making sure I look un-winded on the treadmill when I'm next to Joe Cutie, I also have to make sure I'm appropriately covered up before Peeping Thelma gets a gander at any of my other tattoos.

The truth is: None of us is alone. At least not in the locker room.