Ten Things You Probably Maybe Know About Me. Or Not.

Tonight's #Write30 topic is "Ten Interesting Things About Me". I don't like that topic at all, but as Duke football completely drained all of my energy and ability to form deep thought, I'm going to stick with it.

1. I don't think I'm all that interesting. People tell me that I'm interesting, but I know a great many interesting people, and I'm not like them. So this list feels weird but whatever.

2. I can pinch you with my toes. Seriously, I have monkey-toes. If I were to lose my arms, I think I'd be okay. I don't think I'd be very inspiring as a disabled person, but I could probably still drive and stuff.

3. I have two brothers named "Jimmy". This is not news to anyone who has known me for a while, but other people do find it interesting. And, no, it was not by choice.

4. I've never traveled outside the United States. I've also never been anywhere east of the Mississippi River. I am a traveler who was born to two non-traveling parents, but I'm starting to get the hang of it.

5. I don't like coffee flavor of any kind. I don't drink coffee or eat coffee candy or ice cream. I've never ordered anything more than a hot chocolate at Starbucks. The only time I ever drank a full cup of coffee was during an all-night drive home, and I don't think I blinked for 334 miles.

6. I also don't really like beer. Or Asian food. Both really upset my stomach, and although I've tried a million different kinds, the result is always the same -- typically me, on the bathroom floor, in tears.

7. I've never seen Star Wars or The Godfather all the way through. I don't tell people because I fear their shameful stares and mockery.

8. I was once terrorized by the Horned Frog mascot from TCU at a Texas Tech game in Lubbock. He followed me from the top of Jones Stadium all the way to my seat. I was standing up in the aisle, waiting to go to my seat, and he slapped me on the butt. I was 17 at the time, and everyone around me laughed, so I did too. If I saw that mascot come near me now, I'd probably preemptively knee him in the crotch just for good measure.

9. I have a deep phobia about clowns and marionette puppets and dumpsters. I have recurring nightmares about finding a dead body in a dumpster. I'm just there, trying to throw away my trash, and then, BOOM, dead body. Probably too many crime shows in my brain. Clowns and marionettes, though, are just regular old, run-of-the-mill creepy.

10. I wanted to be an optometrist when I was a kid. Then I realized how not great I was at math and science and changed my mind. But I still really geek out at my eye exams. Like, I LOVE going to get my eyes checked.

I Won't Be Watching

I am a sports fan. I am sometimes a highly illogical sports fan.

It's okay; I own it. I'm not the sort of person who believes that players or coaches are losing or making decisions to spite me or that my complaints or thoughts will somehow make some sort of difference in the outcome. Those people aren't illogical; they're insane.

I'm not insane. At least not to the trained eye.

I do believe in superstitions though. I believe in mojo. I believe in routine. I believe in lucky shirts and changing seats and whispered prayers. So maybe slightly cuckoo but not insane.

I've always followed Duke basketball intensely, and the addition of better technology has only heightened that passion. I've written about it a few times: here, here, and here too. Duke football, however, has mostly lived in the shadows for me and most everyone else. I've always been a little ashamed of that, but football itself has never had the same hold on me as basketball has. 

Yet, the last two years, I've watched an emergence of Blue Devil football. Through area sportswriters and fans on Twitter, I've delighted in watching Coach Cutcliffe lead this team. And for the record, I am falling in love with Cut in the same way I fell in love with K -- as a teacher. As a teacher and former coach, there's nothing that drives me crazier than people who think that it's "easy" to coach. As if all you have to do is draw up a couple of plays on a chalkboard and roll the ball out. But good teaching recognizes good teaching, and I can say with confidence that Coach Cutcliffe is not just a football coach; he's a fantastic teacher. Watching him, and reading about him, has piqued my curiosity and strengthened my belief.

Also, let me clarify about the word "watch". I have to confess that of all of the games I've actually watched in real time, most have wound up as losses, including the Pitt game this year and the Belk Bowl last year (sorry, Ben Swain). The only notable exception was the Duke-UNC game last year.

Last week, as the Blue Devils took on NC State, I left to grab dinner at 17-14. I was gone for 15 minutes, and no one scored. Within 30 seconds of watching, State scored. Testing out my jinx status, I turned off the TV and turned my attention to following the game solely on Twitter updates. Without my watching, at one point, Duke scored 21 points in less than 30 seconds. I got this message.

Of course I was. Jinxes cannot affect recorded television. But a lack of planning can. The DVR cut off 45 seconds before that scoring onslaught began. Duke won 38-20.

This afternoon, I was out of the house at the beginning of today's game against Miami. A win against them today would put Duke in the driver's seat of their division. I walked in the door to see Miami score a touchdown to go up to 17-7. I held on, watching, just long enough for a punt before I decided to test my theory one more time. 

I scheduled the DVR to extend an hour after game time ended, and I turned off the television. When the tide began to turn, I started getting the itch to turn it on and watch for a while. Instead, I left the house to erase the temptation. This is how I wound up sitting in the Quik Trip parking lot, searching my Twitter feed, and screaming in my car as Duke Football emerged, once again, out of all the shadows, winning 48-30.

Do I believe in superstition? Yes.

Do I believe in jinxes? Yes.

Do I believe in Duke Football? Hell, yes.

Congratulations, Blue Devils. Good luck next Saturday at Wake Forest. 

And don't worry, I won't be watching.

Lovesong

I love music.  I really do.  I love to hear about new artists and find old favorites again.

When I was just a young and impressionable freshman, my friend, Carrie Simpson, helped me fall in love with several non-Clarendon-types of music like The Pixies, The Smiths, Live, and everything U2 had ever done.  Our friendship started with a deep and boundless love for Duke basketball and Christian Laettner.

But then there was also this -- Robert Smith and The Cure.

I don't know what to say except that teenage girls make zero sense most of the time.

I had a long conversation a few weeks ago on social media about cover songs.  Taking something old and familiar and changing it to make it your own.  I think it's so interesting to hear the different ways others find their voice with a piece that inspired them.

The original:

Anyway, as I was cleaning out my music library, I realized that I have FOUR versions of this song.  I think sometimes my obsessions might be unhealthy.  I have several songs in multiple forms in my collection, but I think this is one of my favorites. 

I loved this one from the "50 First Dates" soundtrack.  Makes me want to sip drinks with umbrellas on a beach and fall in hopelessly melodramatic teenage love.

Several people recommended this one to me.  I don't think it will make the cut.  Anberlin's cover makes me feel a little hectic.  Love songs shouldn't be hectic.  They should ooze a little angst.  Or a lot.  Yes.  Maybe lots of angst.

Death Cab for Cutie reminds me most of the original, but there's a tone in there that is displeasing to my non-musically trained ear, like the organ from The Doors.  But much more noticeable.  The unpleasantness fades after a few listens... until the original pops up.

I was fully prepared to call this one my favorite until Adele introduces it by announcing that her mum was mortified when she told her about it.  "You know  how when a young person does an old person's song and they think she's ruined it."  

I'm coming to England soon, Adele.  Watch your back, young 'un.

It Happens.

I hate messing up.  I really, really do.

It doesn't have to be a big mistake.  I don't have to burn anything down or fall on my face or hurt someone's feelings.  It just has to be something that I think I could've/would've/should've done better than I did.  Spilling a drink at the dinner table, driving over a curb, calling someone by the wrong name.

It makes me feel foolish and inadequate, and I feel like, somehow, it identifies me.  As if that person will only ever know me that way -- the drink spiller, the bad driver, the idiot-who-calls-me-Larry-when-my-name-is-Dave.  My cheeks burn and I immediately feel tears well up.  No one even has to see the mistake for it to happen either.  It is one of the absolute weirdest things about me.  I know that there are probably deep-seeded reasons for it, but it makes me feel ridiculous.

I'm even embarrassed about feeling embarrassed right now.

I messed something up today at work while I was at a training.  I made a work mistake when I wasn't even at work.  I mean... who does that?  It wasn't huge.  It wasn't on purpose.  But when I realized it, I almost had to leave the room because it upset me so much.  Because it would have embarrassed me more to leave, however, I didn't.  The person who alerted me to my mistake told me "It's okay.  It happens."  And, in my logical brain, I know that's true.  But my tear ducts don't talk nicely with my logical brain.

It has always been difficult for me to just "let it go".  I don't want to be the girl who caused a problem at work when she wasn't even at work.  I've known for a long time that this isn't normal for other people, and I've always theorized that maybe I freak about the tiny things because the big things seem far too big to muster up enough freaked-outedness to properly apply.

I've developed coping strategies over the years -- making a self-deprecating joke, allowing myself a 5-minute cry, or forcing a big, deep laugh.  It feels weird to force a big, deep laugh, but it's hard to sob if you're laughing.  And sometimes a forced laugh becomes a real laugh, and that, too, is far better than scarlet cheeks and watery eyes.

Especially when you're far from the exit.

Laundry Woes

Laundry Day is my nemesis.

I don't like dishes. I'm not the greatest at cooking. And I think making my bed is sort of ridiculous. I do it, but it's not my favorite thing. There's satisfaction in climbing into a well-made bed at least.

But laundry. Laundry is really what makes my blood boil.

My dear friend, Courtney swears that she has the world's most intense laundry situation, but she also has 3 kids under the age of 5. I think that if you have 3 kids under the age of 5, the government should just issue you an extra person for laundry and mopping alone.

Not me though. I have zero excuse. It's just me making (and ignoring) this mess.

Several things come into play when it comes to Naz vs. Laundry.  Of course, there's the Bermuda Triangle of Socks.  10 socks go in, but only 7 come out.  It's unnerving, but I have the bad habit of leaving my socks everywhere, so I can never be sure if 10 matching socks went in at once.

I'm not down with separating clothes either.  I will be the first to admit that I am firmly against Laundry Segregation.  Whites, colors -- we all mix in this house.  Throw 'em in and put it on cold.  And for all of you screaming about cold water, that's why they make the detergent SPECIFICALLY for cold water washes. God bless you, Tide, for understanding my needs.

Then there are the things that can't go in the dryer.  Sweet buckets of love, I cannot tell you how many things I've ruined with the dryer.  I will separate those out.  Those things are typically pretty expensive.

Along with the sock trauma, I am also the world's worst at checking my pockets before stuffing clothes into the wash.  I had to retire a whole load of t-shirts to a rogue lip gloss explosion in the dryer. Sharpie markers and highlighters and paper clips are constantly sneaking past me.  Pro Tip: Highlighter will come out; Sharpie, not so much.

I also am a stockpiler.  I have enough sheets and towels to last me at least 2 months.  So, when the linen cabinet is bare, it's a whole day's work.  I'm currently remedying this in the Great Closet Clean-out of 2013. Hopefully.  Additionally, my laundry hook-ups are on a screened-in back porch.  Because I live in Texas, there are only about 17 days a year where it's a normal temperature outside to turn on the dryer or not have the washing machine freeze.

Those things are a deterrent for lots of people I know, but in truth, they are only minor obstacles for me. Because I have to have clean clothes, I will force myself to do the wash eventually.

But the real problem is this:  putting it away.  I can fold t-shirts and match socks (sometimes).  But going on the search and rescue mission for empty hangers in the closet is defeating.  Picking it all up and then taking it to its rightful place in the closet or dresser is too much.  It's like I just quit at the finish line of the marathon.

So, the clean laundry sits -- typically folded but not always -- in the basket or on the kitchen table or hangs over the backs of the chairs.  I have been known to live out of my laundry baskets for weeks -- especially in the busiest parts of the school year.  It's so embarrassing.  But obviously not embarrassing enough to make me stop.

For the record, I'm also terrible about putting CD's or DVD's back in the correct cases or taking the clean dishes out of the dish drainer and placing them on their shelves.  I'm a mess.

In one of my favorite movies, "Singles", by Cameron Crowe, one of the characters says this:

Janet: Well, when I first moved out here from Tucson, I wanted a guy with looks, security, caring, someone with their own place, someone who said “bless you” or “gesundheit” when I sneezed, you know. Someone who liked the same things as me but not exactly. Someone who loves me.

Steve: Tall order.

Janet: Yeah, I scaled it down a little.

Steve: Well, what is it now?

Janet: Someone who says “gesundheit” when I sneeze. Although I’d prefer “bless you” – it’s nicer.

I'll just take someone who'll put the laundry away for me.  Matching socks: optional.

Just a Little Trip to Target

There are few things I love in the world more than Target.

Target is a spiritual experience. It is my Mecca. Seriously. I see God in sunsets, in the faces of children, and in the bed and bath aisles at Target.

It's right next to my nail salon, so it's a favored option to wander and sober up after a few too many glasses of the free wine. Even sober, though, I can meander around for hours, shopping needlessly, and never feel bored. This is a problem since it's also the only acceptable grocery store near me. It's also a problem because I've been on a fairly tight budget recently.

So today, I went in with a game plan. In my hand, I had a list of groceries. In my heart, a solemn vow to stick to the grocery list. With such a sound plan in place, I hoped to get out in under $75 or 30 minutes whichever came first. It would be a monumental point in my life, a turning point if you will. Finally, I'd be a responsible grown-up.

And then I saw the firemen. Sunday afternoons are like Firehouse shopping day or something. They're always in there on there. Typically I don't mind this at all. In fact, some Sundays, I fantasize about setting a fire on Aisle 12. Not because I'm a firebug or anything, just because, you know... Wowsers. So I got a tad distracted.

I also realized today why I usually just listen to a podcast while I shop. There's no need to sing along with a podcast. Especially to sing along at an unusually loud volume with JT. A few people got a pretty good performance of "Mirrors" while I browsed hair care products. I might have even danced a little. If so, I'm sorry, Target shoppers.

And, yes, I am the weirdo with ear buds in while at the store. I find it deters salespeople and small talk -- two things I'm not good at avoiding otherwise.

I did allow myself to take one quick browse outside the grocery aisles just to snap a few photos of wish list items. Plus, one of the fire guys was investigating a new bath mat. I swooned a little. Not gonna lie. All in all though, I'd call today's Target adventure a success -- $80, 45 minutes, no fires, and only slight humiliation.

This responsible grown-up stuff ain't easy, y'all.

True Story: John Deere Changed My Life

When I was 10, I was a Girl Scout.  In fact, I was a Girl Scout for a really long time, but at 10, I was a scout who was desperate to go to summer camp.  I didn't realize it at the time, but my family didn't have the extra money to send me to a week of overnight camp.  The year before, my mom had recruited the local junior college basketball team, the Lady Bulldogs, to buy and sell hundreds of boxes of Thin Mints in order to send me, but I think that the next year, there was some kind of Cookie Moratorium laid down by the coach.  I was devastated at the possibility of not returning to camp.

Somehow, my dad -- the King of the Trade -- worked out a deal with the camp's site manager that he would mow the camp property all summer in trade for my time at camp. My dad had a big ol' John Deere tractor that he and my brothers ran tirelessly all summer to supplement our income, and now that I think about it, that tractor changed my life.

• I went to camp for 4 more years until Camp Cibola closed.
• My wonderful memories and realization of camp's influence never left me.
• In 1995, on a trip through the student union at ASU (a school I chose because I'd been to student council camp there), I applied for a job at Camp El Tesoro in Granbury, TX.
• At El Tesoro, I met the best friends I've ever known.
• I kept going back to El Tesoro for 8 summers as a counselor, program director, assistant CIT director, and, yes, even the camp nurse.
• At ET, I decided to change my major from Elementary Education to Secondary Ed.
• At ET, I met Heather Wilson who introduced me to Linda Denson.
• Linda Denson hired me at Nichols Junior High (even when she didn't TECHNICALLY have a job open yet).
• Thirteen years and over 1,200 students later, I am still at Nichols Junior High.
• Also, while at El Tesoro, I met Laurie Johnston, one of my many mentors in how to work with children.
• Nine years ago, LJ talked me into volunteering at Camp Carter YMCA to help start a camp for blind and visually impaired children.
• I became the day camp bus driver, the camp nurse, and the assistant camp director.
• In 2012, I became the director of overnight camping for Camp Carter.
• In 26 years as either a camper or staff member, I've worked with thousands of children and hundreds of staff members.
• Over 200 of my most valued, creative, generous friends and acquaintances came either directly from my time at camp or from a connection at camp.
• Statistically speaking, if you're reading this, you're one of those 200. 

Almost every decision I've made, every goal I've accomplished, and every dream that I've dreamed has been a result of my time at camp.  Nearly every person I interact with on a frequent basis is somehow a result of my time at camp.  Every place and moment and friendship is connected, and camp is the undercurrent of them all.

All because of a John Deere tractor.

This year, Camp Carter YMCA has set a goal to raise $63,000 to provide scholarships for both day and overnight camp for area youth.  As of this morning, we had $14,000 left to go.  We are hoping to raise that amount in the next 6 days.  I cannot promise you that I'll run a marathon to earn your donation.  Or walk 60 miles.  Or jump rope a thousand times.  But what I can promise you is that your donation, if you choose to make one, will change a child's life. 

Remember... not everyone's parent has a John Deere trade up his sleeve. 

If you would like to donate, you can do so in one of two ways: 
A) Go to Camp Carter's website, and follow the "donate" button located at the top.  Choose "Camp Carter's Annual Campaign". 
--OR--
2) Email me at coachnaz@hotmail.com or DM me with your mailing address and your pledge amount.  You don't have to pay right away.  You can pay out your pledge in installments if that makes it easier.

And, for the record, apparently there's a Kindle Fire being raffled off for those campaigning for Camp Carter.  Y'all know how I feel about e-readers, so if I win, I'll raffle it off to one of my donors!

How Do You Remove a Rabbit From a Sousaphone?

Remember when I confessed to y'all that I'd never been to the ocean?

Well, check that one off the bucket list.  Sort of.  I guess it depends on who you ask.  I technically went to Galveston and the Gulf.  There's lots of argument about whether the beach of Galveston counts and whether to qualify the "gulf" as an "ocean".  But for a kid who's always been able to see the opposite shore of whatever body of water she's looking at, it's the damned ocean.  It was mesmerizing.  The wind, the waves, the seagulls fighting over dead fish.... all of it.

I wound up going to see my friend, Allison, who is in nursing school down there.  Allison was one of my favorite campers like a 1,000 years ago at summer camp.  Since she's 30 now, I guess I can stop referring to her as one of my "kids".  Allison leads the kind of life of adventure that I always think I want to lead.  She's been so many different places -- studying in Mexico and Guatemala, doing desert conservation in Arizona, leading canoe trips on the Canadian border, blowing up dams, and measuring tree growth in Alaska, just to name a few. 

Then I remember that I really treasure things like television and microwaves and toilet paper.

Allison's adventures both make all the "responsible" adults in her life insane and jealous all at once.  Now she's settled into pursuing a career in nursing.  I think it's just a cover to work a couple years in civilization before she's off delivering Pygmie babies in the Amazon, but whatevs.  I'm just hatin'.

Here's a little photo re-cap of my Bucket List weekend:

This is Allison.  Allison went to OU.  The burnt orange scrubs are both required by school and sure to cause a fierce rash to her Sooner blood.  I will not take this opportunity to point out the obscenely white tennis shoes.  I will also not point out that someone advised her to get Skechers Shape-Ups.  Or that she took their advice.  That would just be cruel.

The Skrehart family is one of the most intelligent and creative thinking families I've ever known.  It does not surprise me at all that Kathy used her evil genius to exploit Pinterest for this:  Skittles-infused vodka.  Literally, you just take vodka, drop in a handful of Skittles, and then strain out the weird gelatin coating that melts off.  What you're left with is neon-colored jars of Heaven.  I drank a lot of Neon Heaven.

 Oh yeah.  We went to the beach.  It was dreadfully, dreadfully cold.  I did not stick my foot in as planned.

 Kathy and Allison looking for shells on the beach.  And freezing. 

 If you live in Galveston, in a house without a verandah, I'm thoroughly convinced you're not doing it right.  I wanted to knock on doors of houses without verandahs and ask the resident within what the hell they were thinking.  This is a relatively tamed down version of a Galveston home as it's not hot pink or turquoise, like below:

This is the view from Allison's verandah.  It was a dreary day, so my camera didn't really capture the vibrancy of the house colors.  We had a weekend-long debate about what color we would all paint our houses if we owned homes here.  There's also a marigold yellow house directly across from Allison's apartment that I kind of coveted.  It mattered very little that they *might* have drug deals happening on the front porch or that there was a port-a-potty stationed in the front yard.  Truthfully though, I think that if you don't go with some sort of rainbow sherbet motif, you're really letting the entire city down.

 Apparently, if you cut down a tree at your house (or it's blown down by a massive hurricane -- whatevs), this tremendous artist with a chainsaw will come carve it into something magical.  This yard's tree stumps turned into the Tin Man and Toto from the Wizard of Oz.  The Tin Man and Toto happened to be celebrating Mardi Gras at the time.

 Back to drinking.  If you look closely, you'll see that, in celebration of Mardi Gras, we drank the grape, lemon, and lime vodka first.  You'll also see, if you look closely, that we drank out of Allison's "Sip and Strip" glasses.  When the glass temperature changes, the rejects from CHiPs begin to shed their tank tops and tighty-whiteys so that they're wearing nothing but unbelievably out-of-date facial hair and a smile.  I really can't describe how proud this child makes me.

So... apparently the coast is Hurricane Country?  Hmm... I seem to remember something in a book somewhere mentioning this.  All around the city, there are water line markers from the big storms.  The middle silver plaque is the big storm of 1900.  The blue mark at the very top?  Hurricane Ike in 2008.  Allison's there for reference, and she's like 5'6".  I took this moment to have a very serious discussion/review I entitled, "Hurricane Warning = Get the Hell Out".  Really.  Get the Hell out.

So... to recap.  I saw the ocean.  I hung out with great friends.  I drank delicious drinks and ate delicious food.  Additionally, I was introduced to the delightfully awful 1970's tv show "Emergency!" whereupon I learned about the history of paramedics (a couple of upstart "rescue men" and one young doctor's willingness to put it all on the line for 'em), what to do if a child swallows a quarter (pick him up and shake him -- literally, this is what the doctor did), and how to get a bunny unstuck from a sousaphone (hint: chloroform and a strong air flow, but I'd just recommend not putting your rabbit inside a sousaphone.) See for yourselves here:

http://www.hulu.com/emergency

I am now chock full of wildly irresponsible medical know-how.  And views of the ocean.

All in all, time well-spent.

How Twitter Changed my Life. Well... My Sports Life.

When I was in the 4th or 5th grade, way back in the days before iPhones and texting and Facebook, back when my house had a land line and the phone receiver was connected by a long and twisting cord, I had an afternoon routine I religiously followed.  I'd get off the school bus, go inside, and call my best friend, Christel.  Together, via rotary phone, we'd watch Family Feud. 

We were badass at Family Feud.

We'd throw out answers and usually, Christel would have some snarky retorts about what the families were wearing and she'd shout things like, "Makin' whoopee!  Don't you freakin' idiots know the top answer is always 'MAKIN' WHOOPEE?'"  It was hilarious to me, but our routine was probably sort of obnoxious and weird to everyone else in my household.

You're probably thinking right now, "That is so weird."  Don't worry.  I'm going somewhere with this Family Feud intro.

While I don't watch the Feud so much anymore (unless I'm at my mom's house), there are still things I'm just as passionate about on t.v.  Most notably -- sports.  Even more specifically -- Duke basketball and Rangers baseball.

I have a rule that I don't watch a sporting event in which I'm emotionally invested in public.  It's just not pretty.  It involves a lot of hand-wringing and second-guessing and talking to myself.  And praying for things that really aren't on the good Lord's to-do list.  I am also highly superstitious, which sometimes involves wearing "lucky t-shirts" that may or may not be clean.  And that may or may not make me crazy, I realize.  Oh.  And swearing.  I swear a whole lot.  Good things.  Bad things.  All of it is usually met with highly inappropriate language.

People try to get me off the couch and out into the public eye.  In 2010, when Duke played Butler in the National Championship, my friends and I were at Fuzzy's Tacos for dinner.  A) I nearly got in a fist fight with a loud and drunk Duke-hater.  And 2) I taught some little cherubs at a nearby table how to use the F-word as noun, verb, adjective, adverb, and interjection.  I forced my friends to leave at a commercial break because I couldn't "concentrate properly".  It's a good thing too.  At the house, I enforced a no-talking rule, and I'm pretty sure I'd have fallen off my bar stool at the last shot.  God Bless my friends and the fact that they all know CPR.

This season, I took to watching the Rangers in the playoffs via texting and Facebooking with my fellow metroplex fans -- and after 30 years of misery, it's hard to find anti-Ranger sentiment around here.  My friend, Courtney, lured me to her house for Game 7 of the World Series with the promise of stiff drinks and cute children who'd be in bed before the first pitch.  I made it all of 5 and 1/3 innings before I ran out of the house apologizing, "I just can't do this.  I have to go home."  I raced home, threw on my lucky t-shirt and screamed obscenities at the St. Louis Cardinals.  I still question whether things would have turned out differently if I'd just stuck to my original plan.

Needless to say, I am sometimes the loneliest sports fan in the world.

But now, I've discovered Twitter.  Well, I discovered a whole lotta Christel Green-like "friends" on Twitter.  Devoted.  Hilarious.  Slightly skewed.  And ready to scream obscenities at the television.

Most of them are rabid Duke fans, players, and former players.  As a lifelong Blue Devil fan who usually finds herself in a swirl of anti-Duke sentiment, it's been a pleasant find.  I'm continually updated on stats, game times, broadcasts, and loads of pro-Duke passion.  And snark.  Viciously delightful sarcasm that, for the most part, I cannot match.  Every game, even if I'm not watching, I can follow the action (although it's oh-so-much more fun to monitor my timeline while watching) via bitter taunts and delighted crowing.   I love the crowing.  They're no basketball slouches either.  Their commentary is as pinpoint as any coach and decidedly moreso than your average announcer.  Don't be fooled, though.  When the team screws something up, the barbs fly just as often.  But it's a very "it's my team, so I can say it" kind of attitude.  Very similar to a big brother/little sister relationship.  Although I do not know a single one, I can guarantee they might be the only people I'd ever venture off the couch to catch a game with. 

They might even let me wear my smelly t-shirt while we're at it.

Tim Gunn, Hawaiian Jams, and Amateur Psychology

I am hopelessly addicted to Project Runway.  Hopelessly.

It's quite laughable, really, as my outfit of choice is usually jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, and a ponytail.  Even Tim Gunn couldn't "make it work".  Still, I enjoy the hell out of it.  And Tim Gunn?  I want him to be my gay Yoda.  I like the bitchiness of Michael Kors, and I love the black t-shirt uniform.  But he cannot measure up to a man in a suit with a red and white gingham button-down shirt.  Ever.

The amateur psychologist in me says that my obsession might all stem from my first-ever failing grade in Home Economics.  Mrs. B, my teacher and StuCo advisor, pushed me to my very limits. Oh, bless her heart.  I do not understand how she dealt with my 15 year-old drama.  I started strong with a blue walrus pillow (which is still in my childhood bedroom, thank you), but the slow coast to Flunksville kicked off with an apron.  Oh, that mother-effin' apron.  Black and white toille with a black edging.  Damn you, edging.  Damn you.  By the time we moved on to a very happenin' set of jams, I was on red-alert nervous breakdown watch.  Seams?  Patterns?  That little wheelie, marking thing?  I have to cut the fabric so that the crazy yellow flowers match up?  POCKETS??   It kind of gives me the cold sweats to think about, and it's been 20 years.  I think I cried myself to sleep for a straight week.

In true fashion, however, my mom pulled out her sewing machine (What?  You have a sewing machine?), gave me a 10 minute tutorial, and TA-DAH, a slightly janky pair of Hawaiian print jams appeared.  No pockets, but I was just happy to survive.

(This is totally my mom, by the way.  Full of ninja-like skills that she has absolutely no interest in pursuing further.  *sigh*)

The fact that I was only slightly more adept at the cooking semester might be the birth place of my addiction to "Top Chef".  And the fact that I've never been within a hundred miles of any border might explain my dreams of competing on the "Amazing Race".  It doesn't seem like a good thing that all of my t.v. favorites just reality versions of all my past-life failures. 

Except "Hoarders".  Which is somehow a creepy flash forward fall-apart.  *shudder*

I have yet to diagnose my inordinate fear of Nina Garcia, however.  Maybe next week's episode.

On Emotional Melting Points

Well today was the day. Mark your calendars. Today was my first fall-apart of the school year.

And I do so love me a semi-public fall apart.

Please re-read the above line with an appropriate amount of sarcasm.

All of a sudden, there I was, grumbling to a co-worker about a schedule choice I didn't agree with and my inability to complete a task, and BOOM. My anger and frustration about a hundred things I could not control came spilling out into streams of frustrated tears. And then one of my supervisors walked in.

Because it's not enough to lose my shit in semi-public. I had to lose my shit in semi-public, in a big teary mess with the boss as a bystander. And I say "semi-public" because although we were in my classroom, the door was still open, inviting people (such as my supervisor) to come in/gawk at the door.

*sigh*

In my head, I know that release of emotion is a positive thing; it's healthier than keeping everything bottled up until an eruption point. But, deep down, it still feels so... so... shameful. So out of control.

It's interesting since just yesterday, my best friend called me, exhausted and nearingthe edge of her controlled grip on sanity, to ask for help. Help. Something big? Hide a body? Launder some money? Scoop poop from the yard? Install a new carburetor? Ummm.... No, no, no, and hell-to-the-no. She needed me to play with her 2 and a half year old son, so she could get some much-needed sleep (since she also has a 12 week-old baby girl).

Yep. That's it. Babysitting a child that I absolutely adore. And then she resisted going to bed, instead putting laundry in and folding clothes until I reminded her that,"Hey. You should be NAPPING". And she looked at me and asked me, "Why is this so hard? To ask for help?".

I answered her as simply as I knew how. "Because we were raised to just 'handle it'. And all of our lives, we did."

Her reply? "But we didn't handle it well."

And this is why asking for help and finding new ways to de-stress are top priorities for me this year.

Take My Advice

Illogical anger is pretty much always simmering on the back burner for me.  Like a pot of forgotten stew.  Not necessarily the worst thing in the world.  Until it boils over and stinks up the joint.

Sometimes there is some logic behind it, but mostly it's set off by things that are beyond my control.  Stupid people, stupid rules, stupid situations.  I guess you could say that stupidity is one of my hot-button issues.

So here's my advice, world.  Stop being stupid.  It will save me so much rage. 

Whatcha Want?

All my life, I have struggled with going after what I want.  Because I am a people-pleaser by nature, my needs and wants typically take a backseat to everyone else's.  Add to that the fact that my drug of choice is the need to be needed, and you have yourself a woman who has a list of things that she wants to accomplish but hasn't taken the time to.  I'm constantly making excuses as to how or why I can't do the things that I want; I can talk myself out of practically anything.

Which, when I stop to give thought to this, totally depresses me and makes me feel like a failure at life.

Sigh.

I've been thinking lately about if I could do anything, what I would do.  Here's a list of just a few things that I want but have never had the time or money or guts to go for. 

1. Travel to a foreign country.  Or several foreign countries.
2. Swim in the ocean.  I know.  It's sad.
3. Own a convertible.  To complete #10.
4. Buy a house.  I'm a financial commitment-phobe.
5. See a Cubs game at Wrigley Field.  Ivy covered walls and decade long failures entice me.
6. Be a mom.  But not by myself.
7. Take a yoga class.  Even though the thought makes me quite nervous.
8. Be even within 15 pounds of my high school weight.  I wish I was as fat as I thought I was then.
9. See a Broadway play.  Of course, this requires a trip to New York first.
10. Drive across the country.  In a convertible.  With funny friends.
11. Place a bet in a Vegas casino.   And drink all their free drinks.  And then get married by Elvis.  On second thought, maybe I should re-think Vegas.
12. See a Final Four game in person.  And if Duke were in it, then that's just a bonus.
13. Go on a cruise.  They just look fun.
14. Visit the Smithsonian.  I don't know why.  I just really, really like museums.
15. Take a creative writing class.  I'm not sure why I've never done this.
16. Go white water rafting.  Creekwalking at camp just didn't cut it.
17. See the Grand Canyon (again).  I saw it when I was like 4.  I remember nothing.
18. Take a year off to just do volunteer work.  It hits the "being needed" addiction head on.

Not a great list.  Not even a complete list.  Maybe I'll add to it occasionally.  But there it is.  In writing.  Not to be ignored.

What about you?

I'm On the Case

Law and Order: Special Victims Unit is the favorite show of one of my best friends. She swears that it's the best of the L&O franchise. I denied watching for several years until one day, at her house, an episode used a nickname of my own invention on one of their perverts. It was like they crawled up into my brain. I was hooked.

SVU comes on approximately 38 times per day.

Hence, my DVR records it about 38 times per day.

In the 2 months that I've been obsessing, I have become pretty much outstanding at cracking a case before the third commercial break. Sometimes even before the second.

I'm fairly sure that the FWPD will begin dropping off cold case files on my front porch any day now.

I'm also fairly sure that I might have a weird crush on Ice-T.

New Kid on the Block

It's official. I'm on the fast track to being a cautionary tale.

My name is Deana.

I am single.

I now have 3 cats.

Four if you count the cat that lives on my roof and suckers me into feeding him 1-2 times per day. I don't count him though. He's just a part-time pet.

As if my hatred of putting away laundry and laziness about clearing the multitude of Diet Coke cans off the coffee table more than once every three weeks wasn't enough? Now I've brought in additional felines.

It's like the Hoarder Triumverate. Piles, trash, and cat hair.

The new kid on the block is named Pootie. Pootie Pootwell. Dr. Pootie Pootwell. Also commonly known as "Poots" or "Poots McGhee" to her friends. Or "Dixie", if you're the veterinarian. (Because, really, do you want to be the person checking in "Pootie Pootwell"?) She's a cat of many aliases. It keeps the Feds off her back.


Truthfully, the newest addition to the future A&E special is a cat whose mom, an owner of three dogs, married a man, also the owner of three dogs. Seriously, their house is the canine version of the Brady Bunch.

Pootie Cat -- she didn't really fit. And there stood a possibility of Jan Brady catching her by the tail and, you know, taking out all of her middle child rage.

*shudder*

So, we're on Day 10 of the Great Feline Integration Act of 2011. Land areas have been staked and claimed. Boundaries crossed. But no one has been seriously maimed. Yet.

Unless you count waking up with a 20 pound cat lounging across your forehead, chewing on your ponytail as maiming.

Then, yes, there's been some. Like I said, "Boundaries crossed".

Oh, and by the way, I did totally use the word "Triumverate". I'm a complete literary badass.

I Also Hope that Heaven Smells like Pipe Tobacco and Cinnamon Toast

On Friday, I took my class to the Scholastic Book Fair. Browsing among those titles, I couldn't help but flash back to all the days of walking in to Mrs. Stavenhagen's library (it was never the school library to me) with a fistful of cash. I can clearly remember studying the list of titles and prices ahead of time, planning my purchases and counting and re-counting my collected fortune until it was damp and crinkled from sweat of my greedy little palms. Nevertheless, the excitement for me at 35 was as palpable as when I was 10. My only regret on Friday was that I paid by check. Somehow, not having to sort out my nickels and dimes and beg my older brother for "just one more dollar" made the process seem almost too easy.

Ohh... books. There is nothing I don't adore about you.

All of my safest places, my most treasured moments, revolve around the weight of an open book in my hands. In the classroom, reading along with my beloved teacher. As a camp counselor, with the help of a cheap flashlight and a droning voice, lulling my Live Oakers to sleep. With my nephew's chubby fingers reaching to turn the page first or sitting on a porch swing with the lazy laughter of my dearest friends drifting through the screened windows.

Entering a library, I suspect my blood pressure drops a good 20 points.

There is a certain smell that lingers in my memory, the smell of my childhood library... dusty and warm, old paper and newsprint with an intermingling of the librarian's gardenia perfume and the graham crackers served as a snack. It's the smell of knowledge. Of opportunity. Of possibility. Lift a book to your nose. Ruffle the pages. It will take you to a place you forgot you ever knew.

I am a girl without a passport, but I have indeed traveled the world. I have awoken on the plains of an African Savannah and witnessed the sun setting in Italian vineyards. I shrimped the coastal waters of South Carolina and dipped my toes in the crystal blue of the Pacific. I sat upon Miss Maudie's Alabama porch, and I raced along the Congo River, fleeing an army of ants. I heard the Gestapo thundering up the hidden stairs; I held my breath as I stole from that pile of burning books. I have, with every page I turned, discovered a new adventure, and I met a new friend. Between two covers, I have held the hand of Death, laid my eyes upon the devil, felt the breath of God, chased the meaning of Life.

And to own a book? To run my hands upon its spine, feel its heft, and place it on my shelf? Heaven. The Afterlife most definitely has built-ins.

I'm fairly certain it will not have a Kindle.

Movie Review Monday

Not that I plan on reviewing a movie every Monday or anything. I just like alliteration.

So, I fulfilled my wish that I've been wishing for the last two weekends. I made it to the thea-tuh today. Well, the theatre, but since the Golden Globes last night, I've been feeling fancy.

Here's another tidbit about me. I love going to the movies. Literally, my idea of a fun day is theatre-hopping from one great movie to the next to the next. My all-time record is 4 in a day. I love the big screen, the surround sound, the comfy seats and the total darkness. Add buttery popcorn and a jug o' Diet Coke, and I will pay whatever the price. If I won the lottery, my first big expense would be a house. Followed closely by a lavish in-home theatre. But I'd still probably go to the movies because, basically, I just like the act of going. Even if it's by myself - like today. (Only problem -- no one will catch you up on what you missed while you were gone to the bathroom).

Anyhow, today I saw "The Fighter", starring Mark Wahlberg, Christian Bale, and Amy Adams. Here's another weird factoid: I love boxing, and I adore movies about boxing. It's weird as I tend to shy away from most confrontation (especially of the violent persuasion), but I totally am entranced by boxing. Maybe it's that most movies about boxing are about the underdog (and we know I love an underdog story). Maybe it's the weirdness of getting into a ring and knowing that the other person's one goal is to knock your mother effin' ass out. And that's so completely opposite of what I would ever want to do that I am intrigued by the mere lunacy of it.

The other weird factoid: I love movies about Boston and other Massachusettsy-type places. I think it's the accent. Maybe it's a latent desire to watch "Cheers" re-runs. Maybe it's that I think every Boston-ite looks like Ben Affleck or Matt Damon or either of the Wahlbergs. They don't... but still. I don't know. But it's weird, admittedly.

What am I talking about again? Oh yeah... the movie.

I loved it. Loved it.

But I didn't love it for the boxing. The boxing is really the sub-plot for me. I loved it because it's about the interactions among the people who you love best but don't always know how to love you in the way you need. It's about the ties that bind which sometimes gag us, stealing away all the words you want to say but can't. About the pain we endure by choosing to look past the faults of those closest to us because they're too difficult to admit. About recognizing that your hero is just as effed up, or more, as you might be. And how their demons become our own.

It's about making the choice to break away... to live and not simply survive. To stand in the sun as opposed to hiding in the shadows. The moment where doing what you must do supercedes what you want. It's about the possibility of redemption when maybe no one thinks you are worthwhile.

And most of that happens nowhere near the ring.

It didn't make me sad in the way that some movies make me, but it also didn't give me the cheesy "everything's gonna be alright" feeling either. What it gave me was something to chew on. To think about. And those are the stories I like best.

It also gave me the chills. Christian Bale can play a crackhead like no other. Scary.