Walking Is Good For Your Health

Driving Miss Daisy

During our consulting business trips we’re driven everywhere, usually by drivers from the corporation we’re working for. This time we’ve also had a private driver for some of the trips because the company guy hasn’t always been available.

The fact that there have been multiple unrelated drivers is relevant because it proves that there is not just some random and vindictive chauffeur out to get me, no. The repeated assassination attempts upon me must either have been arranged by my Team, the corporation, or by the country itself.

Any of these is feasible, I am Evil after all.

How, you may ask, have they tried to make me swim with the fishes?

(Yes, we’re in a desert but this piece of desert is actually on the water so, yes, FISHES.)

Nope, nothing mysterious and sinister going on here… Just us fish.

Well, frankly, they haven’t been very creative because they’ve tried to do it the same way 3 times. …Okay, to be fair they did attempt to mix it up a bit on the last attempt, but I am not fooled.

The first time occurred getting into the giant white corporation SUV at the hotel on morning one. I had one foot on the running board and just as I lifted the other off the ground the guy started driving away. Much yelling and panic ensued and we only went about 3 feet before we stopped and I was left unharmed.

But this will not do. You don’t get paid until you complete the job.

So getting into the car at the hospital at the end of day one, HE DID IT AGAIN. (Really? Do you only have one tool in your bag of tricks? Or do you think I’m just so dimwitted and unworthy of any exciting and epic efforts that you figure this is all it should take to off me? I’m offended.)

Only this time, I was ready and was at least bodily in the car when we began moving swiftly forward. Ha! I’m on to you, bitches!

I thought that would be the end, perhaps I had broken their spirit. Little did I know they were apparently told my name was Sean Bean.


The NEXT day we have a driver from a completely independent company. Pick up at the hotel is fine, drop off and pick up at the satellite facility we were touring was fine, drop off at the main hospital gate to pick up our passes was fine. So at this point I thought “well clearly, it was the company driver who was out to get me all along!”

Until I tried to get back into the car. Yup, you guessed it… Only THIS time, in addition to lulling me into a false sense of security first, they also decided – “maybe the problem is we keep driving forward so as long as she doesn’t fall (and land underneath a wheel) she’ll survive. So THIS time – we’ll back up instead.” 

So there I was, one foot lifted off the ground in the process of being placed on the running board, hand firmly on the “Jesus handle,” as the SUV began moving backward, it’s large and heavy door quickly bearing down on me with no hope of my avoiding it.

More shouting and yelling and then an epic action hero-style move by moi to launch myself into the car and safety. (Well, “action hero move” if action heros have the grace of a one-legged flamingo with a broken ankle and tend to end up sprawled face first across a car seat with an abaya tangled around their feet – which are still dangling out the open SUV door.)

I am The Highlander!!!

Graceful or not I survived. Hooray me, you have failed evil assassins!!!


Wait. Crap… I still have to get in the car to the airport. Awww Mannnnnnnn….

Curse Your Sudden But Inevitable Irony

If you’ve been following along you will already know that I am a pretty intense introvert. So small talk, or conversations in general, makes me extremely anxious.

But people assume that introverts are all shy and quiet. I mean obviously  – if we are uncomfortable talking to people and making small talk, then we certainly aren’t going to go out of our way to do so. That makes perfect sense and probably makes the lives of introverts with this trait that much easier. Kind of like the auditory version of resting bitch face.

But can I have the luck of being one of those people blessed with the no-talkie aspect of introvertism? (I’d like to point out that spell check tells me that is not a word but voice-to-text managed it just fine. I cry foul. You have revealed your true colors English language!!)

Of course not. I am one of those people for whom being introverted means that silence in the presence of other people makes me extremely anxious to the point of near nervous breakdown. Silence is a time where you can fill in the blanks of all the ways in which the person you are in the presence of is judging you, either because you’re not smart enough or interesting enough or pretty enough… or SOMETHING enough.

SO I BABBLE. I issue fourth sentences and information and non sequiturs at a pace which would astound NASCAR, and I cannot stop myself.

For the love of all that is good and holy in this world… JUST SHUT UP

I must fill the void. In my professional life this has earned me a reputation for being someone who “only cares about what I think,” because when someone says “So what do you guys think?” AND THEN NO ONE RESPONDS AND THE SECONDS OF SILENCE STRETCH OUT, I simply cannot take it. It’s not even like I feel like I have something to say or that I need to say, it’s that I feel like someone has to say SOMETHING. I’m working on over coming this, but even just thinking about it gives me a stomachache.


I guess the morale of the story is: be kind to your over-talkers. They may be dying inside.

Goodbye cruel world


Who Needs Thumb Screws or The Rack?

Faire  Maiden?

As part of celebrating my birthday, we went to the Rennfest this weekend. The night before, I was trying to decide what to wear, and I have this particular outfit…. it’s absolutely beautiful and was a huge, mind-numbingly expensive splurge several years back.  I can still technically wear it, but it doesn’t fit the way it did when I bought it. I lost a ton of weight a number of years ago, but two years of inactivity due to 2 major ankle surgeries and the normal return of appetite that can happen after you’ve had weight loss surgery, means I’ve put a chunk of the weight back on. I actually ended up not wearing the dress at all last year because I was self-conscious; but this year I made up my mind to rise above my insecurities and wear it.

The day of the fair dawned sunny and cool, and I was so happy and content – it’s one of my favorite places in the world.  And lo and behold, I got a few compliments on my dress within just the first hour or so. I was feeling proud of myself for having had the confidence to wear it, and feeling pretty.

Here There Be Dragons

Halfway through the day I noticed the dress had a tiny snag in it, so while the rest of the group grabbed our lunch, I went to the store where I’d purchased it to see if they could help.

First, they insisted I didn’t buy it there, but they “guess they could try and help me anyway”  (even though these dresses are very unique-looking and CLEARLY one of theirs.)

Then they said, “Oh, we just didn’t realize it was one of ours because you have it on backwards… like the other store that ‘ripped off’ our design does it.” As I only ever remembered wearing it the way I was, I said I thought this was how THEY had put it on me in the first place. They got really snarky about how that “never would have happened.” (Looking back at the photos turns out I was wrong, but I legitimately didn’t know that at the time.) 

After multiple more barbed comments about how they had “no idea why I would wear it that way in the first place,” they insisted on “putting it on right.” (Note that it can totally be worn either way, it’s just a question of whether you want the overdress laced in the front or the back.)

If this had been happening to someone else I was with, I’d have told the bitches in the store to go to hell and dragged my friend out of there, never to return. But I was too freaked out and paralyzed with mortification to refuse for myself. I just wanted to do whatever they said and GET OUT.  I’m already so uncomfortable in stores in general as it is, especially clothing stores, and this was starting to feel like the stuff of my anxiety-fueled nightmares.



The woman that ended up “helping” me wanted to turn the overdress around right there in the store, which basically required removing it, BUT THE UNDERDRESS IS COMPLETELY SEETHROUGH. When I balked at showing my lady bits to everyone at the festival, the woman seemed annoyed that I wanted to do it in the dressing room, like I was being some kind of bother. (You know, bothering them with turning the dress around that I didn’t even want to turn around because they insisted on turning the dress around that I wasn’t bothering them about turning around??)

THEN we discovered that with the weight I’d put on, the lacing wouldn’t close far enough to sufficiently cover my boobs if I laced it in the front (the overdress is solid from the waist down and while a sheer BACK is not problem, sheer boobies are a different story). So now I’m literally starting to hyperventilate from humiliation.

But why should it stop there? The whole time she’s re-lacing me (incorrectly by the way) back into the dress the way I’d come into the store:

“YOU bought this dress for yourself, are you SURE?” (No of course I’m not sure, maybe I stole it from someone in an Ambien-induced haze of amnesia)

“Why would you buy a dress that doesn’t fit?” and then little “uh-huh, sure, whatever” noises when I tried to stammer out how it used to fit. (Because doesn’t everyone drop FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS on a dress that doesn’t fit?)  

Then she looked at the size on the tag and was like, “Oh I guess this was the biggest one you could buy. So that’s why you were wearing it wrong because you couldn’t wear it the right way.” She just keeps chatting on and on about not understanding why I would wear it if it doesn’t look nice because I can’t wear it the right way.

Crispy Fried

I stumbled from the store shell-shocked and shaking. I’m sure I must have been pale as death. I arrived back where my group was waiting, and my husband took one look at me and was like “Oh my god, what’s wrong??” I burst into tears and sobbed hysterically. Needless to say the lunch I’d planned to eat basically got thrown in the trash (to be replaced by liquid fruit salad), and I spent the rest of the day utterly miserable. All I could think was that I KNEW I never should have worn that dress, that I’m horrible and fat and unattractive. I just wanted to go home and hide in a trash bag. Getting more random compliments later didn’t change this feeling at all.

The ACTUAL Point

The point of pouring out this horrible story is NOT to illicit “oh no that’s terrible” or “oh no you’re wonderful/ beautiful/ etc.” (seriously, just don’t).

The point is:

Why is the bad stuff so much easier to believe? Why does one bad experience have so more power over us than multiple good ones? Why is it that we assume that random people who provide positive vibes, unsolicited, and with no potential agenda or anything to gain fro doing so must be lying or exaggerating; but people who could potentially have personal agendas for saying bad stuff (e.g. feeling bitter if another vendor stole their designs) “must” be telling the truth? Why is it so much easier to be broken down instead of built up?

And why does KNOWING the answers to all these questions not help us feel any better?


Pitch Camp In The Air vs. Twilight Five Years Into the Woods

Your wait is over – I’M BACK!!!

(I’m sure the two of you who ever read this are sooooo relieved and excited.)

Yip and E


The trip was lovely but also had its “did that just happen??” moments because, well… ME. But for THAT whole story, you’ll have to wait for my book!

How delightfully cruel and cunning of me!


So the topic of TODAY’S entry is: Books

(Well, I mean books besides mine because we already talked about mine and I already told you I’m not going to tell you that story… so OTHER books. Not my book. Are we on the same page now?) … get it… page… Nevermind.


I purchased a bunch of books to bring to the beach with me.

Of course I had more than I could read, and when I had time to read more, I didn’t have them with me. (Note to self: STOP telling yourself that you’ll only be able to read this ‘one book’ on the plane so you might as well put the others in a checked bag and not make your carry-on heavy. YOU KNOW BETTER!!!!)

On the flight down I read Dusk or Dark or Dawn or Day by Seanan McGuire. Which was of course amazing. (Now THERE is a woman who could write 300 pages about a woman eating a turkey sandwich and how that is an analogy for divorce  – and have it be National Book Award worthy.) Then I took Wanderlush by David Robert out onto the beach with me… and essentially frightened the hell out of every vacationer (and my husband) who got within 30 feet of me by unexpectedly and LOUDLY breaking into uncontrollable laughter  – frequently, but without enough rhythm or consistency to allow anyone to prepare for my violent outbursts of hilarity (Hysteria, Hilarity… same thing, right?). I will never look at boxed wine or fish the same.

But the one that really got me was one I almost didn’t even buy – Scrappy Little Nobody by Anna Kendrick. I basically knew less than nothing about her, but heard the book was funny, and some interviews and whatnot I’ve seen with her have been funny so I figured, “what the hell, why not?” And guess what?

It turns out Anne Kendrick is my soulmate. My sister from another mister. She and I are destined to be BFFs forever!

(Yes, so forever I had to say it twice.)

Don’t believe me? Let me itemize the evidence:

  • She is constantly questioning everything/worrying about everything she does ever second of the day.  I am constantly questioning everything/worrying about everything I do ever second of the day.
  • She is weird. I am weird.
  • She is snarky and direct. I am snarky and direct.
  • She is not a morning person. I am not a morning person.
  • She is in her thirties. I am in my thirties. (Look at the date of this post! This is 100% true!!)
  • She hates leaving her house. I hate leaving my house.
  • She hates New Years Eve. I hate New Years Eve.
  • She hates green beer. I hate green beer.
  • She hates talking to strangers. I hate talking to strangers.
  • She loves bad language. I love bad language.
  • She loves Harry Potter. I love Harry Potter.
  • She loves mac-n-cheese. I love mac-n-cheese.
  • She was in plays in high school. I was in plays in high school. (shush, locale of the theater doesn’t matter!)
  • She was in choir. I was in choir. (again, hush it – doesn’t matter how WELL we sing respectively!)
AND drum roll please….
  • We are ALREADY only one degree of separation from each other! I have not only met and taken a class from one of the people listed in her book’s acknowledgement, I am going to be INTERVIEWING THAT PERSON for a (medical administration related, don’t get excited) Podcast in October!

So clearly – it’s written in the stars.

We will buy matching sweatpants and slippers for when I am obviously invited, and obviously attend, her totally awesome “Eff New Years Eve Harry Potter and Alcohol Sleepover” this year. I’ll try and get you an autographed toilet paper tube, but no promises. Anna and I are way too (not) cool for that.


Chillin with my Homie

There and Back in 13 Minutes

So I was thinking about my next post yesterday because I wanted to be sure to get one up here before I left for vacation for a week.

Who’s going to the Caymans?  WITHOUT HER KID???? THIS GIRL!!!!


And I realized I’ve been pretty strict with myself in terms of editing these posts (no comments from the peanut gallery – I’m not talking about my fifteen typos and twice as many grammatical errors). I’ve been trying to keep the content of each post streamlined and “on topic.” But what the hell? I’m the Tangent Girl and these are MY Volumes for a reason! So the heck with that – today you get the uncensored version. Welcome to My Brain.


I got up this morning thinking about posting and decided I would write something about the drama of the past few days. So I was focused on how I would write it, and what I would include or wouldn’t…

So at first it didn’t register, when my son asked me around 8:40am (this is important – take note) when we were getting ready to head out the door –  “Why are there cages in our living room?” But after about 30 seconds, I was like, wait hold up… did he say cages??? Then I realized he was talking about the cat carriers, which are in the living room because my husband is taking the cats to the vet for their shots this afternoon.

And that reminded me that I needed to ask my daycare mom about watching our cats while we are away. My husband was supposed to do it but I wanted to be sure we were all set.

And that reminded me that it was Friday and I needed to bring her a check for my son’s daycare. But I decided not to write the check yet because I wanted to be sure she was watching the cats before I included extra money for that.

So I grabbed the checkbook to put in my purse, which was next to a pile of clothes that I’d ordered for several friends (I am the Lularoe Bargains Queen) that I hadn’t had a chance to give them yet. And one of the dresses had a small tear which I needed to repair and I kept meaning to check to see if I had any fabric fusing in my sewing supplies. So I put the checkbook down for a minute and went into my office to look while I was thinking about it.

And man, my office has really become a mess over the past few weeks. I need to hang my new whiteboard and get my laptop station set up so that I can work on the book more easily at home. I’m not sure yet how I want to do that. I HATE having anything on my desk permanently because I like a completely clear workspace, but where should I put my laptop and docking station? On an under-desk tray? On a cabinet next to my desk? On a shelf on the wall?

Though the whiteboard is going on the wall above my desk so that won’t work.

Except, my monitor was supposed to be mounted on that wall, so now where is that going to go?

Oh, and I need to make my beach bag!! I’d bought a plain bag from Amazon before I started creating things on Zazzle so I’m just going to make my own bag this time with some iron-on transfers. And anyway, I don’t think a Zazzle order would have arrived before we flew out.

Should I pull my passport out now and put it in my suitcase with my clothes? I doubt I’ll forget it, but you never know. But I’d rather keep it in my purse not my suitcase because the suitcases are getting checked and I’d hate to be like, “So sorry, you can’t go on vacation because your passport is in the suitcase which IS on the plane even though now YOU can’t get on the plane because you don’t have your passport.” But I don’t want to carry it around with me for the next two days because I’m terrified I’ll lose it. But I figure, I still need to pack toiletries and jewelry before I go anyway, so I’ll just deal with it then.

And you know, I really need to organize my jewelry better. I’ve really gotten into bracelets lately but my current storage system has NO means of holding these, so they’re just scattered all over the shelf next to my jewelry box. Which is super annoying. I wonder if I can find something at Ikea? But how big would it need to be? And also how many different compartment would I need to sort all the different colored bracelets (I’m a bit OCD about arranging clothes and accessories… and pencils…. and sewing thread… ok fine – EVERYTHING by color).

“Mommy, is it time to go?” Oh crap it’s 8:42am, definitely time to get moving. I quickly write a check and we run out the door.

We get to the daycare mom’s and I confirm that yes they are watching the cats and realize that no, I did not remember to wait to write the damn check until I knew that. So I tell her I’ll have the hubby bring one for the difference, but she’s like don’t worry about it… but before I can argue with her, our conversation gets interrupted by her dog Raven.

It’s so weird. I mean I LOVE ANIMALS, and I always give them lots of attention, so there are very few pets that don’t like me. But Raven doesn’t like me, she LOVES me. Like, we all think she might actually love me more than her own people.


So I’m walking to my car to head to work and I remember this funny story from when two of my friends got married. Before the wedding the girls were hanging out in the upstairs of his parents’ house and the guys were in the basement. I wasn’t in the wedding so I was acting as a bit of a go-between. I go down to tell the guys everything is starting in about 10 minutes, and they’re all like, “Be careful coming down the stairs!!! Mom’s bird is at the bottom and SHE’S EVIL!” And I’m like, “No she isn’t!! Hello Sunshine, are they being mean to you?” I start singing to her and she crawls off her perch onto my shoulder and starts dancing and preening my hair. All the guys are like, “What the HELL?? She’s tried to kill everyone else who’s come down those stairs!! DO EFFING BLUEBIRDS GET YOU DRESSED IN THE MORNING???”

But see, the week before I’d seen his mom sing to the bird and that’s how she got the bird to calm down and come to her. I’d been inside at the time getting some paper towels because right after eating a huge spaghetti dinner the bridal party went outside to practice the medieval dance they were all going to do at the wedding, but it was hot as HELL out, and one of the bridesmaids had gotten sick.

I really do hope this sore throat and congestion I have right now goes away before we leave on Sunday. The sore throat’s definitely better and it won’t slow me down, but we’re supposed to do an assisted dive and that will certainly be a problem with head congestion.

I wonder if there are sharks near where we are diving? Christ, am I going to travel all the way to the Caribbean for the first time only to become a shark’s lunch?

Hey – I’m going to the CAYMANS!!!!!

Who’s going to the Caymans? THIS GIRL!!!!


But it’s 8:53am and I’ve pulled into my last day at work before I go away and have a lot to do (you know, I really love living so close to work!), so I guess I better get going!

One For Me, One For You

It’s been a busy few weeks, so I was determined to have some quiet today. Hubby went out to mow the grass, kiddo played in his room, and I got the chance to retreat into my office to have some quality time with my art supplies.

The result:

Betty Avatar!!!!

I drew her myself!!! Yes, yes – I realize it’s no Van Gogh (spoil sport), but since I have NO artistic talent to speak of, this is a pretty big deal to me. Plus – BETTY!!!!! I loved it so much, I decided I wanted a Betty the Support Fox t-shirt. So off to Zazzle I went.

And then I realized – I could create stuff ANYONE could buy!!!

Oh. My. God!!!

I have no Earthly idea why anyone would want a Betty coffee mug, but I still think the world is a better place because you could have a Betty coffee mug.

Also, I have two words for you: BETTY HI-TOPS!

Oh yea, oh yea!!!!


Bring on the Ray Bradbury

I’m starting to think that living in a “dystopian” Sci-Fi novel might not be so bad. You know, the one where people have to pass some kind of a test of common sense, if not intelligence, to be allow to live with the rest of us folks (or for us to have to put up with living with them). Otherwise, off to the Mars Colony with you, you freaking dimwit!!


Aside from the mind-numbingly unbelievable this-can’t-really-be-happening-in-2017-in-America week we’ve all already been having, today I read an article from a well-known publication asking why no one was questioning if the upcoming eclipse was a “real thing.” The writer suggests that it’s all a conspiracy by the scientists, acting under the bribe of big cash money from the corporations that own hotels along the best viewing zones and the folks who manufacture eclipse glasses.


Why does he think this? Because NASA won’t post the calculations they used to figure out the date/timing on their website so the writer can “check the math” himself. Clearly this MUST mean they are lying…

‘Cuz, ya know – SPACE MATH is like, easy and shit, right? Lemme get out my TI-83


But of course, just to COVER HIS ASS, he does say he’s not necessarily saying it isn’t going to happen, just that he doesn’t “understand” why no one is questioning it because while the scientists insist that it’s true, there are two sides to every story.


No, see. no. That actually ISN’T how any of this works. Because sure, there may be two sides to every story, BUT SCIENCE ISN’T A FREAKING STORY. You don’t get to make up your own version and then declare your hair-brained idea developed while you drank Pabst and watched Aliens on TLC is “just as valid” as REAL SCIENCE. Nope, sorry, uh-uh, no, NOT A THING.



At first I tried to comfort myself with the idea that this might be satire, but that makes me feel WORSE NOT BETTER. Because that means some jackass out there who KNOWS better thinks it would be funny to put this out into the world even though he knows full well THAT PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE IT. At least if he believes it himself, he’s genuine – STUPID, but genuine. If he just thinks he’s being funny – I want to dip him in honey and release him into a pit of hungry bears.

Hey, is that….. HONEY??

This Time It’s Personal

I’ll just warn you – this posts gets all kinds of political… And there is strong language..But I HAVE to say this.

When the nation that we live in, and the very LEADERS who are supposed to guide and protect and be an example for us, are so morally bankrupt… it makes me wonder if I REALLY, ACTUALLY helped my BLACK son’s life be better by bringing him here to this country…

I honestly, literally, don’t even know at this point…

What I do know is know that the people who did this and the people who support them are not the majority of our country. But what the FUCK consolation is that when my son could be subjugated… ostracized… KILLED just for being a COLOR???? And that the president of our United States thinks the fault for this would be “on both sides”??????

“Is your favorite color blue or gray? Blue? <bullet through brain>”

Geez, I mean HE IS the one who picked blue so it’s clearly his fault to some extent that he’s DEAD, right? …