Fellowship Sunday

The time is 7:07 a.m. It is Sunday.

You might wonder why I'm blogging at 7:07 a.m. Sunday. Well, I'll tell you.

I got up early to go to 7 a.m. mass. When I got there, I realized today is Fellowship Sunday with one giant mass at the Interstate Center. Because, nothing says fellowship like Interstate Center.

I drove home, all calm like, to find another early mass in town. Surely, at least one of the churches in town have mass at 7:30 or 8.

St. Patrick? 7... St. Mary? 7... St. Patrick of Merna? 7....

Why does the Catholic Church hate me? Worst.... weekend.... ever.... More on that later.

DIY plumbing

Our upstairs tub faucet suddenly broke yesterday. It would be less annoying if it weren't on the heels of the shit-thick plumbing problem of last week.

Just let me say here, my husband and I are not handy people. When the new neighbors moved in and immediately built, by hand, the Taj Mahal of backyard playsets, we drank beer and mocked their efforts in snarky voices, all while coveting even an iota of that kind of construction know-how. If we are ever forced to construct, fix or sell things as a means of earning money, I'm pretty sure we would quickly spiral into homelessness.

So when the Home Depot how-to guide said a professional can fix a faucet in 15 minutes, a novice in 30 and a beginner in 45, it's speaks to our talents that it took a full evening, not to mention the day we spent without water waiting for evening to arrive.

Just five beers, two episodes of Top Chef and 13 hours to fix one bathtub faucet. And yes, that is a hairdryer helping deconstruct the faucet in the provide photo. At least the bathtub isn't filled with water.

This is the end. Of my youth, that is.

Do I even need to write the words to explain this picture? Come on, you can see it for yourselves. You know you can. Yes, that is gray hair in my bangs. And no it's not blond, but that was nice to say.

Do the first signs of aging really need to be exposed in my bangs? Come on. This area gives me enough challenges to overcome. They never quite look the same each day, never really fall into a place that looks acceptable. Without the gray, my bangs already look like a section of hair that doesn't belong on my head. Even a can of Aqua Net can't fix that.

Okay now seriously, do you have to dye your whole head because of this? I'm guessing yes, which means dishing out like $100 to color my hair multiple times a year. More money down the drain. Thanks aging.

I drove to work. Really? I already forgot.

In the last two weeks, there hasn't been much to complain about. Normally, that is a shocking statement for me, but here's the deal - I was on vacation. To be more specific, I was at the beach, which overall is pretty sweet. One thing I feel strongly about - if you bitch within an earshot of the ocean, clearly you are an A-hole.

But like all bliss, this fuzzy feeling dwindled pretty quick. Actually, it came to a screeching halt today, Wednesday, the day I forgot I drove to work.

Here's what happens on a normal day. I drive my car to a park-and-ride spot about 5 miles from my house. Usually, my boyfriend is on my bumper, pulling in right behind me as I park, so we can ride together to our cubicles in central Phoenix. Here, each day, at this lovely park-and-ride, I leave my car, so I can take the bus - a plan B if you will. That way if my boyfriend gets stuck on a newspaper deadline, everything is cool. I have a way home. This scenario happens more than I'd like to think. Actually, that is exactly what set the events of this Wednesday into motion.

Usually it's all good. Well, that is until you have a brain fart and forget that didn't drive to work with your boyfriend on this day, that you didn't park your car at the usual park-and-ride spot, that you instead drove yourself to work just 8 hours before. Not cool. How much damage did I do to this brain in high school? No, really, how much?

Maybe it's early onset Alzheimer's I got going on or the daily Red Bull has seeped into my brain, I really don't know. Here's what I do know - I somehow completely forgot I drove to work, as I casually strolled along in 100 degrees to my trusty bus stop.

It wasn't until I de-bused and started to walk to my car, that I realized my mistake. And my first thought when I didn't see my car; "Yes! It's been stolen. Now I can get a new one! Whoohoo." It didn't take long for me to realize the reality of "You are such a moron. You drove to work today, dude. Your car is 25 miles from here."

So I had to call a cab. But here's something that's not the worst. My cab driver was a poet. Yes, an actual poet with published work that is pretty solid. I found this out on our 5-mile drive that cost me $10 (well, it was $8.80, but I had to tip a struggling writer who said the job allowed him to find new characters - indeed!)

Actually, my taxi driver, who's real name is Richard J. Withrow (yeah, he'll be famous someday with that name) is a very good poet. Check out his work here.

The day was bad, but then again, not all bad. If I didn't get stranded, how could I have come to know Mr. Withrow - an interesting guy who is so far from the worst it's insane. The bliss is still somewhere I guess.

Looking like an asshole right away

I think it's fair to say I've looked like an asshole to most of my family and closest friends at some point. It's pretty easy to let go of that horrible feeling because, deep down, I know they know I'm usually a very nice, responsible, respectable person.

But what really feels crappy is when I'm doing something new and I make a complete ass of myself right off the bat. And let's just say this happens not infrequently.

Like my family's decision to only have one car. Most people I know, who know me back, think this is a fairly admirable decision. I'm not Mother T or anything, but I'm making an effort at conserving energy and bringing simplicity back to family life.

But now my oldest girl in in kindergarten and I'm responsible for getting her to and from school (which is only a mile away) every day without a big yellow school bus. So we bike. It's a pretty awesome mode of transportation for such a short distance.

At least it is 99 percent of the time.

Today, on the second full-day of school, storm clouds rolled in as 3:15 approached. I saw my girl, grabbed her and ran for the bike just as the rain started to fall. In the seven minute ride home, I will say that I looked like I had been hosed down a very mean crowd-control officer. While other parents pulled their kids under umbrellas and into cars, I was pedaling as fast as my fat ass could pedal, which isn't nearly fast enough.

Hello injury. Meet insult. It stopped pouring instantly upon pulling into the garage. I can just hope the other parents were so wrapped up in the chaos of the event to notice the crazy biking mom cutting off minivans in a mad rush to get home.
*Photo courtesy of kids in bike trailer. I also think it's The Worst when your ass looks bigger than you think it looks in your own head.

Poop in the public pool

I would normally say that's all that needs to be said about that, but today "poop in the public pool" has an extra special meaning.

That's because our plumbing in on the fritz, so for a large part of the afternoon I tried really hard not to vomit while cleaning mysterious bits of this-and-that from the basement floor. Because throwing up would require a working toilet. And that's something I just didn't have.

Also, I would like to pose this question – is it The Worst to resume swimming after they discovered the poop with some doubt as to whether they really got it all, or to be swimming in said pool as the announcement is being made? Or maybe The Worst is the job of swimming 12 feet under water with a net to fish the poop from the pool.

Hmmm. Yeah... That's definitely the worst.

Running toward a drunk

It's always a little scary to find yourself jogging toward someone sketchy. Of course, most of the time it's just a group of noisy teenagers or a harmless old man.

But when it's a very loud, obviously angry, drunk man at 6:30 a.m. (yes, in the morning) then it's particularly worrisome because there's a high probability some PCP might have been thrown in the mix.

On the plus side, it really tests your speed to try and beat the stumbling man to the intersection so you can bolt left toward home. You stop thinking, "Running fast is stupid," and start thinking "I hope this angry, drunk man isn't armed."

Getting old

My dog Fife is old. I'm guessing he's somewhere between 75 and 180, but that's just a rough estimate.

Getting old totally blows, according my observations of this old, fat beagle. He's on pain medication. He sleeps all the time. He can't walk around the block without getting pretty winded.

Add to this his recent propensity to start barking very loudly, and randomly, at 2 o'clock in the morning. Out of nowhere, it sounds like he's warning the family about the clan of serial killers outside our windows. It's a pretty horrible way to be woken from a vivid dream about the real morning jog I have scheduled just a mere four hours away.

We've decided these night terror barks are from failing eyesight. He wakes up and it's dark outside. He sees a shadow. Bark. Bark. Bark... Not only is he old and sick and dealing with his failing eyesight, now the whole family hates him.

That's just a clear-cut case of insult to injury if you ask me.

Beer + Invisalign = Nothing Good

* Pictured above: Once I took the Invisalign out for a few hours, a standoff of sorts, this is what happened.

I'm well aware I can no longer down a case of beer. Sadly, I have reached an age where the physical consequences outweigh the grand ol' time. Well, let's just say even if it is possible, most times, it doesn't end well. I'm no longer the hip, spry journalist out for a pint with the veterans. I'm nearing an "old-school" ranking at the table now. Total. Bummer.

Its fine, I've accept this, but I still enjoy the occasional cocktail - okay Bud Light or whatever the special is - every now and then. But now I have another problem getting in the way of my social life, a little number called Invisalign.

Invisalign, in case you're unfamiliar, are these plastic trays (braces actually, but I avoid calling them that for reasons anyone over 18 would understand) that straighten your teeth. Only four of my teeth need to be realigned. Long story short, I drank the Kool-Aid and now I must wear these clear trays for 22 hours a day. Seems easy enough, right?

Well, not really. While latched onto your teeth, you can't eat or drink anything except water. Casually sipping a beer at a bar with friends has become a gigantic obstacle, well to put it bluntly, it's a tremendous pain in the ass. Each time I order a beer, I wait for it to arrive and then say, "I'll be right back," sprinting from the table into the bathroom on a mission to take the trays out. When I return, I drink my brew as fast as possible (which has the potential to create other problems) and then minutes later, I'm back in the bathroom or another deep throat-like location to shove them into my mouth, again.

Repeat the above scenario times four and you'll get a visual on how my Friday nights now unfold. Let me tell you, this little routine gets old - quick. In a typical outing, I'm might leave the table, disappearing to somewhere, anywhere, numerous times. It's an awkward activity and could appear to some that a worse situation is possibly unfolding. Let me set the record straight: No I don't have a coke habit, just braces.

At my last visit, I asked my orthodontist for some advice. Maybe he could solve my little problem. He is, as far as I know, an expert on this teeth-straightening racket.

"Well, I don't really want to promote drinking," he beings.
“Please,” I say to myself, eyes rolling. “Just give it to me straight, doc.”
"But if I were you, I would stick to shots," he said and then smiled his pearly grin.

Oh wonderful! Just the solution I prayed for! Well, I'm sorry, but if I can't drink a series of beers, I am certainly in no condition for Yeager Bombs, Red Headed Sluts or Lemon Drops. Well, maybe I could do a few, but like I said, it's the ending of that narrative that concerns me.

So for now, thanks to Invisalign and the tolerance limitations that come with nearing 30, consider me in social rehab. At the bar, you'll be able to spot me, no problem. I'll be the one with the water.

Kid vomit

Kid vomit, in and of itself, isn't inherently the worst. What makes it so bad is that nobody knows it's coming. Not the vomit clean-up crew. Not the people sitting within range of the vomit. Not even the vomiter.

So you end up with some nasty combination of both disgusting and shocked. Unless you have a little kids who vomits all the time. Then you have a bowl.

Going first

That's totally the worst. Well, not in all things. Going first in an organized gang-bang is probably preferable to second or anything after. And first dibs on the cake? Well, that's just awesome.

But how about the first person to give a class presentation? Nobody wants to be first. The best place to be is like third from last, when everybody has tuned out the presentation but nobody is looking at you, alone, to end the class.

Or the first person to volunteer for your kids' sports shit. Volunteer first and you'll be volunteering all year while the rest of the lazy bastards sit around and read the paper or chit-chat in little groups about ... well.. I don't know what they talk about since I don't have a little group all my own.

Anyway, I have a billion things that I think are the worst this week, but I have to write this stupid initial blog entry, and it's a lot of pressure. Jump in with something huge, like the Bush Administration or cancer, and I set the bar too hight. Write about something stupid like hipsters or crickets and it's pretty obvious we're not going anywhere with this.

So this is it. I went first and now it's done.