Say "YES" to Drugs

I was doing what every normal person does.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that made me use my super human strength. No saving people from a burning house. Nope. I wasn’t doing anything impressive. Although receiving a medal of valor would be nice, I would be more likely awarded a medal of stupidity.

I threw my back out.

Many of us have been here. We’ve all experienced this mind numbing pain. The kind of pain that makes you shout out various colorful obscenities. I think I even made up a few. It’s the kind of pain that will cause the average person to crawl to the street corner and beg for illegal pain killers. Any kind will do. Really. We'll pay high dollar.

I was getting ready to go have lunch with a friend.

And since that’s what I was doing, I’m blaming him. It’s all his fault. If I wasn’t leaving to meet him then this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t selfishly asked me to lunch then I wouldn’t have been laid up and out of commission for the past 12 hours. Sounds good, right?

Ok, maybe it’s not his fault. Plus he’s the one who gave me the pain killers. Which I have enjoyed. As I type this, I have no feeling in my body and life is good. Of course it’s 4:30am, but somehow I’m okay with that. I think I would be okay with just about anything right now.

I’m leaving town tomorrow and the thought of being on a plane for several hours makes me cringe. I guess I can get through anything as long as I have these pain killers and my iPod. I refuse to be in pain while on vacation. So as soon as my plane lands in Tampa, I’ve instructed my friends to make sure that I am continually supplied with adult beverages. Those mixed in with the drugs should make a memorable trip.

Yes, I still haven’t revealed how I gracefully threw my back out. That’s because I’m avoiding you. I’m trying to avoid the public humiliation that I know for a fact is headed my way. But since the pills I just took are starting to make me tad loopy, I best end this blog before I admit way more than how I hurt myself.

Ok, fine. I was putting on my shoe. There. Happy?

I was sitting down and putting on my left shoe. How uninteresting is that? So while I’m on my mini vacation in Tampa, feel free to make up a more exciting story. One that I can tell people without being snickered at. Maybe one that might cause me to be featured in the local newspaper.

Ok, I’m starting to see double and my brain and fingers have lost their connection. Gotta go.

Taboo: Chapter Three

As I sit here on my couch on Christmas Eve, I find myself confused.

While I’m expected to be celebrating the birth of Jesus, the only thing running through my mind is a long list of unanswered questions.

My questions are not original. I’m not the first person to ever have thoughts that challenge mainstream Christianity. My struggles with God are common with yours, but your struggles aren’t the ones that occupy my brain. This is a customized battle. One that God and I have learned to know well. The script and dance steps are well rehearsed. The same questions and doubts are always brought into the ring, but at the end of the day I return to my post and forfeit. Relinquishing my need for answers due to frustration, tiredness and wariness. I have, however, discovered through this process that having too many questions hinders your ability to hear the answers.

I believe there is a difference between religion and spirituality.

I’m not in search of religion. Religion is easily obtainable. I have a religion. I go to church. I’ve maneuvered myself through all the appropriate ministries and have felt temporary fulfillment through them. Spirituality is something that grows way deeper than just memorizing John 3:16 and repeating it enough times until it makes sense. To me, it’s a more complex level of consciousness and connectedness to oneself and to God. I have been fascinated by spirituality for years, but it seems my analytical behavior prevents me from experiencing it fully.

My life is surrounded by people of all levels of belief. From die-hard Christianity to atheism. When I was about 10 my father decided that our family would stop going to church and thus turn against his strong southern Baptist upbringing. Growing up he would never explain to me his reasons because he believed that I needed to decide my own path and not be restricted to his. Although his intentions were good, giving me “free will” left me dangling, unsure and without direction. As an adult I’ve asked about his outlook on God, but he is still silent. He still will not explain what happened all those years ago. Since I’m no longer a child, I assume his reasons for not being forth coming has changed. I often wonder if he fears my judgment while the truth is no more than me wanting to get to know my father. Wanting to know how his questions compare to mine. Wanting to know if we have the same fears or if he has somehow figured it all out. Because of the tiny bit of information I have managed to squeeze out, I have categorized him as an agnostic.

I believe my father’s decision catapulted my spiritual search.

One would view this as positive. It’s caused me to be open minded, nonjudgmental, and tolerant of different belief systems. Although I tend to stand on shaky ground about many spiritual issues, there are two things I do believe: that God exists and that we will transition into a different life experience after we die.

I think a lot of times we tend to mentally put God in a small box and project humanistic thoughts and characteristics on him. I’m guilty of doing this during my personal battles with him. At times I feel I’m fighting with a handicap. That maybe I’m not supposed to know certain answers, but yet I still ask the same questions over and over again. Not unlike my father, God remains silent. Why did God give me an analytical personality if he has no intentions on humoring me with answers? Why did he give me the ability to love a man’s mind, body and soul but yet hasn’t provided someone to receive it?

People blame God for tragedies as well using him as a coping mechanism.

Some people say they survived cancer though the Word of God while others say they survived on their own strength and positive outlook. I want to know why. If someone claims to overcome cancer “by the grace of God” then doesn’t that imply that those who passed were not in his graces?

Tammy Faye Bakker is in the final stages of cancer. She is now in hospice and weighs 68lbs. During a phone interview on Larry King Live the other night, she said that she has faith that God will heal her. That God will rid her body of this cancer and she will then be able to use her testimony to show others the power of God. Even though Tammy Faye is a person who is easily made fun of, I believe she is sincere. That she believes what she believes. Although a bit quirky, I don’t view her as a con. But I’m not a fan of hers. I can’t get past the eyelashes and the too-bubbly personality. Nevertheless, if it is true that God expects us to have faith in him and spread his Word, then Tammy Faye has done way more than most of us. If she’s expecting herself to be healed… will she? If she dies, what is our answer? That she didn’t have enough faith? That faith doesn’t matter? That it was just her time to go? That there is no God? That God chose to decline the perfect opportunity to perform a miracle in front of millions of witnesses? If she does live, will you give the credit to science or to God?

On Christmas Day my family will sit around the dinner table, hold hands and say a prayer of thanks to God. Of course it will end in the customary “…to the nourishment of our bodies.” I have many things to be thankful for this Christmas. I have wonderful friends who I hold close to my heart and a family that is incredibly supportive.

But as I sit there at the table with my eyes closed, I’ll most likely be asking the question “Who are you exactly?”

Cosmic Conspiracy

I think I was born into the wrong family.

It’s nothing against my relatives. Really. They’re great. I love them. However, I just think that I was meant for something else. Something different than this.

I think when I was born, some papers got mixed up. Maybe a baby-switch scandal. Maybe I’m really adopted and no one’s told me. I guess looking exactly like my father proves these theories wrong.

Maybe the Fertility God’s decided to play a joke. Maybe they were bored one day floating around in the universe and thought this would be really funny. Bad joke, perhaps? Little did they know that I would eventually catch on. That I would discover their cosmic conspiracy.

I think I was meant to be Royalty.

I spent the afternoon at the day spa. Let me say that again: the DAY SPA. There I was being pampered and fussed over… and loving every minute of it. I soaked it up. I think I was meant to be incredibly wealthy, have servants, a masseuse, a chef and a driver. They would all be paid an insane amount of money to make me feel like the princess that I know I am. Of course I can’t forget the cabana boy. He’s very important to my overall well being.

I don’t consider myself a high maintenance gal. I don’t require attention 24/7 from the people in my life. I’m easy to please. But I feel that what I experienced today should be experienced on a regular basis. Like every week would be grrrrreat.

I felt this conviction even stronger when I got home.

When I got home from the day spa, I was all noodley and relaxed and had this calm euphoric feeling. I was looking forward to chillin’ out… maybe watch a little television… maybe take a nap. I was all about anything that wouldn’t exhort energy. I wanted to bask in my royalty-ness.

When I walked through my front door, my house was hot. Not cool. Hot. This is not good for a princess. Princesses require air conditioning. I don’t know anything about air conditioning, so I did what every unknowledgeable princess would do… I went outside and stood there staring at the unit. I guess I assumed that it would tell me what was wrong. Other things do. My printer tells me when it’s out of paper or ink. When my car is low on oil, a cute little light that says “low oil” blinks. When I’m low on gas, it even sings to me. This big metal thing-a-ma-jig in my backyard was saying notta.

This was bad news for the refreshed princess. Luckily I was able to contact my landlord. She said that she would try to get someone over. Try? I didn’t want to play my Royalty card to heavily, but I explained to her that it was FREAKIN HOT and that it would be swell if I could have some assistance. It was 95 degrees and I was inside my house sweating. A sweating princess is not a happy princess.

Long story short, a nice man came over and fixed it. He was very efficient. I bet he realized that he was dealing with a future queen.

I wish other people in my life were as observant.

Girl Power = More Power Than I Realized

I’m not really sure what "Girl Power" is exactly.

A friend of mine’s eight year old daughter likes me. I mean, really likes me. I took her to paint pottery on Saturday which only escalated her fondness for me. When my friend, the father of the reigning Miss Girl Power, inquired about her affection, she responded with the attitude that only an eight year old girl can have: “cuz she’s a girl.”

She’s all about the Girl Power. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who has liked me just because I’m a girl. I hope I have other characteristics that someone may consider first when deciding if they want to be my friend. I would like to think my wittiness or accepting personality would rank higher than just simply being a girl. I may not be the smartest fish in the bowl, but I hope that someone would admire my intelligence before persuing a friendship based solely on the fact that I’m a female.

She threatened my life the other day.

On Sunday morning Little Miss Girl Power’s father emailed me an invitation for an early dinner. Normally I jump at the chance to eat his culinary concoctions since they are incredibly delectable. Plus I’m growing tired of eating cereal for every meal. However on Sunday I had a scheduling issue. In my emailed response, I noted my conflict and waited for his reply. And waited. And waited.

Later in the afternoon I emailed him a second time with a sarcastic remark and within minutes I received an email saying “answer your freakin phone!” It seems that I had left my cell phone in my car the night before.

I fetch my phone and… there they were. Five missed calls from the president of Girl Power herself. Five very important voice mails that were impatiently waiting for my retrieval. How dare I not have my phone next to me at all times? How dare I miss even one phone call from her royal highness?

The first voice mail was sweet. She politely introduced herself by name and gently offered the invitation for dinner. The second voice mail was still sweet, but had a very slight hint of urgency. By the fifth voice mail… she was pissed and passed out all kinds of threats. With the sound of high irritation, she s-l-o-w-l-y reiterated her full name and the full name of her father just in case I was too stupid to realize the matter at hand. She then explained to me how I w-i-l-l be there for dinner. Will. And then she hung up. No closing salutations. No “I’d love to see you.” No “hope you can make it.” No “I hope you’re not dead.” Nothing. Just a click. I felt my ranking in the office of Girl Power rapidly declining.

Until Sunday I somehow managed to live 36 years with my life being threatened only once. Considering the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done, being threatened only once is a huge accomplishment. A triumph worthy of recognition. The first time was by a crazy man and now... it's by an eight year old girl.

Girl Power: Zero Tolerance.

I guess I didn’t realize that aggravating the social structure of Girl Power resulted in being reprimanded. I didn’t know that this multi-level organization required that I remain alert and on my toes in case my recruiter beckons me at any given second.

Like how all Girl Power members should, I quickly gathered my things and headed over to the castle. She was pleased. And that’s all that matters. She soon forgave me and we had a lovely conversation over dinner about how she enjoys chocolate covered ants much better than chocolate covered crickets.

Girl Power. It’s an eight year old's world and I’m slowly learning how to be worthy of it.

My dog smells like a corn dog.

And I’m not particularly sure why.

I walked into my bedroom earlier to grab my pair of Slipper Socks “with grippers” that I won at the company Christmas party last weekend. Ok, I didn’t really win them. Someone else did and decided I needed them more since they were a little girly. Plus they wouldn’t fit his big toe much less his feet. I had actually forgotten about them but remembered tonight when I noticed my toes turning blue due to my cold house. If I ever move, remind me to get an insulated house.

So there I was fetching my new blue socks. While I was trying to break the plastic tag thingy with my teeth, I noticed a smell. At first I wasn’t able to locate the source. I walked around… sniff… sniff… sniff. The smell was strangely familiar, yet out of place. Corn dogs? Do I smell corn dogs?

My mind raced through all the possibilities.

The only thing I “cooked” tonight was a pot of water for my hot chocolate. To my knowledge boiled water doesn’t have a corn dog smell. Plus, I don’t normally boil my water in my bedroom. I even stood under the air vent to see if it was the heater. Negative.

As I stood there in the middle of the room scratching my head pondering this weird corn-dog-smell-phenomenon, Pepper stood up, twirled in a few circles, rearranged her blanket and then settled back into her tight curled up position. I’ve watched her do this for nearly 16 years and it always makes me smile. Watching her do her thing. Watching her be a dog. Becoming a little sentimental, I knelt down to give the princess her daily quota of lovin. The kind where I cradle her head in my hands, rub our faces together and sprinkle her nose and squinted eyes with a million kisses.

Well, let’s just say I started to…

As our faces got closer, I realize immediately what it is that smells like corn dogs: Pepper. I would like to say for the record, I have never noticed her smelling like this. Consider me perplexed. Baffled. Corn dogs?

Do old dogs get a smell like old people? If so, is the scent normally comparable to fair food? When I wash her will this smell go away or have I now entered the next phase of doggie geriatrics? Is there an anti-corn-dog-odor pill that she can take for this?

Since it’s too cold tonight, tomorrow will be bath day. But wait… that means tonight I will be sleeping in the same room with a dog that smells like corn dogs.

I’m not really sure I can do that.

By Design

I’ve been exposed to the phrase “living your authentic self” through television, books and friends.

It wouldn’t be authentic of me to say that it didn’t confuse me. I guess I understand the idea, but the process is a little harder to grasp. It’s not easy to crawl out from under all the layers of self lies or the expectations placed by society. And from what I’ve experienced, “society” can mean as big as the world or as small as your own family. The size of the group does not determine the depth of damage.

We’re encouraged to dissect the labels that we place on ourselves. To go through them individually and determine if they help us or hurt us. To determine why they are there to begin with. Did we put them there or did someone else? Others may project their expectations onto us, but we’re guilty for naming them and allowing them to define us.

Like you, throughout my life I have experienced the pressure from other people’s expectations.

They expect me to be a certain way… good or bad. And I’m sure like you, I feel that I’ve been a constant disappointment. I don’t consider myself a people pleaser, but I do care how the people in my life feel about me. And often I place my own expectations onto them by assuming their feelings. Putting my misguided thoughts into their heads. And since it’s not always accurate, this creates a bad cycle of foolish behavior. I guess this means that owning the real me and giving back others the freedom of their own feelings will end the cycle and be a step towards becoming my authentic self.

Not sure how easy that is to do.

I am a person with dreams, goals, desires and needs, but at a young age I decided to rob myself. As a child I decided that it was better to take tiny baby steps instead of defining and focusing on what I truly want. Test the waters. Don’t make huge waves. Sneak in and if it feels wrong, sneak out. Go unnoticed. I told myself that when you enter with a bang, all eyes are on you and your mistakes are magnified. Exposed for all to judge, dissect and label. I thought remaining under the radar was the smart thing to do. It wasn’t.

I tend to be attracted to people who are daring. Spontaneous. Go getters. Not just in my love life, but in friends as well. They make me nervous, but it’s a good nervous. I’m drawn to their freedom. Their bravery. The way they do things without always having to mentally list the pros and cons. They don’t test the waters… they jump in. And often they’ll grab my hand before the big splash. Sometimes I’ll willingly jump with them, but I always hold my nose.

Maybe I’ve digressed from my “authentic self” topic. But then, maybe I haven’t.

There are all types of people. And just because someone is willing to take a chance and I’m not, doesn’t mean they have it all figured out. That they somehow hold the key to life long happiness that I’ve been searching for. I guess to live my own authentic life would be to accept the way I am. The way I’m built. The way I’m designed. To not view it as a weakness, but as my character. But then there’s always the argument of whether or not it was placed there at birth or if it was placed there by life experiences. Internalizing other people’s actions or words.

Why can’t we allow our positive experiences be our life compass? Why do we latch onto the negative? If someone allows the positive experiences be their guide, does that mean they automatically live an authentic life? If they are generally happy and love their life, does that mean they don’t have to walk through the hard stuff like the rest of us? At what point are you able to look in the mirror and know you are authentic? Maybe I’m too busy looking for the on switch and I just need to realize that it’s a life long process. An inconsistent process that can be constantly conflicting. For someone who aches for security, unpredictability isn’t good news.

Once again… I have more questions than answers.

However, I can authentically say that always having a list of questions is part of my character. I may not always ask them out loud in conversations, but they are always circling in my head. This blog just surfaces a small percentage of mine regarding this particular topic. If I keep going, a novel might break out. Maybe one day I’ll ask the right questions to the right person and learn all the hidden truths.

If so, be confident that I’ll be back here sharing the knowledge.