Wednesday, January 22, 2014

When I grow up I want to be Tolkien. Or a potato. It's hard to tell.

Getting my master's degree in counseling has thus far involved a painful amount of personal reflection, self-examination,  deep thinking, analyzing all emotional baggage, frequent torture, occasional exorcisms... ::cough:: ... anyway, it's been quite an adventure. I'm pretty much a hobbit with a ring on a death march to an evil volcano, but sassier.

On this perilous journey, I have to take a large amount of standardized tests that examine different parts of my personhood, ponder on the results, and thoughtfully write about what I have learned and how it will help me be the best counselor I can be... Frodo is lucky he only had to face Mordor, Orcs have nothing on falling outside the standard deviation.

A picture of my soul in it's current state.

One such test I took this past semester was about what careers would be best for me. My number one was mental health counselor. Blech. How boring. I hate being predictable.

Reflecting on my completely unshocking answers, I couldn't help but think that the test would be much more exciting if the suggested careers were less... attainable? That's just a nice way of me saying imaginary and/or delusional.

I present my results of a career inventory, if I was allowed to write standardized tests:

5. Hobbit. I initially wrote this as a joke because this post has become weirdly Lord of the Rings themed but then I realized I like food, sleeping, food, socializing, food, hobbit-holes, food... So, yeah. I totally want to be a hobbit. I might already be one?

4. Pre and Post Anesthesia Pep Talk Giver.  This has nothing to do with wanting to help people or make them feel better. This is based purely on the fact that funniest stories in the whole world stem from anesthesia. It's a win-win. They won't remember at all if I actually do my job (all though I give a heck of a pep talk) and I will just laugh at people all day. With people. Laugh with people. Laughing at them would be rude.

3. Fancy Hotel Tester. There is literally nothing I love more in the world than staying at a hotel. I turn in to a crazy hermit person when a hotel is involved. I use all the tiny toiletries, I wear the robe, I order room service, sometimes I take up ironing (I don't even own an iron at home) because it's there. I'd be the BEST hotel tester ever. Built a new luxury resort? Not sure if it's up to par? Call me! On second thought, all my reviews would be along the lines of, "IT'S AMAZING! BEST EVER! SIXTY-SEVEN GOLD STARS TO ALL OF YOU!"

2. Celebrity Baby Namer. First of all, I've totally named a baby before. A human being is permanently labeled because of my skills. Thus, I'm qualified. I can picture it now - sitting on my naming throne, surrounded by blue and pink storks, famous people lining up to meet me, weeping in gratitude when I pass on my genius... AND, to boot, never again will something like North West happen. You're welcome America.

1. Queen of England. Always and for ever this will be my life goal. The end.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Who Invited Mel Gibson to Christmas?

'Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the fog,
All the creatures were stirring,
Including my dog...

::PAUSE::

This needs an introduction. And less rhyming.

INTRODUCTION: Marriage is wonderful. You get to share everything, you always have someone to make you smile, you get to be a human boot check because your wife is too stupid to get cowboy boots off on her own .... What bliss! Sometimes you are so finely in tune with each other that you don't even need words to communicate, and that beautiful exemplar of matrimonial harmony is where this story is headed.
 
::AND UNPAUSE (minus rewriting any beloved classics)::

It really was the night before Christmas and John and I were packing up the car to head to my parents' house for Christmas Eve festivities. Part of the preparation was me shoving Razzie into a Santa dress with a giant tutu. I am only allowed to dress her up once a year, so I make it count. It's adorable! And mildly abusive! And because I am an equal opportunity humiliater, I had put on my annual Christmas adornment, antlers. Because, antlers.

Anyway, John was upstairs and I walked out the front door with Razzie, in all our festive glory. Alas, as soon as she scampered down the stairs her collar popped off. If you have ever owned a small dog who is part hellhound, you know what moment came next. The frozen-no breathing-praying that she won't notice-shuffling forward-talking in high pitched voice-reaching forward slowly moment. You also know what moment followed. Razzie turned to me, we locked eyes, and then:



She was off like a bat out of hell. Now, Razzie loves to run. And if she is chased IT'STHATMUCHMOREFUNMUSTRUNFASTER!!!! Knowing this, I though to myself, "self, you will never catch her. If you go get John or your car keys you won't know where she went. BUT if you chase her and scream really, really loudly John can figure out what's happening, get in the car, and follow your yelling and flailing and catch her." Genius. Fool proof.

So. I ran. Take a moment to take in the visual: I am wearing antlers, holding a leash with an empty collar, chasing a thirteen pound dog wearing a tutu, and screaming like a maniac. You're welcome.

BUT. THE POINT OF MY STORY. Five minutes later, as I'm gasping for air watching Razzie have a grand old time two blocks away, John drove past me and Razzie got in the car.

The conversation that followed:

John: "You know chasing her just makes her run faster."

Me: "....nerfgghhblar.... heeeeeeegah...."

John: "I heard you screaming and figured out that Razzie had gotten out."

Me: "ghhheee.... graphelgasp."

John: "I finished loading the car since I knew you'd know which way she went and I'd be able to catch her even though you were egging her own. I followed your yelling. You're welcome."

Me: "gasp...that was... a good... plan."

BAM. MARRIAGE.

And to all a good night.