Public Indecency

I study at a Starbucks that has an abnormal amount of odd shenanigans go down on a regular bases. I was there this past Sunday, staring blankly at my computer, trying to start a paper, when the oddest of them all happened.

I looked up when the door opened and came eye to eye with the scariest woman I've ever seen in my life. This is saying a lot as I regularly attend Comic Con. There was something about the combination of her intense hawk like features, day-glo make-up, and witch like (complete with corset and multi layer black skirt) attire that made me look away rapidly. However, I couldn't keep my eyes away, it was like a train wreck. Or a voodoo curse. I covertly watched this fascinating woman and her husband interact, which involved a lot of yelling on her part and a lot of ignoring and phone playing on his.

Suddenly, the door flew open and I was corrected because now the scariest woman in the world had just walked in. Like Yzma scary.

via

ACK. I mean. It's like I got a picture (which I tried to do for reals, but then decided it wasn't worth risking my life). 

Judging from the similar, shaking-in-my-boots inducing facial features and almost identical cobwebby attire the mother of the first woman had just joined us. 

She. Was. Terrifying. 

If I though there was yelling before, I was incorrect. The daughter is obviously early on in her shrill, bossy training.

At this point, the two women were conversing (or declaring war it was hard to tell) and the son-in-law/husband came back over with Frappuccinos for everyone. Smart man. Sugar, chocolate, that's always a solid approach to peace keeping. Or so we both woefully, wrongfully thought.

Via

Not-Yzma: "What's this, Kronk?" (Fine, she didn't say Kronk, but I practically felt it)

Son-in-law: "A Frappuccino. I thought you'd like it, it's good."

Not-Yzma: "I wanted coffee."

Son-in-law: "Oh, I think it is coffee, it's just really sweet."

Not-Yzma: "You think it's coffee?" Takes a sip. "Pah! This is not coffee, I wanted coffee."

And then. And then.... and then, I kid you not, she threw the Frappuccino on the ground. The whole thing. KA-PLOW. With the vigor of a 1,000 angry hornets. 

I think all of the air was sucked out of the room when we all gasped (obviously I hadn't been the only one watching). 

And, I cannot tell a lie, her scary doppelganger just kept filling her nails, nor did Yzma or Kronk realize all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. This is obviously a common coping skill.  

At this point I realize I'm not even a little bit covering up the fact that I'm watching the spectacle, eyes wide, mouth hanging open and all, so I scramble to busy myself on my computer before I get caught in the cross fire of crazy.

The son-in-law is hurrying to get something to clean up the mess when the other daughter (or so I can guess from the eyes filled with mild insanity) shows up and drops her four children off and leaves.

A few minutes later and total chaos is reigning. The first woman is loudly watching a music video on her phone, the mother is yelling at the oldest child, the son-in-law is trying to help clean, the two youngest are running around like pin balls, and the fourth child is hiding under my table.

I leaned down and said, "I don't blame you. Stay as long as you'd like."

What's the weirdest thing that's happened to you in a public place? 

That Time I Cried for 1,004 Miles - a Tale of Reverse Culture Shock

When I was twenty years-old, I went to India for the summer. The day I came back was a day that still serves as a shining example of my international traveling prowess, a testament to the fact that I have spent my whole life roaming around the world. And by that I mean, it was a catastrophe, but a catastrophe that can be used as a funny story, as well as a good illustration.

It had been three months since I left bright eyed and bushy tailed. You would not think three months would be long enough to enact reverse culture shock, but it was.

"What's reverse culture shock?" Glad you asked! (Caveat: this answer is just my opinion).

We all know what culture shock is. You are in a new country, you feel bad about being unintentionally insulting with your shoes, you are pretty certain you just ate dog, and are positive you are about to die in a fiery traffic accident. It's equal parts exciting and overwhelming. And, oh, that magical feeling when you have your first moment of getting it right or feeling competent. The taxi took you to the right place! The food delivered is what you ordered! Glorious.

But, then you go "home." The place you have never had to work hard at interacting with and doing life is natural. It does not cross your mind that reentry will be hard. You are just excited to eat Taco Bell and stand in the shampoo aisle at Target. But... it's hard. Really hard. You feel uncomfortable and you miss your new "home." You feel overwhelmed with how life is done. Why are there so many shampoo options? Why does community operate so differently? Why is this hard?

It sucks. Home isn't suppose to be hard. What the crap.

Side note, I am not talking about super long term work here. I was raised in Eastern Asia and was told my whole life that the United States was my home. I went home for the first time when I was four, and didn't quite get it. But I am also not Japanese, so I never quite fit there either. My favorite illustration is (which I can't take credit for) that my "home" country (my parents' country of origin) is red, the country I was raised in is blue, so I'm purple. Purple does not completely match blue or red, so there is no one place that I feel totally comfortable. Reverse culture shock is EXTREMELY relevant to my story and other third culture kids (and adults), but it is more expected. Many people can relate to crying in the cereal aisle of Walmart because there's too many options and staring at a cashier because you have no idea how to count out 72 cents of change. It is NOT as expected if you are gone for 3 months, 6 months, 1 year, which is where this story comes in.

SO! To set the scene. My flight leaving India left at midnight and was 15 hours long. I do not sleep on planes, so when I land in Chicago, I am TIRED. When I started my trip I was excited to go home. When I get off the plane I feel drained and confused.

I start tearing up pretty much right away. SO MUCH SKIN. India is very conservative, especially the part I was in, and I felt brazen just showing my hair. I can see butt cheeks! Why is everyone so nekkid?? ACK.

Mental pep talk. It's fine. I know shorts are fine. It's all goooooood. You got this. Skin is just skin. 

I then get in line to go through customs. While I was in India, I learned to stash toilet paper in my purse whenever we found it, because that is not a given. My purse had four large side pockets, and all four were searched by the customs official. All four were full of pink toilet paper. I stood there while he slowly pulled out approximately seventeen roles of toilet paper.

Ziiippppp. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull.

Ziiippppp. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull.

Ziiippppp. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull.

Ziiippppp. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull.

About twenty minutes later I look at him over the mountain of toilet paper, still on the verge of tears, and start stuffing it back into my purse. There's really nothing I can say to explain why I have so much TP.

I wander off to the food court, with a trail of pink toilet paper, and go straight to McDonalds. I have been dreaming of a cheeseburger for three months. Burger, burger, burger, burger. All I want is a burger. If I eat a burger, it will be okay. BURGER BURGER BURGER.

"Sorry miss, it's 6:30 in the morning. We aren't serving cheeseburgers."

I. Lose. It. I start crying. No. I start weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth. I'm snorting and shaking and dripping everywhere. Everyone is staring. I start pulling my pink toilet paper out of my purse to try and sop up all the fluids. I sit on the floor. I don't think the Chicago airport food court has ever known silence like that which surrounded me.

I take my armful of TP and go to my gate, sobbing the whole way. I get on the plane, swollen eyes, still crying. I weep the WHOLE plane ride. I'm sitting by two very uncomfortable preteens, poor kids.
I still have tears streaming down my face when my parents pick me up, go home, and cry myself to sleep.

Reverse culture shock. It's a bitch.

The plus side is it alleviates. You tell your story, until people are ready to put you back on a plane. You get to Taco Bell. Or get a McDonald's cheeseburger. You feel more like the old you. But, the beautiful thing is, the new you and the old you becoming one. You are still who you were, but you are changed for the better. Traveling is so enriching, especially when you can go for more than a few weeks. But, oh, beware of how deeply you'll be impacted. For the good, for the bad, for all the toilet paper.

Have you experienced reverse culture shock? What was it like for you?

I'm Aggressive with my Love. And my Dance Moves.

There's a trendy song on the radio right now (I love me some trendy radio) that has the lyrics, "shut up and dance." As someone who thinks that a five second dance party is the solution to most pressing problems, these lyrics move me.

Abba also moves me, to the point that a cruise boat full of people once felt moved to cheer for me, but that's another story for another day. Combine Abba and a five second dance party, and I might be out of a job.

My serious dance skills aside, I've recently been convicted of something important, and yes, it all ties together with dancing in my kooky brain. 

I was having my end of semester review at one of my internship sites and my supervisor told me that I had one major area of growth. GAH. My anxiety riddled brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that my one growth area must be ALL THE THINGS (come back Allie Brosh, we miss you!). In an amazing showing of anxiety dexterity, by the time he finished his sentence I already had figured out my plan B plan because obviously I was getting kicked out. 

I'll quit my job and live in my nest, because obviously I'm not fit for civilized society, and if I never go out then I'll never spend money so it's fine that I'm inherently a bum and can't do anything right and maybe people will come up with some good story about whatever happened to me, like, "I bet she ran away to join the circus and she's the bearded woman," I guess plan C can be to join the circus and become the bearded woman, I can buy a fake beard, no one will know, but hopefully that nest plan works out because I never want to show my face again THE SHAME THE SHAME ::mental gasp::

Spoiler. I didn't get kicked out. My area of growth was giving myself credit and acknowledging that I am a good counselor. Eeeeeesh. 

Some context. I was the type of kid who often did things my own way (which most of the time was the against the rules way), and I was frequently in trouble. BUT, my parents rarely had to worry about punishment for me, because I am my own worst critic. Who needs to give a lecture when your child already covered all the bases?

Example A: I was in trouble, rightfully so I can only assume, and was sent to my room. My mom and grandmother were talking in the kitchen and my mom smelled something funky. She asked my grandmother, "does something smelled spoiled?" And I yelled from my room, in a miserable voice, "IT'S ME!"

You're welcome Mom and Dad, for doing your job for you. And sorry I was such a little ahole. 

So, obviously, giving myself credit is for sure, a growth area.

I've used this blog before to talk about my intense dislike of shame. I realized as I was talking to my supervisor that there is more to this battle I feel compelled to fight than just speaking against shame. And that is promoting pride and general hullabalooing about the good things.

I need to shut up and dance.

It's not enough to just stop the negative talk, to speak against the bullies, to fight the good fight, I need to own who I am, feel inspired by how I am made, and engage in general celebratory rump shaking. 

I am a good counselor. Heck, one day, I might be great counselor. SHA POW. 

As many of you know, I've had a tough couple years. This semester things got real bad physically for me which waterfalled in to all the areas. I had to dig deep just to get out of bed in the morning, because I felt so crappy. I felt like a complete fraud in the counseling room, because I wasn't even sure if my shoes matched. My supervisor has told me, things have significantly improved since then, that he was worried I was going to quit because he could tell how bad things were for me. 

But I didn't. And, I still was an effective counselor. The moral of the story is that even when I am forced to operate on autopilot, I can do good therapy. I am fearfully and wonderfully made, and part of that make up is empathetic listening, genuine caring, and appropriate insight, I was made to be a counselor. Too dramatic?

Sure, it's hard to write. My negative self talk wants to add all the buts (seriously, shoes are hard), but that doesn't change the facts. I have talents and skills and God is using me. KA BAM.

So my challenge to you. What is amazing about you? What can you say with no buts? What about yourself makes you want to crow like Peter Pan? What makes you make generic comic book noises?

It may not be your career, it might a hobby, a talent, a skill. There is something spectacular about you and you should yell it from the roof tops! And by roof tops, in this particular situation, I mean leave it in the comments. What better place to start practicing loving who you are and how you were made but the anonymity of the internets? YOU'RE WELCOME. 

On a Scale from Jane Fonda to the Grim Reaper, How Tired Are You??

I'm in the final (ish) stretch of graduate school, which is incredibly exciting. And exhausting. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to keel over before December. It's going to be just like Rocky, but if he had finally been knocked out in the 14th round. Very anti-climactic. 

Just kidding (knock on wood). I can TOTALLY do this. I've got guts! I've got drive! I've got Netflix!

All of this reflecting on how tired and metaphorically beat up I feel led to me creating the below "chart" ("chart," and not chart because I need everyone to be like Peter Pan and just believe it is in chart form, not a random list of crap).   

I give you the Anna Smith, "How Tired Are You?" scale!

1. The Jane Fonda

via

This is when your energy knows no bounds. Academy Awards? Sure, get a couple of those. Write a book? No problemo. Break your foot doing ballet? I guess you'll just make work out videos instead. A force to be reckoned with. People around you automatically drop a few levels on the scale, just tiring from watching you. 

2. The Mountain Summit:

Also known as the second wind. You're actually tired, but you've accomplished something that makes you forget. Who cares if you have blisters and stinky socks, you're king of the mountain, mountain, mountain, mountain!!! 

3. The Post-Vacation Haze: 

Theoretically, vacation is suppose to be restorative. In reality, you are often sunburned and overwhelmed with laundry. You can still call up the glow of the Bahamian beaches, but it's rapidly eclipsed by reality. 

4. The Thursdays:

via

You may be surprised that this level is not "The Mondays," but deep down we all know Thursdays are actually harder and more tiring. You've put in the time and you've fought the good fight, where is your reward? How is it only Thursday? And why does your brain insist on thinking it's Friday and jolting back to the sad reality that is Thursday? You're out of gas, but you have to dig deep still to make it to the weekend.

5. The Youth Group Lock In:

via

Don't be fooled bu the cutesy lock in this picture. Level 5 is when the struggle really begins to get real. There's nothing like staying up all night making sure kids don't sneak off to get in to shenanigans and then trying to serve breakfast to said squirrely kids on no sleep. The kids get to leave and crash, and you are left picking up the pieces of the church and your sanity. The tears might start at hour 30.  

6. The Public Temper Tantrum:

via

We've all been there. You're standing in Target staring at two bottles of bargain shampoo, not remembering what shampoo is for or when you picked up the two bottles, and your friend asks what you want to do dinner. You're exhaustion clouds anything but your ability to cry and scream random existential questions, "who cares what's for dinner when I can't even remember my middle name? I'm so tired!! Why do you hate me?? Why is the world so mean?? WAHHHHHH!!!"

7. The Black Hole:

via

Forget screaming and crying, you feel nothing. All your nervendings have been burned off by the tired and nothing is left. Wherever you land, you'll probably grow roots. People can talk and interact around you, but it is highly unlikely you'll notice. Your eyeballs are dry and unseeing, like your soul. 

8. The Road Kill:

via

You're so tired at this point that it's not just the will to fight is gone, it's been forcible taken from you. Life came hard and took no prisoners. Everything hurts in ways you've never known, but the plus side is you don't care at all, as long as you can lay on the side of the road. 

9. The Graduate Student:

via

Any combination of the above, often resulting in panic, distress, and fist shaking. For a shining moment you think you are at a 1 and suddenly you are at a 6, crying at the grocery store. You think for sure you will be at an 8 for the rest of your life, but then the semester ends and you are victorious at 2, then the next semester starts and, nope, you're a 7 for sure.  

10. The Grim Reaper:

via

Your bones are made of dust, there is no more blood flow, your skin is going to crawl off your body any second, your cells have gone on strike. There are no words for this tired, just groans and other sad noises. They could stick you in a haunted house and not need a sound machine. Or a zombie, because you don't need a costume to blend in. 

What level are you at right now? Any levels I missed?

Disney Saves Me From Homicide

There are days that are so good and my mood is so high that I feel like if I burst into song and dance everyone around me will join in, because things are just THAT good.

There are other days, like today, where I am in the middle of horrifying cleanse because I've recently found out my list off food allergies is longer than things that irritate me about Justin Bieber and I feel like shaking my fist at everything.

Regardless of the type of day, I have a pet peeve that makes me twitch and fume. Today, because of the a fore mentioned, sad soup cleanse, it is grating worse than usual.

Whether in class or a staff meeting or any other professional/educational/meeting setting, I HATE when people talk just to hear their own voice.

I am hear to learn. From the professor. Who knows way more than you. Your fifth comment of the day is just derailing us. AGAIN.

I am hear to get through this. To please my pompous boss. Who thinks he knows more than us. Your fifth comment of the day is just derailing us. AGAIN.

So, to keep myself from flinging myself at someone in a desperate bid to end their yapping, ala Mean Girls the mall/watering hole scene, I decided to start classifying these mouth flappers by Disney sidekicks.*

*I use a variety of sidekicks, all of whom I think are wonderful. The use of them in this classification system is not a reflection on their positive qualities.

The hops is that this changes my thoughts from, "SHUT UP. NO ONE IS IMPRESSED WITH YOU. YOU ARE NO CONTRIBUTING ANYTHING. RARRRRRRRRRR!!!!" to "oh you silly, squawking  Scuttle, you sure are loud."

The Condescending Cogsworth: 

via

We all know this one. They feel the need to share their opinion because it is so much better than anything else anyone has said or will ever said. Tell tale signs are the false questioning tone "I'm wondering if anyone has ever..." and the expectant, thoughtful pause at the end. While there is nothing inherently obvious about the Cogsworth, you will know if you are dealing with one because you will feel the instant need to defend against whatever they are saying.

The Gregarious Genie:

via

This to me is the most tolerable over-sharer, because the main goal is to get a laugh and they are often successful. Evident by their boisterous laugh and well planned punch lines, they can be entertaining but the impact of a distracted class is the same as the other sidekicks.*

*I'm totally guilty of being the Gregarious Genie. I am working on it! 

The Oblivious Olaf:

via

You know you are dealing with an Oblivious Olaf when their comments illicit a resounding, uncomfortable silence in the room. Can I get a big group, "huh?" Bonus: if they think their comment is witty and laugh at themselves with no one else joining in, yet they are not bothered at all. You have to admire how comfortable they are in their own skin.  

The Irate Iago:

via

I sometimes feel bad for the Irate Iago. They are often commenting from a genuine place of anger or disagreement, but the way it is handled often leaves crickets chirping. I don't think we should blindly agree with everything people in authority say to us, but I'm all for appropriate tone and timing. The Iago just loses it and squawks all over.  

The Zealous Zazu:

via

What's the right answer in Sunday school, always? Jesus. Don't get me wrong, I do think Jesus is the answer to everything, BUT this sidekick uses this like a weapon to get out of hard thoughts. These comments seem to come from a place of discomfort with the subject matter and are intentionally used to derail a conversation. I have only run into this one at Seminary, so far, but there many topics people are zealous about, to the determinant of hearing others.   

What Sidekicks do you have in your life? What creative ways do you handle stress?

Yes, All the Awkward, the Finale, Part 3

PART 1

PART 2

Before I delve in to the thrilling conclusion of my awkward adventures, I wanted to share some feedback I have received from the first 2 parts. And let's be honest, we all know how this story is going to end - me shriveling up into a tiny ball internally and turning into stone externally. I'm surprised I didn't need to be wheeled off the bus.

Things that have been mentioned in regards to my awkwardness:

Painfully awkward Rob Lowe! If only when I wasn't painfully awkward my life was as swanky as his commercials show his to be!

The only time I'm like my favorite pony, Fluttershy, is when we make this face. 

Post-Hulk Bruce Banner. 

And just for fun:

There's totally an episode where Fluttershy Hulks out. Also, when you Google "Flutteryshy Hulk" you can apparently find Fanfcition based on this pairing.... what. That's. Weird. And anatomically confusing.

This is really getting away from me, so let's progress.

There I am hanging out with Switchfoot on their tour bus before their concert. My eyes bulging, which is scary because I can have some seriously huge eyes, my limbs are shrinking into my body like a t-rex, and I have no capabilities of speech.

Nothing has changed around me except now, I'm dying. 

I mean, I'm wearing a unicorn t-shirt. Actually dying. 

Luckily, as soon as the video ended the band was told they needed to make their way backstage for the show. They said their goodbyes, I said something along the lines of "nefghhhhblegh." We all walked inside, I'm sweating profusely in my white puffy jacket, brain fritzing. My cousin and I walk to main area, watch the awesome concert, and that should have been the end. No harm, no foul. 

But of course not. I wasn't humiliated enough!

As we were walking out, I confessed to my cousin that I had no idea that we were with Switchfoot that whole time and I'm so embarrassed at my naivety.

She asked me what I would have done differently if I had known (she's a counselor) and I said I probably would have asked for their autograph or something. She suggested I go ask them now, all on my own, working on my timidity. 

I gather my courage. I am cool. I can play this off. I am well spoken.

Deep shuttering breath.

I knock on the tour bus door.

I'm so nervous there aren't words. I might vomit. 

"Yes?" Keyboardist. He's like in the back, no big deal!

"WE MET EARLIER AND I HAD NO IDEA WHO YOU GUYS WERE BECAUSE I LIVED OVERSEAS AND UNDER A ROCK AND MY T-SHIRT HAS A UNICORN AND I AM REALLY SORRY YOU AREN'T FAMOUS ENOUGH IN MY LIFE FOR ME TO KNOW YOUR FACES BUT CAN I GET YOUR AUTOGRAPH BECAUSE YOU ARE FAMOUS AND I DID THIS ALL WRONG?!"

"Uh. Sure. What would you like us to sign?" They're really nice guys, I could barely tell they were trying not to laugh.

"Oh. Um. I didn't think that far."

They ended up signing my ticket stub. It's lovely.       

What's your most embarrassing encounter with someone famous?

 

Painfully Awkward, Part 2

Let's recap! (and I have a correction) (Part 1 is the last post)

Upon reflection, on the day I met my not future husband, it was not the first week of class. So I was just late and lazy, not lost.

This is important for me to clarify because I really did put effort in to my appearance when I started school. By the time of this story, we were well in to fall, and I did not care, especially in the morning.

How did I realize this timing mistake? My dear Roomie asked me if I was wearing shoes during this encounter.

The answer was no, I was not. I went through a ridiculous, idealistic college phase where I didn't wear shoes as some kind of absurd protest against poverty and shoeless children. Some idea about being barefoot in solidarity, or something. I was a hipster before hipster was thing. And I had really tough feet.

So, there I am. On the path. Bare foot. I am wearing sweatpants that I had hacked the bottoms off to make them into long, ragged shorts and a bright red Old Navy polar fleece. I have not done my hair or make up, and as it is morning, I am rocking my legendary bed head.

LEGENDARY

I am a hot mess, without any of the hot and extra mess. I am a mess mess. 

And there he is. Jeremy Wariner. In all his glory. Walking towards me in the blinding sunlight. I'm fairly sure there was a heavenly choir in the background. 

And I stand there, frozen solid, looking a mess mess, jaw hanging open. I just stop walking, moving, and thinking. Like a really smelly statue.

And he keeps walking towards me. And then he's smirking. And as I continued not to move at all, he is outright laughing. And then he is right in front of me.

Did I move? Make a cute joke and scrape my rats nest out of my face? Jump out of the way? Anything? No. Nothing. I am made of humiliated stone. 

My not future husband then has to step on to the grass to go around me, howling with laughter. He continues on his way, and that is that. A while later, I turn around and go back to my dorm. I had strong rules about not going to class (am I sick? do I have something due in another class that isn't done? is there something more fun to do? is it raining? am I dying of humiliation? No class).

One more story, for your entertainment.

This one took place when I was fourteen. I was newly back in the United States, complete with significant gap in pop culture knowledge. 

My cousin's friend was the stage manager for Switchfoot, an up and coming band (this was right at the beginning of "The Beautiful Letdown" era). She asked me if I would like to go with her to their concert. 

My first American concert (Amy Grant doesn't count, but man, her Heart in Motion tour was spot on, I don't care who you are) with my cool older cousin?! YES.

I was pumped. I wore my fancy unicorn t-shirt.... puberty was tough on me. 

We met the friend at Starbucks and then he asked if we wanted to see the tour bus.

Uh. Yeah.

We get on the bus and there are other people on the bus, other staff and little people, etc. 

We're all hanging out laughing, everyone is so nice! I'm so cool! Living in the United States is a breeze! I've got this!

Someone asks if we want to see the new music video. 

Uh. Yeah.

 PAUSE: Remember that gap in pop culture? I had no idea who Switchfoot was, other than they were cool and famous. 

We sit down at the back of the bus to watch and as it plays I realize something. 

These aren't little people. They aren't staff. They're the people in the music video.

 I'm hanging out with Switchfoot. 

 TO BE CONTINUED