Swallowing my Pride.

Facebook is a funny thing.
In one respect, it's like a journal. Logging pictures and thoughts and events for many people on a daily basis. And I think that's a good thing for the most part. It's turned personal history into something entertaining and easy to do.

On the other hand, it's very unlike a journal, in that others can read and comment on what would otherwise be very private. This can also be a good thing. But it can also very easily be a bad thing.

You can never really tell who to trust in real life, let alone a virtual reality. And you never really know who is going to read what you post or how they are going to respond.

Sometimes, after reading what others have said, I have the distinct urge to delete what I consider to be very rude comments. But over the years, I've decided it's a much better policy to simply ignore them and leave it be. Not only does this allow them to stew in their own mean juices for the world to read, it also prevents me from having to explain why their comment(s) is suddenly missing. I'm all about avoiding confrontation.

I'd like to think that when this happens that I'm simply misreading their words when they really didn't intend it to sound that way, but sometimes I really don't think there is another interpretation.

That's another funny thing about virtual communication. Audible inflections and tone of voice used in face-to-face interactions can go a long way.

In the same breath, I know things that I've written have been misinterpreted. I've gotten the impression that my words sometimes come across as prideful or conceited, and I really, truly don't mean them that way.

I think being 'proud' and being 'prideful' are really two different things.
I'm 'proud' of my talents, but I try not to be 'prideful' about them.

For instance, I'm proud of the fact that I recycle used ink cartridges at Office Max and use the rewards points to get 40 free postage stamps every month. Saves the planet and my wallet. But I don't use said stamps to mail out letters informing everyone else how much smarter than them I am.

Just like I'm proud of the mini cheesecakes I made for a Sunday family dinner. I think they looked nice, tasted good and were an excellent usage of a few ingredients I had lying around that would have otherwise gone stale/bad.

The husband had purchased a large bag of broken shortbread cookies from the Pepperidge Farm Thrift Store in Richmond, and turns out they were the perfect crumb crust when granulated and mixed with melted butter.

But I don't post this to demonstrate my superior baking skills. (Two words: wedding cake. Enough said.) And hopefully you don't think that when you read this.

Same thing goes with Facebook. Hopefully sharing the things I'm proud of doesn't come across as prideful.

I think it's perfectly understandable to feel pride in your work. I think the problem comes in when you change the motive behind what you say/do from a feeling of accomplishment to a desire to make yourself look better than others.

Just a little 'food for thought'. (ba dum dum.)

But if, by chance, you think this came across as a self-conceited spiel of why I'm more efficient than the average Corinner-Elly, I'll try and teach my blog self a bit more humility.

One Lucky Dog.

Last summer, I blogged about my determination to find the perfect man-dime.
I didn't realize at the time that he was right under my nose.

It was only after several people mentioned how 'great we'd be together' or commented that we 'should definitely date' that I even entertained the idea of pursuing him.

And it wasn't until a late night 7-Eleven run with my BFF Lacy-Hacy when she forcefully declared that I needed to 'forget what everyone else wanted' and 'think about myself for a change' that I finally made my decision.

He needed to be MY very own man-dime.

The man-dime in question was oblivious to my decision at the time, but after many hints and repeated suggestion, he finally got the idea. And believe it or not, though married 10 months later, he still took his good sweet time makin' a move(s).

So last weekend when we discovered, to my horror, that the foot-long corndogs at the state fair were a whopping $7 a pop, and I had to logically forgo the delight, he knew I was understandably bummed.

But my man-dime made up for the loss when he purchased me a replacement foot-long corndog from the Provo hospital cafeteria a few days later for a $2.50 steal of a deal.

This is what true love is people.
I know, because that is only the tip of the iceberg.

My man-dime proves his worth everyday.
How, you might ask? Observe.

How to know you married a gentleman:
1) He gets honestly upset if you try to open your own door.
2) He is courteous about bodily noises.
3) He puts down the toilet seat (and lid, I might add).
4) He follows your OCD rules about leaving clothes on the floor.
5) He loves a sharp looking three-piece suit.
6) He always says 'please' and 'thank you'.
7) He refers to you as 'beautiful' or 'gorgeous'.
8) He insists on knowing your opinion before making a decision.
9) He lets you take the better half of anything you split.
10) When you suggest doing something fun, he responds with, "But I haven't finished the dishes yet.."
11) He goes all the way down three flights of stairs to change the laundry and then folds it all on his own when your sister happens to call and chat.
12) He texts you sweet messages out of the blue practically every day.
13) He puts hot sauce on his food so that you don't burn your taste buds off in an effort to appease his iron stomach.
14) He spoons on command even though you are both human heaters and no amount of A/C pointed directly at his face would make a difference.
15) He remembers how you like the pillows placed and occasionally makes the bed without being asked.
16) He says the prayer every morning after you roll out of bed because he knows you're too sleepy to mutter anything coherent.
17) He doesn't complain when you keep reorganizing his things.
18) He tries to act interested when you turn into a baby-hungry pile of mush.
19) He gets you a blanket when your feet are cold.
20) He doesn't mind when you post lists like this. (Too much.)

That last one especially.
That's how you know you've really got a 'weinner'.
(Hehe. Inside joke. And also, I couldn't resist.)

Nothing to Sneeze At.

Today, it is very quiet in the office.
The work that I am usually able to spread out over the hours from nine to one I finished promptly at 10:15 this morning. Thus leaving me at odds with what to do until lunch?..

I have already completed my daily Facebook stalking, blog reading and email checking, so there's probably only one thing left to do: write a blog post.

But seeing as there hasn't been anything too eventful and/or hilarious happening in my life as of late, I figured I might as well post about two phenomenon that have been a continuous topic of conversation for many years.

The first one being, the sun makes me sneeze.

Formerly, I had always figured that everyone sneezed when they walked out into bright sunlight. But slowly came to the realization, through semi-heated debate with family and friends on the subject, that I was one of the relatively few who suffered from this problem. In fact, 'da twinneh' was practically the only one who seemed to relate.

But after researching the symptoms, I came across this Wikipedia article.
Apparently I have what is known as a 'photic sneeze reflex' which is also sometimes referred to as the backronym Autosomal Dominant Compelling Helio-Ophthalmic Outburst Syndrome (ACHOO Syndrome).
(Anyone else find this quite amusing?.. Anyone else have to look up what a 'backronym' is?..)

This "Sneeze Gene" is a hereditary trait which causes sneezing, possibly many times consecutively (due to naso-ocular reflex), when suddenly exposed to bright light. And it affects 18-35% of the human population.

So me and 'da twinneh' are not alone. Comforting.

Gem claims that minty gum is the culprit/cause of sneezes.
She says that she has friends who agree.

Whether or not these friends are real or imaginary is yet to be determined.

But apparently there is some truth to this claim as well.
Refer here to 11 surprising sneezing facts.

Which include 'why plucking your eyebrows may make you sneeze' and 'the longest sneezing spree'. (978 days apparently. I'd have never guessed.)

All I know is that it hurts to drink cold water after/while I'm chewing minty gum. And just in case you haven't reached your fun fact quota for the day, it's because the menthol in the chewing gum triggers the "cool sensors" in your mouth, causing a 'cooling feeling' when those nerves are activated.

Just thought I'd share my new found knowledge.
Because, yep, nothing new happened on Facebook during this entire post.

Is it lunchtime yet?..

Wedding Gag Reel.

I don't know if I've mentioned it, but our wedding photographer was my amazing sister Ann of Wonder If Photography. I couldn't be more proud of her or her extremely talented work. She did everything I asked and more.

That being said, when I received the CD of her photo edits, I was confused to realize there wasn't a single imperfect picture. Not a half-blink, mouth agape, photo bomb, nothin'.

And knowing my family (not to mention, my husband), the possibility of not capturing one of these over the course of an entire day was next to impossible.

So I sneakily browsed through her backup file of pre-edited pictures and came across these gems. She agreed to let me have them upon condition that I let her edit them and immediately delete all other copies.

Done deal. I wasn't complainin'.

And then in one of my frequent moments of genius, I decided to add a few word bubble embellishments to really capture the memories of the day.

I've added them all here to prevent giving my perfectionist sister photographer any more grief and to allow my Facebook album of her work to remain pure.

Hopefully it will make for one very long but entertaining post.

Enjoy. (Click on the image for a close up.)

You're welcome.

Priming the Pump.

You know that saying 'Oh Thank Heaven for 7-Eleven'?..
I have some issues with it.

For starters, I don't even like Slurpees that much. Sonic's CreamSlush are so much better. We're talking eons better.
They're as different as hotdogs and corndogs.

But the real reason I'm not a fan is that, up until today, I was unable to master their stinkin' P.O.S. gas pumps. Laugh if you will, but it's true.

How I was mystified by a phenomenon that nearly every human being over the age of 16 has somehow seamlessly mastered continues to concern me.

But regardless, every day for work, I run the same errands. Bank. DMV. Post office. And every day, I am in the same vicinity of exactly ONE gas station.

You guessed it: 7-freaking-Eleven.

So what happens should I need gas, you might ask?
I go out of my way to find a Chevron. Because they have Techron.

And I don't feel like such an moron when I'm there.

So in a moment of bravery a few weeks ago, I felt determined to figure out why in the blazes 7-Eleven's dang pumps would not put petrol into my tank. I pushed all the right buttons. I followed the directions on the screen perfectly. Nothing.

Thinking perhaps it was a faulty pump, I flipped around into a different stall. Tried it all again. Twice.
Dang-blasted thing STILL wouldn't dispense a single drop.

So refusing to make a bigger idiot of myself than I already had, I did the only logical thing a person of my great intelligence could do: I brought the husband back later to try his hand. It had to be some type of malfunction.

I waited in the passenger seat as he stepped from the car, beeped a few buttons and was instantly granted fuel to his hearts desire. I was flabbergasted!
And irritated..

I only know of one other person with such magical abilities: my pops.
And I don't need patronizing from anyone else.

So today, when my gas meter gave its last sigh and dropped to empty, I knew what I had to do: flip that puppy around and defeat my dreaded enemy.

I'll have you know that it only took fifteen minutes and two attempts to figure out that when the screen tells you to 'remove nozzle and life handle', it isn't talking about the same handle that every other gas station in the known universe is referring to.

And why should it??..

Oh-ho-ho-no.
It's talking about the actual stirrup the nozzle rests in, a plastic hammock if you will. A fact that is documented neatly in two small icons, relative in size to a pea, located three feet from any other noted instructions.

Only after studying this diagram up close was I able to determine what exactly the gas pump from Hell wanted.

And so I emerged $41 poorer and victorious. In a manner of speaking.

Because really, I am still astounded at my ineptitude.

Taken by Surprise.

The diagnosis has come in.
It's been determined that I suffer from extreme surprise anxiety.

Not only am I petrified with fright when people jump out at me from the darkness, I also find it difficult to successfully carry out a surprise for someone without becoming extremely jittery.

And let's not even mention my inability to maintain the smallest semblance of a poker face.

So this morning when I got it in my head to decorate my good buddy Hamm's Acura in celebration of her 22nd birthday, I knew the symptoms of my disease would flare up. For a split second, I contemplated taking a safer route. One that involved less sneakiness and therefore inner-turmoil.

But after remembering the 300 balloons she inflated for my 22nd birthday, I knew I had to 'woman up' and just get-r-done.

So I drove to our dealership, hoping she'd be safely seated in her new position at the cashier's desk and therefore out of sight, and crept across the parking lot with window markers in hand. I had scarcely written "Honk!! It's my birthday!" across the back windshield before I heard the familiar screech of the sales lot intercom from across the block.

"Ma'am.. Ma'am. Excuse me ma'am, is that your car?..", called a familiar but stern voice.

I knew full and well it was the service manager, trying to tease me, but that didn't stop my surprise anxiety from kicking in. Did he not recognize me from the distance?.. Was I doing something illegal without knowing it?? Had I started tagging the WRONG CAR!?? A part of me wanted to instantly drop to the ground and scurry for cover.

But somehow I managed to maintain my calm as I jokingly shook my fist at the service station window and laughed nervously.

Before long, I was finished. A lickety-split masterpiece had been created, parked alongside the curb just waiting for its owner to discover it. I was pleased with myself, but also (you guessed it) anxious about a myriad of things.

What if Hamm was irritated by my causing her extra window washing? What if the owner of my dealership saw the end result of my work and was offended by my usage of the word 'bangable'? What if the service manager really was angry??!.. (Something I had never before witnessed from the light-hearted man yet somehow instantly recognized as the only possibility.)

My heart fluttered nervously during the last few steps of my journey to the safety of my upstairs office desk, before jovial taunts from the service advisers returned my mind to ease. They had recognized me after all.

And better yet, the owner hadn't noticed and obviously wouldn't have cared if he did. Hamm was certainly going to be happily surprised and the world was right again.

I just hope she realizes what I put myself through.
I risked death from 'surprise anxiety' on her behalf.

And that is a very real concern.