All Or Nothing

Elsewhere, Again

I'm guest posting over at Julie's site today.  Come by for a visit!

Also - my best friend in the entire world is having her first baby this morning - a girl!  I will be with her and her husband in Dallas today so cross your fingers for a healthy birth and a wonderful day.

Like Buttah

The real problem with breakfast cereal is that the serving size is ALWAYS one cup.  One measly cup.  Have you ever measured out your breakfast cereal into the one cup serving size?  It's small.  Really, unsatisfyingly small.

For me, breakfast cereal is kind of like ice cream in that I could sit down and eat bowl after bowl with no appreciable sign of slowing.  For a whole day, probably, I could sit at a table and eat bowls of either breakfast cereal or ice cream, and never feel full.  I'm not sure why these two substances are so irresistible to me, but they are.  Upon sight of the perfect storm of bowl, spoon, and breakfast cereal, my stomach opens up into a massive black hole, a spinning vortex of chaos into which many a bowl of deliciousness can disappear and never be heard from again. 

Seriously.  I'll be full after three bites of pasta but I can eat like, 10 bowls of cereal and feel fine.  I have, I'm a little ashamed to admit, gone through an entire BOX of cereal in one sitting, completely on accident.  I just kept refilling the bowl, thinking "well, this time I have too much milk, so just a teensy bit more cereal will fix that" and "oops, not enough milk, let me add a bit - oh!  Too much milk!  Needs more cereal!"  I know it sounds like a ratio problem, but in my heart the truth is all too clear: I just want more.  It's a drug, and I am helplessly addicted.  The type of cereal doesn't matter, either.  I go just as insane over six bowls of Cocoa Crispies (yum) as I do over eleven of Organic Raisin Bran.

Ice cream is a little more easily explainable, what with the sugary, creamy goodness of it all, not to mention the chunks of chocolate or cookie dough that get mixed in on occasion.  However, I am lactose intolerant, for the most part, and so eating more than a spoonful or two of ice cream is a recipe for disaster for me -  and yet, I will happily sit there, eating not just spoonfuls, but entire bowls of the sweet stuff, consequences be damned.

So what is it about these two substances that render me incapable of saying NO MORE?  I usually have decent self-control when it comes to eating, but any time I make the mistake of thinking I can handle just one bowl, I find myself waking up hours later with a cereal hangover, sticky spoon stuck to my chest, empty boxes strewn around me, a crazed look in my eyes...and still craving just one more bowl. 

What foodstuff can't you resist?

Elsewhere!

I am guest posting today at All The Wine.  Come see me there and say hello.

P.S. I wrote about boobs!

Hair, By Extension

Have you ever found yourself wanting to look like someone else, even if the person you're wanting to look like has been compared, repeatedly, to a drag queen?  And then you feel kind of weird and ashamed because - really?  Have you been harboring the "hot tranny mess" gene all this time and somehow never noticed?  But finally you look deep within yourself, to the source of your attraction, and realize that you just like the hair.  Whew!  You just want her hair.  But then, sadly, you are made aware that Drag Queen's gorgeous curls come courtesy of some uber pricey hair extensions.  You quickly switch hair models, but every time you find a new head of hair to covet, you learn the truth: EXTENSIONS.  Every last one of them.

So what's a girl to do?  I've been waging a battle royale with my hair for...well, ever since the 8th grade; that's the first time I can remember messing with it.  The summer after 8th grade my best friend and I thought it would be a great idea to use that Clairol Herbal Essences wash-out hair dye to turn my baby-soft, thin, naturally blonde hair maroon.  We waited until the week we were going to camp, followed the simple three-step process, and voila - purplish red hair.  After 14 shampoos or however long it was supposed to take, my hair looked somewhat normal - but with a decidedly mauve tint.  No problem, I thought - I'll just highlight it!  I was always jealous of my friends who highlighted their hair.  All those different colors, and you could even do stripes!  How fun!  It was on that fateful day, as any of you who fight the good fight of hair-color maintenance know, that I screwed myself forevermore.

I've been growing my hair out now for about two years.  Yeah, I'd say either two years or the entire last decade; it all kind of runs together.  Right after college, drunk on excessive freedom, I went through a hair phase best summed up as LET'S CUT IT ALL OFF.  I met a hairstylist friend named Lily, and she and I bonded over our respective goals: she, to achieve the coveted Level 4 Stylist and I, to have as many different haircuts in a year as humanly possible.  After a series of increasingly shorter crops, I ended up with this cut.  And after that had grown out enough to do ANYTHING with, I went back to the Toni & Guy in the mall to visit Lily and her manager told me she had gone to jail.  Surprisingly, Lily is not the only hairstylist I have had who has ended up in the clink.  Is it a hazard of the job?  Hairstylists, what gives?

Now I'm stuck in this stage where I keep thinking that if my hair can just grow another inch or two, it will FINALLY look like I want.  And then it does grow - another inch or two of the fine, straight, flat hair I've always had, and I am consistently shocked.  I think I have hair dysmorphic disorder.  I look in the mirror and see potential for fat, full-figured curls, but everyone else sees the reality - sickly, stick-straight strands.  One of my really good friends, Allison, has been doing my hair for the past couple of years, and the other day as I was leaving the salon, we paused at the check-out desk to chat.  Allison pointed at a picture of a hair model hanging above the desk and said that she would love to grow her hair out and cut it like the model's, but that her hair would never do that.  I looked at the picture, looked at Allison's hair, and said "sure it would! Why not?"  Allison sighed and explained that the hair model had tons of thick hair, and that if someone with thin hair attempted that cut, it would end up looking stringy, scraggly and awful.  It was like a lightbulb of shame went off in my head, and I think Allison could see my wheels turning.  "So, is that why my hair looks stringy, scraggly, and awful half the time?" I asked.  "Half the time?" Allison replied.  "I think that's being pretty generous, don't you?"  Then I drop-kicked her and stormed out of the salon, but not before magnanimously tipping at least 15%.  What?  You don't tip?  How rude.

Really though, I am grateful to have a friend who does my hair, someone who will tell me the truth that NO, ELISE, your hair will never look like this picture you brought in.  At least not without adding in a whole lot of someone else's hair.  And I don't know, I just don't think I can get on board with the idea of a normal, non-celebrity member of society getting hair extensions.  I mean, what would you think, if the girl who works in the cubicle next to you, or the lady next door walked up one day with long, thick, gorgeous curls when just YESTERDAY she had normal, blah, mid-length hair?  I think it could be kind of awkward.

"Soo....umm...your hair looks nice today, Elise."

"Oh!  Thanks!  I...uhhh...curled it!"

"Yeah.  Okay."

or

"Soo....umm...your hair looks nice today, Elise."

"Oh, yeah...errr....it's weird, I know.  I got hair extensions.  I mean, OBVIOUSLY, I did - not like you didn't know that because clearly hair does not grow this fast overnight, and.  Yeah.  I know it seems strange, and maybe like, WOW DOES SHE THINK SHE'S A DIVA, but really, I don't!  I just...thought it would be fun?  And..."

"Yeah.  Okay."

So I guess I'm just going to have to get on board with my boring hair.  Unless you guys think I could pull off extensions.  And trust me, I can't.

Google Search Fail: "Can We Be Friends, Spider?"

It's time for everyone's favorite - Weird Google Search Terms! 

Oh thank goodness, I don't think I could stomach another one of those long-winded emo posts.  Have you noticed she's gone really downhill lately?  I used to think she was funny!  Well, sort of funny anyway.

Hey!  I can hear you.  Shut up.  Everyone gets emo sometimes.

I know, right?  I mean, the whole "why I love Radiohead" short post was one thing - obviously stupid filler, but whatev.  But then she posts some weird reflecty picture and then starts going on about how she wants to do something but she can't do nothing or maybe it was reversed - I honestly just kind of skimmed it because I got super bored and then I clicked through to Perez.  I think Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian now?

Yeah, I totally read that too!  You know who else is funny, it's that What Would Tyler Durden Do guy.  I mean, sometimes he's super rude and says that non-fat girls are actually fat, and they're SO not, and then I start thinking "am I fat?" but I know I'm totally not, so, you know.  I rise above it.

This is spinning out of control.  My hypothetical bored readers are actually turning out to be kind of stupid, and are also taking over my entire post.  I already said we were doing Weird Google Search Terms and you KNOW that's pure entertainment even I can't mess up.  And in regards to LiLo, I think she's just going through a weird phase.  BECAUSE PEOPLE GO THROUGH THEM.  Try to be a little more sensitive.  Jerks.

And without further delay, from stupid hypothetical readers or otherwise:  May's Weird Google Search Terms!  As always, I remain committed to helping you, dear Internet searchers, who have stumbled your way onto my site with your probing, difficult questions.

****Many of you seem to be concerned about your toes.  154 of you, in fact, found me in the exact same way: by typing "ugly toes" into your browser.  Others had more specific queries:****

is there surgery available to make ugly toes look pretty?

And the answer to your question is probably.  I mean, I don't know, because A) I'm no doctor and B) I don't have ugly toes.  And therefore I don't want or need ugly toe surgery.  In fact, I have pretty toes, and have, upon several occasions, counted them among my favorite parts.  I mean, if I had to give you one piece of advice it would probably be to just have better genetics.  That's really your best bet.

i have ugly toes help

Sorry sweetheart.  Same advice as above goes for you.  Better genetic structure would have been a good idea, but since you're probably too late for that, you may very well be doomed to closed-toe shoes for life.  Either that, or some sort of high-risk cosmetic toe surgery.  I heard the last guy DIED on the table from that though, so, you know.  Do with that what you will.

pulled toenails off will they grow

Sooo.....you PULLED them off, eh?  And your biggest concern, after forcefully and violently removing your own toenails, is whether or not they'll grow back?  Someone has their priorities wrong!

ugly little toenail why

I know, honey, I know.  I feel your pain and despair - the way you threw that "why" on at the end was heartbreaking.  Why indeed, cruel world?  Why must your little toenail be so ugly?  Why do so many suffer needlessly?  I don't have these answers.  But I do have black toenail polish, and I gotta tell you, when my toenail got pulled off by the weatherstripping on the door, that black polish saved me.  I'd invest in some, if I were you.  I mean, if $3.99 could solve all of the world's problems, we would be in such a happier place.

weatherstripping ripped toenail off

Yeah yeah, me too.  Don't be trying to one up me on my own blog, k?

****Spiders and other bugs seem to concern many of you as well:****

a spider that looks like poop

How can you be sure it's not just...poop?  I mean, CAN you?  I'd say if it's got legs, and is moving around, it's more than likely not poop, but maybe just a spider who got covered in poop and is simply trying to get cleaned off.  And there you are, not even sure what's poop and what's not, but going ahead and passing judgment on the poor spider's looks.  Maybe to the spider, YOU look like poop.  Huh?  Yeah, that's what I thought.  Be nicer.

bugs and spiders from the past

Because we don't have enough of them in the present?  I'd venture that NPW would disagree with you, there.

what happens to spiders after they have been put down at the vet

The vet tech scrapes them off the bottom of his shoe. 

little bugs that live in my couch!!!!!!!

Is this a call to action?  It certainly isn't much of a question.  Maybe you're just venting.  If you're really trying to get in touch with the bugs in your couch though, I'm not sure typing to them via Google is the way to go.  Maybe put some crumbs down in the cracks of the couch cushions, let the little bugs know you appreciate them, and THEN go about asking them to do whatever it is you're wanting.

****And finally, the truly random questions:****

7 girls each girl has 7 back packs each back packs 7 large cats each large cats has 7 kitters

Fun, it's either a math problem or a riddle.  Let's see, 7 girls, 7 backpacks, 7 large cats in each backpack, 7 kitte...r...s.  And then we're done.  At my count, we had 147 items, but then you either got bored or realized that you didn't know how to spell KITTENS, so there wasn't much hope for you getting the problem solved.  And for that burst of insight, I commend you.

how do i know if its black tar heroin?

Well, I'd guess if it's kind of black...and sticky...does it smell like asphalt?  That's what I imagine would be a dead giveaway.  For a heroin addict, you seem awfully picky.

skin saver of tornedo

I just have absolutely no idea.  I don't know if you think natural disasters are good for your skin, or if this is simply a case of violently awful spelling.  Or maybe it's something awesome that I haven't ever heard of.  I did a quick search myself and turned up a site about Yo Yo repair.  Does that help?

sleep late is good for the 61 person

I like to sleep late.  Does that make me the 61 person?  If not, how do I BECOME the 61 person, because everyone seems to be on board with that dude getting more sleep.

too lazy to do anything but die

Well, there you have it, then.  I guess your course is all laid out for you.  It may take a while though, if you're truly planning on expending NO effort.  I guess you're okay with that, though?  Yeah, you are. 

i love black tar heroin

Google: taking confessions of all types since 1998.

two penguins in a bathtub one says pass the ketchup

What's the punchline though?  That's what makes me mad, when these jokesters leave me hanging like that.  Does it have something to do with a polar bear?  If this is gross, and I am just totally missing it, email me, okay?

you and me have a better time

Yeah we really do, don't we?

Did I answer your question?  If not, don't despair.  We'll do this again next month, right here at All Or Nothing.  Thanks for playing, and we'll see you soon.

Welcome To The Jungle

When I was about 11 years old, my parents decided that they were going to buy a big trampoline for the backyard.  The ins and outs of this purchase were discussed frequently, dominating dinner conversations ("when will we get it?") and shopping trips ("are we gonna buy it NOW?  How about now?") alike.   All this lead time gave my little brain the chance to fully imagine what new joys the trampoline would bring to my life.  I spent hours sitting on the top rung of our fence, leaning up against the bricks and picturing exactly where the trampoline would go in the yard, all the tricks I would learn in the first five minutes (and perfect in the next ten), and how I would make sure that I got to jump on it a lot more than either of my brothers.

And then, finally, the fateful day arrived.  It was Trampoline Day!  My brothers and I sat in the green summer grass, watching my dad pull out all the parts and figure out how it went together, asking if he needed help every fifteen seconds or so and waiting breathlessly.  The only thing that wasn't perfect was this niggling insecurity I had about where my dad had chosen to set up the trampoline.  He was situated in the grass a good 15 feet from where I thought the trampoline needed to go.  But I wasn't going to let that get me down; he was probably just setting up right there because it was convenient, but surely once he got the thing put together we would move it to the correct spot.  Nothing to worry about.

About mid-afternoon the trampoline was nearly completed and I started making subtle comments about trampoline placement.  Finally my dad stood up, stretched, looked like he was done, and I stood as well.  Now was the time!  The time to move the trampoline to the right spot and start having fun!  Just like I had imagined!  Except my dad said "okay kids, give it a go", stepped back, and my two stupid brothers clambered up onto the blue mat surrounding the trampoline and STARTED JUMPING.  And the trampoline WASN'T EVEN IN THE RIGHT SPOT.

Needless to say, this bothered me.  And needless to say, "bothered me" is an understatement.  This situation would bother me NOW, as a 27 year-old semi-adult.  As an 11 year-old, it was pretty much the end of my world, the imploding of my universe - a total mind-screw, if you will.  That stupid trampoline, the one I had pined after for weeks and weeks, now sat mocking me, letting me know that while OTHER people might be able to jump mindlessly and have fun, I would never, ever be able to enjoy its sweet pleasures.  The blue plastic mat and black bouncy surface represented every single thing that was wrong with the world, at least as far as what I knew of it.  The trampoline was in the wrong place.

So I began to plead.  I tried every approach I could think of - passive, logical reasoning, aggressive, hard-line arguments, and emotional, tear-filled appeals.  Nothing worked.  My brothers were happily oblivious to everything, just brainlessly hopping around, and my dad, who had spent the whole day setting up the trampoline, had adjourned to the living room to watch golf and was not interested in listening to me in the least.  So my mom was the only one left, and although she and I have some characteristics in common, this particular brand of obsessiveness seems to have afflicted me and me alone.  She never understood me when I got like that.

After all my pleading tactics had been tried and failed, I was beside myself.  There was nothing left to do, and yet I COULD NOT just do nothing.  So I sat and thought and obsessed over it until I came up with what I thought would surely be my trump card - I would run away.  I had NEVER run away before, or even threatened to, and I couldn't imagine a world where that (the most dire of threats) would not be taken seriously.

You can probably imagine what happened.  I threatened, I wasn't taken seriously.  I packed, I wasn't taken seriously.  I left - and then about an hour or two later after no one came to find me I came back home to see that the trampoline was in the exact same place as when I left, my mom was cooking dinner, my dad still didn't care, and my brothers were playing Nintendo.  Nothing had changed at all.  No one understood.  And my little heart broke a tiny bit that day, because I realized that there was something about me that was just not quite right.  I knew I should be able to enjoy the trampoline regardless of where it was in the yard.  I wanted to enjoy it.  I didn't want to care about correct trampoline placement.  And yet, I cared so much that I had RUN AWAY.

I don't think my 11 year-old self could process the events of that afternoon very well, and to this day, the "Elise ran away when we wouldn't put the trampoline in the right spot" story is told by various family members or friends of mine as an exaggerated personality-explaining joke and always gets a good laugh.  Because if you don't have this - this THING in your brain, it IS funny.  I mean, I get it.  I ran away because my dad wouldn't put a stupid trampoline in this certain spot in the yard.  Ha!  What a high-strung little lady I must have been.  Man!  That's funny.

Except to me, it's really not.  Because I am still that same way; that same girl who dreams and imagines things in certain ways, and then can't understand when they don't work out.  My mind is a scary place - I think in some ways it has enabled me to do things like own my own business at the age of 24 and make it through a lawsuit and fraudulent numbers and a recently-crappy economic turn and still not fail (yet!).  I just won't give up, because I imagined success, and I imagined myself as a boutique owner and not a bankrupt business warning story.  So I won't give up, I just won't.  Even when it seems like there is nothing else to do, I just won't do nothing.

But that same quality/flaw (however you choose to view it) presents itself in EVERY area of my life.  I, very unfortunately, have never figured out how to lasso the obsessiveness and parlay it into useful projects only.  My whole life - my whole world - is dominated by this same mindset.  And obviously in the 16 years since the trampoline incident, I have learned that not everything works out exactly how I envision it.  Small things go wrong, big things go wrong.  You have to roll with the punches.  I fight myself a lot, and usually I can figure out my obsession enough to transfer it to something useful and/or get over it.  But sometimes, just like that trampoline, I get completely fixated on something, and I can't - WON'T - believe that it has to be the way it is.  I will take a set of facts - hard evidence - and no matter how much I try to let the reality of the situation set in, I end up thinking it could be different.  Maybe I read it wrong!  Maybe things have changed!  Maybe a new angle will fix everything!  I refuse to believe that I can't change it; that there's nothing I can do. 

Because if there's nothing I can do, then what will I do?