Friday, October 30, 2009

Donkeys

Today, I realized I have a problem. Today, I realized that my instinct leads me to run out the door half dressed and frantic and then finish getting ready for work in the car upon discovery of a roach loose in the house (and from here on out in this blog I will use code word "donkey" to signify this demonic creature- the term my family and friends are familiar with using on a regular basis so that I don't have to HEAR the name, as the mere thought frightens me so. Crap. I am already sounding like a crazy person and this is just the "parenthesis back story"). I am sure everyone has their odd "fear" or endearing "quirk". Well this is mine (although the countless people that have been called upon to rescue me from this precious quirk would hardly call it "endearing" I am sure.) I have always known I was a little overdramatic and ridiculous when it came to donkeys, but I don't think I quite grasped it until I began living by myself. Apparently, all these years of having roommates and family to do the dirty work for me, has shielded me from just how much I cannot handle killing a bug 1/5000th my size [made up fraction.] Logically, yes, I know it can't do anything to me. But try to convince me of that when it is just sitting there, silently plotting my demise, awaiting its next move so it can attack when I least expect it.

Slightly helpful email exchange today between my sister and I:

Me: I feel anxious that I can't go in my house until later this afternoon. What if it has eaten everything before J kills it? Do you think it is just sitting there being evil or is it all over my stuff? I really have a problem.

K: hahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Me: Stop laughing and do your job as my sister and put my fears to rest!!! Tell me something comforting like "I am sure it is dead by now" or "Donkeys only crawl on the wall, your stuff is fine." or "It is probably just sitting in the same spot where you left it." COME ON. Help the crazy, don't hinder.

K: It probably IS dead. I'm sure your apartment complex exterminates regularly, most of them exterminate every 3 months. And even if it isn't dead for some reason, they don't generally go crawling all over everything. And it certainly isn't EATING anything.

OK so it probably isn't eating everything. Slight overreaction there. But I am STILL not walking in that house until J comes to rescue me this afternoon (thank God for him) lest it flies at me like a spider monkey of death. And I am still going to fully disinfect my house and wash all sheets, towels, etc. Send for help. I have reached a new level of paranoia.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Ways In Which I Am Becoming My Parents.

Wow, it has been a month since I have blogged. I'm back!

I have always been told (more often than not by my own mother) to "be nice to your mother because someday you will turn into her". As a naive youth, I scoffed "No, not me! That's crazy speak!" Well I am here today to validate that this does, indeed, happen eventually, whether you want it to or not. And you might become your dad too.

Yesterday was a perfect example.

Instance #1: Background info for this story: When I was in high school, my friend and I were hanging out in our small podunk town one evening when I received this frantic call from my mother: "Are you ok!?!? I just heard an ambulance!!" Not as in "I saw you in an accident when I was driving by" or "heard someone with a car like yours had a wreck", just checking in the general sense of "I heard a siren somewhere, in some part of town and had a panic attack." Overprotective? Yes. But ultimately, I chalked it up to mom being cute and I laugh about it to this day.
Well, yesterday, before I could even realize what I was doing, I was leaving a voicemail for my friend who lives in the vacinity of a street where I was driving past and saw ambulances. You know, just to make sure she was ok. Yes, it's as silly as it sounds. She's fine by the way. May still be laughing at me though.

Instance #2: I actually proved I am turning into my father as well. Background info for this story: My dad NEVER stacks plates after a meal. NEVER. He claims that it is ridiculous to do so because then you have to wash BOTH sides of the plate. We all know much better than to ever break this cardinal rule in his presence. And while I see his point to an extent (and it makes sense in family gatherings to humor him as he is the only one that ever does the dishes), I always join in with others to lovingly mock him for his adamant stance on dishwashing techniques.
Cut to last night- I was having dinner with my boyfriend and his sister and bro-in-law, and as J offers to take my plate, I actually grimaced as the bottom of my plate grazed the top of his. He has been warned how my father is about this, so he knew exactly where the look came from, and therefore I was immediately mocked. Apparently this is one habit that will forever be ingrained in my psyche. So take note: apparently there will be no stacking of plates in MY presence now.

My parents are great, so hooray I am turning into them and not, say, Paris Hilton. But still. Tis creepy.