I’m in search of my sense of humor. I had it three weeks ago on Sunday, but when I woke on Monday it was gone. I could have lost it during the night. I do toss and turn and sometimes sleep walk. I lose my car keys daily and often end up at work with all my gym stuff, minus one running shoe. So, it is plausible I misplaced it or lost it at the DMV. It has taken a beating over the past few weeks and it just might have gone on vacation with my motivation. It never does anything by itself it seems. I looked for a note, but all I found was a random list on the kitchen table telling me to buy more coffee and half & half.

I have looked high and low. I have spent more time in the low places to be honest. It tends to linger there more. If you should see my humor, could you try to appeal to its senses and persuade it to return it to me. It responds to really bad puns, even the intended ones. It also likes poop jokes, SouthPark episodes, The Daily Show, and really anything on Comedy Central. It also seems my humor has a mad crush on Larry David, so please invite him to join in on the search. My humor also likes Seinfeld one liners too. So, if you could walk around your hood yelling randoms things related to the above, I am certain one of you will be able to bring it out of hiding or back from vacation. Catching it might pose to be the tricky part. Have a bottle of wine handy…the good stuff. Trust me, my humor will know if it’s crap.

There could be a good chance that my humor is hiding out with my motivation. This might be a awesome opportunity to get two birds with one stone. My behind will be be forever grateful for your extra efforts. My motivation responds to some pretty harsh name calling and insults. You can start slow with some childish stuff, but then jump right in with abuse about my career, political, and religious choices and go from there..please be creative. Don’t worry, the name calling will not scare off my sense of humor. She likes it. I am pretty certain that when I find my motivation she will be clinging to my missing running shoe too.

I truly believe that the safety of my daughter is contingent on me saying “be careful” sometimes loudly and repeatedly at her. I find that I am yelling it always and often in the middle of acts of scootering, tripping, running, climbing and really during any foolish forward movement. I feel that I need to be super close to her ears when this is said, so to orchestrate this “be safe” mantra takes some quick thinking sometimes. I am certain she hears my screaming “be careful” voice in her sleep.
When this is said, she is fine… always. I do worry what happens when she is not with me. However, my theory is she will be fine because I say “be careful” so often and with such intensity that the universe has no choice but to back the fuck off and let Ella pass by unscathed, mostly. This is the unspoken deal that we have. I will trade some of my sanity, and some brown or red or what ever the heck my hair color is for a few more grays.
I realize that I forgot to say “be careful” today as I am watching her during her weekly horse riding lesson. Why does she choose to appreciate such a large animal? I am much more comfortable with her choice to ride a sheep at the county fair. I might be more likely to whisper “be careful” to the sheep instead of Ella, maybe. But as for today I need to make things right and honor my agreement with this universe. My present dilemma is how do I get close enough to say “be careful” without spooking the horse and avoid getting trampled? Perhaps, the universe will just let this one slid, since I tend to have these two words covered most of the time? I do wonder how parents of professional athletes do it aside from signing their souls over to the devil or with Chunky Soup. I am certain that my “be careful” agreement would have to get pumped up with some type of steroid in order for it or me to survive. However, as for today I am wading across a field against my better judgment to mutter two words that might be my last. Next week Ella will be riding a pony, a miniature horse, or a carousel.

I used to have a regular massage therapist but life happened and now I tend to just blindly book a massage at the last minute and cross my fingers that the massage therapist will be adequate. On one particular session it started off like all others, face down on the table with all the regular stuff happening. I’m not certain when things started to go wrong, but I am pretty sure it took a turn when my therapist started referring to herself in the 3rd person. I would have been perfectly fine if she would have been calling herself any old name like Sally Jo, Wendy, or LuLu. I don’t really have any preferences or care about 3rd person talk mostly. I’m always amused by those who choose to talk this way and would love someday to study these folks in my spare time, but until then I will just think deeply about them from time to time.
During most of my past massages I zone out and sometimes sleep, and I’m pretty sure I was on the verge during this one like most of my others. However, when the therapist reached my back and neck area something changed. It could have been all the knots that are constantly residing in my neck that make it almost impossible to turn my head to locate my blind spot while driving that changed the energy during this massage to something else. Or perhaps it was just too difficult for this particular therapist to resist her once removed maternal instinct to stay to the strict massage therapist script. She explained that my shoulders and neck were a mess of knots and placed a heating pad on the area, which was fine with me. However, she sat there and patted the heating pad kind of like how one would pat the behind of an infant. After a few minutes she excused herself from the room, but not before leaning down to almost whisper in my ear to let me know, “Grammy, would be back to work the knots out.”
Well, this changed everything. With every application of lotion and the mention of Grammy doing this and that I tensed up. I realized that I didn’t want Grammy rubbing anything! And it did not help that she started every sentence out with what Grammy was going to do next when she moved to a different part of my body. Even the sounds of the lotion coming from the bottle sounded perverted somehow and I felt dirty. When the massage was finally over I dressed in shame and feel like I just committed some vile unfavorable act. If I was a religious person I would have run to my nearest confessional. The most perplexing thing about this experience aside from the dirty guilt and the urge to find religion was when it was over, as I was driving away, I felt the overwhelming urge for a freshly made baked good and oddly I felt cheated.

This weekend is the Thanksgiving of LOVE. Instead of arguing against indulging, I will do the opposite. I urge you all to fill yourselves to the gills. I want your neighbors to smell “sex and candy” from across your yard. I want you to gorge until you can’t move, walk, or think. “Just Do It” as Nike says, and then  do it again. Don’t over think Valentine’s Day, but do think about VD…it’s the responsible thing to do. Life is short. Being alone is just that. Buy those flowers, candies, rings, or chocolates. Walk or run to that other someone who you choose to tolerate, I mean LOVE. Don’t spend one second hating the commercialism that we wade through on every single holiday… not this one. This is about LOVE folks. Spending your life regretting what you should have done is just empty heartbreak. I want you all to gain LOVE weight this weekend, it will look good on you. I want you to treat LOVE like turkey and mashed potatoes and eat like you have never eaten before. I want you to have a LOVE induced coma and hangover at that same time. If you act on these impulse and immediately regret it, it’s fine. You can blame me for inciting this thing called lust, I mean LOVE. This is the only holiday that makes me think about trading in my LOVE of the color grey for red, perhaps a new natural hair color is in order. I will live vicariously through all you out there willing to give LOVE a go this weekend. I, not only, will be sending you all positive LOVE energy, but will also be studying the LOVE horoscopes, as this is mandatory to make this holiday complete. I look forward to be filled in on your adventures. On second thought, no thanks. I have seen the aftermath of Thanksgiving dinner and the clean up can fifty shades of terrifying.

Typically, when I meet a new therapist, she or he suggests three levels of pressure: 1. light, 2. medium, and 3. deep. Although we did agree on deep you failed to mention that you were applying a fourth level of pressure, which I have named HOLY SHIT! You probably don’t know that I am often dissatisfied with my posterior, but I only can conclude by the way you attacked it with such aggression that you must have been angry with it too. I haven’t looked, but I just might have finger bruises back there. As you paced around the massage table, I laid there anxiously with my eyes closed waiting for you to pounce and unleash the rage. When you would find a knot or an area of concern, you would dig at it how a blind hungry dog digs for a buried bone. At one point, my body wanted to break out in the cold sweats, but I willed myself from doing so out of fear that you might break out in grunts in some sort of primal song of conquer. To be honest I am afraid to look at the aftermath of your massage rage and I can’t decided if I in fact did just participate in a massage or a beating, and I can’t decide if I want to complain or ask for you again next week. For some reason, I think that your massages might build my character and/or be a way to work off all the bad karma I have accumulated over the years. But Dear Massage Therapist please understand when or if I see you again we will agree upon a safe word.

I ran across a doughy man wearing a NASA shirt beating the crap out of a parking meter this week. Is this what has become of our space program? I wondered if gravity was bringing this man down and pissing him off or if it really was the parking meter at the root of his rage. I could only guess, because asking him didn’t seem like a logical option at the time. I do see these reactions play out in public sometimes. Attacking a parking meter seems more reasonable than smacking the meter reader, I guess. I have been a victim or should I say perpetrator of this too. It wasn’t a parking meter, but many, many other objects that I am too embarrassed to mention.

Recently, I bought a home and I have been struggling with my reactive response to stuff that disappoint me. This could be the roof in my garage, my cabinet door that fell of it’s track, my fence and many other things I hope to fix. All these things are different and need various remedies to correct. I don’t have the “know how” and I will hire someone to help repair these assorted irritations. This isn’t important though. What is important is the emotional response they bring up when I encounter these breaking or broken fixtures in my house. The response is not anger or even frustration most of the time. To describe it correctly, I have to use the words of my co-worker who said one day that some “thing” hurt his feelings. I can’t remember exactly what “it” was. However, I completely understand this concept. As I stand under my leaky roof or in front or my drooping fence I realize that these things do totally hurt my feelings. My self esteem is completely affected the same way as if a school yard bully just pushed me down at recess.

I find myself, especially on weekends, standing before these house imperfections feeling woefully inadequate. I can totally understand feeling this way while staring at a new born, or when attempting to manage tasks from a new job. However, I should not feel personally assaulted by a dripping faucet. I understand these issues are the joys of home ownership and I am trying to radically accept all of this. In this present moment I am putting together a agenda of things that need to be addressed with my therapist. I will give this same list to my repair man too:)

Birding (bird watching) is a amazing popular outdoor recreational pastime that has some social perks for bird lovers. Some bird enthusiasts travel in search of a particular species, maybe. The Brits call this “twitching”. In North America it’s called “chasing”. This is a phenomena in well developed countries mostly. Some watchers don’t travel far and desire to just tend to their “local patch” of birds and others go great distances. Some are a bit scientific and want to study migration patters and other watchers just want to note what date the first Robin appears on their lawn this season. Why am I writing about this, well that is a very interesting question. Do you think the birds mind? Do you think they get self conscious when they see eyes on them? Maybe they nudge each other and quietly whisper, “Don’t look, but that creepy son of a bitch is back again.”

Again my mind wanders to people who have this birding urge, but not with birds in mind. This subject is super intriguing to me for several reasons and it gets me thinking about the fine line between what is considered to be a normal way to express fondness. Birders could be viewed as a type of stalker with no malicious intent, of course. They are just trying to appreciate or understand a winged creature. Well, what if a interested gent or gal is motivated to watching you? Consider him or her a “chaser” who is just merely “looking out” for you. Kind of like a guardian angel. Well, this is not heavenly, no. But it’s not harmful. No jumping out of the bushes with gun or knife in hand. No kidnapping, cutting, raping or boiling pets on the stove. I am speaking of a person who has you in his heart and  has some time on his hands. An unpaid and unsolicited volunteer of sorts.

This could be a person who rings your doorbell and disappears leaving you to find a bag on your porch filled with chicken soup and Ny-Quil, after seeing you sneeze at the gym earlier in the day. Or who leaves dog treats at your work with a note stating that even though she doesn’t see you (in person) anymore, she still thinks kindly of your hound. Or leaves a random book about past lives on your car, because he insists that you both were once married a hundred years ago.

Let’s of course keep the creep factor in this discussion, but let’s take away the movie drama out of it. Let’s assume that you might know this individual and don’t hate him or loath her existence. What if this person in question thinks an awful lot about you and feels at home across the street sitting warmly in his car when you’re at home. Maybe, she is not interested or care if you have someone at your house, but just feels better being close to you and likes watching TV with you through your window. This person might also love to hear you breathe while sleeping at night and finds his way into your home to stand in your room to listen for a bit in the middle of the night, hopefully during your REM sleep.

This person might think of your safety and find a way to spy during your weekend hikes, and can’t help to mention the path you chose today in the forest was a bit out of the way. Or she goes through your trash not to find answers that are missing, but perhaps she is only looking for ideas of what she wants to buy for dinner at the grocery store. Or quite possibly he is standing outside your house spraying his cologne on your door when you’re not home, excited with the possibility that you might be thinking about him tonight when you get home.

Is it really that bad? Or can you just consider these focused individuals to be people or person watchers? I think it totally depends on your outlook, and the birds don’t really seem to mind when enthusiasts sit quietly in their habitats spying with binoculars. Maybe it all has to do with your attitude. If you find that you have this type of admirer, instead of picking up the phone and dialing 911, maybe you should open up you door and say “thank you for caring, you are so dedicated!” Perhaps that’s what the birds are thinking.

For those who know me understand that anxiety is my sweet spot. I begin each day immersed in it. And my days end with me lacing up my running shoes in an attempt to run it off or reduce it just enough so I can tread comfortably when I get tired of swimming in it. It isn’t as exhausting as I am making it sound, but maintaining a balance of acceptable neurosis takes some work. I spend a lot of time thinking and assessing many things, which include my happiness, health, home responsibilities, the size of my thighs,  and where I put the things that I can’t find. My house is only 750 square feet, that is it, so how is it possible to lose anything?

Presently, I cannot find my cutting board and this is baffling to me. Perhaps, I should stop looking for it in the kitchen and move to other areas of my house. I have recently lost my comb and I’m presently parting my hair with my tweezers. I know the comb will show up soon and having a straight part isn’t high on my priority list. Just last week, I put my car keys in my silverware drawer and attempted to start my car with my wine key. I have extreme organizational issues and my closets and cupboards are symptoms of this. I don’t think I’m in a present decline regarding my personal functioning, but I am open to this idea. I have always had difficulty multi-tasking my work and house responsibilities. My energy is spent first on my lovely daughter and all else can wait.

Grocery shopping is also an activity that causes me so much dread. Thinking of what I need, remembering what I have to buy, and writing a list is sometimes a insurmountable task. I almost signed up for Nutri- System in the past not for the need or want to lose weight, but for merely the convenience of having all three meals delivered. This is not too different from those who are relieved when they are locked up in jail, knowing that they will have a bed and three meals provided. This winter I’m gauging my mental well being on my ability to grocery shop. I wasted so much energy last year standing in my kitchen with the refrigerator door open, just staring at nothing and imagining what could be. I can’t put into words why I couldn’t bring myself to drive the half mile to the grocery store, but I couldn’t and didn’t. I could blame the gray Portland skies, but that would be too easy. I turned to Safeway during this three month period to do my grocery shopping online. In retrospect, I probably spent much more time sitting in front of my computer picking out one food item at a time and paying even more money for the delivery.

The online grocery shopping posed another set of issues. If I ran out of something I couldn’t online shop for just one item. I had to wait. I was only terrified of running out of toilet paper…nothing else. In spite of the added anxiety it created, I pushed on committed to my non-want of shoving a grocery cart down isles of just too many choices. Timing the order,placing the order, and waiting for the arrival of the order also created a whole other set of issues. All anxiety provoking in some sort of way. The payoff was grand though. The Safeway employer would show up at my home and the driver always seemed a little surprised that I wasn’t in my 90’s. He would carry all the bags to the door much more gracefully than I ever do. Then I would unload the bags and remember then one thing that I forgot to order.

This winter I am making it to the grocery store to do my shopping in person. I still think fondly about Nutri-System. It’s like having a personal chef who is militant about portion size that is affordable for the average middle class worker. I continue to be an organizational nightmare. I’m still okay with my hair having a crooked part for he time being, and I’m not certain when I will give up looking for my cutting board and purchase a new one. It might all hinge on my commitment to developing a love affair with prepared meals.

For the last month I have been perusing a dating site. Or maybe I should say apprehensively surveilling. Yes, that is much more like it. I have read many, many profiles of other singles out there looking. I have viewed men holding fish, men who try to hide that they are follically challenged with hats, men with inappropriate profile names, like 69Iheartanal69, men in their favorite sports jerseys, men with professional head shots, men in action: running, riding, skiing, snowboarding, biking, etc. It’s mind-boggling.

I have struck up conversations with a few men on this site, but have had much difficulty moving from the chat phase to meeting in person. I finally forced myself to meet up with a potential candidate the other day.  We did have a great conversation. Totally enjoyed every minute, but have zero urge to schedule a second date. The pressure of what will follow on the second, third, and fourth date is just too much for me to consider. I discussed this phenomena with my brilliant friend, Gina.  And she pointed out the obvious. She asked why I’m on a dating site when I’m actually looking for friendship? I have never considered this concept and therefore have reworked my profile.

Hi. My name is Amy and I am a forty-two year female who found myself on this dating site by accident. Since I have a week left on my membership I feel that I better get the best bang for my buck and list what I am looking for in the most authentic way I know. I am not looking for a husband, “the one”, or someone to complete me. My bar is set a bit lower. I am merely looking for someone to tolerate me for a few hours at a time. If you are looking to enjoy some food, good coffee or wine, and some cheeky conversation, by all means send me an email or chat request. However, before you start tapping away on your keyboard, you might want to read the rest.

I am not looking for someone who wants to hold my hand, or needs a meet up to fend off the fear of loneliness. If you live too far away, please don’t reply. If I could befriend someone in my neighborhood that would be optimal, driving is exhausting. Please make note of my zip code. If it was socially acceptable to put out fliers on the telephone pole outside my house and in the streets surrounding my neighborhood, I would have already done this. I’ve considered walking door to door like a solicitor of sorts, but the conversations would be awkward. If we do happen to make a connection I want you to know that I never really want you to come to my house, ever. It’s small and I have dogs that apparently have no boundaries, so I have been told.

I am not much of a cook and eat most of my meals standing over my kitchen sink, while my gas stove glares at me impatiently. If you like to cook and/or dine out then this is a plus. Also, I have to let you know that I work out daily and I might sometimes choose to workout over you. I like the mountains and fear the coast. I have a tremendous phobia of tsunamis and I plan my escape looking for higher ground every minute I am there. Sure, I still go to the coast, but I only go during the times I’m feeling a bit depressed and know I don’t have the will to run if an earthquake would occur. We can plan our trips during those times when I would rather just surrender to the big wave if you’d prefer.

If you do insist that I entertain you at my house (please see above) understand that I have dogs. I will do my best to have my house clean enough. If I can be completely frank, I will just assume that my house will make you uncomfortable and this then makes me uncomfortable. Therefore, you can never stay over, ever. I will not be able to sleep and I will resent you. No, on second thought scratch what I said above. Let’s just plan that you never come to my house.

If I can be comprehensibly straightforward, I am not interested in giving you my telephone number or scheduling a date at this time. I will, however, be at my local coffee shop every other Saturday between the hours of 9 to 11. If you are interested please stop by. I will be the one in the corner, dressed in 5 different shades of gray, clutching my coffee cup much like how the jaws of life grasps chunks of metal. If you approach me don’t be surprised if I deny that my name is Amy and that this profile belongs to me.