Aselin

I know. I've been bad.

I got lazy, then nothing funny was happening to me. Then, the universe decided to punish me by making REALLY unfunny things happen to me.

When I woke up this morning I was assessing the things I needed to do to stop the trajectory of life-crap accumulation and realized that I needed to get back to writing. Since only four people still check this blog with any consistency, I expect this post will be a shock to you.

To catch all of you up to date, you know those '80s movies that were popular for a while with people like Tom Hanks or Michael Keaton where something goes wrong, and then gets worse, and then when you think it can't possibly get worse - it does. And then after that it gets worse again. And then the most annoying distant relative moves in with them? Well, Everything except the distant relative moving in has happened to me. So I need to somehow put the brakes on the trajectory of my life and start moving in a different direction.

So, naturally I'm moving to Utah and joining a cult. OK, not a real head-shaving Koolaid-drinking cult, but after years of defending my Mormon faith from people who have called it a cult I've been worn down. Worn down by my own people. Those people who work at BYU. I have been trying, and trying, and trying to finish a long-overdue degree. I'm on my last class and clearly, after all these years of education I'm not smart enough to finish a 110 level economics course on my own so I must return to the mothership and see if I can complete my degree.

In order to get permission to do this I had to contact the professor currently administering the Econ 110 lecture. Now, tell me if this doesn't raise an eyebrow or two...he graciously gave me permission to attend his lectures at BYU. All our communication was through his e-mail address which ends in BERKELEY.edu WHAT? My final professor will be a professor visiting BYU from Berkeley? UCLA, CAL Poly, UCSD - I would get all of these, but BERKELEY? Clearly this is going to be GREAT!!!!! If anything just to be listening to this guy field questions from people who will ask things like, "How do I factor in my 10% tithing to the elasticity of demand ratio?" I'm gonna be in the front row.

To here's to my new trajectory. Here's to my #$%^& degree. And here's to some great entertainment sure to give me lots to write about!!

Today was a pretty big day. I suppose one's perspective can be a little skewed when they're hopped up on cranberry juice and Cipro, but still, it was big for me.

I went to Costco. Anyone who lives in Arizona in the winter knows that locals avoid Costco in the winter like the plague. But I had a list, and I HAD to go. So I venture to that scary part of town just off the freeway where they build Costcos and fight my way through the mass of humanity congregated in the parking lot stowing their three gallons of maple syrup and 17 pounds of kielbasa in various trunks. I can't believe how many people feel they need to shop at Costco - but in the winter...

The snowbirds flock worse than anything Hitchcock could have imagined. Thousands of wandering, aimless seniors with out-of-state license plates and matching t-shirts spend the afternoon at Costco swarming each sample booth like fire ants. If you want to get in, buy some bread and a chicken, you're out of luck. You will have to slalom past countless couples pushing giant cars with one item in them. It's not for the faint of heart.

But, since I am trying again for the Mother of the Year trophy, I attempt to get the list of items the children posted a month ago.

Pushing past people clamoring for a bite sized taste of microwave cheese pizza, I think I've got a shot at getting out in one piece. My fifteen minute list took me over an hour. it was like L.A. rush hour traffic, except in L.A. traffic people know how to drive.

Getting out to my car was like a game of chicken/frogger. People waving me ahead of them and then flooring the gas pedal as I sprinted, stopped, swerved, ducked. Despite the fact that I wore hot pink, I still don't think many of them ever saw me. Collapsing in the driver's seat of safety I gave a heavy sigh of relief and slowly backed out of my space.

Like some sort of velociraptor radar, the movement of my car summoned four different drivers for the spot. Since they were all sure they were first, no one was going to budge. The only problem with this turf war was I was totally boxed in. Of course, the logical solution was for all the other drivers to start honking. I threw up my hands and pulled back into the space. They all had some sort of non-verbal death match until two of them gave up and I was able to back out.

Joy.

Waiting at the light to turn left onto the main road I was thrilled to be out of the parking lot. The light turns green and the car to my right pulls out into traffic. After a rather insightful two days at traffic school (eons ago, of course), I developed the habit of counting two seconds before pulling out into traffic after a red light. I'm sitting there counting and then start to pull out as I suddenly notice - at full, break-neck speed AND slow motion all at the same time - a female specimen of the snowbird variety barreling past the two lanes of stopped traffic THROUGH THE RED LIGHT right at my door.

Shielding my head and bracing for the impact, I leaned to the right and thought, "I'm gonna die!"

There was horrible screeching and then silence. I admit, for a split second I was pretty sure I was dead since I didn't hurt anywhere, and I didn't hear anything. I slowly sat up and there was the snowbird, staring through her windshield right at me - the hood of her car not more than one inch from my door.

Some guy runs out into the street and starts yelling "How did she not hit you? I thought you were dead!"

That makes two of us.

The guy gets the snowbird to back up, and then motions me on. I suppose it's not leaving the scene of an accident if the car doesn't actually make contact with anything. I slowly drive away with more adrenaline pumping through my body than my blood stream knows what to do with. I'm shaking all over and think I peed my pants a little.

All I can say is man, she must have been living right.

Recently an new phenomenon has come into my life: Groupon. At first I was intrigued because the descriptive writing describing the daily product was so absurd I found it wonderfully entertaining. Like today's deal for Floyd's Kitchen:

Adding gourmet ingredients to a meal makes a commonplace activity feel special, much like brushing your teeth with a sparkler or withdrawing money from an ATM while holding it at gunpoint.

Or this one for an artisan craft store:

Bare walls have plenty of advantages: ample surface area for finger painting, an absence of disapproving Churchill posters, and no mirrors reminding you that your hair is on fire.

After reading these daily posts it made me want to work there! Instead, I've just comforted my already overburdened self by purchasing random coupons for things I never knew I needed. But hey, I also never realized the Karmic impact of the absence of Churchill posters in my home. So see? New, Groupon horizons!!

Most of what I have purchased would not surprise any of you - it's been food. OK, I've purchased, and now consumed a lot of food. But, it was at a great price!

Admittedly some of the purchases have been outside my normal fenced area. Off leash sorts of stuff. One recent purchase was for a workout studio. I do work out on my own, but formal, group working out always scare me. So when a friend said "lets go together" of course, I realized there would be safety in numbers.

Ha.

We purchased these Groupons because they held female-only dance workout classes. Weird, eclectic, dance workout classes. Bollywood dancing. Pole dancing. Hula Hooping.

You can see this is not going to end well.

So I register and show up for my first class. The hula hoop class. Walking down a well-lit hallway I'm guided to one of the studio rooms. I crack open the door hoping to spot my friend and am totally confused - it is pitch BLACK. OK, I'm not decrepit old, but hula hooping in the dark is not going to be a good idea.

I can't see a thing and literally grope the wall until I stepped on someone. We both apologized because neither of us could tell whose fault it was that we had collided - and this was during the non-hooping warm up phase.

So I finally crawl to the open spot my friend has saved for me. I join her on the floor and keep whispering my fascinating commentary to her during the stretching warm-up. A hard fact of aging is that responsible old people should stretch before they hula hoop.

Blessedly, the instructor decides to re-think her "hoop in the dark" strategy. She explains that she has designed a space-themed workout for us tonight with our hula hoops and wanted it to be as realistic as possible. Huh? Let me just say, unless I get knocked unconscious by another space-hooper, at no time am I going to think I'm in space and crushing that delusion will just be good for all of us.

She turns the lights on, and I turn to my friend to continue my scintillating running commentary, only to realize, it's not my friend. My friend isn't even in the room. This poor woman next to me actually walked to the other side of the room once the lights came on.

Well, great. More room for me.

I'm blocking off my space with my hula hoops and the instructor gets the class started to a cover version of "Space Oddity". So there I am, trying desperately to get the hoop to orbit my non-existent hips to the space-strains of a Bowie knock-off. I'm bumpin' and grindin' and gyrating myself into some sort of spasmodic sweat. It was awful.

In case you wondered, hula hoops make a HUGE bang when they hit the ground, and mine hit the ground with frustrating regularity. The hooper in front of me starts to giggle as she literally turns around to watch me. The class was moving into more complicated moves...I mean "Planetary orbits" and I can barely keep the hoop going around my waist for three rotations.

I would make a crappy planet.

The hooper in front of me keeps giving me advice. Pretty good advice, but getting my body to do what I pictured in my head was proving impossible. My hooper buddy, is laughing, I'm laughing and then she winks at me. A nice, encouraging wink.

Wait.

She then turns around again and smiles, nods and winks.

Uuuuuuh.

The class is now gyrating rather impressively to "Major Tom" and I've just realized my gravitational pull is stronger than I knew. Strong enough to pull in lesbian hula hoopers. I'm trying not to to be awkward, but Hooper Buddy is staring at me. With her back to the instructor. Staring.

Oh boy.

After what seemed like 4,000 light years, the class ended, and I hung up my hoop. As I was putting on my shoes, Hooper Buddy sat right next to me. Right next.

I scooted a few inches away, and she just scooted after me. She was asking my name, and if I've been there before because she's never seen me there before and wondered if I was taking any other classes (take a breath) and I was a really good hula hooper for a first timer and she's been doing hula hoop since she was a kid and that's why she could help me so much and would I be there for the next hula hoop class (take a breath)...

I couldn't get a word in edgewise, which is probably good because it was a rare moment when I didn't know what to say.

Smiling, I thanked her for her help and said I'd "see ya later" and then sprinted to the car.

Upon reflection, I should not have been so flustered. I got exactly what the Groupon described.

I'm a simple person who is easily entertained...and if you are a faithful reader you know I don't get out much. I have, however, developed a fun little routine that Dog and I play every few weeks when he is out of food.

Dog knows a lot of words: bye bye - he heads for the car. Walk - he grabs his leash. Dinner - he points his paw at his bowl. Puppy - he runs to the window and starts crying (I do too, but that's another post). But by far, my favorite is when I say "Petsmart?" - every hair on his body perks up, he tilts his head and wags half of his body furiously. He knows Petsmart. Rather than sitting in a locked car while his family goes off on an adventure without him - he gets to go INSIDE! He LOVES Petsmart.

Petsmart is where we combine his entire vocabulary into one glorious trip. We go Bye Bye, then we Walk on our leash to the store where we might see a Puppy and buy some Dinner. His joy is full.

So off we go tooling down the street, toward our local Petsmart to purchase some Dinner. He is very polite as we enter the store and promptly starts crying as he sees a cute little gray miniature poodle who won't give him the time of day. I tell him to man up, it won't be the last time he gets dissed by a chick. We parade around the store, saying hello to the fish, adoptable cats and chew toys. He sniffs, and pants and wiggles with canine delight.

Pushing my cart filled with a large bag of Dinner, he stays on the lookout for any opportunity to socialize that he can. Whenever we are in public, people notice him. He is a large, black dog, but he has soft curly hair and looks a bit like a teddy bear. I'm chatting with some women who are interested in his CV when one of the women starts pointing at him. I look down just in time to realize he is dry heaving and was about to change modes to wet heave. He hurls a bright yellow puddle of bile all over the floor in front of the nice ladies. They scatter like 10 cent feed crickets.

Great.

Now, for those of you who are not pet owners, Petsmart has little stations set up throughout the store for "accidents". Normal dogs just pee, but of course mine has to barf. I drag Sir Barfsalot over to the "Accident Station" and gather an armful of weak recycled paper towels, antiseptic spray and plastic bags. Unfortunately they do not provide latex gloves for such occasions, but I suppose that's the punishment I get for owning a dog that leaks.

Approaching the giant puddle of barf, Dog suddenly needs to hurl again. I try and throw towels in his path, but only end up making things worse as some of the barf is repelled by the little pile of crummy towels and splatters all over. Now I turn back to the "Accident Station" to replenish my supplies. As I'm about to tackle the job, a man rounds the corner headed directly for our first puddle of barf. I yell out to warn him, but either he is related to me or very rude since he totally ignores me and rolls all four of his cart wheels through the barf puddle and then slops his loafers through the parts that he missed. Not only is this totally gross, but now he has expanded the contamination zone as his tracks continue a good twenty feet past the original barf pool.

Now I am faced with a defining moment: of course, the original barf puddles are my responsibility, but is the secondary contamination and spreading of said barf also my responsibility? Down on my hands and knees, wrapped to the elbows in plastic bags I'm sopping up barf for what seems like miles. How did I get to be this glamourous???

Of course, Dog is no help, he just sits quietly next to my purse pretending he doesn't know me. Just like my kids.

I have had terrible writer's block so at the request of my three remaining loyal readers, here is a repost of an earlier piece. Since I barely remember writing it, I figure you will barely remember reading it!
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“Miss Spellman, please report to the office, your sheep are grazing on the infield.” There was no other “Miss Spellman” at Matilija Junior High, and no one else in middle school raised sheep. Like the socially retarded specimen I was (am) I took this one head on, and didn't live it down. Ever. Someone asked me about it at my recent high school reunion. It was all the goat’s fault. The goat could lift the fence with its horns, coax the entire flock through the gap and lead them on local escapades.

I spent most of my adolescence wondering what was wrong with my family. Normal people adopt rescue animals like dogs and cats. My parents adopted a pygmy goat from a family threatening to kill it, literally. This should have been a clue. “Annie” arrived in her pert little package of a body and shortly took over the barnyard like the seed of Chucky. Goats have a special kind of intelligence that borders on stupid. They will eat anything, climb anything and have little natural self preservation. Their mental operations parallel the intelligence of pubescent boys. And somehow, as a junior high girl I liked both of them.

But both were also completely indifferent to my feelings. The principal watched in annoyance as I phoned home telling my mom I needed permission to leave campus to walk the flock back home. Listening to this humiliating exchange were two boys waiting to be dealt with. I don’t remember their names, I just remember the hot sting of humiliation of being noticed in a way I didn’t want to be noticed. They snickered like Bevis and Butthead, and I remember it to this day.

Why is adolescence universally spent trying to mold ourselves into a mold that doesn’t actually exist? I wanted so badly to be accepted, to be normal, even popular. The reality was, popular girls had regal equine livestock that didn’t escape and drop poo pellets on the soccer field. This undoubtedly is why they were ‘popular’.

Now, in my middle age I realize it’s always better to have some form of goat around. The confident leadership with which Annie commanded our little flock of sheep took them on adventures they never would have had left to their own devices. They tasted a variety of foliage unavailable to them in the confines of their field. They broke into the house, completely decimated the neighbor’s garden, ate a sack of unidentified garden chemicals from the garage, these are the things goat dreams are made of. I suppose that’s a gift: be brave enough to try anything and, when necessary, use your horns.

I love the holiday season. I love the sense of unified generosity, the decorations, the Christmas cards - I love it all.

I feel a sense of happy obligation to reach out and help during this season, helping provide Christmas celebrations for the less fortunate, food for the needy and help wherever I can. I am always grateful to those who make this easier for me. Food drives at the grocery store, gift trees at the mall and the ubiquitous Salvation Army Bell Ringer. I am grateful for people who bring the opportunities to me.

That was until yesterday.

When I entered the store, the bell ringer was absent. I was a little sad, as I had a fistful of donation prepared as I approached the entrance. As I was checking out, I noticed he had arrived. Gleefully exciting the store, I approached the smiling attendant. Happily, I fished in my purse and strode up to the suspended red bucket with my donation.

This was the last moment my world was still right.

As I dropped my money in the bucket, the smiling man ringing the bell said, "Oh, yeah. I love watching you stuff money in my bucket."

I'm not kidding. WHAT THE HECK??? I choked on my own spit and reeled there in front of the store. I was so dumbfounded I stood there for enough time that he kept talking.

"Are you headed to the gym?"

My brain took extra seconds to engage as I wittily retorted, "Um..... no."

"Well honey, you are workin' it in those pants."

At this moment I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Of all the Bell Ringers in the Phoenix Metro area, I found the creepy lecherous one. Yay me.

In one horribly awkward swoop this guy had killed all the warm feelings I might have ever received from donating to the Salvation Army and turned the whole exercise into the creepiest exchange imaginable. As I power walked away from him I could feel his icky eyeballs leering after me. I walked faster and faster until I leapt into the safety of my minivan and hunched down out of sight.

Now, lest you think I'm ultra sensitive, I appreciate a nice, unsolicited compliment. Who doesn't like to be told they look nice today? But pairing the exchange of money with leering pants comments sullied the whole Christmas giving thing.

So now, in addition to poisonous spiders crawling down my face, edges at tall heights and refrigerator mold I have a new fear that has reached phobic status: Salvation Army Bell Ringers. Beware. You could be their next victim.

I ventured out into the world, and of course, was accosted by humanity.

Followers of my escapades know I'm a relatively low-maintenance person. Jeans, sneakers, an occasional brow wax with psychological stress thrown in for good measure. I've been reflecting on how many organization gurus have a schedule of household maintenance things we should follow. Things like: every six months you should get that long brushy-like thing and clean the lint out of your dryer hose so your house doesn't catch on fire from the build up. Yeah, I've never done that. We're supposed to clean out our freezers every year, discarding the items we have frozen if they are past the expiration date we put on them when we put them in there in the first place. I solved that one - I don't write anything on them so not only can I not tell when things expire in my freezer, I cannot tell what those things are. I have been known to defrost what I thought was peaches only to discover it was hamburger. For the record - that is when I toss it.

One schedule I do follow religiously is the oil change. OK, this is mainly because a little light illuminates on my dashboard that says "maintenance required" and I feel guilted into action. Today was my oil change day, which also means - ta-da, it was car wash day!!! I get a free car wash with my oil change and this makes me happy!

Driving onto the lot, I am motioned vigorously by an attendant who is desperate for me to pull into his lane. Guiding my landing like a ground air-traffic controller I pull up and roll down my window.

My new best friend is super excited to see me on this lovely day and starts with a feisty "Good Morning!"

It's one in the afternoon and I'm gnawing on a piece of pizza so he quickly corrects himself and says, "Well, you're enjoying lunch so it must be afternoon. Good afternoon maam!"

Uh-huh.

I swallow my bite and start to say I would like an oil change and a car wash please when he interrupts me with a dire emergency that needs my immediate attention.

"Maam, maam, can I show you something? Maam, winter is an important time to address the changing needs of your vehicle. Paint finishes need extra attention as we go into the winter months..."

He has opened my door and is trying to get me out of my car to see the horrible corrosion that has taken place and needs addressing by his amazing detail service. I grab the open windowsill and hold fast to my door saying "No, no thanks."

OK, let's get real here. I drive a minivan. Not just any minivan, an old, utilitarian, functional minivan that we keep in working order for hauling kids around town. It was purchased over a decade ago. It has never been "detailed", waxed, buffed or any of the high-end things people who celebrate their cars do to them. This is a minivan. The idea that suddenly we need to care for the paint finish this year is quite frankly, absurd.

Also, I drive this minivan because I have kids. Kids whose hygiene is questionable at best. AND, I drive other people's kids. All kids are gross. Have you seen kids before? They spill, shed, poop, barf, pee, leech, scrap, slough, chuck, fling and ooze all manner of fluids and solids. At any moment some sort of projectile is either on deck or being expelled by every single one of them. It is with this spirit that I drive the minivan. I maintain general levels of automotive cleanliness, which they promptly dishevel until the next oil change.

So this guy trying to convince me that the season change in Arizona requires an upgrade to my auto cleaning regimen is a non sequitur.

Now the guy is pulling on my door. PULLING ON MY DOOR! Yeah, this is gonna end well.

For the record, I totally understand the up-sell. It is an important component of successful capitalism and I wholeheartedly support it. It is fine with me if you ask me if I want fries and a drink with my veggie burger. If I say "yes" you make more money. If enough people get fries and a drink that means you stay in business so that I can keep coming back to buy my veggie burger. Ask away.

BUT...once I answer... LET GO OF MY FREAKING DOOR!!!!

I pull the door back, slamming it shut and say firmly, "no THANK ... YOU. Just an oil change and the free car wash."

To no avail. He keeps on keepin' on about how my paint finish will suffer irreparable damage. How the value of my vehicle will diminish and how he can save me from a fate worse than death.

I start to roll up my window and... yep, you guessed it... HE STICKS HIS ARM IN MY CAR!!!!

At this point I'm totally freaking out. I look around with a panic, and notice the manager is watching him reach in my car as I'm rolling up the window and he yells at the guy who starts to yank his arm back, but has wedged it, past the elbow, in the small remaining space and can't get it out easily. A nicer patron would have rolled down her window a little to help the guy out, but I was MAD, MAD, MAD so I just watched him try and extricate himself as I gave him the stink-eye.

Gathering up my stuff I rush into the building and wait for the oil change to finish. I'm a little flustered, but mostly just annoyed at the aggressiveness, until I go up to pay.

"That will be $60" the cashier says.

"WHAT? All I got was an oil change with the free car wash!"

"Well, Maam, you have this detailing charge for the detailing package you ordered."

Niiiiiiiiiiiiice.

Just to be clear: I did not pay $60. The manager knows my name. The aggressive salesman knows my name. The establishment has sticky note posted behind the counter with my name. AND, I got two extra stamps on my loyalty card in the hope and prayer that I might possibly come in to their establishment again. Ever.