True story...not the second part.

I just helped a sweet little old lady cross the street. Really.

My good deed of the day is done! I'm going to be a total jerk for the rest of the day.

Même Merde

Plus ça change plus c'est la même chose.

Childhood Fun, Take 2

A snowpocalypse is coming to New York City, perfectly timed for the weekend, and all I can think of is...well, all of this:

SNOW! It's snowing side ways. It's snowing up! Snow shuffle trails. Slush shuffles trails. Candles. Yummy dessert-smelling candles! Baking. I want to bake! What to bake while doing strict low-carb? Nothing. No baking. Well, my cornish hen. Yeah, I'll roast the cornish hen. Then... Snow angels. Snow party! Snow cream! Radioactive Manhattan snow? Hmm... Snow cream anyway. They'd better not clean up the snow before I have a chance to make snow angels. Reading. Reading in a fort. Little House on the Prairie! But I only have two of nine Little House books in the series. Stupid opposite-of-hoarding problem. I've owned the whole series. Twice. Grad school reading? That psychoanalytic textbook...and The Gift of Therapy... Nah. Little House. Breaking Bad marathon! Breaking Bad and Little House on the Prairie. Hmm. At home spa treatments! Pedicure. Ooh. Yoga. I'll do yoga. YouTube yoga? Is my five hour class still on tomorrow? Ugh. Behavioral therapy. Snow angels tomorrow! What will I wear? I need a pink snow suit. No, I want a pink snow suit. I'll just wear...two pairs of yoga pants...fuzzy pajama pants...and jeans...in what order? Whatever. Snow angels anyway. Definitely snow angels.


This is childhood fun, take 2. (Or in ego psychology, Adaptive Regression in the Service of the Ego.)

This looks really cool but...

Let's stop changing the temperature setting on the fridge, okay?

Thanks,

Panthea

End, end, end!

This morning as I was getting ready to leave for my five hour class about a certain type of therapy (I'm going to need therapy after this) I was fumbling with Fiva (my iPhone Fiva) to start Pandora. Suddenly, an unfamiliar phone number popped up on my phone. Here is how my sleepy thought process unfolded:

"What? What?! What is this?! It's a phone number! Whose number is this? Who's calling me? Why are they calling me at 9 AM? It's a New York City number. Maybe my class is canceled. Maybe the room changed for the fifth time. I should answer this. How do I answer this? Green button. Green button! Answer. There's no green Answer button! Why not? Think! Oh...there's a red End button. Wha...? Crap, who am I calling?! End, end, end!"

And there you have it.

My procrastination knows no bounds.

I just decided to go to Starbucks to finish (start) a paper. I figure there'll be less distractions because I can't suddenly decide it's a good idea to clean the kitchen or give myself a pedicure. Hopefully I'll be too lazy to pack up my stuff and walk back home in the cold before the paper is finished.

So then my mind automatically escapes to procrastination-land and I find myself thinking, "Where's the best Starbucks in New York City? I should find that one!"

I could've dreamt worst.

Last night I dreamt I was chewing a piece of gum. This morning I woke up and found a chewed up silicone earplug on my nightstand. A little piece of the putty material came out as I was brushing my teeth.

I'm not too worried hygiene-wise because it was one of my earplugs, and you never hear moms telling their kids to stop picking their ears so some incidental earwax exposure must be fine. (Yes, I wear earplugs to sleep. I put them in specifically how the package tells you not to for maximum sound blockage.)

I'm more worried about what this might mean for my sanity.

Perspective through Facebook

You know those annoying little status updates that are basically forms you fill out to tell your fake friends on Facebook information about yourself that they probably never wanted to know in the first place?

In the current one I'm thinking of, a friend chooses an age for you to focus on. Then you write the gist of where you were, who you were with, what you were doing, and what your hopes and fears were. My friend chose age 19 for me, which was a significant year in my life. I was moving from my parents' respective homes in Northern Virginia to Long Island, New York to live with my then-boyfriend (now ex-fiance). I was struggling in community college classes. I had hopes of happiness and fears of failure and heartbreak.

I chose age 18 for my mother. This is what she wrote:

"A few months after finishing high school I turned 18. A few months later the government closed all the universities. One year later I left Iran and never went back."

A stunned "wow" and a long exhale were all I could manage when I read this. I already knew this information objectively but I had never felt it before.

Boom, check us out!

I love my Cleavage Shields.

Yesterday morning I threw on a faux wraparound blouse with a plunging neckline and left. (I wore pants too, just to let you know.) This shirt is so boobs that I normally take double measures. (Hahaha. Double measures. So not intended, but absolutely perfect.) I usually have a safety pin pulling the two sides of the shirt closer together and I wear a cleavage shield underneath.

Well, once I got to my internship I realized that I'd forgotten to don my cleavage shield, the safety pin was nowhere to be found, and there were my boobs! They were like "Boom! Check us out!"

This is the best thing in my office.

I looked for a safety pin in my desk but could only find thousands of paperclips. I scanned my office like MacGyver. A glint from the corner of my desk caught my eye. I turned and saw my sparkly pink stapler. (Yes, I really own this stapler. I got it from Dave & Buster's, the Chuck E. Cheese's for adults. You really shouldn't be surprised...unless of course you knew me when I was in high school, had red/green/purple hair, and wore all black...in that case you should really be surprised.) 

I shrugged. "Let's try this," I thought to myself. I gathered the two sides of my shirt together and gave it a good, firm staple. It worked! You couldn't even see the staple because of the way the fabric rippled. You have no idea how much it amused me to be wearing a stapled shirt! I wanted to tell the world, but of course I kept it to myself until now. It was fantastic and it brightened my entire morning.

It would've brightened my entire day but later I had to call EMS to ensure a suicidal client's safety. Sigh. This is where chocolate and/or mindful meditation helps me (preferably "and" rather than "or").

Heisenberg

I was out for Halloween and I saw a man dressed as high school chemistry teacher turned high-end meth producer Walter White from AMC's Breaking Bad. I love Breaking Bad! It's as addictive as I imagine meth would be. (If you haven't seen it, well... You really have no excuse. It's on Netflix.)

So of course, I did a hop-jump and gushed, "Walter White!"

He looked at me. "What's my name?"

"Walter White!" I squealed.

He didn't think this was the right answer. "What's my name?" he repeated.

I nodded and smiled as realization set in. "Heisenberg."

With that, he gave me my very own little baggie of blue meth rock candy.

Best costume ever. (Although I personally would rather not look busted up.)


P.S. On a semi-related note, I highly recommend costume malfunctions because it means you get to wear not one, but two costumes for Halloween! This wasn't a wardrobe malfunction a la Janet Jackson. It was an "I thought I had my costume from last year but I don't because I have the opposite problem of hoarding" malfunction. So the first night I borrowed my roommate's costume and the second night I got my own. Two costumes! Awesome. I'm doing this again next year.