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 worse.

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.

What part of "closed" don't you get?

With the expected arrival of Hurricane Sandy tomorrow, New York City is preemptively shutting down all subways and buses tonight at 7 PM. Check out this post on NYU's Facebook page.

And you thought they were supposed to be smart here.

Conundrum

I'm having trouble falling asleep because I'm hungry but I don't want to get up to prepare food because I'm tired. This sad circular problem reminds me of the free Procrastination and Time Management seminar at school next week that I can't go to because I don't have time.

I am amazing at self-care.

The nice man at the chocolate shop asked me how my day was going. "My day is why I need this," I replied, pointing at the truffles.

I selected four exquisite morsels of dark chocolate and watched as he gingerly packed them into the cutest, tiniest little box.

He pointed to a rainbow of silky ribbons behind the counter. "Would you like a bow?"

This isn't a gift, I thought to myself. They're just for me.

A smile spread over my face. "Yes. A pink ribbon, please."

  Lest you think that's all I ate tonight, let me correct you. I made sliced steak, mashed cauliflower, and mushroom gravy from scratch with the juices left over from a chicken I roasted last weekend.

Of course, dessert was the best part.

Every social work program will tell you that self-care is vitally important. Yeah... I take that advice very seriously.

Time capsule

Do you remember that story about my mom's friend? You know, the one I wrote about in March of 2011? No? Oh, that's okay. I'll give you a few minutes to go read it! Don't worry, I'll wait.

Finished reading it? Good. (I know you didn't read it.)

What I'm about to tell you has nothing to do with that story. It has to do with the disclaimer that I wrote at the beginning of that post. Go read it.

A year and a half ago, when I wrote that entry, I was in the second semester of a bachelor's program at Stony Brook University. I knew that I wanted to get my master's degree from New York University, but that was still far away.

Today I'm starting grad school at NYU.

Sometimes I can't contain my laughter.

Today was a tough day at work for a few reasons, but here are two funny highlights.

1. This morning I tried to unlock my office door with my car remote.

2. Someone who comes to the mental health program where I work greeted me this morning. "Panthea! Good to see you!" I love it when I can understand what he's saying because most of the time it comes out as mumbles and word salad. Pleasantly surprised, I smiled and greeted him, putting a hand out for a fist bump. He looked at my fist with disdain and quipped, "I don't punch women, dumb ass!"

Here's another reason why I think this person is awesome. A few months ago, I overheard him calling another person at program an idiot.

"John*, who are you calling an idiot?" I asked him.
"Him!" He pointed out a man who didn't seem to notice.
"He's not an idiot," I sternly told him, putting my hands on my hips.
"He's an idiot," he quickly replied, nodding his head.
"That's not nice. Why are you calling him an idiot?"
He pointed at the man again. "He started it!"
My tactic clearly wasn't working. "John, I think you owe him an apology."
John turned directly to the man, looked him squarely in the eyes, and said evenly, "I'm sorry you're an idiot."

I stared at John for a beat, blinking my eyes, at a loss for words. If I opened my mouth to say anything I just knew I would burst out laughing. After a couple seconds, I just shook my head and walked away with a goofy smile on my face.

Awesome.

*not his real name

Thanks for telling me, Twitter.

A little background: I was born in D.C. and raised in northern Virginia, where my parents still live.

Wow. It took Twitter to inform me of the terrible storm in northern Virginia. Virginia is trending worldwide because the storm has caused major power and phone outages, taking Instagram offline and causing problems for other internet companies with servers in the area. People have died from fallen trees and 911 call centers are down. Two and a half million people are without power and temperatures are supposed to reach 99 degrees.

I had no idea, so once I saw this I called my dad's cell and house phone. Both gave me that fast version of the busy signal. They're down. I called my mom's cell phone and she told me she was getting ready for a party. Um... What?

Me: "You're going out? Just because the storm is over doesn't mean trees can't still fall. When the ground is wet and the trees are damaged by the wind..."
Mom: "Ohhh okay. So I von't take any small roads, just beeg roads."
Me: "Don't you think you should call them and see if the party's still on?"
Mom: "No. Don't you tink dey'd call if eet vuz canceled?"
Me: "Um... Not if their phones are out." (Or if their house has been crushed by a tree, for that matter.)
Mom: "Ohhh. Okay. I call."

She is determined to party.

In other related news, I read the following in an article regarding the outage of 911 call centers: "In Fairfax County, people with emergencies are being told to report them in person at fire and police stations."

I'm imagining a man running to his local fire station. As he gets to the door he leans forward to catch his breath and puts his hands on his knees, heaving and panting. "Th-Th-There...There's a fire! Started...th-th-thirty minutes ago, th-th-three m-miles back!"

Finally, please allow me to sound like an old fogey for a moment even though I'm 23. The way we receive information has shifted so drastically! It boggles my mind that I found out about this storm on Twitter because Virginia was trending in the world! Bizarre.

Nothing on Facebook is truly private.

This gem popped up on my news feed. This is why I stay friends with people from middle school on Facebook. The best part is, she'll probably never see this blog!

Let's chalk this one up to culture because I have no other explanation.

My mom called a short while ago. Here's how the conversation went down--or should I say downhill?

Mom: "You're home on a Friday night?"
Me: "Yes."

Mom: "Hehehe!"

Thanks, Ma. I'm adding that to the list of Shit My Mom Says.

Come to think of it, this list really should be expanded to include the following gem, posted on my mom's Facebook page by one of her relatives.

At least she said please and thank you.

Oh! Let's not forget the time another one of my mom's relatives told her that she saw a picture of me on Facebook wearing "see-through night clothes." 1. I'm an adult. 2. It was a bikini. 3. I was at the beach.

That is one reason why I reject about half of my relatives' friend requests on Facebook. The other reason is that despite your familiar last name, I've never heard your first name before in my life. In other words: who are you, how are we related, why haven't I heard of you before, and why have you heard of me?

Must pet Shelties.

This is Irby and clearly not the dog in Brooklyn.

A friend and I were in Park Slope, a nice neighborhood in Brooklyn, for a mutual friend's graduation party. Walking down the street, I saw a cute Shetland sheepdog (the same breed as Irby). So naturally, of course, I squealed and announced to no one in particular, "Sheltie!" I greeted the owner and asked if I could pet the dog. We made small talk and the owner asked to see a picture of Irby, which I showed her on my phone.

My friend Tatiana, meanwhile, had abandoned me and was several paces ahead.

When I caught up to her, she looked at me and shook her head. "You're not from here. This is Brooklyn! You could've gotten cut!" I snorted in response. Park Slope, broad daylight, cute Sheltie, young woman who seems friendly. I'll take my chances.

Later, I wanted to get a second opinion. I asked Chloe, Park Slope native and the friend who Tatiana and I were there to see. Here's how the conversation went on Facebook.

Me: "Random question. If you see a cute dog in your neighborhood do you say hi to the owner and ask to pet the dog?"

Chloe: "Not usually. If I went down the street and said hi to every cute dog I would never get where I was going." Clearly, she has exceedingly low standards for dogs but let's not judge her.

I explained to her why I asked and told her Tatiana's response. As a great aspiring social worker, Chloe attempted to normalize what I did.

Chloe: "If you didn't go up to the dog some 5-year-old would have later."

Thanks.

Let's play a little game.

Guess the context: "It's okay. That's why cars have bumpers!"

Shakespeare fail!

I just saw this written on Facebook: "To thy known self be true."

If you don't understand why that's funny, I'm sorry. I won't be able to help you. Actually, I can help. Stick with "Be yourself."

My roommate just texted me...from the other room.

It seems like everyone and their grandmother has unlimited text messaging these days. I don't. As a result, I don't send or respond to extraneous text messages. I have an example. Let's say you thank me in a text. That's very nice, so I respond with "You're welcome. :)" Don't respond with a smiley! You're welcome. :) does not require a reply! How about when people send paragraphs worth of text messages, one right after the other? If you have that much to say, don't you think you should call me? Text messages are a commodity!

Last Monday my friend Laura expressed how frustrated she was by my restricted texting. She offered to pay for me to get an upgraded text message plan! I thought this was a hilarious joke, but then I realized she was serious. Before taking her up on her generous offer, however, I needed to find out the catch. "Does this mean I have to respond to every single one of your texts?" I asked her. She confirmed my suspicion so I had to decline.


As the end of each billing period draws near, I check my text usage and remaining allotment. Imagine my surprise later that day when--just one week before my new billing cycle--I learned I had hundreds of unused texts! I immediately texted Laura.

Panthea: I have 500 texts to use before next Monday so fire away with the texts.
Laura (in separate messages): Yayyyyyy! Haha that
Laura: Makes
Laura: My
Laura: Day!!
Laura: :) he he he

On Friday I updated her on my messaging status.

Panthea: Hurry! I have 200 texts left until Sunday!
Laura: O sweet tell me about every detail of ur day so far

So I did. She loved it.

This is how rumors get started.

I love my internship at Agency XYZ, which provides clinical mental health services to people living with severe and persistent mental illnesses.

Today, a sweet female member of the program pulled me aside and told me she'd been feeling dizzy and faint earlier in the day. I expressed concern and asked her to inform her primary care physician, whom she has an appointment with this upcoming Monday. "It's probably nothing serious, but tell your doctor just in case," I explained.

"Aww, you don't have to be worried about me," she reassured me, patting my arm. "You're like a mother hen. You'll make a good mother." This woman has melted my heart a few times, and this was one of them.

Suddenly, I heard another female member's voice shoot out from behind me. "Panthea, you're pregnant?"

I spun around on my heel, snorting out a laugh. "No!"

"Oh, good. Your education is important."

Sound advice. Thank you.

I'm not supposed to say I hate cats.

My roommate, Haley, has a very vocal, very needy cat. In fact, I would even go so far as to say this cat should probably consider seeking professional help for her codependent tendencies. This cat has an annoying, pathetic, raspy, forlorn meow. Something bad happened to this cat in a past life and she's still torn up about it. Anyway, when she gets into one of her meowing kicks, I sometimes meow back, as obnoxiously as I am able.

"Mmmrrrrwwwwooowww...mreowww-ow-ow-owww." The cat taunts.

"Mrrrrrrrrrrrrwwwooowwwwwwwwwwwwww!" I retort passionately, daring her to out-meow me.

We were playing this game just now, as I was tagging pictures on Facebook from Haley's and my recent cruise. As I became engrossed in the meticulous process of tagging, I stopped responding to the cat's cries. She must have gotten bored too, because she soon fell silent. Suddenly, the silence was broken with a particularly piercing meow.

From the other bedroom came an angry accusation. "Was that you or her?!" Haley was apparently over this little meowing game I had going with her cat.

"It was her! I swear!" I pleaded in defense.

"No, it's not! That was human!"

"It wasn't me! I haven't meowed for, like, a whole minute!"

I really shouldn't be meowing in the first place. We humans speak. If you ask a toddler, "What sound does a cat make?" the response will be "meow." If you ask a toddler what sound a human makes, I don't know what the answer would be, but it definitely wouldn't be "meow."

My meowing days are over.