Sunday regurgitation: I got nothing

It’s Sunday, which means I re-publish a prior post of mine because I’m lazy. Or trapped under something heavy. Or I’ve been kidnapped and my family refuses to notice until they run out of clean underwear and can’t find the dirty ones.

.

I’ve been trying to pick a prior post to re-publish and then write something witty to lead up to it, the way I typically do on Sundays, but my wits have left me, leaving my mind a witless shadow of its former self.

An empty void.

A lonely place, a desolate, bleak, forsaken, barren, wasteland.

Strikingly similar to my pantry.

So I’m off to Wegmans and thereafter CVS where I’m going to try to wrap my head around coupons and the Extra Bucks phenomenon and score 432 bottles of shampoo and tubes of toothpaste for $1.25 and in the meantime, I’ll leave you with the post I wrote almost one year ago today because while it’s the logical thing to do, the post is all about being random, and being logical and random simultaneously makes me feel like a conundrum, which I hope is a lot better than feeling witless.

And besides, who can’t use little bits of randomosity in their lives?

Whenever I eat Lucky Charms, I save all the marshmallows until the end so that I can gobble them all up at once.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

*******************************

Random facts about me that you never knew you didn’t know

I’ve always enjoyed it when bloggers write this kind of post because I find out things about them that make me laugh, gasp, cry or run away from the computer, screaming.

I’ll find out that someone I thought was inhibited is actually covered with tattoos and piercings, works as a stripper and sleeps with anything that breaths.

I’ll discover that a stay-at-home-mom of five is a part time oceanographer and swims with whales on weekends.

I’ll find out that who I assumed was happily married is actually divorced and gay. But still happy.

I’ll learn that adorable photos are of children who left this world early to watch down from above.

I’ll read that someone’s favorite meal is monkey’s brains but only if they’re grilled and served with caramelized onions and cow tongue. This would be one of those run-from-the-computer-screaming facts I mentioned earlier.

I love to get to know people and I love to waste hours a day on my computer and “random fact” blog posts accomplish both of these tasks quite well. It’s a great way to escape from the mundane activities that encompass my life, like feeding my family or yelling at my daughters for the tenth time to TURN OFF THAT CARBON MONOXIDE ALARM ALREADY, IT’S GIVING ME A MIGRAINE.

I’ve always wanted to try my hand at it but I’ve hesitated for many reasons, not the least of which being that I am President of the Most Boring People on the Face of the Planet society and one of the requisites of being on the board is having absolutely nothing interesting to say about yourself.

Then I thought: Well, it just has to be random, not interesting. I can do random. I think.

Then I thought: There is nothing random about me. I am the poster child for organized, methodical thinking.

Then I thought: Who am I kidding?

Then I thought: But I’ve got absolutely nothing to say about myself that hasn’t been said already!

Then I thought: So what? It’s my blog and if I want to bore my readers, all ten of them, then that’s my prerogative.

Then I thought: I have ten readers? Where? Can they see me? (((waving madly at my screen)))

Then I thought: What if I can only think of two things for my list? Is that even a list? Maybe I’m too pathetic to do this. Should I not do this? If I don’t, will that mean I’m listless?

Then I thought: If by listless, I mean that I won’t have a written recitation of items with which to enthrall you, then the answer is YES. But if by listless, I mean lethargic and sluggish with no desire to exert the slightest bit of energy other than to lie here and grow hair, then the answer is YES. It’s a win-win.

Then I thought: What? You’re an idiot. It’s only random facts. How hard can it be?

Then I thought: Didn’t I ask myself that very question the day I tried to do a somersault and almost broke my neck and spent the rest of the week facing left?

Then I thought: For crying out loud, you’re about to lose the interest of the one person who felt sorry enough for you to stick around to this point. GET ON WITH IT ALREADY.

Then I thought: Why must I always yell at me? I hate it when I yell and if I do it again, I’m just going to leave me and never look back. So stick that where the sun don’t shine.

Here I am, getting on with it:

• When I laugh, I lose all motor control of both my thumbs. They become tingly and numb and useless and just hang there, serving no purpose whatsoever. So when I’m watching The Office, I have no opposable thumbs and am reduced to an eight fingered freak of nature. But that’s OK because I have no need for opposable thumbs while watching TV as I’m not allowed anywhere near the remote. As a side note, I’m considering adding my thumb phenomenon to my catalog of things I intend to worry about.

• I read magazines backwards. I flip through them back to front. I do this with magazines only because reading a book back to front is just weird and I’m not weird. I don’t care what they say.

• For the first thirty years of my life, no one saw my feet, including my first husband. I have never liked my feet and preferred to go through life having everyone think my legs ended in bloody stumps rather than have them see my actual feet. Then when I was thirty and going through a divorce, I discovered something that transported me to another world where there was sunshine all day, no elephant skin on my elbows and my thighs didn’t rub together when I walked. This world of sheer bliss was called Pedicure Land and after one hour, I knew I’d abandon my entire family for a one way ticket there.

• I hate change. Detest it. I’m not good at it. I resent it, in fact. It causes upheaval and uncertainty and goes against every single vow I took when I became a control freak. The only exception to this is interior paint. I have this need to constantly change the colors of the walls in our house, depending on my mood or where the sun is in the sky.

• I’m married to a man who believes it’s sacrilege to repaint a wall.

• I refuse to see the movie To Kill a Mockingbird and I do not care how many Oscars it earned or how great Gregory Peck was or how true the movie is to the story. This is my favorite book of all time and I know exactly what Scout, Jem, Dill, Atticus, Boo Radley, Tom Robinson, Calpurnia, Miss Maudie, Mrs. Dubose and every other character look like. I know exactly how dirty Scout’s overalls get, and how long Dill’s shorts hang, I can smell Boo Radley’s house, I can taste Calpurnia’s cooking and I can hear them “lining” in church. No movie will ever match my imagination.

• I have worn the same bracelet on my wrist for twenty-five years. It’s a sterling silver bangle from Tiffanys that was given to me by my godmother when I turned sixteen. I never take it off except to make meatloaf or to have it professionally cleaned and that’s only been one time. I mean, I’ve only had my bracelet professionally cleaned one time. I’ve made meatloaf lots of times, much to my family’s dismay.

• I don’t do it often, but I can burp louder than a fog horn. I use this God given talent to threaten my kids with utter humiliation in public if they don’t knock it off already.

• Much to Nate’s consternation, I firmly believe that we are not alone on this planet. When he starts at me with all the science, I cover my ears and shout I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I think it’s arrogant to assume that we are the only ones here. I mean, we go to the moon, we’re going to Mars, and there’s a space station, for crying out loud! So why can’t “they” drop what they’re doing, pack up their spawn, jump in their whatever, scream at the spawn to STOP KICKING THE SEAT, miss a galaxy, get lost, refuse to ask for directions and wind up here for a little vacay? Maybe they’re not the bug-eyed, pointy headed aliens we think they are. Maybe they don’t look like anything we’ve ever imagined. Maybe they look like dust and have set up house in my living room. Think about it.

• I once paid $100 for the privilege of owning a 1975 rust colored Datsun. Actually, the rust was more than just a color, it was the only thing holding it together. It had white and red racing stripes running up the side of it. Just so you know, because I can hear you laughing from way over here, I did not paint those stripes on it – it came that way and no amount of scrubbing with a brillo pad removed them. I last saw it on Interstate 490 when the entire floor just dropped onto the expressway.

• When I put my mind to it, I am a whiz at phone numbers. I can remember quite a few numbers at one time, all without the use of speed dial. I may not be able to remember my kids’ names, but no matter who’s house they’re at, I can dial the number without looking it up and ask to speak to the short, brown haired girl with glasses who forgot her swim suit on the kitchen table.

• Thirty years ago, I used to take piano lessons, spending hours upon hours practicing scales and triads. To this day, I will “run” scales with my fingers when I’m nervous or impatient or breathing. The first time Nate noticed me doing this was back when we were dating and we held hands, because we used to do that sort of thing before mortgages, kids and mammoth responsibilities.

• I tried to smoke a couple of times during that millennium when I was young and stupid because I thought it looked cool. Then I realized it didn’t really look cool to get nauseous, turn gray and hack up some phlegm on my boyfriend who, come to think about it, tasted like I had licked an ashtray when we kissed. Blech. I need some gum.

• I had a nose job when I was twenty because my nose was proportionate to a 6’2″ man and it entered a room three seconds before the rest of me did. If I could, I’d have another one, just to make it smaller and more perky. That reminds me … I need a boob job too.

• I can eat a pound of macaroni and/or potato salad without blinking an eye, but if you put straight mayonnaise on anything else, you might as well spread lamb feces on it.

Whew. I’m done. Are you still there?

How about you? How random can you be? Don’t make me look bad.

.

.