43 Things

How did I even find out about 43things.com? I must have, somehow. It's randomly bookmarked among my favorite sites. My guess is that my sister told me about it. In case you're too lazy to click the link (in which case I weep for your future -- toss me some Kleenex, will you?), 43things.com is an ambitious-feeling site, positively rife with upbeat energy and motivation. It is a place where people congregate and bond over their goals. Granted, if you're too lazy to click the link and need me to describe it for you, this site probably would not help you at all. I'll give you the 411 anyway, though, because that's just the nice and friendly kind of person I am. It gives you the opportunity to set your own goals -- 43, if you want, hence the site name. You can browse through other people's goals. You can comment on those goals, and answer questions pertaining to them, and vote on whether you think the goals are worthwhile or not. It's just a great big Goal-Oriented Party! And I, for one, think that this is excellent.

I will admit, though, that other people's goals are giving me a little bit of an inferiority complex.

Here are some sample goals I first encountered when I went to the site tonight:

Spend more time with friends

Lose weight

Get a Ph.D.

Travel to Spain

Meditate daily

Create a budget

. . . and on. . . and on. . . and I think you get the idea of how commendable these goals tend to be -- how useful and valuable they are. They're meant to enhance people as individuals, thus transforming the total fabric of our society, one small thread at a time, until the fabric of our society is considerably less ragged and more like that luxurious outfit J-Lo was wearing while holding her babies on the cover of People magazine this month.

The admirable, non-frivolous nature of other people's goals essentially tells me that, in frequenting 43things.com, I have come to the wrong place.

I tried a few weeks ago to make a list of personal goals for 43things.com, and here were the main items I could come up with:

1) Get through a week without being called "Heather" by accident. (I suspect, by the way, that others suffer from the same dependency on first initials that I do.)

2) Dance without almost injuring someone in close proximity.

3) Learn how to raise one eyebrow at a time (and let me tell ya, I'll be spectacularly thrilled even if it's always just the same eyebrow; I certainly don't expect to master raising either one with equal adeptness).
4) Resist the temptation to lift my foot off the brake, momentarily, when I'm sitting at a red light that remains red as a green arrow appears.

5) Open soup cans without splattering soup everywhere. (I'm talking about cans where you awkwardly pull up tabs to remove the lids, not the cans that you just open with a normal can opener. One of these days, I am going to collect a bunch of tab-lidded soup cans and destroy them just as vigorously as the guys destroyed the office equipment in Office Space.)

6) On that note. . . go an entire day without once quoting Office Space or, for that matter, any movie or TV show I'm annoyingly obsessed with. (This is a toughie. I've lately found that I can't buy tea at the convenience store without turning it into an opportunity to rehash entire lines of dialogue, hell, even entire scenes out of context. Cashiers back away from me slowly, even when they don't have particularly far to go without bumping into the cigarettes.)

7) Maintain a strictly G-rated mindset while viewing a Mark Ruffalo film of any kind.
8) Attend a class that doesn't have this person in it.

9) Actually be able to answer the waitress, instead of choking out something unintelligible through a heaping mouthful of food (and almost having to resort to charades), when she approaches the table halfway through the meal and asks "And how is everything?"

10) Go out to a restaurant just for dessert! OK, I don't know if your family or circle of friends ever does this, but do you ever go to a restaurant and stuff yourself with dinner, then look longingly at the mouthwatering dessert menu and say, "Well, we're too full, but you know, sometime we should really go here just for dessert"? Well, I hear people saying that all the time. But -- whaddaya know -- nobody ever seems to do it! I never hear of anyone leaving the house with the specific goal in mind of going to a restaurant and only having dessert there. For some bizarre reason, it's typically just dinner. Well, someday, I would like to make this constantly-proposed dessert idea a reality. Just you watch me!

So. . . 10 things. See? Not only are they incredibly stupid, but I can't even come up with 43! No doubt about it, I am an embarrassment to the face of 43things.com and should not be going anywhere near it. That's why I feel guilty even about mentioning it in here. But, hey. . . if I could pass the word along and inspire just one person in some small way, then I have done my good deed for the day. And that makes me happy. Almost as happy as I'm going to feel when I smash all those soup cans into smithereens in a field somewhere. Here, you'd better hand me that box of Kleenex again.

(P.S. Do you remember the last time you honestly heard the word "smithereens" used in conversation?)

(P.P.S. Just felt like mentioning the number of "get over her" versus "get over him" goals on 43things.com. 148 and 1,095, to be exact. Makes ya think, no?)

Knee-Jerk Reactions

When you're going onto a highway, and you glimpse a red "WRONG WAY" or "DO NOT ENTER" sign (even if it's facing slightly away from your lane and is obviously meant for other drivers), is it ever possible not to feel your heart crashing into your stomach? Even just for the briefest, most nauseating split-second? I swear, I could check 10,000 times that I was going the right way, and even after being absolutely, positively certain, I'd still be unable to avoid at least a twinge of paranoia at the very sight, indeed, the very suggestion of that sign.

Here's another gripe: Why do they often set those signs so far from the "entrance" to that lane? By the time you clearly see it (assuming you are going the wrong way), do you really have a lot of time to back up and skedaddle outta there before someone else rounds a corner and collides with you head-on? You'd better hope you didn't just set an undesirable chain reaction in motion, a scenario where a few other highway-bound drivers blindly followed you like sheep and went the wrong way, as well, thus essentially blocking you from escape.

At the risk of sounding like a question in a grammar school textbook, I now shall use this blog as a vehicle (snort) to Reach Out & Connect:

Do you also momentarily second-guess your direction when a "WRONG WAY" sign is anywhere near your field of vision? Or am I just being a Nervous Nelly as usual? Explain.

Wanted: Support Group

I've had five dry pens on my desk for literally years. Every now and then, in a futile attempt to spark some life in them, I test them as fervently as a person can test pens without being declared officially insane. I dash them determinedly over the paper, making invisible scribbles, scratching the page like a lottery ticket, watching with bated breath as if anything at all were going to change. You'd think I were a microsurgeon performing microsurgery, that's how intense my focus can be, my hopefulness that the pens will someday, somehow yield some small sign of life. In the end, though, it's always the same. Always just the same old nothing. And yet, ridiculous though it sounds, I can't make myself throw these pens away.

Look at them, won't you -- I mean, really! They add a splash of color and vibrancy to my boring, businesslike desk. They bring back memories! Like, see this fluorescent green one? It says "Pi Sigma Epsilon" on it. Granted, I don't know what Pi Sigma Epsilon is. But. . . well, that just means I must have received this pen from a Pi Sigma Epsilon representative manning a table at some Activities Night in college. And, face it, Activities Night was usually fun! They played music at Activities Night. They probably gave us free food and sent balloons soaring to the ceiling or something. There, now -- see? See how much this particular pen means to me? There's just no way I can ever part ways with that!

Next, there's this transparent orange pen that says http://www.arthurandersen.com/. I assume this is a priceless memento from an Accounting Club meeting I attended around 2000, maybe 2001. Accounting Club was where we went each week to hear guest speakers, eat pizza, and have our pictures taken, unbeknownst to us, while we were eating said pizza. How the hell am I supposed to get rid of Accounting Club souvenirs that have helpful URLs on them? I simply don't have the heart. If I started doing that, I'd have to take it even further and toss out the legion of free T-shirts I've been granted at random events over the last decade. Once that happened, I'd actually be able to close my dresser drawer, and then my life would really seem empty and devoid of warm, fuzzy nostalgia. We certainly can't have that.

Then, there are two admittedly-sort-of-bland-looking pens (one navy-blue and the other red-and-white, but we can't always have everything) that I must have acquired at job fairs, or perhaps even -- gasp! -- the exact same job fair. (Wouldn't THAT be a spooky coincidence!) I bet I distributed my resume to these companies, but did not get hired, as evidenced by the fact that these companies' names do not ring a bell with me whatsoever. Well, if that is indeed the case, then these pens. . . oh, they signify so, so much. I can look at the companies' names, practice my Very Haughtiest Smirk, and proudly cackle, "Hahaha, your loss." I can comfort myself by remembering, even if these companies permanently crushed my deepest sense of self-worth and dignity by rejecting me, they at least thought highly enough of me to give me free pens. I can escape unromantic routines, every so often, by daydreaming about how life might be different if I worked for these companies. Not that I ever do any of these things. But, oh, if I hold onto these pens -- then, my friends, I always can. I always, if nothing else, have that option available. And merely having that opportunity, sometimes, is just what makes the difference.

The fifth pen's death is what really breaks my heart. I'm not sure if the person who gave it to me even knows about this blog, but the fifth pen was a gift, which in itself is devastating enough. To make matters even more catastrophic, it's my favorite color (green). It has a little dangly snowman at the top, and the snowman spectacularly lights up in red whenever the pen presses against a surface. For all of those reasons and more, this is the one deceased pen I have the fiercest feelings about. In fact, I'm not sure I even want to confess in this blog that it doesn't work anymore. If I created a museum, this pen would deserve an exhibit. I very well might write it into my will and leave it to my first grandchild, not necessarily because it provides an easy/comfortable grip, nor (again) because it even writes anything at all, but because -- well -- it's so damned cool. In my book, anyone who won't immortalize this kind of pen does not fully qualify as being human. It keeps my desk looking spiffy and festive, even on those rare days when you glance out the window and can't see a snowflake for two months in either direction. Therefore, nope -- nope -- nope. . . definitely not discarding this one at any point in the century.

So, that concludes the grand tour of The Hilmeister's Sad, Retired Writing Implements. I guess TV shows aren't the only things that "jump the shark," but, hey. . . even if these pens are no longer quite the generously flowing sources of ink they were in their heyday, I'll always love them. I'll forever cherish them -- not just for what they are, but also for these poignant anecdotes. . . all these things they tirelessly represent to me.

Now that the tour is finished, does anyone have any questions?

(Oh, and in case you're alarmed, I promise to spare you the gory details in the unlikely event that I ever muster the emotional strength to clean out my closet.)

Mental Barriers

I just was wallowing in pointless melodrama (which is shockingly fun, every so often) -- dwelling on how I really don't mean much to the vast majority of people -- how they seldom think to talk to me unless they want something tangible and I happen to be conveniently standing there.

Interestingly, what dismayed me even more than this train of thought was that I suddenly hit a stumbling block when needing a word that conflicts with "valuable."

"I feel. . . invaluable to people? Well, no, I can't say that. . . because it sounds like what I want, but actually has a positive connotation, as does 'valuable.' Talk about stupid, that they should look so different while meaning something similar. Who ever came up with that ridiculous idea? If 'valuable' means 'having value,' then why shouldn't 'invaluable' mean 'not having any value'? Hell, if we're arbitrarily going to cancel out the apparent opposite of 'valuable,' then why don't we just do that with all the descriptive words there are? 'Pretty' and 'unpretty' can both mean 'of beauty-pageant-caliber.' 'Expensive' and 'inexpensive' can both mean 'affordable only in the world of Bill Gates.' Way to make the language even more idiosyncratic than it already is. As if we really needed any more things like that! But, anyway. . . what should this word be? I feel. . . non-valuable? I feel. . . un-valuable? But those just don't have a ring to them! Using a hyphen makes it look too. . . unnatural, somehow. And I'm looking for something that has a certain spontaneity about it, gosh dammit!"

I guess I could have thought "I feel not valuable," or "I don't feel valuable," and simply left it at that. . . but for whatever reason, that phraseology sounded a little clunky and awkward for my liking. Therefore, I was utterly stuck on finding a single, efficient adjective and being done with it. But, alas, that adjective I craved just kept evading me.

Maybe I was being finicky.

(P.S. I recognize in retrospect that I could have gone with "worthless." However, even in my woe-is-me state of mind, I sought something a little more temperate and diplomatic than that. "Invaluable" would have been the sure winner if it just had the fitting definition. Finicky, again, as I said.)

Subtle Sensory Stimulation

Just spent 90 minutes treadmill-walking on an incline in the dark while watching a movie, listening to music on headphones, lifting light weights with one arm, drinking iced tea with the other, counting weight-lifting reps, resisting the temptation to scratch my itchy forehead, attempting to perfect my posture/breathing, and -- speaking of breathing -- inhaling air that I'd sprayed with cinnamon-scented air freshener to: 1) distract myself from my own sweaty repulsiveness, 2) make this whole adventure smell. . . just. . . well, prettier.

I'd thought about reading a book, too, but eventually decided against it.

After all -- y'know -- if you're going to do something, might as well focus satisfactorily and not do it all half-assed.

It's Run-On Sentence Time!

I feel as if there's some kind of window into my body that tells people when I'm hungry and/or have to go to the bathroom, and it makes those people choose that particular time to have prolonged conversations with me that I really don't know how to get out of.

I Have Teeth & Know How to Use Them

I just would like you to know that I bit a small section of a prong off my fork while eating lunch today.

Granted, it was a flimsy plastic fork, as opposed to actual, glittering, rock-solid silverware. But, um, just forget I ever mentioned that tiny detail. If you ignore it, my accomplishment will sound all the more spectacular, and my teeth will sound all the more indestructible.

And after all, if you're honest with yourself, isn't that really what life is about?

Bizarro English

Think of the definitions of the words "horrify" and "terrify." Hmmmm. . . OK.

Then, however, think of the (commonly-used) definitions of the words "horrific" and "terrific."

Who the hell came up with that? The same person who determined that the phrase "fat chance" should mean the same thing as "slim chance"? The same person who decided to call hemorrhoids "hemorrhoids" instead of "asteroids"?*

This is just reason #379 (approximately!) why I'm glad I will never have to learn English as a second language.

*with apologies to Robert Schimmel

What Happens When You Speed-Read

I glanced at this collection of Yahoo! headlines:

Bill Clinton disputes claims he made race a campaign issue
IRS to begin sending first economic stimulus payments in May
Ship's pilot charged in San Francisco Bay oil disaster

. . . and somehow saw the sentence "Bill Clinton charged in San Francisco Bay oil disaster."

Could be much more drastic, though. I remember the time I casually looked at the word "Sunshine" in a song title and mistook it for a word that, um, wasn't "Sunshine" at all, but was a certain word that began with the letter "S," and one that I don't exactly think I will put in this blog, and it wasn't what you probably think it was, either.

Yeah, I know you love it when I do that.

(By the way, this completely pointless post is just an attempt to procrastinate on nine months' worth of filing. I'm writing it in the same spirit as the completely pointless "I dislike packing" post from waaaaay back on February 2nd.)

EDIT THE NEXT DAY: I just noticed that my Bill Clinton sentence could have been so much more comical if it included the word "stimulus" from the middle headline. Dammit.

Exaggerated Hotness

If, hypothetically speaking, I bestowed the above title on a blog post, what would you expect that blog post to be about?

. . . Well, if you guessed "personal ads," "blind dates," or "airbrushed photo shoots," then I'm gleeful to inform you that you were wrong!

I went out to dinner with friends this weekend. Not gonna mention the restaurant by name, since I get paranoid about defamation lawsuits (as if restaurant executives really cared to pour their spare time into hunting down this lowly blog). Anyhow, the waiter brought us a plateful of appetizers, and of course, he felt compelled to advise us that the plate was EXTREMELY HOT. It wouldn't be a classic dining experience, after all, if the waiter didn't advise us that the plate was EXTREMELY HOT. I can never go out to dinner without thinking of that SNL skit where the plates were so steaming hot that -- if I remember this right -- they crashed right through the table and set everything in the vicinity on fire. Recalling this particular skit is one of my most beloved traditions at restaurants. It ranks right up there with celebrating the food's long-awaited arrival by quoting Kevin James' Sweat the Small Stuff: "Oh, you lost your job? Oh, that sucks. Hey, the food's here!"

Anyway. . . uhm. . . where were we again? Oh yeah, hot plates. Well, this waiter really made a production of it. He reiterated at least three times that the plate was hot, as if we couldn't understand him the first and second times. Not only that, but he injected an actual physical component into his warning about how hot the plate was. He set it gingerly on the table's edge, as if it caused him great torment to do so, and then nudged it oh-so-tentatively towards the center of the table. We were watching in fascination to see exactly how long it would take him to maneuver this plate. I'm not kidding, he was jabbing it at such a rate that it moved about half an inch every two seconds. I found the whole spectacle to be spellbinding. I'll admit, too, that it really got my hopes up. This must be some smokin' hot plate, all right!

Well, as soon as he'd walked out of our sight (having miraculously survived the ordeal of prodding the plate at all), we bravely decided to poke it and see for ourselves what he'd been talking about. Imagine our crippling disappointment when we discovered that the plate was lukewarm at best. From that moment on, we started marveling at what a wimp the waiter was. Or perhaps the explanation ran deeper than that. Maybe he'd been especially brainwashed by the Plate Hotness Phenomenon that's swept the restaurant industry. Maybe his sensors that detect dishes' temperatures were completely screwed up. In any event, poor, poor guy. . . unless they were conducting an experiment and observing us with hidden cameras to see if we'd dare touch the plate, in which case the joke was on us.

Oh, and this story gets even worse. Not even five minutes later, that same waiter was delivering a plate to the next table, and it was evidently so hot that it fell out of his hands and shattered all over the floor. Lest you are curious about that plate's gruesome fate, I must regretfully note that, no, it did not explode into flames. Sorry I don't have a more exhilarating ending for you. Oh -- um -- wait a minute. . . I do.

The rolls at this fine dining establishment looked uncannily like butts!

There! Happy, now?

Problems?

My back is currently drier and scalier than a lizard's. Nothing seems to be helping at all. Therefore, in a state of desperation, I just went to the almighty Internet and typed "dry skin on back" into a search engine. At one point, while scrolling through a couple of pages of utterly unhelpful search results, I stumbled upon one with the following sentence displayed:

"I HAVE A PATCH OF DRY SKiN ON MY PENIS AND IN MY VAGINA TOO!"

This struck me as a very interesting statement to make. I think that person may have something slightly more significant to worry about than just dry skin.

On the other hand, patch(es) of dry skin notwithstanding, this -- umm -- individual might also have double the chances of getting a date on a Saturday night.

(with apologies to Woody Allen)

The Fine Art of Brown-Nosing

Even after graduation from the formal schooling environment, many of us never fully escape from the concept of the classroom. Oh, maybe people spend most of their days performing their official jobs, but every so often, there will be some lovely, inevitable training to contend with. You could think of any number of terms to describe it, really. Inservices, workshops, presentations, meetings where you must sit in a darkened room and watch PowerPoint slides or totally insincere-feeling videos as your eyes develop the Deadly Glaze of Death. . . I think you get the gist of what I am talking about.

If you're familiar with this notion, have you ever noticed that there is always a certain person in each of these "classes," so to speak? Yeah, you know. . . that person. The person who always comes in meticulously prepared. Has enough materials on hand to stock an office supply cabinet, in fact. She prefers to sit in the very front of the room, as close to the instructor as is humanly possible without actually taking over the instructor's body. Once the training begins, this person seems determined to drag it out for 45 minutes longer than if she would just sit there and remain quiet. Everything the instructor says paves the way for another irrelevant anecdote from this person. Every lull in the action is just another opportunity for her to raise her hand and ramble about something completely unrelated to the discussion. After a while, everyone wants to scream. This is particularly true of the instructor, whose patience is wearing thin, and whose smile becomes visibly forced and strained. "Can anyone guess what this acronym stands for?" she'll ask. Predictably enough, The Person will wave her hand, so convinced that she knows what the perfect answer is. The instructor will either pretend she doesn't see this at all, or will diplomatically suggest, "Well, how about if we hear from somebody who hasn't talked in a while?" You're half-tempted to approach the instructor at day's end and wearily propose that you all just go out for drinks.

I mentioned this topic to my friend Scott today, and he offered up a theory that, since every training session in existence seems to include such a person, it is probably always the same one. Yes! Utter brilliance! Why did I never think of this before? It's likely a person who is bored out of her mind, has nothing else going on in her life, and travels around the country for a living, hunting down random training sessions to attend, perfecting the skill of annoying the hell out of everybody she sees! Maybe, just to mix it up once in a while (and to keep people from getting suspicious), she occasionally puts on a wig and fake glasses. But -- make no mistake about it -- this person is out there somewhere, and she's getting away with bloody murder! Now that I have been alerted to an issue of this magnitude, I am genuinely concerned about the impact on our sanity. The atrocity must be stopped!

I am asking you now for your help. If you manage to catch this smug lady and halt her in her tracks (which may not be so easy, since she always does slink inconspicuously out of training sessions), make sure to let me know and I'll give you a reward.

Assuming, that is, that I ever think of one generous enough.

The Biggest Consequence of Clumsiness

I just spilled root beer all over the faces of the baby golden retrievers on my mousepad. So sad. Now they're all dark and spotty and not so cute anymore.

I will note, though, that I tried soaking the mousepad in water and left it to air-dry overnight. Just a desperate attempt to salvage the puppies' appearance. Let's see if they're adorable again by morning.

(I know you'll be waiting in breathless anticipation to learn how this saga unfolds.)

Never-Ending Excitement

I just started my day by getting up waaaaay before the alarm went off, sitting in an armchair for an hour and a half, gazing blankly at the TV screen, and doing nothing.

It was wonderful. It was absolutely wonderful.

I want to go back to bed.

The Red Light That Lasted Longer Than Some Marriages

I sat at a red light today for five minutes.

Yeah, you "heard" me. Five stinkin' minutes.

When something like that happens, it's hard to know exactly what to think. You wonder, am I going crazy? Did the light at this intersection stop working? Have I suddenly lost my ability to discern between colors? You find yourself hallucinating. You question whether the light changed from red to green to yellow to red again and you just happened to miss that whole sequence because you were daydreaming the entire time. Me, personally, I tried waking myself up by twisting my arms restlessly around and stretching them as far above my head as I possibly could. I also played a full song on my CD from start to finish, and even when it ended, the light was still red. This experience was very surreal to me. Yes indeed, it was very, very surreal.

Cars began piling up behind me. (Well, maybe not "piling," since we are, after all, talking about a quiet little side street. But there were definitely two cars besides my own in this predicament.) I looked at the car stuck behind me (making sure to alternate those glances with other glances back towards the light, in the incredibly nonexistent event that it would ever switch to green) and commenced analyzing the occupants of that car. They appeared to be teenage guys. Four of them, to be precise. They were talking animatedly most of the time, but they also occasionally made faces as if they were in pain. Maybe they were just as alarmed by the red light's startling duration as I was. Maybe one of them had to go to the bathroom. Your guess is every bit as good as mine.

I found this little scenario amusing for a while, but at long last, I just couldn't take it anymore. Yes, I'd been intending to make a left-hand turn, but this simply would not be a possibility. Sorrowful though this sounds, I had to turn my back on my convictions and waste a quarter-mile of gasoline if I was ever going to get anywhere before the decade ceased. I desperately flicked the turn signal, executed a right-hand turn, and then reversed my direction with the help of a vacant driveway. Success! Now, I was heading back where I'd originally planned to go. When I proceeded through that same intersection, the light for that side street was still red (even though a full minute had now gone by since my impulsive right-hand turn), and the same two cars continued to wait patiently. . . or anxiously. . . or frustratedly. Who really knows.

I do predict that, if I return to that intersection in the year 2055, those teenage boys will still be sitting there. Maybe they won't remember who they are anymore. Maybe their hair will have turned a distinguished shade of silver. Maybe they'll be wearing dentures.

That's assuming they called their dentist on the cell phone and summoned him/her to the eternally lingering car so they could have their dentures fitted, mind you.

Twilight Zone

I received exactly zero calls and zero messages on my phone at work today.

I am scared.

I am very, very scared.

Bitching vs. Bragging

First off, I'd like to establish that bragging is one of my biggest pet peeves on the entire planet, and if you know me really well, you probably know that. I mean, don't get me wrong, confidence in your own abilities is great. Being excited about some new milestone in your life is a terrific and understandable thing. If you're genuinely proud of yourself, then, yay! Let's go have a drink; I'm happy for you. But if you develop a swollen head and drone on and on eternally about how perfect you are, for seemingly no reason but that you like to hear yourself talk, you'd better believe I will tune you out in a hurry. I will do the smiling and nodding and mechanical "Uh-huh. . . mm-hmm" thing without fully listening to a word that you're saying.

With that being said, I expect that you will do something similar if you somehow manage to stumble through the vast majority of this blog post.

I turned 27 a month ago, and luckily, I brought a purple notebook on my travels so that I could document everything I did from start to finish (and I mean, literally, from midnight to 11:59 p.m.) on that particular day. Mind you, my typical birthday over the years has involved such mundane "adventures" as going to school, going to work, and battling a nightmarish amount of slushy, icky snow in the process. This year, however, was a different story altogether. Let's just say it will be many, many moons before I can claim to do such things as the following on my birthday again:

• Karaoke, which could conceivably yield enough material for a short story in itself. (This merely reinforced about half a dozen theories I'd unofficially held for a while, including the one that karaoke sessions never seem to be done until some lady gets up there and badly belts out "I Will Survive.")
• Dancing in the nightclub and seizing about three seconds to sit on a bed, just so we could say we'd done that. Yes, that's right, the nightclub had beds. Red velvet ones with massive, regal headboards. Ooh la la.
• Sleeeeeep (although not in the nightclub beds, sadly enough).
• Breakfast in the elegant dining room. This consisted of tea, orange juice, chilled melon, and buttermilk pancakes with blueberry syrup, in the unlikely event that you're curious.
• Taking a mid-morning nap and a shower somewhere in there. (Hey, you've gotta rest when your day so far has been so strenuous, right?)
• Taking a boat from the ship to Grand Cayman, since we couldn't dock at the island itself.
• Taking a cab to Seven Mile Beach. I was feeling ambitious and wanted to walk down there at first, but in retrospect, that would have been a little crazy, especially considering I was wearing a sarong and flip-flops. The cab ride was roughly five miles long, and the scenery was beautiful!
• Lying on the shore, swimming in the ocean (YESSSSSS), drinking a banana ice cream smoothie in the shade, and swinging briefly on a playground swingset. (I say "briefly" because it practically gave me motion sickness. I swear I am not making this up!)
• Returning to the ship and scarfing down yummy penne alfredo with mushrooms at the lunch buffet.
• Taking a really long nap (which left grains of sand scattered throughout my bed) and having dreams that made me wonder just what psychedelic drugs I was on. Alas, details of said dreams were apparently omitted from my notes. That's all right; this post is long enough, anyway.
• Getting dressed up and pretty (and trust me, you won't often hear me use the word "pretty" to describe myself by any means, but it was the one-in-a-million evening that I was truly satisfied with how I looked).
• Bowling three games, one for free because it was my birthday, the other two for 50% off because they just happened to offer a bowling special that day. The rental shoes were free, as well. Oh, and to make it even better, we timed this just as the ship was departing from Grand Cayman around dinner hour, so there was almost nobody else in the bowling alley at all. The big screen on display above the lanes featured music videos from the early-to-mid-'90s. It was pretty awesome to watch Bobby Brown and Sir-Mix-A-Lot while bowling at sea and getting such horrible scores as 50, 52, and 64 (mainly because the ball insisted on curving waaaaay over to the right, almost immediately, no matter which frigging direction I threw it).
• Going to the steakhouse for filet mignon and sauteed mushrooms. Yep, more mushrooms. I certainly got my fill of mushrooms that day. They also took our picture, brought me a cake and ice cream afterwards, and sang "Happy Birthday," which you'll notice they never sing in American restaurants, due to copyright laws or some such thing. (I ate maybe one or two bites of the cake, tops, and you will see why fairly soon.)
• Playing a suspenseful game of Scrabble in the card room.
• Digging in at the much-anticipated CHOCOHOLICS' BUFFET! Now, this was incredible! Just for that night, they had chocolate-dipped strawberries and bananas, chocolate cheesecake, mousse, eclairs, cake, brownies, you name it. All kinds of stuff I can't even remember in addition to that. I wouldn't be surprised if there was an enormous chocolate fountain, though I didn't happen to see one. I filled up a plate's worth and would have gone back for more if it weren't all so sickeningly rich. Also, we enjoyed our treats out by the swimming pool. (Now, can you see why I didn't want to waste my appetite on cake at the steakhouse?)
• Catching the tail end of some lame game show involving four married couples. Let me give you a quick overview. First, they did some kind of incomprehensible relay race that called for bursting a balloon in a very sexual-looking manner. Then, the guys had to clench a toilet paper roll between their legs, and their blindfolded wives had to aim a stick into the toilet paper roll while the guys verbally directed them on where it was. Oh, and if memory serves me correctly, the guys had restrictions on exactly how much they could say, making the endeavor that much more thrilling. As you can imagine, the announcer got a kick out of punctuating this spectacle with such profound insights as "Watch out for the family jewels!" and "Don't forget, ladies, just gently ease it in there!" (I think the people who developed this idea were on drugs even more potent than the ones I'd unknowingly ingested before my aforementioned second nap of the day.)
• Seeing the Comedy Troupe's family-friendly improv show in the lounge at the top of the ship. (I say "family-friendly" because they produced a "not-so-family-friendly" one on the following night. 'Nuff said.)
• Stopping by our room to find the beds turned down and mints on a white towel that had been folded to look like an elephant.
• Putting on our swimsuits and relaxing in the quiet hot tub for something like 20 minutes.

I wrapped up the day by writing in my sandy bed while sipping tea and hearing more music videos in the background. (Well, the "music videos in the background" were pretty much a given anytime we were in our room. Let me tell ya, I tend to avoid the word "fabulous" [which sounds a little too fashion-designer-esque for my taste], but it really must be said: That channel was nothing short of fabulous.) So, yeah, that was the day I turned 27 -- and just one of five days we spent on the cruise; the other four were every bit as insane! Come on. . . if you had a birthday like that, wouldn't you want to write about it, too?

Unfortunately (or not, depending on your perspective), I sometimes feel as if there's a designated ceiling on how much happiness or unhappiness a person can experience at any given time. Life by nature is so shades-of-grey, it's very rare that everything is totally flawless or completely unbearable at precisely the same moment. If something seems too amazing to be true, it likely means that you're due for a vicious wake-up call to balance out the whole scenario at some point soon. At least, that's been my observation.

Case in point: Yesterday. After a hectic month (to say the least), my family finally got around to going out for dinner to celebrate my birthday. (I guess I can be grateful this occurred, at least, within the right season; there was a year in high school when my birthday party kept getting postponed and postponed until -- I kid you not -- May 28.) I think the forces of fate decided that, since I'd had such a wonderful real birthday, it was time to teach me a lesson by making me absolutely stinkin' miserable at my belated birthday dinner with the relatives. "Ha, ha, ha! So she thinks she can get away with bowling on the ocean and sitting around in a jacuzzi on her birthday, then feeling halfway-decent on the one day that 10 people are actually available to get together? Well, let's just see about that!"

This was right in the middle of three days of hardly eating, four nights of sleeping poorly, and virtually an eon of blowing my nose incessantly and sounding like a frog. I walked into the restaurant looking like a corpse, but with a weaker demeanor and much more nausea. On more occasions than I could count, I almost collapsed face-forward onto my plate. Just choking down one and a half cups of tea, let alone being sociable, was a struggle. I was seriously crying at times, seriously in tears, dignity be damned, because my headache was so brutal. Upon arriving home, I crashed into bed, lay there like a statue for about eight hours, and wanted to scream in pain (if I only had the energy) any time I moved my head a fraction of a centimeter to the side. Even the faint blue light from my alarm clock, when my eyes were closed and I was facing away from it, seemed like glaring a thousand brilliant light bulbs directly into my field of vision. That's how ridiculously bad it was.

I guess the moral of the story is, if you hate me for how much fun I had on my birthday, you can go ahead and start liking me again now. Unless my health-related whining has rapidly grated on your nerves, that is. (If you think I'm a barrel of laughs now, though, just you wait until I hit my 90s and commence the spellbinding tales of dementia, arthritis, laws of denture maintenance, and other such desirable notions.) (Oh, and by the way, do you want a severely-delayed account of my four unbirthdays on the cruise, or are your eyes [and your overall sanity] just not up for it? Feel free to vote yes or no. But no matter which way you vote, I'm betting I'll just write about it some day when I'm bored, anyhow.)

P.S. My apologies if the format of today's ramblings looks bizarre in some places. I have reached the not-so-scientific conclusion that trying to make a bulleted list in a blog post is a certifiable pain in the neck.