Entertaining Myselfie

Trevor rarely takes pictures.  I take a lot.  Sometimes I will show him a picture on my iphone and then he will commandeer my digital collection until he is satisfied reminiscing through all my old photos.  

We went through these motions just the other day.  "Hey, Trevor look at the picture of my new baby niece!"  I give Trevor the phone.  He gives his sincere "heh" and smile of approval and then starts scrolling.  He flips through pictures for awhile, while I move on to other things.  Then I can hear him in the background say something like "what the heck is this?" And start gasp-laughing.... Wha?...huh!...ehhh...haha..  I immediately freeze trying to think of what embarrassing photo he has stumbled upon.  

I often take pictures of random weird things I find in stores...

Or take screen shots of web pages when I attempt to self diagnose myself on webMD.

Or I will take screen shots to remind me to look something up later:

Or I will take screen shots to remind me of things I should buy for Trevor later:

But I feel like none of the above should be all that surprising to Trevor.  What could he possibly be laughing about?

Did I accidentally take a picture of someone's butt?

Did someone steal my phone and take perverted photos?

Nope.

Trevor had just stumbled upon my embarassing attempt to take what the kids call a "selfie." After a recent haircut my mother and sisters requested a photo.  So I secretly tried out my first series of self-taken self portraits.  I don't know how all those sexy people do it!

Serious face:

FAIL

Concerned face:

FAIL

Happy face:

FAIL

Glasses face:

FAIL

Glasses + smile:

= double FAIL

Indoor dumb face:

Meh, that'll do...

Maybe someday little Adalyn can teach her dear old desperate aunt how to take a proper picture. She is much more photogenic...

Peaceful face:

Ok, Adi. You win!

Running Around

It is finally getting warmer out, and I finally started running again.

My first day back, I cried the entire time.  It was not the "oh-my-god-this-hurts" kind of crying, it was more like the "I-am-PMSing-and-there-is-nothing-wrong-but-the-fact-that-there-is-nothing-wrong-makes-me-feel-empty-and-why-isn't-this-run-making-me-feel-better" kind of crying.  I stopped crying after the run, so I guess my methods worked, but it is unfortunate that I had to dampen the day of all the other runners on the path who likely think something terribly tragic happened to me.  Nope, just PMS mixed with this never ending winter and my reintroduction to seasonal affectiveness disorder.

A few days later, feeling much better, I went out for another run. No tears, so it is automatically an emotional step up from my last attempt. Although my head was clearer, my tummy was not.  You see we have not gone grocery shopping in awhile, and working from home, I could only eat what we had left in the cabinets...which happened to be goldfish crackers.  Having binged on salty crackers all day long, I stuff one more handful in my mouth before we head out because it is now 9pm and my last handful was around 5pm. So, ya know,  I could probably use the extra energy.  After 3 miles of intense stomach cramping, Trevor and I finish our workout.  Its 9:30pm though and neither of us really feel like cooking dinner.  Plus there is not much food left in the house.  We decide to walk a couple blocks to a Qdoba fast food Mexican restaurant and order a couple burritos.  Before even drinking water after the run, we scarf down our burritos (because, ya know, the best solution to stomach cramping is Mexican junk food).  Trevor practically carried me home where I was up all night with heartburn.

Recently, I went on a more successful run without any emotional or physical pain, however, I did get wrapped up in some good ol' social awkwardness. I was running along a path when I had to stop for a red light. While I was waiting for the light to turn green a middle aged woman came up to me and asked me where I got my shirt.  She had a slight accent that I would guess came from Russia or eastern Europe.  I looked down to see what she was talking about.  My shirt was nothing particularly special, just a plain white hooded fleece.   I remembered getting it when I was with Trevor and his Dad and his sister in South Jersey.  I know we were not at a Sport Authority, but at one of those other sporting goods stores.  I decide I must have gotten it from Dicks Sporting Goods.

I tell the Russian lady, "I got my shirt at Dicks, which is a sporting goods store."

She asks, "Is it in Harvard Square?"

 I reply,  "No I didn't get it around here, but Dicks are everywhere, you can just google it to find one."

To which she replies, "OK, I will google 'Dicks are everywhere,' Thank you!"

I immediately regret my poor choice of words and strongly consider re-wording her google search terms, but then the light turned green and she has already turned her back to walk away.  So I go back to running... now with a smile ...thinking of that poor lady.  I get home and tell Trevor about our conversation and how I fear that this poor Russian lady is at her computer now looking at awful websites and cursing Americans for pulling dirty tricks on her (even though I didn't mean to, although I didn't try hard to correct myself).  Trevor laughs.  Then he calmly says "You didn't get that shirt at Dicks, you got it at Modells." .....oops

Gender Differences & Lavatory Logic

Every time I walk into a public restroom I try to pick the stall that I think is the least likely used.  If there is a long line of stalls, then I will go all the way to the very end hoping all of the lazy people would just pick the first available.  If there are three stalls, then I will pick the middle one hoping that the lazy person would pick the first stall and then the person who has to go number two and does not want to be right on top of the lazy person, will pick the last stall, which leaves the middle stall wide open for who knows how long...I realize there are flaws in this theory.  For instance, it will only work under the following assumptions:

 1) no more than 2 people shall ever enter a three-stall bathroom at once; 

 2) one person must always be lazy and 

 3) the other person must always have to take a dump and be self-conscious about it. 

I also realize it is quite possible that everyone has the same theory and phobias as me and that they are picking the same last and middle stalls as well.  So I will oftentimes mix it up and go for the very first stall if I am in a place where I think no one is lazy (or a place where people may be more neurotic than the norm).   I wish public bathrooms would publicly display the stats on how often each toilet is used.  Sure some lazy, non-hygienic, or generally disinterested people will not care either way, but couldn't they at least give us obsessive compulsives out there a choice?!   Is it too much to ask for a little screen saying how many times each toilets been flushed? That's all I'm asking....please...

Anyway, I was out to brunch this past Sunday with Trevor and a couple friends, and midway through the meal I have to excuse myself from the table to go to the bathroom.  I open the bathroom door and there is no one in there.   There are two stalls available: one is normal; one is handicap.  When I am in a place where  I feel like there are not a lot of handicapped people around I will take the risk and go for the handicap stall.  I dread the day when a handicap person is waiting because I wanted the extra space, so I have to be fairly certain I am in a safe place.  The place we were in was a fairly hip restaurant, and although thefriend we were with was on crutches, I did not see any other canes, scooters, wheelchairs, or moms with kids in the vicinity.  I decide I should take the handicap stall assuming most people will take the normal,guilt-free, one if given both options.

But as I take a step toward the handicap stall I realize that the way in which the normal stall door opens is slightly awkward and the stall gets blocked by the big bathroom door.  You would have to walk around the main door to get into the stall. I drew you a picture so you would understand:

I decide that the extra steps and maneuvering it would take to get to the normal door would prevent people from choosing that stall... Making the normal stall the least likely used,  I head directly for it.

I do my business and when I open my stall door the front bathroom door opens simultaneously and and essentially traps me in.  Not wanting to startle or hit the incoming person, I silently, creepily back up against the wall hoping that the person will go right into the handicap stall and not even know I am there.  But alas the person must also have bathroom anxiety disorder because after initially going for the handicap stall, they hesitate, and then decidedly go for the normal stall.  In the process of closing the main bathroom door to get to the normal stall is when the person found me quietly backed up against a wall....surprise!?

The startled person exclaimed "OH SH*T!" for three likely reasons: 

1) the person was terrified at finding a strange, quiet, grown woman hiding silently and smiling anxiously alone in a public restroom that they intially thought was empty;

2) the person may have actually sh*t their pants they were so scared; 

3) it was a dude....in the lady's room...