Sleep Charisma

I've always wondered what it's like to sleep with me.  Not actually WITH me, but literally NEXT to me.  I wonder what it's like to say your sweet dreams, think you're finally going to get a solid summer nights sleep, pull the covers up to your chinny chin chin, let the city sounds lull you into a peaceful slumber...and then have your world rocked by some tall broad asking if she can borrow your umbrella at 2am. 

Ask my boyfriend, it happens to him every single night.

Per his account of events, I have managed to do the following while sleeping:

#1.  Way too early in our relationship ask way too creepily "DID YOU JUST ASK IF YOU COULD POOP ON ME?"

#2.  Ask him if I was actually sleeping with George Clooney.


#3.  Attempt with all my might to flip over his dresser because I thought he was stuck under it.

#4.  Proceed to unload one of the drawers of that dresser and create a pile on the floor then wake up to learn that I had put my pajamas and underwear on inside out and backward.
 
And that's really in the past 12 months that all of that has happened.  Before then I had my hands full...
 
#1.  Yelling at new roommates to "GET THEIR SHIT OUT OF MY WAY" while pulling their suitcases (which had been neatly piled in the closet) into the middle of the bedroom.
 
#2.  Frantically trying to rescue my grandma who I thought was trapped under my bed.
 
#3.  Taking all of the clothes out of my drawers and barricading myself behind a wall of refolded clothes aligned along my bedside. 
 
#4.  At middle school sleepovers asking my friends if they saw the man hunched over in the corner and probably consequently never having another middle school sleepover.
 
The weird thing about this sleep talking phenomenon is that I'm a really mild tempered person when I'm awake.  In fact, sometimes I worry that I'm actually more charismatic in my sleep and have considered falling asleep before I go to job interviews, house parties, weddings, etc. 
 
Go see a shrink you say?  No way! I sleep like a rock and my uber-patient sleep buddy says he enjoys the entertainment (either that or he's secretly videotaping me and plans to post it on YouTube and make a bundle).  Besides, who needs a shrink when any deeply seeded issues I could possibly have I rehash and work through from the hours of 11pm to 7am free of charge.

Grim Reaper Delivery.

When my mom answers the phone and says "Soooo...have you talked to your father yet today?"  experience has shown me that I should immediately hang up the phone and dial my pop. Not necessarily because I'm terrified of the bad news that I'm about to hear, but I know that his version of whatever bad news I'm about to hear is not going to be an episode of Days of Our Lives.  My mom's delivery of bad news takes twenty minutes and a panic attack to learn that my dad is, in fact not dead (because I was could have sworn that was where the story was leading).

Yet somehow, I keep falling back into the same ole black hole of bad news delivery from my mother.  This is how the conversation goes:

Mom: "Soooo....have you talked to your father yet today?"

Me: "Umm nope, but now I think I probably need to."

Mom: "Hmmm, well, hmmm, ok.  Hmmmmmm...well, I don't want you to freak out, everything is going to be fine, but..."

And then she goes into a 30 minute story about when my sister was visiting and they were doing some yard work and they found this mole on my dad's arm and you know how your father has that dark complexion and so he doesn't wear sunscreen and I keep telling him he needs to wear that sunscreen and you hear all those horror stories about people with melanoma and you know what melanoma is right, and so Rachel and I both thought for sure he should get it checked out but you know how your father hates to go to the doctor and I also told him he should get that sleep apnea checked out because he snores, have you ever heard your father snore, I mean the house sounds like it's falling down, but he says he doesn't have time to go to all these doctor appointments right now and he's been so busy fixing the Honda, did I tell you the Honda broke down, so your father finally goes to the doctor and we've all just been on pins and needles the past couple of weeks and do you know what they did, they took a HUGE piece of his arm out, I mean HUGE, like pineapple sized and they did a biopsy, you know what a biopsy is right, I've gotten a ton of them, well it's when they take a...

Me: "MOM I KNOW WHAT A BIOPSY IS.  IS DAD ALIVE?"

Mom:  "Oh.  Fine."

Me: "Well can you just tell me?  My heart is palpitating over here."

Mom: "Well yeah, of course he's fine! Geesh."

Phew.  So then she tells me the modified version I would have loved to have heard 20 minutes ago, I hang up the phone and call my dad and this is how the conversation goes:

Me:  "Hey, you ok?  I just talked to mom and it took me a while to figure out you hadn't died in a hit and run."

Pop: "Yeah, not to worry, they just took a chunk out of my arm and we're going to monitor it closely.  They should have taken some off the other side too, make me more sculpted on both sides, like a bicep tuck."

Done and done.

SKORT!

I've been stewing over this one for a while.  After conducting face to face interviews, leading hours of thorough due diligence and observation, and even taking the personal liberty to experiment on myself with the hopes of reaching some great epiphany that I would share with the world, (or at least my German and Taiwanese readers (see last post)), I remain baffled.

Ma'am, excuse me ma'am...WHY are you wearing that running skort?

I walked into the perfectly-lit-to-make-you-look-10-pounds-thinner-and-hence-buy-more-loot dressing rooms at LuluLemon with an open mind.  Hey, maybe that extra layer of cloth will channel the wind through my legs propelling me toward the finish line a hell of a lot faster.  Maybe I'll finally be discovered by modeling scouts roaming Lake Shore Drive just looking for that one gal who can really make sweat and tears look adorbs if you put a skirt on her.  Either way, I left with a solid chuckle and my mind securely sewn shut to the idea of running in a skirt with shorts fastened underneath them.

I suppose if you want to feel real pretty while you run, then by all means put that skirt on and work it, but if you're like me and are just trying to finish a run without peeing yourself, then separated exposed stems it shall remain.

Crazy Wench Has Gone Global!

Grüße Mitmenschen!  人類同胞問候！

That's obviously "Greetings fellow humans" in German and Mandarin.

That's right, lookout world...my blog has gone global!  According to those handy weekly stats compiled by Google, there are two foreigners reading my posts over their morning frühstück (who knew that the Germans had it in 'em to make the word breakfast sound dirty...). One resides in Taiwan, the other in Germany.  Granted, the German most likely found it trying to figure out how to spell "smorgasbord" and the Taiwanese person was probably hacking into my account (JK), nevertheless, I'd like to welcome both.  And being the inclusive, open minded, and cultured person that I am (after a week riding public transit in Mexico, I think I can throw cultured in that mix), I'm so happy to be a part of intimately connecting the globe.  Maybe soon I'll be able to convince a Canadian to read it.

If you are out there my new Taiwan and German friends, please feel free to contact me as I have a couple questions for you (#1.  Why do all German men wear speedos and capris? and #2. Where is Taiwan?).
 
在你的女孩叫喊.  Höller in dein Mädchen.  (That's obviously "holler at your girl" in Mandarin and German).

The Joys of Self Diagnosis

There are two reasons why I despise going to the doctor.

#1.  I'm terrified that I will go in with heat rash and come out with a flesh-eating bacteria diagnosis

and

#2.  I'm terrified that I will go in with [what I think can only be] a flesh-eating bacteria and come out with heat rash.

That second option is served with a severe case of Ifeellikeanasshole.