Tonight finds Kansas City in the midst of a snowfall, a winter weather warning in affect until 6:00 a.m. Perhaps an inch or two of snow has fallen already, covering the streets that are coated with a sheet of ice from the rain that pelted the ground all day. Rain that turned to ice when the temperatures fell below freezing once the day finally morphed into evening.

From my apartment, I can see downtown Kansas City. The falling snow, icy roads, and late hour has left the city quiet. Snowflakes flutter past my window, swirling in a slow circular movement. The sky is eerily purple, a hazy hue that has taken an odd color due to the reflection of the streetlights, city skyline, and snow.

It's a beautiful, lonely sight. I love snowfalls like these, watching the snow shroud my city in quietness. Yet the stillness of the city combined with the silence in my place leaves me melancholic. It's a reminder of the aloneness that I occasionally feel, a feeling that I know is not just isolated to me but that everyone feels at some point in their lives. So I try not to dwell on the loneliness that's wrapped itself around me as I look out over the snowy city. Tomorrow will bring clear skies and interactions with a dozen different coworkers, friends, and family members. The quiet of this snowy night will once again be filled with the sounds of moving vehicles, trains on the railroads, conversations, and the other city sounds that I have learned to tune out as background noise. And this pensive, melodramatic mood will shift back into that average mustering of optimism and appreciation.

Validated

Yesterday I finished the book I was reading.

Today I feel better about myself. Goodreads has let me know that I'm back on track for 2019. Maybe I don't need to write this year off quite yet.

At least that is, until I check my reading challenge status tomorrow and discovered that I've fallen behind once again. 

Goodreads might be the single most judgmental source I have in my life right now.

Reading Challenge Fail

I logged into my Goodreads.com account this morning to check how many books I've read so far this year. I thought for sure that one of the books I finished reading around the holidays I had completed after January 1. 

I had not. Instead, what greeted me on my homepage was the progress on my Goodreads' 2019 Reading Challenge. 

Son. Of. A. Bitch. Less than four weeks into the new year, and I am already behind schedule. Despite its small font, the "1 Book Behind Schedule" note feels like its staring at me accusingly, as if I've already failed miserably in 2019. That I might as well write 2019 off and pray to God that 2020 is a better year. I hope that Goodreads.com is not sending me an ominous premonition of the year to come. 

1 book behind schedule...already I see the pressure of 2019 coming down on me in a self-selected reading goal. I'm panicking as I try to map out a plan as to how I can get back on track. I oddly want to receive praise from Goodreads.com. (If I read three books today, will it tell me that I am 1 book ahead schedule...????)

I'm calculating how much longer it will take me to read my current book based on the pages left in my current book (I'm on Page 102 of 231); the rate at which I'm reading it (I'm going sooooo slow...I should have just counted watching the Ted Talk as reading the book); and how whiny I've become in the last 10 minutes since I discovered that I'm already behind on my reading goal. At this rate, I will complete the book in 2045 and Goodreads.com will have forever banned me from their website, let alone any future reading challenges. 

Let's Take a Test

I find online quizzes amusing. They're also an amazing way to kill time.

Here are some of the things I've discovered about myself thanks to these amazingly crafted quizzes:

1. I belong in the Ravenclaw house at Hogwarts.
2. My 5 Languages of Love are ranked in the following order of priority: Quality Time, Words of Affirmation, Physical Touch, Acts of Service, and Receiving Gifts. 
3. The Muppet I most identify with is Fozzie Bear.
4. Based on the colors I selected, my favorite sex position is doggy style.
5. I should travel with Ashley Olsen over Mary Kate Olsen.
6. I am not an alcoholic.
7. Based on the seven words I selected, I should have a pear-shaped engagement ring.
8. I am the character Eleanor Shellstrop from "The Good Place". 
9. My inner fear that I never knew I had is being around my friend when something dramatic happens to my friend.
10. I do not have the traits of a psychopath. (I scored lower than 55 percent of the people who took that quiz. It was unclear as to which of those individuals actually identified as a psychopath.)
11. The on-screen clique I should be in is the girls from Pretty Little Liars. (I've never seen the show, so...I'll assume that that's good.)
12. I belong in the Slytherin house at Hogwarts.

Catnip Smells Like Weed

I appreciate that when I searched on Google for "What is catnip?", the following fact came up: Research done at Iowa State University showed that catnip was 10 times more effective at repelling mosquitoes than DEET. I realize now that I should have been rolling in catnip before heading out to any mosquito infested area. While I might have risked being attacked by a feral cat, at least I would have been free of mosquitos and the fear of the West Nile virus.

I never considered myself a cat person. My family had a cat named Mikki when I was a toddler; she was run over by a car one day when she followed her boyfriend Azrael, the neighborhood rebel, across the street one day. My only memory of Mikki is when she had diarrhea and my brother stepped in a big pile of her poop in our sunroom. My mom tells the story of how Mikki jumped on the Christmas tree, knocked it over, and my mom had to ask the neighborhood kids to help her upright the tree since my dad was at a wrestling meet.

My stepdad was allergic to cats, so we got a dog when I was in second grade. Since that time, my life has been filled with dogs and dog lovers; growing up, rarely did anyone have a cat as a pet. So, while I've been exposed to cats over the years, but they've always freaked me out. The way that they can jump on anything from anywhere and to heights that seem impossible to reach but yet they somehow jump 25 feet in the air to walk on a door jam; how you can walk into a room and not see them but they're there watching from an undisclosed location; how they just don't seem to give a fuck as to what anyone thinks about them. 

However, that all changed in the last few years as two of the most important people in my life have cats. Not just a cat, but two cats. Sydney and Grayson, and Gus and Gertrude. I met Syd and Gray through one of my good friends, and Gus and Gertie came into my life when I met my boyfriend. 

And suddenly I became a cat person. I realized this the moment that I missed Gus and Gertie when I didn't see them for a few days. At our reunion, I pressed my face against their little wet noses and furry bodies and told them that I missed them. I now find myself browsing Amazon for cat toys, researching whether a cat water fountain is worth the investment, and giggling over cat memes and videos. I bought Gus and Gertie their own personalized stockings at Christmas. I thought it was endearing when I awoke at 3:00 a.m. the other day to find Gus laying on my face. I have repeatedly told my boyfriend that upon his death or us breaking up, I get his cats. If he refuses to give me Gus and Gertie on the event of a breakup, I will implement the detailed plan I have already laid out for how I will catnap them.

Last night I found myself rubbing catnip on their toys and in a box that Gertie has deemed to be hers. I clapped my hands with glee when Gus went nuts over his freshly doused catnip and Gertie sniffed the walls of her box and refused to leave it. Which is what led to me Googling about catnip early this morning. According to PetMD.com, Catnip (Nepeta cataria) is a perennial herb that is a member of the mint family. It can grow to be up to three feet high. The chemical compound in the plant that attracts and affects cats is called nepetalactone...When a cat eats catnip, it acts as a sedative, but when smelled, it causes the cat to go crazy.

I have officially become a crazy cat lady.

Bathe Me in Nacho Cheese

Why is Taco John's so magical?

A fast food Tex-Mex restaurant, Taco John's offers an array of tacos, burritos, potato oles, and nachos. Potato oles are basically crack-dipped hash browns. The salty seasoning on the circular fried potatoes is what I imagine licking a slice of heaven tastes like. Likewise, where else can you find the Six Pack and a Pound deal? That's right - six hardshell tacos and a pound of potato oles. My goal is to someday order a Six Pack and a Pound and eat it in one sitting without vomiting.

Perhaps the best part of it is that you can order a side of nacho cheese with anything. NACHO CHEESE AT ANY TIME WITH ANY dish. I personally prefer dipping my potato oles in nacho cheese, while some of my friends make the controversial choice of dipping their potato oles in both sour cream and nacho cheese. I think that's pushing the dip extreme, although I have seen the extreme dipping style of a triple dip: sour cream, salsa, and nacho cheese.


Growing up in Iowa, Taco John's were everywhere. Even the mall had one in the food court. (My favorite order as a kid was the Smothered Burrito, which sadly no longer is offered on the menu today.

When I moved to Missouri and realized the nearest one was in Maryville, Missouri, I silently sobbed about the injustice of it. It wasn't until the last several years that they came close enough to the Kansas City area that I could stuff my face with taco goodness if I was willing to drive 20 to 30 minutes.

This evening I had Taco John's for dinner. My favorite combo meal since the retirement of the smothered burrito: two beef softshell tacos, potato oles, and, of course, a side of nacho cheese. It was delicious, and life now complete.

Side note: Taco John's does not go without controversy. There's the ageless debate as to which is better: Taco John's or Taco Bell. And someone tried to start a petition from Taco John's using the term "Taco Tuesdays". While it reads like it teeters between one man's cause to obliterate the phrase "Taco Tuesday" and tongue-in-cheek, I can't seriously read a petition that has so many grammar and punctuation issues. Those misused apostrophes make my soul die a little. 

Also, if Taco John's wants to sponsor me in any way and pay me in the form of softshell tacos, potato oles, and nacho cheese, I will gladly do so.

Rubba My Back

Massages are the best invention. I sometimes debate which is better, a guaranteed success rate 100 percent of the time: a back rub or sex. (Yep, there is an obvious answer here.) If told that I might have to choose to have only one -- between having my back rubbed (or, even more specifically, scratched) or sex for the rest of my life -- I would need to consider seriously which one to choose. A list of pros and cons, a cross-referenced matrix of benefits, a conversation with my boyfriend, and a few rounds of each before making a decision.

My back rubbing obsession started at an early age. My mom told me that I used to curl up in her lap as a toddler at night, asking her to "Rubba my back, momma" while the Fisher Price record spun the Children's record (with "Little Goldie Goldfish" being my song of choice). Throughout my childhood, I would throw myself on her lap, asking for a back scratch, and my mom always patiently complied. Once I started dating, I not-so-subtly leaned in and asked for back rubs.

Rubbing, light scratching...to this day, it's my kryptonite. Scratch my back for a few minutes, and I'm yours. I'll curl up on or near you, purring like an old matted cat, and then quickly fall asleep.

Fast forward to adulthood, and now I pay a specially trained individual to massage me. It's all my dreams come true wrapped in one 60-minute session for $75. The first time I visited my massage therapist, I was anxious. The thought of stripping down into my undies and having a complete stranger touch me made me die a little inside. Someone I didn't know rubbing my back, squeezing my little love handles, feeling the imperfections of my body, bare hand on skin contact? No, no, that sounded terrible.

Despite my self-consciousness, I went. And it was amazing. I wanted to hug my massage therapist at the end I was so happy, but I hesitated after the contract I signed before the start of the session had me swear not to say or do anything inappropriate to her during or after the session. So I simply told her "thank you" and have returned to her once a month for the last six years. I wish I could hire her full time and have her follow me around 24 hours a day, just scratching my back. She knows my old lady aches and pains well by this point, so I wouldn't need to explain where my body hurt. To have someone stand behind me during in a heated meeting or while watching a scary movie and scratch my back would alleviate the stress of the moment.

On this last day of 2018, I treated myself to a 90-minute massage. It helped to ensure that I am ending the year and starting a new one physically well and relaxed. I also feel clear headed, so if I need to answer that question of back rubs or sex, I'm ready...

The Worst

Down pillows are the worst. I understand that they were a necessity back in the day, but the thought of plucking a duck and shoving the feathers into a pillow case, only to lay my head on it later, makes me wonder what on earth people are thinking today. When the quill of a feather jabs me in the cheekbone or a feather vane wipes across my forehead in the middle of the night, it's not a pleasant moment conducive to sleep. I envision gouging my eye out with a slight move of my head. In my groggy sleep state, the feather brushing against my face makes me paranoid and thinks that there's a spider nestling into my face.

Give me that synthetic, polyester-filled pillow, the highly flammable one that will set my head on fire if I accidentally drop a cigarette onto it...in the event that I pick up smoking. Or the memory foam pillow that contours to my face and neck, that doesn't quite adapt quickly enough to me as a I roll over in bed. But no feathers, for the love of God.

Color Tips

A woman I work with can recall the name of any nail polish color she has seen. If she looks at your nails and you tell her the brand of nail polish, she will accurately name the color. Wicked. Cotton Lollipop. The Sky's the Limit. Hot Hand. Electric Lush. No matter how lengthy or absurd the name, she gets it right every single time. It's the most amazing combination of memory and site recognition that I've ever seen. She's a parlor trick with a glossy enamel finish. She says that she can only do this with nail polish because she's obsessed with the bizarre names that companies give their polish color. However, I imagine her having a secret career as a card counter or an art thief, memorizing floor plans and security laser beams, then stealthily sneaking along art galleries late at night to steal the most lucrative paintings. That, by allowing us in on her nail color naming abilities, she's coyly tipping us off to her being one of the greatest minds in thievery. I bet she wears black nail polish when she makes these heists, something ridiculously named, like... Luscious Licorice Loot. Or Mayhem at Midnight.

Dammit, I Did It Again

I always thought I was the person in my friend group that had common sense. Not the one with THE most common sense, but just common sense. When it came to career advice, friendship advice, love advice -- I knew what I was doing. Throw a question at me, and I could tell you what the "right" direction was. I felt like I knew what I was doing, like I knew who I was, where I was at, and where I was going.

And in the last three years, time and again the universe has proven to me that I don't know anything. Every moment that I've felt like my world was in alignment and I could answer questions with no hesitation -- professionally and personally -- the universe bitch-slapped me in the face and let me know that I was inherently wrong.

Today was yet another reminder that I have no clue and that I might have called things incorrectly. It's in these moments that I want to disconnect -- to become an ostrich and bury my head in the sand (but still retain the ability to run amazingly fast and elegantly) or act like a six-year-old and cover my head with the covers, like I've just felt the presence of a monster breathing down my neck, the hot air accumulating to the point that I'm paralyzed in my purple flannel unicorn sheets. (God, I miss those unicorn sheets.) However, as you get older, it's not really a possibility to hide in your bed and wait for the worst moments to pass.

It sounds so melodramatic what I felt today compared to the recent events that have taken place. With the Brett Kavanaugh trial, so many of the people in my life have shared their stories of being sexually assaulted or abused. With every story that I read, my heart breaks and makes me want to seek out the individuals who hurt the people who I care for and administer the same level of hurt and despair onto them. Fortunately, I do not have a story that I can share to align with their experiences. I have stupid decisions, but I am fortunate that they were my choice and not someone else forced upon me. I have nothing that comes to the same caliber of what my loved ones have experienced.

I spent this evening with one of these friends. As we talked, she reminded me that strength comes from within and that no one else can help you determine your own intrinsic value. It was a reminder that I don't need anyone else in my life to make me realize my own self worth -- it all comes from within -- and that those who choose to spend time with me should feel as grateful that I've chosen them as what I feel for them having chosen me. Thank you to my dear sweet friend for that reminder...

Blocked With Time

One of my girlfriends has a theory that guys you used to date know when either you're incredibly happy or at a low point in your life. It's at these moments when you least expect it that - BAM! - you receive some sort of communication from a former interest. Usually it comes in the form of a text, Facebook friend request and/or message, or a missed phone call. It's like some guys have the ability to sniff out an ex's extreme high or low in feelings from literally miles -- and lifetimes -- away.

It took me a while before I bought into her theory. Maybe I just didn't have enough old flames hanging out there to have this happen previously, or perhaps I hadn't hit an extreme high or low until a couple years after my divorce. Eventually, though, it caught up with me.

Unlike my friend, I've only experienced when I'm in an exceptionally good place in life. Maybe it's the universe's way of tethering me to the ground, reminding me that I'm lucky to have everything that I do at this point in time and not to forget where I was at previously. It's only happened to me a few times in the last year, but always gave me a little uneasy jolt. The first time was unremarkable to me -- I received a random text from a guy I matched with on a speed dating night whom I hadn't heard from in six months and the second was a guy who always randomly texted me when he was drunk -- but it made me realize that my friend's theory might have some validity.

The second time was eerie, as I was in a place where I was getting ready to leave for a much anticipated trip to Ecuador, I had just started dating a guy that I was excited about, and everything in my personal and professional life were in a positive balance. In the span of 24 hours, I heard from not one, not two, but a handful of guys I dated or flirted with over the last three years. From Facebook to texts, my former dating life pulled in on me in an uncomfortable way. Requests to get together for a drink, to have a late night rendezvous, or to restart our relationship flooded my messages in one format or another. Dog Guy, Cheeseburger Guy, Kitty, The Not-Quite-Divorced Dad, and E: the old familiars, the guys who were never going to be longterm but were learning opportunities or nice people or plain crazy. I politely declined because I am incapable of ghosting or intentionally hurting someone. I then deleted phone numbers and blocked people on my phone and Facebook account. I immediately felt a sense of relief, as if by blocking phone numbers might also smudge out the past near-relationships I had.

I had a blissful seven months of no contact from exes. Until today. While I blocked Not-Quite-Divorced Dad from my phone and blocked his ability to text me, I neglected to think of Facebook. He told me he never used Facebook, although he had an account when we dated. He still does, his profile picture of him and his son from easily six or seven years ago, the same profile picture when we met last year. Today he sent me a message to let me know that his divorce is final. He included a picture of the court petition, the legal papers that finally ended his 14-year marriage, two of those years in which he was separated from his ex-wife and in which she was living with the man that she had had the affair with. He was reaching out to me as I had told him that I refused to see him until he was officially divorced and he took me on a proper dinner date. Our "dates" were always done at a local bar around 9:00 p.m. near his house after his 11-year-old son was in bed. I haven't spoken to him in eight months, yet here he was, asking me out for that dinner. He had even selected the restaurant he was wanted to take me to. His son was excited to see me.

I congratulated him on his divorce, then followed it up by telling him that I'm in love with the man that I'm dating. It felt cheesy to say, and I wish I could say that I felt guilty as I knew Newly Divorced Guy was expecting a different response, but I needed Newly Divorced Guy to know that I had not been waiting for him, that there was a reason why we weren't together. The presumption that these guys take, that expectation that when they reach out again that I've been either waiting for them or I'm willing to drop everything to see them again. Perhaps I should tell myself that it's flattering -- some unique trait about me keeps bringing them back to me -- but I'm a realist: I imagine that I'm just one of many in their list of women that they message when they're feeling lonely or thinking through the "what ifs". We all have a tendency to reminisce, and often we hear those stories of former loves reuniting years after breaking up or separating. Thus romanticizing those might-have-been relationships. Yet at what point do we get to separate the good-ol' booty call from rekindling a former relationship?

Summer's End

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Since I graduated from college and joined corporate America – solidifying my status as a “real” adult – the end of summer has always come as a shock to me. For me, the end of summer is cemented with Labor Day weekend. All the kids have returned to school; the pools have their last hurrah before draining the chlorinated water to leave the pool eerily empty; summer wardrobes of tank tops, bathing suits, and flip flops are swapped for sweaters, scarves, and closed-toe shoes. Yet usually the week before Labor Day weekend when I leave my place I smell the hint of fall one morning. That’s really the start of the end celebration of summer.

Every summer I think to myself that I should have done more outside, should have seen or experienced more, made more of a “summertime list”, those activities that can only be done when the sun is shining and the weather is warm. Part of the problem is that Kansas City is just too hot during the summer months. The heat and humidity start sometime in May – if we’re lucky, and not before – and usually stretch into the first few weeks of September. We might experience a few nice days of 80-degree temps throughout the span of June, July, and August, but generally the temperatures are so scorching and the humidity so stifling that stepping outside for even a few minutes makes me feel like I’m melting, my face being scorched off and my body pooling into the cement, much like when Dorothy threw water on the Wicked Witch of the West.

This summer was full of firsts and, in some cases, several lasts. So while I still might have that slight nagging feeling that I should have done more that seems to linger with each summer’s end, it’s just that: a ghost of a feeling that’s perhaps more of a long-standing expectation and not reality. And, let’s be honest here: I’m a fall sort-of-girl. Being a pale, freckled redhead, the sun and I battle each other with always the same winner if I neglect to use my shield of SPF 100.  So bring on the cooler temperatures, turning leafs, spiced pumpkin, long-sleeved shirts, and boots. I have a new list of things I want to experience this fall.

Slasher

I can't stop cutting up my T-shirts.

Not in a maniacal, "I just want to slash this up" sort-of-way, but in a "I don't like tight collared shirts, I'm going to stretch the fuck out of this neckline until it stops touching my skin" sort-of-way. I don't like material around my neck: no turtlenecks, no fancy collared button-up shirts, no lacy tops. I need breathing room around my neckline.

Any T-shirt I have automatically goes into a tub in my closet until either a) I cut it up or b) get sick of all the T-shirts I have that I don't wear and donate them to Goodwill. Last week, I went on a cutting spree and sliced my Red Cross T-shirt that I received from donating blood, my Omaha Zoo Sleeping Safari shirt, and a KC Crew shirt. I tried to make them look edgy and slightly sexy, looking at Pinterest examples to hit just the right cut.

Instead, every T-shirt I cut up looked like something that had gotten caught in the midst of a tug war battle between two goats or second grader's first attempt at sewing. My off-the-shoulder shirt ended up requiring me to cut up another shirt and sew in little arm straps to prevent the entire shirt from falling off my arm. Two hours later, I had three sad looking shirts that will likely never see more than the interior of my home or maybe, at most, a night playing sand volleyball.

Yet my haphazard, messy shirts are not going to stop me from cutting up more shirts. I'm sure a metaphor exists somewhere here, the determination to explore creativity and embrace my own originality, even if it means that I'm also a little bit of a hot mess at the same time. Or maybe it's just simply what it is: I should likely stop cutting up my shirts...

Fuck Hopes and Dreams

I loathe the question "What are your hopes and dreams?" When I hear it -- whether it's a casual conversation, a deep heart-to-heart, or in a joking manner -- I have a visceral reaction and have to fight the impulse to physically extract myself from the conversation. Even if it's an extraction that looks like something out of a Die Hard movie.

It's not that I'm goalless or have no hopes or dreams, it's just such a personal topic that always makes me freeze. What are my hopes and dreams? I'm not a 12-year-old girl anymore; I don't have a dream journal that I'm frantically scribbling life plans into or a hope chest that I'm delicately placing all my trinkets into. I'm a grown woman who has suffered loss and had to reboot my life in a very surreal manner. Some of my hopes and dreams that I had defined earlier in my life are no longer possibilities, and I am good with that. Hopes and dreams are often a luxury when faced with just trying to get through the day-to-day struggles of being, well, a human being.

But I've come to realize that my main goal above all else is to be happy. It's simple and sounds like an inadequate answer to some, like maybe I'm holding back. Someone told me recently that that wasn't a real goal because, well, isn't that what everyone wants? However, for me, "to be happy" is all-encompassing and includes more than just the general definition of being happy. "To be happy" means waking up each day, looking forward to what the day might bring. To enjoy going to work because it means I have a job (and a career) that I am truly invested in with co-workers who are good, fun, hard working people. To love the friends and family that I choose to spend my time with because it means that they are kind, intelligent, witty, thoughtful individuals. To like and be proud of who I am as an individual. To not regret any words I might have spoken that day or any missed opportunities or adventures that I did not take because I was too afraid or, honestly, lazy. To experience joy in the little, mundane moments of life because it means that I'm still here, still existing.

From my perspective, to be happy is one of the hardest goals to achieve. I look back on my late 20s and early 30s -- the time in my life where I was married to someone I never should have been with, working a job that caused me anxiety and that I thoroughly disliked, and watching my stepfather slowly decline in health and then pass away -- I wasn't happy. I had fleeting moments of happiness, but nothing like how I feel today. Today I am happy. Each day I wake up, I am excited for the possibilities of what might occur, who I am going to spend my time with. This is the ultimate hope and dream achieved for me. The rest of those hopes and dreams seem minimal to that, just like tiny details that help me achieve the big goal. I have my bucket list but, if I don't make it to Norway before I die, I'm okay with that because it means that I will have chosen another way to spend my time to enjoy my life. To achieve happiness and feel joy even in the dark moments of life is the ultimate hope and dream for myself. Ultimately, it's me defining my own hopes and dreams, so it doesn't matter how simple it might sound to someone else.

Zombies Should Use Condiments

I took a survey awhile ago that was titled something like "How Long Would You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?" I flipped through the questions, answering them cockily, as if I knew I would be among the last left standing. I mean, I've watched every episode of both The Walking Dead and Fear the Walking Dead, not to mention all the movies that have been made. I read The Zombie Survival Guide and World War Z. Based on all the zombie-related information I've consumed since childhood, I have multiple survival plans in place based on where I'm at (home, work, playing volleyball, a bar) when it dawns on me that the "illness" is actually a deadly virus turning everyone into the walking dead. I've seen Shaun of The Dead: I know what not to do as well...although I know my friends wouldn't mind meeting their end in our favorite bar.

My results? Six months.

180 days until I'm gnawed on by a zombie and meet my demise. I like to think that one of my friends would stab me in the head to ensure that I don't turn, but I could see them putting a collar on me and leading me around like a rabid dog.

I'm pretty sure my results were skewed so low because I answered the question "How often do you bathe?" truthfully: one to two times a day, depending on what I've done that day. However, if necessary, I could go an extended time without bathing. I don't mind smelling -- it's not like anyone would care at that point either. I could do it.

But then I started thinking about it. Really thinking about my survival abilities, and I realized I would likely die within the first few days. While I have many weaknesses that would hinder me, I've narrowed it down to my Top 3 weaknesses in the zombie end-of-days:

1. I don't like to run. When I do run, I'm incredibly slow and I complain a lot. This does not bode well when being chased by a) zombies or b) live people who might be after me for my supplies. I'd rather just sit down and either a) let the zombie chow down on me or b) give someone my said supplies. My constant whining while running would also give away my location.
2. I like to drink beer. Well, and wine. And summer beer mixed drinks. And Moscow mules. Really, I just like to have a few drinks. So I'd throw a couple beers back, forget that I'm supposed to be on the lookout for potential zombies, and suddenly have my jugular ripped out by a zombie child.
3. I have no upper-body strength. In the event that I came in to hand-to-hand combat with a zombie and I was forced to jab a steak knife through it's skull (because, let's be real, I the only weapon I would likely find myself with in the zombie apocalypse is a steak knife), I would not have the strength to drive it through its skull. Even if it was a zombie that had decomposed to the point that the skull was a little flimsy.

All said, my meticulous zombie survival plans, diagrams, and maps won't help me with these fatal flaws of mine. When the chaos ensues, I'll be sure to pass the along to my friend or family member that I think has the greatest chance of survival and rebuilding society, and will then tell them not to wait for me if we're chased by a zombie herd. Best of luck, my friends. 

Fishing Doesn't Exist Without Swisher Sweets

I smoked my first cigar at 18. I bypassed sneaking my first cigarette before I could legally smoke and went straight to the cigar. I feel like this explains so much about my life -- why start small? While my friends all have the variation of the story of sneaking a cigarette from a family member's pack of Marlboros to try behind the family garage or friend showing up on the playground after school hours with a single cigarette to try while giggling and looking furtively around to ensure no adults are nearby, I waited to have my first smoke of anything at 18 on my senior class trip to Washington D.C.

I don't remember much of the details, other than a majority of my friends were all 18 on that class trip. Somewhere along the line, we decided to buy cigars to smoke in celebration of one of my friend's 18th birthday, which occurred toward the end of our week-long D.C. trip. So, like the classy midwestern kids that we were, we popped into a dirty convenience store on the walk back to our hotel from one of the historical sites that we visited that day and contemplated which cigars to buy. Our chaperones for the school trip -- several of my friends' dads -- watched us all with amusement. We had various levels of smokers among our group: some the occasional cigarette, cigar, or Swisher Sweet smoked while fishing; some regular smokers that spent most of our school lunch period hanging out in Smoker's Alley across the street, leaning against the brick wall of Larry's Grocery Land, slightly bored and just killing time before the next bell rang; and the rest, who had snuck the aforementioned Camel/Marlboro/off-brand cigarette. I was the only one who had not tried smoking by that point. I don't remember the actual experience, other than us opening our hotel window wide, my friends' telling me to "suck harder" to actually light my cigar and keep the smokey char going at the end of the cigar, and me being deathly afraid that I was going to slip to my death from the sixth floor of our hotel room, to which my obituary would reflect the clumsiness that has plagued me my entire life and might make a blip in the Washington Post: "Iowan Girl Plummets to Death While Clutching a Cigar Like Groucho Marx". Luckily I remained upright in the hotel room, and choked that cigar down until it was a soggy nub. 

A few days after returning home, my friends and I went fishing. On the drive there, one of my girlfriends passed me a cigarette to try. I was fascinated by the mechanics of the filter, how the cigarette burned down with each drag, how it just magically disappeared. I kept staring at the cigarette, to which my friends found entertaining: they knew my analytical mind was more curious as to how the cigarette worked versus the actual taste, nicotine, or experience of it.

Despite not trying smoking until I was of legal age, I had always been fascinated by cigarettes and smoking. The only person in my family who smoked was my step-grandmother. Her cigarette of choice was menthol Virginia Slims. I loved the way that she smelled, her perfume intermixed with a smokey, minty undertone. She had long, slender fingers that ended with perfectly shaped fingernails. I always thought she looked so elegant smoking those thin cigarettes, sometimes letting it purse out of the corner of her glossy lips while she played cards or stirred her mixed drink. I was convinced that she used a cigarette holder and carried her cigarettes in a brass cigarette case when she was younger - I envisioned her in her youth to be elegant yet bawdy and feisty, like Katherine Hepburn, all with a Virginia Slim dangling between her index and middle fingers. 

I'm pretty sure my step-grandma stopped smoking years ago, when it became less socially acceptable to smoke and more difficult to find establishments that one can legally smoke in, when her health started to fail due to the natural deterioration that comes with old age. On the rare occasion, when I find myself to have had one drink too many and I bum a cigarette from someone or when my brother and I smoke cigars on St. Patrick's Day, I still think of my step-grandma smoking Virginia Slims. In my mind, while I envision myself being as graceful and mysterious as to how she looked to me when I was a girl, even then I know that I'm nowhere the same level of delicacy that she had with it. 

A month after my last blog entry, I find myself dating a guy that is by the nicest man I've ever been with. Tall, cute, funny, smart. Ugh. 

I had gone back onto Match at the suggestion from my friend, Ashley. I even added a new dating site into the mix, one called Zoosk! that is slightly like all the other dating sites with it's swipe right/swipe left, a variation of winks and likes and recommendations. Basically, the equivalent of shoe shopping online but with men as the main perusing options and not pumps or wedges. I approached it half-heartedly, dreading the swiping and initiating conversation and finding ways in which I could make myself clever. Most of the time I found myself on the app, it was with a drink in one hand, my phone in the other, and complaining to my friends about how stupid dating is.

This guy was the first one I went on a date with after my dating sabbatical. I almost didn't meet him; I texted him 10 minutes before our date was supposed to begin to tell him that I had lost track of time and was caught up in the middle of a project, but that I would meet him in an hour. The truth: I was watching TV on my couch, in my underwear and a tank top, shoveling chips into my mouth. It was nothing against him, but I had no desire to leave the comfort of my home to participate in what was likely to be a date that would be mediocre and lead to nowhere. I texted Ashley, whining about how I didn't want to go on a date and meet yet another guy who likely would be just another dead end. She yelled at me through text, telling me to get myself off the couch and get moving. Had it not been for Ashley, I would have missed out on what might become one of those great opportunities in life. As soon as I saw him, I was attracted to him. After an hour of conversation, I knew he was going to see him again and again...as many times as he was willing to continue to see me.

On our second date, I told him that I almost stood him up, that I was surprised he actually agreed to meet me an hour later. He was already at the brewery waiting for me; apparently he left for the hour to meet two of his friends for a drink while he waited. I can only imagine the exchange that occurred between those three men. Yet I'm glad he decided to come back to meet me after that hour.

I still don't believe that my mom was right. It wasn't because I had stopped looking for someone that I found someone. That's still asinine. You have to be open to the idea of someone to be able to let them in. But I do think my giving up on the idea of a permanent long-term relationship has alleviated some of the pressure that comes with dating this time around. Or maybe it's more to do with the actual person that it feels different and less stressful. Either way, regardless of the outcome, whether it's another month with this guy or dozens of months, I'm finally comfortable with where I'm at in my relationship status, whether it be single, single and sort of dating, or in a relationship. 

Today at lunch with my family, we somehow got into the discussion that I have stopped actively trying to date. I deleted all my dating apps back in December (good-bye Bumble and Tinder -- while I enjoyed the sweet satisfaction of swiping right and getting a match, like winning a match on the penny slot machines, I do not miss the endless messaging back and forth only to have a guy go silent when I actually suggested meeting in person), and the few guys I've met in person since then have turned out to be the exact guys that I should not be with. 

I've come to accept my future alone status, and most of my friends have accepted this is my view on romantic possibilities as they all have experienced the struggles of being financially independent, successful, 30-some-year-old women (and men) whose baggage is relatively minimum compared to the rest of the dating world. They have been the fortunate ones to somehow manage to find a person in the wasteland of online dating or, in some cases, returned to previous relationships -- with a slight internal reluctance to admit that being with that less-than-perfect person might be better than being alone. While it's not that I enjoy being alone, I've just had enough relationships with the wrong person during my 30s that I know that I'd rather spend the time with my family and friends, doing the activities that I love, sprinkled with an occasional random hookup if I feel the need for it. I've grieved and struggled with this knowledge the last four months, but I have finally accepted this and I am comfortable with it.

Which brings me back to lunch today. As my mom heard me say yet again in recent months that I am done with dating and have accepted my future life of being a single person, she said the phrase that should be a legal reason for being allowed to murder someone: "Oh, don't say that. You'll find love when you least expect it." 

Out of the peripheral of my eye, I saw my brother and sister-in-law physically brace themselves for my response. "That is such bullshit. That is what people who are in a relationship say to single people to try and make themselves feel better." My mom started to protest, but my brother quickly shut her down, "Yeah...I'd have to agree with Megs on this one."

While it might happen for some people, love does not magically find most of us. One of my friends -- now in a happy relationship with a great guy but who has struggled historically with a string of bad relationships with guys who were never as nice and kind as what she is -- likes to joke that, if that was the case, we could find our true great loves while sitting around at home, watching TV in our underwear, eating Cheetos. That it would be the pizza delivery guy who stumbles into the place, bringing a slice of deliciousness and a heart of love. And maybe that's happened to a few people, but I'm obviously not ordering pizza from the right locations.

It's not that I'm completely closed off to the idea of love, but I have better things to do with my time than troll Match.com, ask my friends to set me up with their coworker or brother's best friend's cousin, or hope that I bump into a nice guy at the grocery store. Things like hitting my reading goal for the year, watch Netflix, play volleyball, drink beer with my friends, or take my niece and nephew to a movie. It's not how I thought I would be spending my 30s, but it's definitely better than spending that time searching for what might hopefully be a good match on paper (or, rather, the internet). 

I sometimes wonder if I should be concerned that I haven't actually grown up yet. Well, I've grown up physically. Age wise, I'm far beyond becoming an adult. Work experience, paying the bills, going through major life events like death of a parent, divorce...check. But when talking about maturity and mental age, I'm definitely not there yet. I don't think I ever will be.

It's not just me that feels that way, I think. I'm pretty sure most of my family and friends view me that way as well. My ten-year-old niece and eleven-year-old nephew have a long standing joke. Whenever the three of us are doing something -- whether it's just the three of us or another family member is around, such as my brother, mom, or sister-in-law -- and the question comes up as to whether what we're about to do needs to have an adult present or weighing in on the final decision, they immediately dismiss me as being able to provide the adult opinion. The last time, my niece looked at me and said, "Well, you're an adult age wise, but you're really just a kid. Let's get an adult." And we giggled but, deep down, I think we all knew that it was true: legally, I'm an adult and can be seen as an adult decision maker when needed, but I'm likely not the best adult for final decisions.

I wonder if any of us ever truly feel like adults, or if there's a certain age that most of us feel like we mentally peaked at and that's where we really identify for the rest of our lives. I like to joke that I'm mentally a 12-year-old boy; as time has passed, I feel like there are times where that's really where I'm at. Except for I wake up in the mornings and go to a job in corporate America where I make decisions that impact people in all sorts of facets, and I come home at night to make dinner or attend happy hours with friends. Yet so many of our activities and sense of humor still feels like I'm in middle school. My apartment is decorated half-grown up -- with artwork, matching furniture, and plants -- and half-juvenile -- with sci-fi art, poop mugs, unicorns, and stuffed animals. I like to think it gives me personality and makes me relatable, but it likely makes me more weird and quirky than anything else to people who don't know me.

I sometimes wonder if where I'm at in life is directly related to this part of my personality. For example, if I spent less time watching clips of The Muppets on YouTube and more time focused on performing productive or creative tasks -- like reading and writing -- how much of a difference would that make with where I'm at in life? Granted, I have some great jokes, know "The Rainbow Connection" by heart, and have finally given up on dating because I've come to realize that Waldorf and Statler are my soulmates. And, now that I think of it, maybe that's all I need in life. After all, my new favorite "Dad" joke came from Fozzie the Bear's Facebook page:

What is a hairdresser's favorite sport?

---Curling!

Wocka wocka!

I don't consider myself an overly religious person. I believe in God, I consider myself a Christian, I (occasionally) attend church; hell, I even taught Sunday School to a group of third grade girls when I was a senior in high school. I don't talk much to my friends about my faith and beliefs; it's not that I'm embarrassed, but I'm not a proponent of bulldozing someone else with my beliefs, unprompted. I'm always happy to share my thoughts when asked. 

I am a very flawed Christian (as demonstrated by my use of swear words in that first paragraph and the content of my blog to date). I fail epically at the Ten Commandments and am constantly asking for forgiveness. In all honestly, I'm slightly surprised that the sanctuary doesn't burst into flames every time I attend a church service. 

• I constantly break the Third Commandment; my love of swear words in all shapes and forms is legendary with my family and friends. (My mom once told me that she wasn't surprised that a guy I was seeing dumped me because I "...swore too much..." I'm pretty sure it had more to do with his unresolved feelings of bitterness toward his ex-wife that played a huge part in him being unable to move forward with a new relationship than the fact that I used some colorful language one evening while playing Mario Kart.)
• I consistently struggle with the Fourth Commandment. I grew up going to church regularly; in my 20s, it moved to periodically, whenever I went home to my parents' house, and holidays. By my 30s, I attended regularly again up until the period of time I was traveling for work and working 90-hour work weeks, then found out my ex-husband was having an affair and became too afraid to leave the house for an extended period of time on Sunday mornings. Then I started going again after my divorce, only to pause attendance when I started dating an atheist who preferred to sleep in on Sunday mornings then get out of bed. I'm on the church train again, attending regularly as I've hit this current rough patch in my life.
• I was a teenage girl for eight years, so I know I failed the Fifth Amendment periodically. I'm surprised my parents didn't ignore the Sixth Amendment in regard to me at any point during this period of time.
• I admit to breaking the Seventh Commandment. (Although, in my defense, he had been separated from his wife for eight months and had filed for divorce; with my own divorce, I waited until the paperwork was final and I had officially updated all my legal documentation back to my maiden name before even starting to date again.) 
• I break the Eighth Commandment at least once a year. (The first time being when I was two-years-old and took an extra $3 doll, unbeknownst to my mother, who was too mortified to return it to the store. Now it's just an occasional pint glass, which now I'm going to end up banned from pubs for acknowledging this, so let's just say "allegedly".)
• I'm sure I've broken the Ninth Commandment at some point or another. I like to think all I've been capable of telling is white lies, but I know that I'm capable of lying. BAM! Ninth Commandment broken in this blog entry.
• I know I've broken the Tenth Commandment, the most recently for my neighbor's dog, who is the most beautiful animal ever. I've already told my neighbor (who I also consider a good friend) that I would steal her dog if it was ethically and legally appropriate to do. I also feel this way about my good friend's two cats. Once again, if kid(cat)napping was appropriate, those cats would be in my place now. 

Thus, it appears that I have only adhered to the First, Second, and Sixth Commandments: believing in one God, bearing no false idols, and not murdering anyone. Frankly, I'm too lazy to break the second command, and my fear of prison will prevent me from breaking the Sixth Commandment intentionally. Maybe it doesn't really matter, either. My confirmation pastor essentially told me that my parents were going to hell because they got divorced. If that's the case, then I'm definitely headed that route being divorced myself, and I'm nowhere near as devout or as good of a person as either of my parents. 

But I try. I might fail when it comes to my own self, but I try my best when it comes to my relationships and treatment of others. One of my favorite quotes comes from the 80s sitcom Family Ties. I always attributed it to Elyse Keaton, the mother in the series, but when I looked for the precise quote for this blog, I realized it actually was said by Mallory Keaton, the sweet yet ditzy daughter. Either way, it doesn't change the fact that the simplicity and beauty in this explanation of life has stuck with me for 30 years, since I would have seen the episode as a child, and I have said a variation of to others when asked about my own approach to life.

"The meaning of life? That's simple. Try to be happy, try not to hurt other people, and hope to fall in love."