California Brain

I have finally figured out what a large part of my problem is: 

I figured it out while I was browsing through the Big M this morning, looking for green salsa.

I have *insert music that signals impending doom*...

California Brain.

Below you will find a scientifically accurate rendition of the Female Brain.  

Pretty!!

Upon careful study and consideration, it has been determined that the Female Brain WEST is significantly different from the Female Brain EAST.  (Or North and South.  But those aren't my problems right now.  You all need to figure out your own shit.)

While all the sums of the whole remain the same (ie: Shoes, Shiny things, Diamonds, I Told You So Gland), the gray matter surrounding all of that varies greatly from Coast to Coast.

My Moment of Truth happened when I looked outside this morning and saw that the sun was shining and there was no wind.

"Oh goody!" I said to myself.  "It's a beautiful day!"

I put on jeans, a t-shirt with a long sleeved top underneath, and my supahhhhh cute cowboy boots.  I grabbed my purse and my keys and went bee-bopping on out the door.  

At that precise second I was slapped in the face with a wall of Bitter Cold.

"What the FUCK?" I asked myself.

I started my car, cranked on the heated seats, and watched my breath freeze in mid-air.  I drove to the store, shivering, and noticed that the temperature, according to my dashboard, was 29 degrees.

How is that even possible?

Sunny + No Wind = Warm.

It is written.

I went into the store and was perusing the "ethnic foods" aisle (which consists of refried beans, canned chilis, and some really sad tortillas and "Taco Kits" (an abomination that should be illegal) looking for green salsa, green taco sauce, anything... just be GREEN, dammit... 

And that's when it occurred to me.

I have California Brain.

Certain things are a given:

1.  Green salsa will be found in every grocery store in every town up and down the West Coast.

Esta bueno...

2.  No one buys a freaking "Taco Kit."  We just make tacos, for God's own sweet sake.

3.  If it's sunny out and there's no wind, it is not going to be 29 Goddamned degrees.  

Crescent City, California... Where my heart...and brain... are.

4.  No one needs 46374895575 different varieties of pickled pork products.  No one.

WTF is a "pork tidbit"???

Hog Callin' Time at The Big M...

5.  If you ask someone to pick you up a jar of pickled potatoes, they will not be able to find them, anywhere.  Because they don't exist on the West Coast.  (I'm pretty sure there's a very good reason for that.)

6.  This is a state:

7.  This is a dot on the map:

8.  California winter wear:

9.  New York winter wear:

I don't get it...

When Big Tom doesn't redeem me

So Dan and I have been driving past this sign for months, every time we head down to his parent's house.  There is an enormous white board building behind it.  Every time we pass it, I giggle and snort and say, "Save me, Big Tom!  Save me!" in my best "The Yankees are comin'!  The Yankees are comin'!" accent and Dan gives me a look (his patented "What the fuck are you talking about?" look) and ignores me.

"Who's  your Daddy?"  "You are, Big Tom!  You are!"

Friday, as we were heading down to see his parents for the weekend, I started snickering and snorting, per usual, and saying really inappropriate things, like "Who's your Daddy?  Ooooh... it's BIG TOM!  He's here to redeem me with his mighty penis!  Oooh, Big Tom... I'm on my knees... redeem meeee!!"  and finally Dan said, "WHAT are you TALKING ABOUT?"

Me:  "I'm talking about Big Tom and his Redemption Center." (Duh...)

Dan:  "I don't get it!"

Me:  "Big Tom... He's going to redeem me with his largeness."

Dan:  "Dani! What the fuck are you talking about?"

Me:  "BIG TOM, DAN... BIG TOM'S REDEMPTION CENTER.  RIGHT THERE... THAT BIG WHITE CHURCH.  BIG TOM'S REDEMPTION CENTER.  Seriously, Dan... pull your head out of your ass!"

Dan:

Me:  *giving him my patented "Are you really that stupid?" look*

Dan:

Me:  "You've lived here how long and you never noticed Big Tom's Redemption Center?  How can you friggin' miss it?  I point it out every time!!"

Dan:  "Did you just say you think that's a church?"

Me:  "Yes.... ?"

Dan:  *too shocked apparently to even laugh*  "Dani?"

Me:  "What?"

Dan:  "That's not a church."

Me:  "So what is it?  A revival group or something?"

Dan:  "Please tell me you're not serious."

Me:  

Dan:  "Don't you see the picture on the sign?"

Me:  "Yeah... it's like a green eye or something.  The eye of God.  I dunno...what is it?"

Dan:  "It's three arrows pointing in a circle."

Me:  "And?"

Dan:  "Dani... IT'S A RECYCLING CENTER.  FOR CANS AND BOTTLES.  WHERE YOU REDEEM THEM FOR CASH."

Me:

Dan:  "HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAA!!!  YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS A CHURCH?  HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!"

Me:

Dan:  "OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS A CHURCH!  I HAD NO IDEA WHAT YOU WERE FUCKING TALKING ABOUT!!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

Me:  "That's stupid.  Why would they call a recycling place a redemption center?  They're just begging for people to think it's a church.  Big Tom is an asshole."

Dan:  "Riiiiiight... BIG TOM is the problem."

Me:  "I hate New York."

P.S.

I'm seriously waiting for someone to gasp, "Oh my GOD!  You mean a REDEMPTION CENTER ISN'T A CHURCH?!" because I can't be the only one who has ever been confused by that....

can I?

Crazy-NESS

*Author's note:  I've been having a hissy-fit since last night.  I'm about to bring it to my blog.  Consider yourselves warned.  Also?  Feel free to agree with me.  

This was my Facebook status update last night:

Stupid argument with the husband and the in-laws... The way people pronounce towns around here drives me straight up a freaking WALL. There is a town nearby called Madrid. Now, you and I would pronounce it Muh-DRID, like the city in Spain, yes? Well, apparently? We would be WRONG, because everyone around HERE, including the people who LIVE THERE, pronounce it MAD-rid. Just like that... accent on the first syllable: MAD-rid. Like the word mad. Then the word rid. This? Right here? Is annoying the shit out of me right this second.

I can't even beGIN to explain how freaking irritating this is to me.  Granted, it's petty and silly and pointless to get so bent over the way people have been pronouncing certain words for most likely hundreds of years, but I can't wrap my brain around the fact that they're still doing it.  

I can make allowances for the early settlers... Perhaps they were uneducated and had only a tentative grasp on geography and languages other than their own.  After all, they didn't have the internet and Google at their disposal and had to go on their own personal interpretations.  But doesn't it stand to reason that if there are surrounding areas named Antwerp, Rome, Mexico, Amsterdam, Venice, etc. that they would eventually figure out how to pronounce MADRID?  

(Obviously, when it came to naming cities, the early New Yorkians were somewhat lacking in imagination.  "Sooooo... I just came from York so let's call this... NEW York!!  Yeah!  Give me some skin, brotha!  High 5!  Down low!  Ohhhh... too slow!!  Hey... Remember Antwerp?  Let's call this place Antwerp.  I heard Cortez was in Mexico... let's called this place Mexico!  Then we don't have to come up with anything new!!"  And when they ran out of European and southwestern cities and countries, they just stuck the word "Falls" after the name of every town that had water running downhill, and "Ville" after everything else.  Because you can't go wrong with "Ville.")  

Moving right along, my previous rant about the pronunciation of a local hamlet was:

Theresa.

Let's discuss.

Now me, being me, sees a town called Theresa and I think, "We're in Theresa..." which would, of course, be pronounced just like the name Theresa.  Right?  Of COURSE right.

Only I'm wrong.

Because it's not Theresa... it's THERESA.

Confused?  Me too.

Rather than saying "Theresa" with a hard "T"... "Teresa"... they pronounced it with a soft "TH" as in "thumb."

Ther-esa.

Because they're all fucking Hooked On Phonics or something.

Right?

No.  It's WRONG.  It's so very, very, very WRONG.  And they won't listen to me.

These conversations usually begin with Dan saying something like "We're going through MAD-rid" at which point I correct him, because let's face it, I HAVE TO.  Then he tells me I'm saying it wrong , that's not how anyone says it, blah blah blah...  Then I say something like, "So if everyone called you "Din" instead of "Dan" would you just start calling yourself "Din", because that's what everyone else was saying even though you knew they were wrong?" and he rolls his eyes and sticks to his guns and we argue non-stop until I scream, "YOU'RE ALL MORONS!  I'VE MOVED TO MORONVILLE IN THE STATE OF NEW MORON!!"

Then the argument is effectively over because we're no longer speaking.

Why does this bother me so much?

I don't know.

(Oh my GOD... I just realized I'm channeling Kate Gosselin.  "Do I feel this way?  Yes I do.  Am I a screaming bitch?  Yes I am.  Was my reverse mullet a poor hair choice?  Absolutely." GAHHHH!  I apologize for that brief lapse.)

I had every intention of making New York my bitch, but it seems that instead, New York is turning me IN to one.  

New York:  1

Dani:  0

The Legend of Danook of the North

When Dan and I got together 10 years ago, my boys quickly gave him the nickname "Danook of the North." He was never cold and had a tendency to loudly proclaim his lack of body chill. If he went anywhere, no matter what the weather, he was in shorts, a sweatshirt, and some sandals. It was like cruising Walmart with Arctic Jesus... he walked on water and never seemed to get cold or wet. (Maybe he was more like Arctic Loud-mouth Jesus.)

Meanwhile, on the same given day, I would be ice cold, numb, and unable to feel my feet. The argument usually began when I would crank up the heater to 70 (I know... who does that, right? Who wants their house to be 70 degrees?) and Dan would immediately turn it down to 62.

I would huddle on the couch covered in seven layers of blankets, shivering and chattering and he would throw the windows open and inhale the hurricane force winds blowing into our house, swirling the 34 degree wind chill factor around our heads while he used words like, "BRACING!" and "INVIGORATING!" At the same time he would be calling the boys and I, who would all be clinging together for warmth like refugees abandoned on an ice flow, "A buncha PUSSIES."

Oh yeah, he was tough, our Danook. Tough and 100 lbs heavier than any given one of us but that was entirely beside the point. My scrawny kids and I were one giant goosebump while Dan worked up a sweat telling us stories about shoveling snow in his bare feet whilst growing up in the Snow Belt.

I would turn the heater up to 67, he would turn it down to 60. If (when) I complained about it, he would say, incredulously, "Dani! It's hot in here! You can't possibly be that cold!"

Even after placing my numb, white, icicles on his warm, fuzzy, belly to prove that I was, indeed, that cold (which he proved by screaming like a girl the second I touched him... yes, Dan, it is possible for me to be that cold) he would offer some lame suggestion like "Put on some gloves." (Because everyone wants to relax in their livingroom wearing gloves, a scarf, and a parka, right?)

Inevitably, smugly, and patronizingly (and annoyingly... did I mention annoyingly?), Dan would ask me: "What would you do if it was REALLY cold outside? You wouldn't be able to handle it in New York! Imagine 40 below and having to stand outside and scrape ice off your windshield..."

To which I would reply, " I don't have to worry about that, now, do I? If it was 40 below I would send YOUR ass out to scrape ice off my windshield. After all, YOU ARE DANOOK OF THE NORTH!! Or else I just wouldn't go anywhere. Seriously, dude. Duh."

And he would say, "What if you had to get to work and I wasn't there? Then what would you do, hmmmmm? What would you do if you had to work in 40 below weather?"

Me: "Ummmm... Not go? Where am I working in this mythical place where I'm scraping ice off of my windshield? Am I suddenly a manual laborer? I'll work indoors and have a garage and a personal assistant who'll scrape my ice for me, since we're making shit up that isn't going to happen..."

As it turns out, he got the last laugh because now apparently it IS going to potentially happen, since he dragged my native California ass to the frozen tundra of the Great White East.

Bastardo.

Anyway, it's been hot as BALLS (to quote my son, Brennan... when he was in Afghanistan, every time I sent him an email asking him how he was doing he responded by saying, "It's hot as BALLS here..." So I'm guessing that means it's really, really, really freaking hot) here this summer, which I assume is the Universe's little way of mocking me. ("Soooo... the little California girl was cooooold when it was 65 degrees? And she wanted it to be warrrrrrmmmmm? How about 95 with 1,237,948,564 percent humidity, hmmm? Warm enough for you? Bwaaahahahahaaaa!") and basically, I've been whining relentlessly since May. I don't think any part of my body has been dry for the past 5 months and quite frankly, it's sucked. Hard. Dan,on the other hand, has spent 5 months saying, "It's not THAT hot..."

Liar.

So something amazing happened yesterday... FALL CAME. It went from 80 degrees to 45 degrees, seemingly overnight. (Okay, it wasn't "seemingly overnight"... it actually was overnight. True story.) I have been so stinking happy about it that I've had all the windows wide open and have been inhaling cold, fresh air for the past 48 hours. My nose may be icy cold, I'm wearing 7 layers of clothes and am swaddled in blankets and my teeth chatter when I try to talk, but dammit... I'M NOT SWEATING. And I love it.

Meanwhile, Dan has suddenly turned into a little old Southern lady with the vapors fighting off a head cold.

Honestly. I'm like, "What the fuck? Where the hell is Danook of the North?"

He has been following me around closing windows, cranking up the heat, complaining that he's cold, and lying in bed with the covers pulled up to his neck shivering like a chihuahua in an ice storm. (Trust me when I say it's very difficult for a 260 lb man with a huge shaved head and a goatee to look pathetic while clutching a blanket up to his neck and trying to look like he's freezing. Rather than feeling sympathy, I have to fight the urge to dump ice water on him.)

Me: "Dan, the house is steaming up! It's at least 80 degrees in here! Crack a damn window!"

Dan: *through chattering teeth* "I'mmmm ffffffffreeeeezzzzzzziiiinnnnnggggg!"

Really? Really??

So after 10 years of freezing me to death in California, he's brought me to New York so he can cook me?

I smell a very large rat with a New York accent.

Bad hair days

*Referring to my friend and former stylist as "my bitch" is totally meant as a joke.  Just in case she reads this.  *cough*


Due to circumstances beyond my control (Dan), I am smack-dab in the middle of Hair Limbo.  I've been spoiled beyond measure by having the World's Best Hair Stylist at my fingertips (nay, beck and call... hell, she was practically my bitch) for about 6 years now and suddenly, without any warning (well, without much warning, anyway), I am stranded in the hell that is northern New York with...


 BAD HAIR.


<cue slasher film music>


I remember years ago when Shea was a baby, I met a woman who had like 17 kids (NOT Michelle Bob Duggar, but similar) and home-schooled alllll of them. (She was one of those people who liked to talk about her past as a druggy and a whore before Being Saved by The  Grace of God, Sweet Jesus.)  One day, after she had been saved and turned into a brood mare, her husband had an epiphany (a phone call from God, I think... this was before texting and email) and decided that his really good job as a correctional officer wasn't what The Lord wanted him to do (I know, I know... imagine being me and having to actually be a part of this conversation) so they were packing up their litter and moving to some podunk town in the Bible Belt to help Spread The Word.  (More power to them, am I right?)  ANYway, I remember her saying, and I quote:  "First thing we're going to do when we get there is find a home and a church, not necessarily in that order."  


I remember thinking, "Seriously?  What a moron..." but smiling and nodding just the same, as if she were making perfect sense and uprooting your kids and your family and heading off to find Jesus in the Deep South with no job and no money was something I did at least twice a day, and my first priority was ALWAYS "find a church."  ALWAYS.


But getting back to reality here, what was she thinking???  My priorities are slightly different, as I'm sure most people's would be (please tell me I'm right):


1.  Find a JOB!


2.  Find a HOUSE!!


3.  FIND A HAIR DRESSER THAT KNOWS HER SHIT!!!


(A house and a church... PLEASE!!)


So here I am, after 4 months in New York, with a house and a job (well, an apartment and a husband who has a job) and I still haven't found a hair dresser.  Let's take a look at the ramifications of this:


1.  I went totally apeshit crazy about two months ago and shaved my own head with Dan's clippers and a #8 clipper guard.  Desperate times call for desperate measures... it was a thousand degrees with a million percent humidity and we didn't have an AC yet, and also?  I was totally high on Ambien.


2.  Did I mention that I went apeshit crazy and shaved my own head?  Because I did.


3.  After I went apeshit crazy and shaved my own head, I was forced to deal with the fact that hair doesn't grow back overnight.  Imagine my chagrin when I realized that after I woke up in the morning and came to my senses.


4.  It's too freaking hot to wear a hat in New York during the summer, no matter how horrible your hair looks, so you'd better get creative with product and act like you OWN that look because honey?  You're stuck with it for at least a few months.


5.  It's much harder to rock a buzz cut than you may think when you're a plump 48 year old woman.   True story.


6.  I rocked it anyway, but damn... I worked it so hard I should have been paid, know what I mean?


7.  There is no pay for working bad hair.


8.  Growing out a buzz cut sucks serious ass.


9.  You reallyyyy need a fabulous hair stylist to assist in your buzz cut out growth otherwise, you just look stupid.


10. I'm real busy trying to rock "looking stupid."


I've seen one or two people here with hair that I wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crackers, but they are few and far between.  The best hair I've seen so far was on a woman at the Big M.  Her hair was so fabulous that I asked her where she got it done.  She said, "Boston... I'm just visiting here."


SHIT.


Meanwhile, I kind of look like a chubby monkey on Planet of the Apes.  My hair is all weird and Simian-looking, with a possible faux mullet in my near future because the back is growing more quickly than the top and bangs.  (What is UP with that??)  I'm afraid to try and fix it myself because odds are, I would get carried away and wind up with another buzz cut.  I asked Dan the other day if he would trim up the back of my hair for me and he said, "Not on your life."


Like he could do any worse than I did?


There is one salon in town, and I've seen the results of her work.  Either everyone goes in and asks for the same out-dated look or else she sucks, but either way, I'm not desperate enough yet to hit her up for a trim.

I'm thinking I see a hat in my future for a very, very long time. 


Sigh.

Trending at the moment

My current (and somewhat lofty) goal is to get everyone in New York to start saying "awesome" as much as I do.  (Or even at all, as the case may be.)  "Awesome" is one of those words that I toss around like confetti, inserting it into pretty much every conversation that I have.  ("Fabulous" runs a close second to my "awesome"-ness... but that's a goal for another day.)  It's a silence filler, a gap closer, a convenient segue into a new topic... It's a handy-dandy all-purpose word and I'm pretty sure the world would be a much better place if only society would recognize the Power of Awesome as much as we do in California.


As the self-appointed ambassador from California, I've decided to change the world, one New Yorker at a time.  


(Notice how I'm leaving my downstairs neighbor, the infamous Mr. Awesome, out of this blog.  Talk about abuse of the Power of Awesome.  What an ass.  He gives Awesome a bad name.)


(I told Dan about this last night and I must say, he was slightly less than supportive.  If he'd rolled his eyes any harder they would have most likely stuck in the back of his head.  But what does he know... he actually uses the word "wicked" to describe something, for example, "It was wicked hot today."  How is that even close to the same as awesome?  It's not, that's how.)


But I digress.


Anyway, back to the Power of Awesome.  


A typical conversation for me goes something like this:


At the grocery store, when the cashier hands me my receipt:


Cashier:  "Here's your receipt.  You saved $13.87 today."


Me:  "Awesome!  Thanks!"


At the bank, after I make a deposit and the cashier is handing me my receipt:


Cashier:  "Here's the receipt for your transaction."


Me:  "Awesome!  Thank you very much!"


Are you noticing a pattern here?  They say "Here you go,"  I say, "Awesome."  It's that simple.  


You can also say, "It's an awesome day outside!" or "These pickles are awesome!" (I bought a jar of Nathan's New York style fresh dill pickles and ohhhhh ma gawdddd, y'all... DE. LISH. US.  So yeah, the pickle conversation was taken right out of real life, yo) or even in response to a polite "How are you?" to which I always reply, "Awesome! And you?"  (Okay, that's a lie... I usually say, "Fabulous!" but I'm totally going to start answering "awesome!" to that question, too.  Starting..... NOW.)


Meanwhile, awesome is trending in New York AS WE SPEAK.  My landlord just a few minutes ago came by to give me my rent receipt for this month. After he handed it to me and I awesome'd him ("Cool!  Thanks!  Awesome!"), we chit-chatted for a few and he inquired as to whether or not Dan could give him a call about working on his son's vehicle.  I said I would have Dan call him after he got home and my landlord said, "Cool! Thanks!  Awesome!"  (I choose to believe that he wasn't making fun of me, despite what Dan says.)


HAH!  


One down, the entire population of New York State to go.


Boo-YAH!


#Awesome