Regan White's Ranting and Raving

Back from the beach

Well, I didn't burn. In fact, I think my base-layer burn provided a nice groundwork for tanning. Now, mind you, I look down and think I'm tan. Then I stand next to someone else and realize I could be a stand-in in the movie "Powder." Still, for me it's tan - something I like to refer to as "Emerald Isle tan."

I also made a decent transition from the beach. Unlike most people who can say, "I'm about ready to go home. That was enough vacation." Having a taste of vacation is like experiencing a split second of paradise or sampling only a small amount of a strong, addictive narcotic. I can't get enough. So I went through the normal withdrawal - the pissiness on the last days, the bad mood when I first got home. But by Sunday all was a bit better and on Monday I was downright jolly and found I missed my co-workers and even my cozy office.

I have to run but wanted to write in two funny additions:

1. I got my Starbucks this morning and two younger baristas said, "Oh my God! We read your column and looked up all about Sea-Monkeys and they're DISGUSTING." A long discussion about the mating habits, feeding and all-around nastiness of the filthy creatures followed. Then Janey, my usual barista, came up and said, "Chatty Cathy. I never got a Chatty Cathy doll. It's all I ever wanted. My dad told me it would only talk for a week. I had a friend whose Chatty Cathy doll talked for a year. Sometimes I still see Chatty Cathy for sale at garage sales and the like. I always want to buy her but then I remember my dad telling me she'll only talk for a week and I don't. How sad!

2. I realized in talking with my family that there were more things I pined for that I never got. Notable things that I must've been so scarred about that I erased them from my memory entirely. Expect a list soon.

3. Following a simple dental exploration to put a temporary on an old molar whose filling had fallen out, my dad developed some kind of rare hematomas in his jaw and now has lockjaw. He can't open or close well, his cheek is swollen and he's in all kinds of pain. I'm so worried about him. It's been a solid two weeks now and it seems to be getting worse. He's been all over the dentist's office, the oral surgeon's office, the ER. Last night he was in agony. I didn't sleep. I came into work and announced, "I can't take this anymore. I have anxiety and don't know how to deal with it. (I found a Web site that suggested I carry running shoes with me and whenever I get worried I just haul ass out the door until I want to vomit. Not exactly ideal or practical to just haul out of work like Forrest Gump and run down the road until I'm ready to puke.) Anyway, I told everyone how worried I am about my dad. Hilarious co-worker Debbie said, "Don't worry. It's really hard to die these days."

Guess you had to be there. It was pretty funny at the time.

Recently, I've tried a few different anxiety meds to try and take the edge off (my hair has started shedding more than just a seasonal molt and I'm thinking it's stress. I'm trying to stop the cycle while I still have hair left to worry about. hahha). Turns out I really get every single side effect in the book. I yawn nonstop yet can't sleep (as in, not at all), my pupils get dilated to the point that I have no iris left, I get blinding headaches, my mouth is so parched it sticks to the roof of my mouth. Hot, right? I'm thinking of offering myself up to a pharmaceutical company as a guinea pig of sorts. It usually only takes me one pill to get every side effect in the book so it could be pretty cost, time and health effective.

As it is, medication probably won't be the way to go. I wish it would be that easy. So I'm practicing breathing techniques (always fun - never lame) and gearing up my running shoes. I don't know. I worked out last night while watching bits of "The Bachelorette" (what an idiot that girl is, eh? I've vowed not to follow the rest of the damn season because that girl doesn't deserve to find shit, let alone love, nor to have America watch while she puts up with the douchiest guy on the planet). Anyway, I still sat upright in bed until 3 or 3:30 a.m. when my dog bust down my door and sat on my chest until I would turn off the light.

Smart dog that little lady is.

Hope all of you are well. More soon, xo

Quote of the day

My friend Pete: "Ambition is like a hot chick who always leaves the possibility door open. She never slams it in your face and it sucks. ... I blame America for our general displeasure with our jobs or life. The American dream and pursuit of happiness puts the therapists' kids through college."

Bad day

Today was one of those monumentally horrendous days. Just sucky from start to finish. You know it's bad when your Starbucks barista sees you coming and says, "You're not yourself today. You don't look right," with a touch of fear in her eyes. 

You know it's even worse when you're beyond words to explain it all and all you can do is sigh, shrug and say you're not going to talk about it.

Why use words? There's too much. Just too much.

I've had a few halfway bad days where I've wound up in a store or the supermarket and that stupid Daniel Powter "Bad Day" song comes on and it half makes me laugh because I think about how ironic it is that it's playing like some kind of lame soundtrack to my life and then I stop laughing and get cranky because the song doesn't sound like a bad day song at all. It's the kind of song where if you WERE having a bad day and your husband, lover, brother or friend sang that song to you, you'd punch them in the face. It's too happy and chipper and sing-songy to ever be about a bad day. I can't imagine ever having the balls to sing that to someone who just legitimately had a bad day.

Anyway, I got home rather late yet considerably early for the fact that it's a Tuesday. The paper is in pretty good shape - always good. But it didn't matter. 

Normally I drink red wine. But I've had a fizzy, sweet white Italian wine chilling for a few days. So while on the phone with a friend I popped the cork. It whizzed far into the woods and knocked around a few trees before settling somewhere. I then wandered around in the isolated backyard and around the house, wine bottle in hand, swigging from it. 

I've never done that before and quite enjoyed it. I've been trying to consider what that looked like: flouncy blue skirt, bow-tied heels and my lips wrapped around a giant bottle of wine. I only finished about half before I went inside to cook pasta. It was some of the best I've ever made. Farfalle bow-ties (that I never made a few nights ago) tossed in a homemade sauce of minced garlic cloves, sauteed red onion, quartered, plump cherry tomatoes and basil all simmered in olive oil. Damn! It held the flavor! It almost made me forget my mood.

I never finished the wine, though. I didn't want to have too much. I find that a bad mood hangover is bad enough.

one of the best lines of the weekend

Friend: Well, the hockey game is on...

Me: Who's playing?

Friend: (slight look of disbelief that I don't know which teams) Detroit and Pittsburgh.

Me: Who's going to win?

Friend: I guess that's why they play the game. ... to find out.

zing

Sunday, Sunday

So, turns out that burn remedied itself quite nicely. It's tanned my back beautifully and has peeled minimally. Finally I see what prompts so many women to blister their skin in the summer heat.

Friday night was one of the best nights I've had in a while. There wasn't anything exceptionally remarkable about it, save for catching up with a few friends, etc., but something about the whole evening was delightful.

On Saturday I reveled in the fact that I could open my bleary eyes, realize it was Saturday and roll back over, sinking further into my cozy comforter with the ceiling fan lazily spinning above. I ran around a bit, took an afternoon nap, walked the greenway and polished off a really great, fresh-tasting dinner at Kabob Grill at Stonecrest, a fast favorite. I had plans to go out, but was pretty wiped and after a bath, watched a movie in bed. I slept fitfully, probably thanks to the afternoon nap which I normally tolerate well, and this made me cranky today. It was largely just a cranky Sunday - one of those things where you realize you still have a bunch of things you would like/need to get done and only so many hours in which to do them. 

I hate that.

I wound up running nearly four miles on the greenway during the heat of the day despite a headache. It wound up being a good thing because I was so tired afterward that I didn't have any energy left with which to be cranky.

Most white thing overheard on the greenway this weekend:

One 40-something guy pushing a stroller: That's the kind of person you'd expect to find on a greenway.

Another 40-something guy, likely a brother or brother-in-law, walking with a kid: Who?

First dude: The hippie. (referring to a guy who had just walked past who had dreadlocks and a huge red, yellow and green knit hat that looked like it could be concealing 80 more yards of dreads.)

Second dude: You mean the rastafarian?

First dude: Yeah, the hippie.

Second dude: He looked more like a rastafarian.

After running I ran more errands. I had a few things to return, a thing or two to pick up for my dad - with Father's Day and my dad's birthday imminently on the horizon and only days apart - and groceries to get for dinner. By the time I hit Harris Teeter I was so starving I would've settled for standing in the produce section chomping on onions as if they were apples. 

I rarely eat meals without bread product carbs. It's hard for me to feel full without them, and with a finicky stomach, I always feel I need a bit of carb to give it something of substance to chew on, so to speak. But tonight not a carb was had. I bought chicken, avocados, cherry tomatoes, limes and a red onion to make a lime-tasting, citrus-y meal that I could mix into farfalle or throw into a tortilla or two. But after letting the chicken simmer with all the other ingredients, some white wine vinegar, oil, oregano and black beans, I couldn't wait any longer and just filled a bowl with the contents of the pan and ate until I was full. I haven't been that hungry in a while. It was good.

My aunts were here briefly this weekend to spend some time with my grandmother. It's funny. She has a way of turning it on when she has visitors. She'll barely be able to walk and won't talk for days, but introduce an out-of-town visitor and she uses all her power reserves to stay alert, walk like a champ, hold conversation to the best of her ability, etc. It's amazing.

Unfortunately, it's always coupled with a backslide of exhaustion. At 5:15 a.m. this morning she was screaming that she was in pain. Turns out her already-shot knees were killing her, probably from walking more than usual. Some Tylenol, a pain med patch and a timely trip to the bathroom and she settled down for a while. Poor little lady - she was exhausted today, though. I know she enjoys seeing my aunts.

It's going to be a busy couple of weeks. I'm headed to the beach next week for the week. I'm super excited. Hello, 50 SPF sunscreen! (Has anyone seen that new 70 SPF that's out? Insanity.) It's been forever since I've had a whole week at the beach. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself. While constant sun and my fair, freckled skin don't always get along, nothing relaxes me like the sound of the ocean and I love to go for long beach walks in the morning and again at night. I firmly believe I wouldn't know what anxiety was if I lived at or near the beach. Then again, I'd probably just find new things to be anxious about. Like my increased skin cancer risk. ;)

I hope everyone is doing well. More later. After sleep. ;)

So...it was apparently pretty bad

Nice tan lines, eh? I doubt these qualify as such. I look like I was branded by some kind of evil Spider-Man. Well, those lines will be around for the next three years ... at least. 

Burn, baby, burn

Well, I think this is my first significant burn of the summer. I had some minor burnage when I hit the beach with Monika and Debra weeks ago, but this is probably the first full-back searing of the season.

It occurred while waiting to be seated for breakfast this morning after my sister and I hit the greenway.

Hooray for see-through skin!

I like how the angle on this shot makes my back look expansive - as if I could tow commercial planes in competitions.

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard

Sooo... Chick-fil-A just introduced its new, seasonal peach milkshake. I couldn't be more excited. I'm a fruit junkie and a sucker for good peach ice cream anything. Plus, Chick-fil-A's milkshakes are like crack in a cup, or what I imagine crack in a cup might be like ... only better.

The favorite chicken fast food joint also announced it will be offering small milkshakes, instead of just the standard large.

I was thrilled at this because anyone who's glanced at the caloric values of those shakes knows that you have one and you're basically done for the day unless you have a two-hour cardio routine planned.

I just looked at the peach milkshake stats. A large is 850 calories. If my memory serves, a small is 720 calories.

This means the peach milkshake is even worse for you than the cookies and cream milkshake - which offers 700 calories for a large and something like nearly 500 calorie for a small. (That's if I'm remembering correctly but it was substantially less.)

This is upsetting to me. I can't suck down an 850-calorie beverage with a clean conscience. I never should've looked up the nutrition information. So much for fruit being better for you than cookies.

the Haze

It's been a rough time lately for Gma Hazel.

After her Memorial Day TIA that left her left side paralyzed for hours, yesterday she doubled over with stomach pain and other GI issues. After being rushed to the ER again, it was confirmed that she has ischemic colitis -- much like my mother. My, the genetic apple doesn't fall far from the tree does it? Blood flow to her intestines is severly compromised and her vascular system is too compromised for them to do much surgically at this point. Luckily, blood flow seems to have been restored to the area because her episodes have lessened and she seems a bit better. For all the pain etc. she's still unbelievably hearty ... walking the hospital halls today, eating like a champ etc.

She's back home this evening and very thankful for it. She must've said, "Home sweet home!" and "There's nothing like home!" 100 times tonight. She's exhausted from it all and is sleeping like a baby. I'm just glad she's feeling a bit better. It's horrible when she's in any pain.

This afternoon I ran by a store where last weekend I had picked her up these huge, hot pink flower clip-on earrings. The flowers are made by all these faceted crystals - it's rather hard to explain. On anyone else they would've been gaudy, but on her they were perfect. She loved them so much after i gave them to her that she kept taking them off last weekend to look at them.

The store I got them at had rings to match, so I ran by today and got her one. She's so funny with new jewelry. Now i know where i get it from. She slipped the ring on right away and started showing it off around the room like she was the queen. It was hysterical.

I wish I had fun things to update you with, but at the moment none come to mind. I have my dogs about me, edging me out of my bed, so all is right with the world. I'm thankful tomorrow is Friday. It's seemed like a long week, even if it's flown by. I don't know how we're already into June. Scary business.

Best line of the day

I received an e-mail today that included the line: "You tether me with the thinnest of threads."

I want that on a T-shirt with a heart wrapped in fine dental floss.

Drag me to hell

Last post for now:

I got to work Monday, and co-worker Sean said he'd left something for me in my office. Co-worker Michael lurked behind him with a look of apprehensive worry. I entered my office to see the scariest face I've encountered in a really long time.

It was a "Land Of The Lost" backpack strapped to the back of my office chair. It's a fuzzy backpack body with a giant plastic head that looks like a 50-year-old Oompa Loompa (from the original 70s movie) and yellow/brown teeth.

"That isn't from 'Land Of The Lost,'" Michael said. "That thing is more like it's from 'Drag Me To Hell.' And that's what drags you to hell - that backpack."

I couldn't agree more.

There's a zipper down the dude's back. I don't know what anyone would ever keep in there.

Souls, maybe?

 

News update: The monkeys are making it

A quick update to let all of you know Debbie is not the killer I painted her to be.

Due to her unyielding faith in science (and laziness), she left the barren sea monkey tank as is for a number of days to find this morning that a number of sea monkeys had survived the supposed armageddon and are busily motoring about the tank.

Now I'm almost thankful that all my recent searches for new starter kits (they sell swanky tanks full of weird accessories a sea monkey would never even use) - for Debbie have been fruitless. Those dirty little things are darn popular. Everywhere I've been they're sold out.

But seeing their nasty little bodies swimming around confirmed that once again, they're dirtier than I ever imagined. My mother was right in prohibiting me from raising them. Filthy little things.

That said, I'm glad for her sake that Debbie isn't the killer we all supposed her to be.

Fake bake with lemon

A few nights ago I dreamt I was dating Paul Rudd. It was a pretty good dream. He's not my absolute favorite celebrity actor (I don't really have one) but he's not bad. Cute eyes. Nice smile. Good hair. Lovely laugh. You know, all the important superficial stuff.

I had to return something to a store tonight. The return line was long for some reason, even 20 minutes to closing. I had hoped to have some time to browse so I became increasingly peeved at the girl in front of me - a fake-baked, fake blonde who was returning a decorative throw pillow and giant display of fake flowers, only to purchase what looked like a rug, a tablecloth (or curtains - I couldn't tell; they were packaged) and a giant glass urn-looking jar full of fake lemons. But it wasn't full to the top with fake lemons - just partway. As if someone ran out of fake lemons or gave up trying. It was really bugging me. I only had one item to return. The girl behind me only wanted an application. And the girl behind her only had one item. Meanwhile, the glass urn with the fake lemons was being carefully wrapped against breakage. Nice.

I've been picking up on strange snippets of conversation from passing strangers. Fake-bake girl provided a decently good one. I heard her tell someone on the phone that the hot guy who lives next door to her came over without a shirt on today while her parents were visiting. The story elicited a gasp and a sorority house giggle that made me die a little inside. I don't mean to be mean, but I really can't handle that kind of laughter after 9 p.m.

I walked the greenway earlier this evening. A mother and daughter walked past. They looked very serious. The mother was saying to the daughter, "Now, in solitary confinement..."

That has to be the winner for the week so far and we're only into Monday.

I digress - so back to Paul Rudd and how we're not really dating. So after I returned my item after what seemed an eternity of fake lemon wrapping, I had a few minutes to look around the store. Since my dad's birthday is coming up, along with Father's Day, I looked at some men's shirts, smelled some cologne etc. I believe I've written about it before, but shopping in the men's section is always alluring to me. It gets me thinking about what my husband will wear and what kinds of things I'll buy him. Not really dating anyone at the moment, I really miss shopping for significant other gifts. I know that sounds weird, kind of. I always have my dad or my grandfather to shop for, but it's not the same thing. I'll pass lightweight, really soft cotton shirts that would be too small for my dad anyway and likely too youthful for whatever reason and think, "If only I knew his SIZE!" Which is even weirder - kind of like buying a wedding dress before you meet the man you're going to marry, a practice I would never condone or do (though I've heard of it). I have been tempted, however, to purchase an antique lace veil should I run across one. I never thought I'd like to marry (if I ever get around to even doing so) with a veil - maybe just some flowers woven through my hair - but I've seen some tasteful, tiny but flouncy and decoratively edged antique veils that have been absolutely beautiful. I would be tempted to scoop one up should I run across one in the next few years but would probably never purchase it for fear it would curse me.

But yes, I'll admit, sometimes I'll smell a new cologne and wish I had someone appropriate to buy it for. (I'm a complete sucker for cologne. I'm entirely done in by delicious smelling cologne. It's pathetic.)

Instead, I put it down and inwardly bitch about the fake-bake girl with the fake lemons.

It's been a very busy couple of days. Everyone is holding up decently well lately. Gma is home and thriving - despite the fact that she's having more strange episodes than usual: she's talking more but generally saying weird things; she's up and about a lot more; in short, we don't really trust her these days. It's been interesting.

I must run and get back to my fake Paul Rudd relationship. I hope everyone is well. More soon, duckies.