Mystery Solved!

For over a year my cat was missing. During this time, I feared the worst, I had lost hope that she would ever come back to me, or that she was even alive. Since her miraculous return I have wondered where she had been all that time. Was she living on the streets? Did someone take her in? If only she could tell me! Well, today the mystery has been solved, and I must say I am not at all surprised...

Spring Bird

This cold weather is bringing me down. So, to cheer myself up like the cool breezes of spring, I decided to compile a list of things that I enjoy, and if perhaps the gentle snowfall, warm firesides, and cottony snow leopards are callousing your heart as well, you can feel better too.

In no particular order of course:

tony shalhoub (<3!), trumpet flowers, ice cream, chartreuse, marcy, grandparents, embarrassing cousins people don't tell you about, pistachios, sentimentality, pandora.com, religious statues, baby animals, puce, rap artist personalities, chocolate, family pets, jerry seinfeld's comedy, bad puns, nachos, distinctive laughs, this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUY8iT525yQ, live music, people crying in their cars, buffalo sauce, middle-aged women, TED.com, cathedrals, embarrassing childhood stories, psychology, nicknames, ricky martin, the guy that plays the parrot on SNL, naps, hotels, candles, cuddles, the depression egg, the rachel maddow show,
diet coke, drift wood collections, twizzlers, my dad's monkey lamp

Welp, I feel a little bit better, maybe just warmer.

Childhood Trauma

I am afraid of Regis Philbin. This irrational phobia developed after a trauma I suffered years ago. The year was 1990. The Cold War was coming to an end, and so was my mom's laundry washing for the day. The dryer alarm buzzed a few times, and then she handed me my favorite sweater to change into (a stylish knit number with a picture of a kangaroo gracing the front and a real pocket for a pouch filled with a stuffed baby kangaroo torso and head). With my best sweater in hand, I cheerfully skipped to the living room intent on changing my shirt, maybe having a few animal crackers and a juice box, and then popping in Richard Simmon's Sweating to the Oldies and welcoming the day with a flamboyant work-out (sadly, this is how I spent most of my childhood afternoons). However, my plans were interrupted when I noticed the TV had been on the entire time I changed but muted so I hadn't noticed. There was a man on TV who must've seen me change!

Distraught by discovering a peeping tom in my living room/once safe haven, I began to cry. My mom, in the other room, heard my sobbing and came rushing in. She asked me what could possibly be wrong while I was wearing my beloved kangaroo sweater, so I blubbered out enough decipherable words to inform her about the bad man who saw my topless prepubescent body (which, lucklessly, looked very similar to my current, topless postpubescent body). She gave me a warm smile, sat me down, and explained to me that the man on TV is Regis Philbin, and he can't see me. She told me that he is a nice person and hosts a show with Kathy Lee Gifford. I still didn't understand, so I asked her why Regis and Kathy Lee were so small. She sighed, then tried to explain to me video broadcasting, which I was kind of following, until she started talking about cathode rays and electrons and streaming cable, which completely lost me. What the hell.

My mom's blabbering and failure to communicate at a 4-year-old level really started to frustrate me. I didn't want to sound stupid, but, even more, I didn't want her to explain it anymore. With the hopes of shutting her up, I decided it would be best to just pretend to understand. I nodded occasionally and interjected with things like "yeah, I'm totally following this" and "wow, you're making so much sense". Unfortunately, I asked how they lived in the TV, allowing her to see right through my facade. She responded by rolling her eyes, sighing, and muttering something about a mistake and a disappointment, or something. Whatever, I still think Regis Philbin is a huge perv.

The Mystery of the Fairfax County Ice Cream Vendor

Today at lunch I was asked how I liked my new neighborhood. What immediately came to mind was the break-in that happened just days after I moved in, the totaled car that has been sitting across the street for over a week, and the swarm of police cars and officers surrounding my building Saturday night. I don't like those parts of my new neighborhood, so I decided I would leave out those details and just tell them about the girl across the street who heard the ice cream truck and came bolting out of her building, fumbling through her wallet. As comical as that was on its own, it got even funnier when I saw her about ten minutes later sharing an ice cream cone with her boston terrier. I think her excitement for ice cream and willingness to share it with man's best friend makes up for all the recent unsettling events.

My ice cream story led to a conversation about ice cream trucks. My boss said that as a child she called her ice cream man the "goody bar". While trying to understand that nickname, I had a flashback to elementary school. My neighborhood had an ice cream truck driver that would come by every day during the summer months. My mom ran a daycare from our home, so we always had kids around. Kids love ice cream, and ice cream men love kids that love ice cream. Back then, kids played outside, and when we'd hear that melodic siren, our mouths would water and we'd climb down from our respective trees, throw down our bicycles in the grass, take a universal time-out from our game of tag, or hide the different leaves that we had been collecting and designating with monetary values to develop our own system of currency (oh, was I the only kid that did that?). We'd then run inside to beg for some change, then chase down that ice cream truck no matter how many blocks away it was at that point. All of our scrambling would leave us short of breath, even a bit disoriented, and perhaps this is what led to what I am about to tell you...

In the years that we kids did business with this ice cream vendor, there was always uncertainty lurking within that boxy ice cream truck. Sometimes I even wonder what I was hungrier for as a child--a chocolate sundae or to discover the secret of this mysterious ice cream purveyor. Our issue was that we never could quite tell whether our beloved ice cream provider was an ice cream man or ice cream woman. Oh, a few of us argued one way or the other, but there was never a clear consensus. Not. even. once. To prevent any further debating, we decided it would be best to compromise. So, we tossed around a few ideas. One radical even suggested we stop buying ice cream altogether and never talk about the situation again. Yes, that idiot was me, and yes, the neighborhood bully assured me that I'd be cruisin' for a bruisin' if I ever suggested an idea like that again. Some wiser youngster suggested we give the mystery-gender a neutral nickname, and from that day on, we affectionately referred to our ice cream person as "the Ice Cream Shim". By affectionately I mean cruelly, and I still feel guilty about that, but heavens knows, I wasn't about to pipe up with any more silly ideas unless I wanted to get the Lunchables kicked outta me! To this day, I remember his/her face perfectly. I remember that sweet, androgynous voice telling me my strawberry shortcake ice cream was fifty cents. I still remember the Big Ben tune my hermaphroditic siren played that made the children of Centreville salivate. Beee boo beee boo, booo beee bee boo.

And, to this very day, I still do not know the sex of that wondrous ice cream merchant. However, as I have matured, I have come to realize that it has never mattered. The only things that truly meant anything in those days were that we ate ice cream daily and didn't count calories, amiright?

Oh, for Heaven's Sake

I watched the 1958 version of The Blob starring Steve McQueen this weekend. Did I like it? Oh yes, I did. Do I now want to watch all the "horror" movies from the 50's that I can get my mitts on? Yes. Did I just refer to my hands as "my mitts"? Mmhmm. Would I refer to them as such again? Yes, I would. Did I sneeze twice while typing that? Yep!

I love mid-20th century acting. I love the lack of character development, overuse of stock characters, weak dialogue, special effects, blatant sexism/racism, the list goes on.

I planned to go on and on about the movie, but I just got off the phone with a pleasant old man, and I would rather talk about that.

So, this man works for Pollocks, a company that provides our printers and other computer equipment. In our brief conversation he used the phrases "golly", "son of a gun", and "for heaven's sake". I tried to keep him on longer to learn more cool things to say around my peers to make them like me, but he abruptly ended the conversation. Although, he said he'd call me back (once he finds out where I can get a new transfer unit for my printer, which I need by the end of the day). Oh! The phone's ringing, I hope it's for me!!!!

It was for me, but it wasn't the nice man. Son of gun!

Tricia, the Nomad

Another year, another move. I'm beginning to feel like a pawn in life's game of chess; move after strategic move just waiting to settle down, find a home, reach a stalemate. But, life is not a game of chess, it's not even a game of Checkers or Go Fish. There are no clear winners or losers. No, wait, I take that back, I've seen Flavor of Love too many times not to know that there are clearly losers in this world. Luckily, VH1 has been collecting them all like Pokemons and storing them in the safety of gated mansions. The reality of life is more like a game of Candy Land. You pick a card with a color (sometimes two colors, if you're lucky!), then you move your little plastic guy to that color on the board, and you just work your way along the Candy Land path of life until you reach the end and win the game. Along the way you'll meet Gloppy the Chocolate Monster, Plumpy, Grandma Nut, Lord Licorice, and more! On second thought, maybe life isn't like Candy Land at all.

Anyway, in addition to moving, there are a lot of new things going on in my life--new job, new haircut, new drug addictions. Just kidding about the drug addictions. I don't do drugs. I did cut my hair though (thanks for noticing)! Despite the annoying hassle of moving and starting a new job, I am looking forward to living in a new neighborhood and gaining experience towards something I hope to eventually do--or finding out what I don't want to do (preferably the former).

Let's talk about my new place because that's what I'm most excited about right now, and I know that you're excited about what I'm excited about. You see, my current apartment sucks. You open a door to a wall in a hallway, which is not very warm and inviting. In fact, it's cold and uninviting. When you open the door to my new apartment, you are welcomed by a large living room, part of the kitchen, and a brick fireplace (doesn't work but still pretty to look at). There's even a chandelier in there! The bedroom is pretty big, and I plan on being unconscious there for long periods of time. I can definitely see that happening.

It's perfect. Completely perfect. Well, except for two minor details. First off, there's an ant infestation. Ew. Ew. Ew. I hate bugs, and I feel like they're crawling on me when I see them. They are all over the kitchen, and unless they intend on paying for room and board, I want them out! Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, there's a mysterious bell jar of yellow liquid in the hall closet. Some people keep skeletons in their closet, and some people keep jars of urine. Unfortunately, I am the kind of person that keeps a jar of urine. Who knows, it might not be urine. It might be something pleasant like lemonade or pine-sol, but unless I know for sure, I'm not touching it. So, I would like to extend the offer of removing the mysterious bell jar from my apartment to anyone reading this. Thank you in advance.

iPod Woes...

Several weeks ago, several musicless weeks ago, my iPod became a vegetable. The buttons died. No more play. No more shuffle. No more best friend. I dealt with the loss the way most deal with losses. Yeah, I recognized the stages of grief. First, I couldn't believe it. Classic denial stage. I pressed the buttons over and over. I tried resetting. I tried kissing it. I tried the healing powers of the phoenix's tears (I learned that useless trick from Harry Potter...I also learned not to believe everything you see on TV). Nothing. I isolated myself from the ones I loved, I cut ties from the people who wanted to help, I hated myself for doing that, but I was slipping into the anger stage. I was angry at them for letting my iPod die. I was angry at them for not immediately buying me a new one. I was angry that my own iPod would do that to me. I was angry at Apple for letting it happen. And, most of all, I was angry at myself for listening to it while in the shower. Then I asked God to change it back. I would change, I would be a better person, anything for a few functional buttons! Typical bargaining stage. This quickly spiraled into a deepset depression. After a while, an almost comforting numbness set in, and despite crying myself to sleep every night, I felt better. I began to then accept my loss. I came to terms with it, and I even saw a light at the end of the tunnel. Things would get better. I am strong. I will recover. And I will move on.

As chance would have it, a fuse blew in my car. A very, very important fuse. A fuse that controlled the stereo. Oh, I tried replacing the fuse, it just blew again. I tried reasoning with the fuse, but there was nothing I, or anyone else, could do. There was a short. What you have to understand is that I have a long commute to work, I drive a lot. I enjoy driving, but suddenly driving became a silent chore. No singing, no music, no joy! What did all of this mean? Why was music being taken out of my life? Was this a conspiracy? Was there a big plan out there for me? Was the universe trying to teach me quiet reflection? Does the universe care about me? Does my life matter?! Alas, I was going crazy because of all the silence. I took my car to the shop where I was informed that my stereo was "fried". "Oh dear," I muttered as I lowered my face into my hands. The mechanic then handed me a tissue to dry my tears.

I had no choice but to shell out a couple hundred dollars for a new stereo. However, something magical happened. The stereo I purchased connected directly to my iPod. At first I thought this was the cosmos' way of rubbing it in my face that I was a musicless fool! But, then, a cartoon lightbulb flashed above my head. "Aha!" I exclaimed, jumping out of my seat. I could plug in my iPod and use the stereo buttons to control the music! It worked! I couldn't believe it, but it worked! I cried. Though the tears felt familiar running down my face, there was something new about the feeling accompanying them. I was crying tears of joy! Tears of joy are special tears. When they roll off your cheeks they don't fall to the floor like the tears of sadness, but rather they sprout little teardrop wings and fly away giggling to themselves.

As I watched all my tears fly away, I began to think of all the new playlists I can and will create. I thought of driving to music. I thought of the first flowers to bloom in the spring. I thought of khaki shorts and waterfalls. I thought of fields of fireflies and prancing through them. I thought of smiling. Then, I felt the corners of my lips slowly turn upward.