Why did health care reform cross the road?

To get hit by a protestor.

My mother always taught me to keep my extremities inside moving vehicles at all times. This included not flailing my arms like a wild child while on the back of my dad’s road bike or trying to touch a passing bus from the backseat of her Cadillac. This also meant no arms out the sunroof, and God forbid I even considered sticking my head out it.

Which makes me curious as to why anyone would deem it acceptable to shove not only their arms, but also an American flag or sign expressing their beliefs in front of my car. Are you hoping I’ll hit you? That I’ll panic (happens often), swerve and somehow warrant your stance on health care? I fully respect your right to free speech, however can’t you either do it silently in a statuesque manner while holding your ugly sign – excuse me for being a Sportsbooster in high school, livin’ in the past, woot! – or post something via Facebook like every other normal person with an opinion?

Yes, I KNOW you are a Republican. I get it. And sure, you don’t want standardized health care. Cheers to you! But look, some of my best friends are Republicans, and they aren’t stupid idiots. The day they heave their upper bodies toward a Ford Taurus (Go USA!) to prove that our current health care works is the day I drop their dumb-butt from my friend list.

I know you think that you are hitting on your target demographic by posting up for hours on Northgate Way between the mall and Target. Don’t think that just because the All You Can Eat Buffet is right across the street from where you are waiving opinions that you are impacting their meal. You are making their lunch, which is already worse than the buffet at Circus Circus, more unbearable. Not to mention the likelihood that they know what you are saying or even care is very low.

So no complaining if I (accidently) run over your foot with my 17′ alloy wheels because you stepped off the curb mid-protest and your insurance doesn’t cover it all. Don’t come suing me. Firstly, because aside from my Nordies card there isn’t much to win. Secondly, because it wasn’t my fault that your co-protestor nudged you in a moment of protestic-passion. Try going to a McDonald’s parking lot. You’re less likely to get hit by a moving vehicle and more likely to score an artery-clogging cheeseburger from on your massive supporters (and soon to be Facebook friend) who doesn’t mind dropping a couple extra-bucks to feel like he contributed to your oh-so-important message.

Put away your safety scissors, poster board and Sharpies (OMG, I love sharpies). Write a letter to someone with power. I guarantee you they can do more than the people that cruise Northgate Way. Vote. Because you’re in my car’s bubble and she does not appreciate it.

How to be Facebook friends…with your Mom

I have one of those “cool” moms. She wasn’t quite as awesome as Amy Koehler in Mean Girls, never serving us virgin cocktails on a platter or trying to get in on the gossip. Oh wait, she totally did.

But she does not have implants, so parish the thought, perverator. Those things are 100% real and you bet your bra mine are going to look that good when I am her age.

Yes, I was born into the cornucopia of single-childhood to a mother who not only loves to entertain; she loves to entertain my friends. At first, this seemed annoying. She was always hangin’ around and I am pretty sure my friends liked her more than the liked me. Oh come on – the title of my blog is “Tale of a Social Narcissist,” what would ever make you think that I share attention well?

She did annoying things like try to get me to wear thongs and encourage me to wear actual pants to school instead of pajamas pants. Even on pajama pant spirit day. Side note: pajama pant spirit day? Wtf is that all about? And why did I so willingly go along with it? Don’t call me a conformist, you asshat – I’m a LIBERAL. Can you see why I would be irritated with her?

Ya, me either.

The truth is a share a lot with Momma TK, as she is known in he close-knit circle of my eighty-catrillion friends. We have a relationship that is so close to near perfection, that you will be quick to forget that time you saw us verbally-duke it out at Pallino’s or the time we got schnaukered in Las Vegas and refused to talk to each other. Those instances are too few and far between to even be mentioned…again.

We share clothes.
In fact, I came home from GU one weekend and didn’t have an appropriate outfit for the bar/party/mall/whatever lame thing I thought was cool – and she hooked it up with an adorable top and chunky belt. It was that same trip that I tried to sneak out of the house with a Nordies bag full of swag. She, wanting to be in-the-know (like mother, like daughter), poked through it recognizing a set of new sheet, a pair of Sevens and a vase. All of which she had purchased weeks prior.

We share secrets.
You think it’s weird that my Mom knows more about my sex life than you do, don’t you random person reading my blog because you are either a friend of a friend or a creepy blog stalker that apparently doesn’t have a life? (In either case, you should totally follow my blog. Kthx!) She is an encyclopedia of knowledge. And she is totally getting more than I am.

We share booze.
I was an accident. As in a big giant fluke that would have never happened without one too many salt-rimmed margaritas, on the rocks obvs. She even considered naming me Margaret Rita. My recent marg consumption has convinced me that I will not only be drunk when I conceive a child, I will also have tequila pulsing through my veins. Yum.

The other night, while we were trying to ween her back on the wagon, as the only narcotics she’s had in the past 9-months were those of a chemo nature, she stayed par with me. Me, who thinks a glass or three of wine counts as a serving of fruit. We clinked glasses in memory of my Nonnie. We poured another in honor of our awesomeness. One more, because we were thirsty. Until our previous “reintroduce slowly” plan was thrown out the window like your dignity after that last walk of shame. (Slut.) It was during our Olympic showing of wine-drinking that I saw myself in my mother.

She clinched it when she said, “He’s down with that…no pun intended.” If you know Momma TK, and you’ve paid attention, you should be able to figure that one out on your own. If you don’t know my mom and you are an illiterate pos, stop following my blog and start watching Blue Clues. Regardless of your mental-maturity, it was hilarious.

Through and through, my Mom has been a pillar of strength for me. Someone to talk me down and remind me that spending $300 on a Michael Kohrs purse is slightly illogical. To wipe my tears as I slobber all over her perfectly-paired sweater set about how my purse was stolen from the table where I left it like a drunken idiot so I could go dance. (She even cancelled my debit card for me. She cancelled the wrong one but that’s not the point.)

We share Facebook friends. With this comes tagged photos, comments and events I attend. That, kind stalkers, is unconditional love. Ah technology, you’re the best.

el-be-esses = stresses

Like most women, I monitor my weight on a regular basis. I have a routine, and am pretty superstitious about it, only weighing myself in the morning because that’s obviously when you weigh the least. And who wants to weigh themselves when they weigh the most? That’s dumb. No one wants to know if they have gained two pounds, they only want to know when they have lost weight.

Unless you are on steroids. In which case, you have issues. But thanks for playing.

Or you’re a guy. To be honest, I am annoyed with you. Annoyed that you are happy you gained weight, and also annoyed that you can lose weight by sitting on the couch for hours on end. :grumble:

Aside from you annoying, dysfunctional people — I think the rest of you agree with me. Here is where this gets interesting: my scale is broken. It picked an optimal time to break, you know right after the holidays. The time when the majority of the world has gained an average of something like seven pounds. Seven is a death-trap number, just so you know. It’s right between five and ten which means you might as well go to ten, because you are probably not going to drop to five. Cow.

I didn’t realize it was broken before because I live alone and am the only person that weighs myself at my designated time. (I also refuse to weigh post-shower. Wet hair weighs more. Duh.) So, for an extended period of time, which to be quite honest with you was not only depressing but also made me want to eat ice cream 23-hours a day, I was convinced I had gained the dreaded seven-pound-holiday-kill-me-now.”

Anyway, J weighs himself everytime he is in the kitchen — without fail. He also works out religiously and prays to the Gods of high metabolism. The scale became most curious when he gained three pounds. GASP!

I know, three pounds you say? Who gives? I gain three pounds after every meal and the week before my period. Well, J doesn’t have a period and he definitely doesn’t gain sporadic weight. Additionally, three is the seven between zero and five…the first black hole on the freeway to porksville.

Then he lost two pounds. (Bastard.)

All the while, I was gaining and losing weight on a daily basis and had convinced myself that not only was I slacking on the hot yoga, but also that I needed to prepare myself on the daily for my inevitable snack-attacks. Clearly this was the cause of my numerical problems.

Then I dropped five pounds…and J gained. WTF?

Yup, that clinched it. My scale is broken. The only place I can put the stupid thing is the kitchen, as every other surface in my apartment is carpeted — well aside from the lanai. But we wouldn’t want people trying to jump, now would we?

A Tribute to Nons/Creepy Engagement Rings

I spent this past weekend playing in the snow at Schweitzer with J, mostly splitting the time snowboarding, driving and drinking beer. It was awesome. We got back Monday evening, and as I was almost entirely decompressed and ready to start another 4-day work week (my life is very taxing) my Mom called in tears to let me know that my Nonnie (Grandma) had passed away.

It is sad, yes. And believe me, being the cryer that I am I really cried it out. If you had walked in on me, you might have confused me for a pre-pubescent tween making our with her pillow practicing just in case. I should consider having my tear ducts removed to avoid that awful post-cry puffy-eye miserableness. Too much?
Anyway, it was time for Nons to go — and I can confidently say that she is in a much better place now. Alzheimer’s is a bitch of a disease and after three years, I know that she is much happier wherever she is. Thank you to everyone that has offered condolences, and kept tabs on my somewhat cuhrazy family. We really do love each other, I swear.
As I was Driving Ms. Daisy (read: my Mom), helping pack up Nonnie’s things and get all the stuff that comes with death in order, I learned a very valuable lesson. Always take two cars. This way when you pull into the funeral homes parking lot and realize what the next step of the process is, you can U-turn and leave rather than have to park and actually get out of the car. My mother is a very, very smart woman – and she knows that given the opportunity to bail out on any grown-up activity that does not involve tequila or spending money on myself, I will do so quickly. (Note to self: finish doing taxes. Gah!) That’s right folks, she made me go with her and my Auntie to the funeral home.
Holy hell.
First off, funeral homes are a cash cow. I wish my family would have thought ahead and bought up a big piece of land then sold it off piece by piece to grieving families. They sell EVERYTHING. It’s like the Target of Death. Flowers? Got ’em. Brochures? Sure thing. Bag piper? Yup, just let us know when and where. My family is smarter than that, don’t you worry. My Mom and my Aunt were sliding memorial program examples my way, just so we could ‘review’ them. Yah right. They know I have Adobe Illustrator. They know I can layout a brochure. Sneaky, sneaky Thompson girls.
Secondly, why does the funeral director have an engagement ring the size of the Big Island? You mean to tell me that this average looking woman who plans funerals is engaged and/or already married to a doctor/lawyer/Jewish man? How do you even talk about work at home with a dead-person party planner?
“You’d NEVER believe who died today..” “And then they picked an urn with dolphins on it. Dolphins! Can you believe that?” …great dinner conversation, Morticia.
(Also, wtf? Who designs these things and why would a want a teddy bear with the ashes of my Nonnie anywhere in my house?!)
After gawking for, oh the entire time we sat in the conference room, we are all lucky that when it was question time I didn’t say, “Yes, I am mostly hoping you could tell me how you landed that rock?” I know you are thinking that my staring is rude. Yes — BUT have you ever sat in a funeral home conference room? They have a 27′ flat screen slide showing headstones/gravesides/funerals. On repeat. Believe it, you’d stare at anything else, too. And the family services guys’ comb over is less appealing than a clear replica of J.Lo’s rock. I’ll tell you this much, they need more pictures – and you know they have them because like I said: cash cow.

A Bloody Mary and a run get into a fight. Who wins?

Yesterday was the Super Bowl, and let me tell you – something definitely kicked my butt. (I can’t say ass. My mom reads my blog and unless it’s ‘asshat,’ a fully justifiable adjective, she frowns upon written cursing. Especially on the Internet.)

Naturally, you assume it was the beer that got me. Legitimate thoughts, my friends, but you’re wrong. It might have been the 15+ dips I sampled at DAP VI (Dip-a-palooza Vi: if you don’t know you obviously weren’t invited.) And it DEFINITELY was the verbal scolding from SM – who may or may not have finished her microbrew only to dive into her bf’s stash of Natty Light lips first. Who am I to judge? I’m not. She was acting in true Super Bowl form, and she did it with a whole lot of class.

No, she didn’t yell at me. But way to assume that any word-vomit associated with alcohol is negative. She told me exactly what I needed to hear. Flat out: you don’t blog enough, therefore I don’t check it everyday. (Trust me, her verbiage was more detailed than that…also slightly circular.)

So, in her honor (hehe)…Couple Runners.

I do a lot, let me stress A LOT, of walking around Greenlake. I find the fresh air/movement/people watching/coffee every mile to not only be a great source of entertainment and exercise – but also a cure for almost any hangover. No, Mom, I’m not hungover. I wasn’t Sunday either!

There are a multitude of things I could go on about when it comes to the 3+ miles around Greenlake. The annoying little brats that ride their bikes too fast. Rollerbladers. (Hi, 1995 much?) People that buy toy dogs then try to run with them. Or even worse, buy them a stroller. No – what’s really getting to me? Couple runners.

I know what you are thinking: she’s just bitter because she’s single (and Sunday is Valentine’s Day). Again, you my friend are wrong. It’s because I hate to run.

Although, I did wake up two weeks ago with a gung-ho, ‘Ima go for a run’ in my new spandy pants! attitude. Had my sports bra on, my cute new capris and my need-to-be-replaced-immediately ‘running’ shoes. Nikki invited me to lunch at Buckley’s, to which I obliged. Then everyone else was drinking Bloody Mary’s and looking around the table being the single, odd one out seemed less appealing to vodka/tomato/spicy deliciousness. Then it was raining.

Couple runners. Sometimes they dress is coordinating outfits. Seriously? Addidas didn’t make a men’s AND women’s version of that tracksuit with the intention you would both buy the same color. Also, who even wears Addidas anymore? My spell check doesn’t even recognize it!

If they aren’t coordinating, you can thank your lucky stars. Unfortunately, someone is still wearing something they shouldn’t be.

He’s wearing: Spandex pants for that airstream, dynamic, serious-runner look to impress her.

She’s thinking: Ew, spandex. At least wear shorts to cover up your situation – ye, situation.

She’s wearing: Her sports bra and booty shorts.

He’s thinking: Count it! I’m so getting laid.

Girl walking the opposite direction is thinking: Bitch.

He’s wearing: Running shorts. You know, the kind with the side slits and built-in mesh that you can only find at Value Village or your Grandpa’s closet from 1952 when he played college ball.

She’s thinking: Ew, short shorts. At least wear spandex to cover up your thighs, perv.

She’s wearing: Knee-high athletic socks and mascara.

He’s thinking: Jeez, this Gamma-Phi-Kappa-Delt is trendy. I wonder what would happen if I shoved her into that mud puddle.

Everyone knows runners are competitive. Hello, that’s why they have RACES. The whole point of a race is to beat your time, or your roommate’s time, or your boyfriend’s time, or the person running next to you’s time. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a race. It would a bunch of stupid skinny people with numbers on their stomachs running like mice through a pre-determined course.

To make the couple-running pair even more entertaining (and obnoxious) is the fact that someone is always running slower than they want to be. Generally speaking, there is one lagging slightly behind the other, almost tripping on their counterparts’ heels. A metaphor of their relationship? You thought it, not me. Ok, me too. Sacrificing your competitive nature so that he thinks he is just as fast as you are. This just in: he’s not. (Sorry boys, I give that one to the chicks.)

Wouldn’t you rather be dodging bikers and the cast of Saved By the Bell while actively lip-syncing “Stronger” by Britney Spears around the lake? You think about that.

The answer you are looking for is: the Bloody Mary. I bet if I saved the $8 every time I wanted a Bloody Mary I could buy new running shoes in a month. JS.

[it’s fine]

Here’s the deal boys, girls can be irrational, emotional, confusing and sometimes – in your mind – crazy. The male definition of crazy includes any time a female oversteps her bounds being too clingy, too emotional or shows she cares too much. Sure, it’s scary, but who are you kidding? She likes you, and instead of talking about it you resort to calling her a crazy to your friends/the girl your crushing/your entire world of Facebook. If you’re me (newsflash: in your dreams) and you have a Facebook community that includes anyone you have ever crossed paths with (you probably do) this means that there are some 400-800+ people that now know the girl that bared her heart to you (how dare she) is a psychopath that cares. 

 
Anyway, I started off talking about the male definition to lead into my main point. Females have their own definitions. They may not be on UrbanDictionary, however it’s well-known amongst our ‘species’ that these two phrases are not only highly passive aggressive, but are our last-ditch effort for you to back-pedal whatever it is we think you’ve done – which to be honest, is probably nothing. 
I’ll start with the less obvious of the two. 
She says: No you don’t have to [insert ANY verb you can think of].
She means: Of course, I would like it if you [insert same verb] – however I want you to figure it out on your own. 
Irrational? Yup. Ridiculous? Yes. Totally and completely passive? Yesiree. The reality is, she wants you to show her how much you care (since it’s apparent you don’t think she’s crazy…yet) without asking you to go out of your way for her. That would be way too logical. 
If you don’t know this next one, then you might be too oblivious to be attracted to us ‘aliens.’ Throw in the towel champ because you’re hopeless. These two-words will make you want to rip the hair straight from the follicle. Do you remember when you were growing up and your parents said they weren’t mad – just disappointed. It’s like that, but now you’re adult and tonight you aren’t having sex.
She says: It’s fine. 
She means: You asshat. 
And it’s just that simple. She’s mad you changed the channel, but it’s fine. You would rather play XBox Live than talk. Also, fine. Oooooh maybe you picked your friends’ party over a date night? That one will get you for sure. 
Listen bud, it’s not fine. Whether it’s verbal, e-mail, text or sign language – her passive-aggressive ship is sailing you further from the sheets and closer to the couch. Maybe not this time, but the next time. Watch out for this one, it’s brutal – especially with the right inflection. 
The good news is she’ll probably get over it. Eventually. What can I tell you? Sometimes girls are just crazy.