Experimenting with Size 8

Tomorrow I find out if it's possible for a person to go on living without breathing for, say, six hours. In anticipation for this big event I have:

1) Worked out less
2) Eaten more
3) Blogged less
4) Worked more
5) Worried way more

I expect to go into a state of shock approximately one hour into the study. By hour two, I will begin to feel dizzy, accompanied by possible waves of nausea, neurosis and psychosis. By hour two and a half, I will lose all feeling in my feet and hands. This will slowly spread to my legs and arms and by hour four, I will, unbeknownst to those around me, move in and out of consciousness. At a quarter past hour four I will enter a preliminary stage of nirvana, and by hour five I will be frolicking in fields of wildflowers and dancing with sea lions. Only to come back to reality once hour six hits and my dress is unzipped.

Yes. Tomorrow is Ashlee's wedding, and my dress is way way way too tight.

Usefull Talents

So I just found out that Tad can kick high. Really high. Chuck-Norris-above-your-head high. And he doesn’t take Pilates. And he’s never been in sports. And I swear he can’t touch his toes or even sit Indian-style, for that matter.

Just a few stretches and BAM! His foot comes up above his head. Again. And again. And a fourth time, if he desires.

It’s the strangest thing. And while some may call this a useless talent, I see it as huge life-potential.

My husband is destined to be an NFL kicker.

I’m going to start having him practice. Then, as soon as he’s mind-blowingly good, we’ll find a team who could not only use a better kicker, but whose current kicker has about a year left on his contract. Then, we’ll make our way into one of their pre-season practices and Tad will kick for them. And they’ll see such potential, they’ll add him as a walk-on and groom him to take over the position after the year is up and their current kicker’s contract has run out.

And then I’ll sit in the section where all the wives sit and look extra concerned when the camera is on me and Tad will have action figures and replica jerseys because he’ll be the ever-loved underdog and he’ll be in video games (certainly one of his dreams) and I’ll cause scandal by wearing Bears jerseys (even though Tad will play for the Vikings or the Bengals) and crashing White House events (take THAT Secret Service) and showing up to restaurants without my wedding ring (this is very possible considering the number of times I have lost it to date).

The sky is the limit.

So now I’m compelled to compile my list of useless talents…but in the meantime, what are yours? And how could they be turned into useFULL talents?

Exploding Hands for the New Year

"Look what I got at work!"

A bowl full of mini cheeseball, crackers, and a champagne bottle party popper.

"And I'm giving it to you," he said, handing me the bowl.

Needless to say, the cheeseball was gone within seconds. But the popper...

"YOU do it," I said, handing it to him.

"What? Why?"

"I've never done it before."

"Well, that's why YOU should do it."

"But . . . but I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"I'm scared I'll explode my hand."

"You can't explode your hand, Amanda. It's impossible."

"Oh."

But I changed the topic anyway.

**FAST FORWARD TWELVE HOURS**

"Ten, Nine, Eight . . ."

We were at a New Year's party with friends, watching the countdown on the television while the host and hostess frantically passed out party favors in anticipation for 2010.

Their main favor of choice: champagne bottle poppers. They tossed me one.

"Seven, Six, Five . . ."

I gripped the string, ready to pull.

"Four, Three, Two, One, Happy New Year!!!!"

Poppers popped all around me. And, impressively, hands were kept in tact. So, boldly I pulled the string.

Fire. Lots of fire.

A burning sensation shot across my palm as a heap of colored string landed in my lap.

"Ow," I said quietly, and sent Tad an evil glare that went unnoticed.

I had succeeded in exploding my hand.

My flaw? I had ignorantly held the popper with the neck of the bottle pointed out and the base gripped tightly in my hand.

I now know that it is in fact the base of the bottle that blows off and NOT the top. Apparently, this is common knowledge. (Although I insist it makes absolutely no sense, considering that it is the cork of a champagne bottle that is most likely to go haywire).

Huff.

I told Tad what happened later when we were home. He shook his head at me. He may have laughed.

I continue to defy his reality.

Sorry, I'm Married

During my 1.5 year stint as a steakhouse waitress, I managed to acquire one whole phone number. Well, 1 and a half if you count the 16 year-old who insisted on handing me his seven digits while his absolutely mortified mother tried to convince him that I was way too old for him, therefore making the blossoming relationship illegal (and me almost a predator!).

And it was a good thing she talked some sense into him, because let me tell you I was ready to hand in my apron and run off to Mexico with the kid right then and there if he asked me to.

The REAL phone number was scribbled on the back of a receipt. And, if I remember correctly, the tip was about 10%. Scoff. Mutter. Scoff, scoff.

Sure, there were times when I preyed upon unsuspecting males, but I had a definite type. Worn Chuck Taylors, mousy hair, black t-shirts, optional acne, metal-studded leather belts. You know, the sort of single teenager who didn't know if he wanted to be a rockstar or play Halo for the rest of his life. He was my victim. Especially if he came out in groups of three or more.

Alls I had to do was be really really mean and sarcastic, while showing my love through endlessly abundant complementary rolls.

They'd each pay for their $10 or $12 meal with a twenty and tell me to keep the change. And I'd come away from that table with thirty or so dollars.

It was beautiful. And shameless. And quite lucrative.

So this evening, as I walked to my car from Cold Stone (had to cash in on my complementary birthday sundae!), I almost didn't hear the guy call from across the parking lot.

"Excuse me."

Walk, walk.

"Excuse me."

I turned around, ready to say "No, you can't use my phone", or "No, I can't give you a ride" but instead he said this,

"Can I have your phone number?"

Uh. "Sorry," I said, "I'm married."

And as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I felt like I was lying to the guy. And I suddenly wished I'd have accompanied it with a "I'm sure you're a nice guy, but . . ." or a "you know, I hate to say this, I really do, but . . ." because somehow those sorts of intros make it seem less like I'm lying (and scared! and annoyed!) and more like had things been different, the guy would have had a fighting chance.

And then I realized that the New Year is days away and the schmuck probably just needed a date.

Well, he certainly has a few things to learn about choosing your prey.

A Tale of Procrastination

In an epic act of procrastination, I was going to provide you with a photo of me climbing out of a sarcophagus.

And in an even epic-er act of procrastination, I just spent 20 minutes tearing the apartment apart, looking for the envelope of photos from my trip to Turkey that I may procure my sarcophagus photograph and retell the epic story of how I climbed into the tomb, got really freaked out, climbed out of a tomb, and then thought my camera had been cursed by evil spirits--or the awakened dead.

Stephen King would have been proud. As would Stephanie Meyer.

But alas! The photograph has been misplaced, meaning one thing:

Though I tried to avoid a New Year Resolution List that included "tidiness" and "organization", I have been bested.

New Year Resolution #14 - sort through, weed out, and pitch all of my crap (while simultaneously finding homes for the few items that are less like crap and more worth keeping).

In the meantime, here is a photo of the ancient clock tower in Antalya whose nearby trash can was bombed by terrorists during my first week there!

The Middle Ages - Mayan Prophecies

It's official. I'm 26 years old. I've been this now for five days. And as I mentioned before, I totally recognize that it's not the end of the world. I get that. But it doesn't settle right with me.

And I can't help but wonder if the Mayans foresaw my aging angst.

The Mayan calendar, in all its precision and epic ahead-of-its-time-ness, simply stops at year 2012. Now while they may have simply gotten tired of making the calendar and set the project aside for the next generation to pick up, there are those that believe that the year 2012 is actually a prediction of sorts. An end of the world prediction, if you will.

The actual Doomsday is set to hit December 21 or December 23 of 2012.

And I find this quite uncanny.

Could it be that the Mayans foresaw my December 22, 1983 birth and subsequent uncomfortableness with turning thirty?

Could it be that they agreed my reaching such an age would prove cataclysmic? Catastrophic? And maybe even apocalyptic?

Could it be that my aging angst has such pull on galactic revolutions, my frustration with turning thirty will align the stars in a way that will bring the world to an end?

And could it be that the Mayans were understanding enough to know that, since my birthday already contends for popularity with Christmas, the last thing I would want would be for it to contend with an end of the world prediction? Therefore, making the targeted date fall on either the day BEFORE or the day AFTER my 29th birthday and eliminating the possibility of turning thirty alltogether?

Hmmm...

That's some powerful stuff to think about.

Perhaps now I'll be given credence when lamenting over nearing the thirties.

Theological Warfare

"Why did you break up with him?" I asked my friend.

"Well, there were some major issues. He was 35, for one," she answered.

"Mmm."

"And he also didn't believe we are born with a sin nature."

Some couples struggle with theological differences. Tad and I like to joke about ours. I mean the whole Calvinist / Free Will thing is way too easy to make fun of.

At one point the other day, Tad busted out with this crazy G-R-A-C-E acronym (God's Riches At Christ's Expense) and expected me to identify. I had no idea what he was doing. Or saying. This was way beyond WWJD or FROG. I had never heard it before in my life.

He was astonished.

“Sorry, but we weren’t all about Grace and Mercy like you Baptists,” was my response.

“Oh, that’s right,” Tad said, “You were all about losing your salvation.”

“No, no,” I corrected, “We were all about . . .”

I threw my head back and in my best Mel Gibson/Braveheart voice yelled:

Freeeeedom!!!

Because I knew topping off the discussion with a war-hero, action movie reference would make me a shoe-in for the win.