Two Tickets To The Looney Bin

Monday morning, 8:00 a.m. I took Gus in for his annual puppy exam. They told me mostly stuff that I already know…he is a fatty and stuff. Then I started mentioning stuff about how he cries like it’s the end of the world in the car and how he is scared of the kitchen floor and the vet was like…um…crazy?

Now I know that I am crazy. I came to that realization a long time ago and I am fully comfortable with my wacky ways. But when the doc suggested puppy Prozac to fight my pooch’s apparent clinical depression and anxiety…I had to wonder…did I make him lose his mind?

People often note the similarities between pets and their owners, but usually that is some flappy-jowled old man with a bull dog or something. But is it possible that the similarities are more than skin deep? Because God knows that I have a chocolate brown block head with crazy wrinkles, but is it possible that he has acquired my insanity as well?

Well, at least I’ll get to bring him with me when they commit me.

Operation: Save-A-Chute

Our mission (and of course we chose to accept it) was to find the remnants from Operation: Drop-A-Chute. We gathered intel from a stump on a hill over-looking the canyon…it was there…we saw it…and it looked pretty much intact. The beauty of a reconnaissance mission is that you don’t actually have to DO anything. Mostly you find out what you want to know and then you get to play.

So that is what we did.

With the charade of finding a better route to the site we rode all over. We desecrated some graves, did a little trespassing, almost broke our necks several times, popped a tire and bent a rim…all in all a good old time.

Later that evening after the men had dropped me off, loaded me full of pain killers for my bruised and broken body and taken off again, I began to hallucinate. Every small noise in the bushes was an axe murderer and I knew it. So to busy my paranoid mind, I built a fire. Too bad the men had also taken all the matches and lighters away with them. So I tried to start the fire by banging two rocks together, but they were less like rocks and more like dense clumps of dried clay and just sorta crumbled. I tried rubbing two sticks together, but I did NOT have the patience for that shit. Finally I drew on the knowledge that boyfriend has imparted on me over our two glorious years together….grabbed a paper towel, dowsed it in gasoline and lit it with the car cigarette lighter. Boyfriend was so proud and I was pretty pleased with myself too…especially since my fire scared away the axe murderer.

You Learn Something New Everyday

So Boyfriend has decided to become a prospector (it is actually kinda cute as I imagine him growing a long beard and giddily shouting “Eureka!” while doing a jig over his gold pan). So the logical first step in prospecting is to fly over in your private plane and drop 300 pounds of gear into your canyon of choice.

Boyfriend found his parachute on ebay and it arrived balled up in a garbage bag. Now you would think this might be a problem, since neither Boyfriend nor I have ever packed a parachute, but nah…we got this.

After watching a 3 minute video on youtube about how to fold the thing, we spread the 38-foot monster army green parachute on the green grass in the pitch dark night and began folding. We were pretty impressed with ourselves. We even found a high-tech solution to the lack of parachute sack by stuffing it into an old pillow case and stapling the sides. Genius. Look at us. We went from parachute packing virgins to mother-effing professionals in two hours flat. Sunday’s lesson was complete.

On Monday, Boyfriend went to actually perform the drop. And as the duffle bags crashed down from the plane with not even a partially-deployed chute, we learned the daily lesson: that you can’t learn how to pack a parachute from a youtube video.

Somewhere down there in that canyon Sasquatch is snacking on MREs and enjoying Boyfriend’s well-fitting shoes that surely fell out when the bags hit the rocky bottom at 200 mph and split open like melons. You know what they say…big feet…parachute-packing failure.

Rollin Dirty

By day, I am mild-mannered (mostly) Ashley. But what you might not know is that I have an alter ego…Smashley, the heroically amusing drunk. People get jealous of other people who have had the honor of meeting Smashley. The legends of her escapades are told to captive audiences, longing for a glimpse of this creature.

Well…this weekend Smashley came out.

I went to Pismo with Boyfriend and the Rollin Dirty crew. It was a wind-blown, sleep-deprived mixture of motors, alcohol and offensive language. On Friday night, I rolled off the back of Boyfriend’s quad and nearly broke my neck. On Saturday, I sat on the beach for most of the day while the boys tried to break their necks. But on Saturday evening, I got a little brave…or stupid. I asked Boyfriend to show me how to jump. I just wanted a little one. Just a little tiny one. He chose some ridiculously steep dune and I lost momentum halfway up the thing. He told me to hit it faster. Apparently I did. When I came off the top of that hill I had the sensation of floating through the air. When I landed I looked back at Boyfriend, staring in disbelief. He showed me my tracks…I had jumped 25 mother-effing feet. I, being me, burst into tears and started shaking and we promptly rode back to camp where Boyfriend bragged to his friends and I poured myself a drink.

This was the first inkling that Smashley was lurking about. After finishing an entire bottle of margaritas it became obvious that she was present and accounted for. She danced like the little monkey for the crowd and passed out sometime shortly before dawn.

Morning came, and I got to deal with the repercussions of that crazy bitch. So, if you go to Pismo and you see a bunch of evenly spaced sand mounds near the end of the beach…beware…Smashley makes me sick…a lot.

I Might Have to Kill Myself Now

This is a statement that I make more often that I should. I have never thought too much about it. But recently, my feisty coworker has brought it to my attention that such comments are inappropriate, as many people commit suicide. Now I don’t fully agree with this argument, because who cares…those people are dead…I didn’t really say that (It's ok…I’m already going to hell). So I have respectfully resolved myself to only use my suicidal hyperbole in the most serious situations.

Today I had such an instance.

I was staring blankly at my igoogle page when I noticed a quote that struck a chord with me. I could not agree with the poignant sentiment more. And it makes me want to jump off the bridge:

“If I answer questions every time you ask one, expectations would be high. And as you know, I like to keep expectations low.”

President George W. Bush

Back To School

What the hell am I thinking?

In first grade I specifically remember faking sick, just for the hell of it, and then remembering that it was the day that we were all dressing up like pilgrims and Indians to have our mock thanksgiving feast…but I had already started my lie, so I had to keep it up and miss out on rock soup and construction paper hats…bummer. Diet coke count…1 a day.

I spent all of 7th and 8th grade doubled over in pain from the worst stomach aches…later determined to be stress and anxiety related. Diet coke count…2 a day.

In high school, the combo of AP class pressure, all night study sessions and countless extra curricular activities caused me to suffer severe migraines sometimes lasting for 5-7 days solid. They hooked me up to electrodes, tried to bring on seizures with lack of sleep and flashing lights, monitored me while I slept and put me on a rainbow of drugs with effects ranging from loopy to violent and everything in between. The final diagnosis…stress…oh…and my freshman year health teacher who forced all of his classes to give up soda and meat. Going cold turkey off a 5-a-day diet coke habit during the tumultuous years of high school…not good. The doctor recommended at least two caffeinated drinks each day. Diet coke count…5…then 0…then 4.

Off to college, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ready to take on Oregon, until the hippies got me down. And the grey sky made me want to take my life and I did too many pushups and slipped a disk in my back (yes it is possible and I know it is lame for a 20-year-old in her prime to slip a disk performing the president’s physical fitness test of all things…but it happened). Diet coke count…6 a day.

So yeah…what the hell am I thinking?

I started grad school this week. Diet coke count…7…and counting.

Oh-Eight!

Yeah…so '07 had its ups and downs…but all in all…in the top 50th percentile of good years. '08…now this is a different story. It is gonna ROCK! How do I know? Because…here is my list of resolutions that are going to aid in making 2008 the greatest year of Ashley’s life to date. I will:

• Blog more - I know this is the most important one to you. November wore me out…but I am back.
• Not go crazy - This is key. I did a pretty good job this year and the year before. But '04-'05…yipes stripes.
• Get a few more friends - Not that my current three friends aren’t enough…but I would like to be able to have enough people to put on my myspace top 4 to not include my sister’s ex-cat’s space. Miss you Fred.
• Win the lottery - You might say…that is a stupid resolution…you have no control over that. Well you might be right…but I have just as much chance of winning the lottery as improving my diet and exercise habits so why not?
• Get out of scary debt and into that good kind of debt that people talk about - Yes…I admit it. I am one of those morons who bought a house that she really can’t afford and is presently being reamed by my mortgage payment. Save the lecture…I know it by heart. So I am gonna take advantage of our brilliant president’s misplaced pity and get me a better loan.
• Train my monsters to be dogs - I watched the Dog Whisperer marathon…piece of cake.

So yeah…'08…it is gonna ROCK!

That Is Ms. Slacker To You

So I FULLY intended to keep up my nablopomo momentum and continue blogging at that ridiculous pace…but then I took a nap for the month of December.

I did start a post approximately eight days ago with the title, “On the Twelfth Day of Christmas.” But that post never came to fruition as I suffered a massive panic attack while writing about my anxiety over having nothing for any of the good little boys and girls on my list. So after I popped my eyeballs back in my head, I decided that instead of blogging about the ominous approach of Christ’s birthday, I would actually be proactive and buy some freaking presents.

We are now…what?…four days out?...and I have completed the majority of my shopping without ever setting foot in a mall. That is pretty damn good for a pathological procrastinator like myself.

Yep…I’m A Cutter

Don’t worry…no need for an intervention…it isn’t that kind of cutting. I am a graphic designer with horrible overuse of the die cut. Odd shapes…unexpected cutouts…I am all about them. My problem is that when I create such diecuttie creations…I have many many drafts. This wouldn’t be a big deal (unless you are one of those…paperless people) for most people, but for me, as a cutter, it is quite painful.

You see, each draft needs to be cut out. How can anyone viewing my draft see the true brilliance of the piece if it isn’t cut out? Hence my strong attachment to my scissors and other cutting paraphernalia.

Today I am working on what can only be described as a giant doily…and as such…has required me to spend my day hunched over the cutting mat with my exacto knife for basically five hours. My neck hurts and I have blister on my finger and I have at least 10 versions of this thing cut out on my desk now…on second thought…maybe I do need an intervention.

What Was I Going to Blog About?

God knows I can’t remember. Today’s blog is brought to you by the word “distraction” the number “14” and the letter “F.”

The number 14 is how many times I have muttered the words, “what the heck was I doing?” under my breath today.

The word distraction is the theme of my day as I jump from half-finished task to half-finished task with reckless abandon.

The letter F is the grade I would give myself on my productivity today.

So you can easily see that today would be a great day for me to tell you that the meaning of life is…ooo…look…something shiny.

Can I Go to Bed Yet?

My week is going to be hellish. I can tell. Today was my “easy” day and I just got to eat for the first time here when I got home at 9:12 pm. This week is packed with meetings and chores and lists and other things that give my anxiety medication a run for its money.

The only thing that is getting me through is a beautiful vision of a handsome man on an expanse of sand with a big blender and margarita mix. My hero!

*Swoon*

Networking Tips for the Socially Stunted

Networking can be tricky business. Here are my simple steps to mediocre success in a social situation. Watch and learn:

1. Stand with your back to a wall…that way you can see everyone who might come up and try to talk with you.
2. Make sure to wear lots of jewelry so you have something to play with to look busy.
3. When you can’t think of anything to say, just giggle and mumble a little…people will think you are talking but will be too polite to ask you to speak up when they think they can’t hear you over the party noise.
4. Eye contact is dangerous…don’t do it…or else people will talk to you.
5. Eat…a lot…it isn’t polite to talk with your mouth full.
6. Find the one person you know and glom on…don’t let go.
7. When all else fails…break into a almost jog and go in and out of doors like you are doing something super important.

With these easy techniques you can be just as much of a party goober as I am.

Why So Bitter?

Life is good.

But I guess that isn’t so obvious from my blogging.

It was brought to my attention that my last posts have been a little angry. I’m not angry, so I did a little soul searching. I think that my blog is possibly the most healthy and cathartic thing for me. Apparently I can pour all of my angry feelings out into this text and manage to put a lot of the rage that would normally fester under the surface right out in the open.

Preblog, I probably would have had at least an emotional breakdown per month. But now…I can rage about stupid little things like misplaced scissors and stupid cabbies and that releases my bitter energy so I can cope. Who needs therapy when there is blogger?

So, to break the bitter cycle…I will share a joke that I was told yesterday by a very classy lady (you can tell from the joke):

Q: What kind of panties do clouds wear?

A: Thunderwear!

Ok…giggle inside…its ok…nobody is looking.

A Bad Day A-Brewin’

I think I should have a reality television crew. Not because my life is particularly interesting, but because on those few tragically pathetic days, I think people could get some real humor out of the comedy of errors that is my life.

Today is shaping up to be one of those days.

I fell down in the parking lot…I tripped over…well…nothing. I just fell for no reason. It kinda hurt…but it was kinda funny so I laughed a little and some guy came around the corner and saw me kneeling on the ground giggling to myself in the middle of the parking lot…he thought I was crazy and took a wide berth. I walked into the building and got onto the elevator. I waited…it was taking a long time. I waited. The door opened, and someone got on…still on the first floor. They informed me that I had to press the button of the floor I wanted to go to.

That is just the story of my five minute trip from car to desk. That doesn’t include the load of shit that fell on me after I made it to that desk or the stabbing pain behind my eye right now that is causing me to want to go back and lay in the middle of the parking lot again.

Happy Fucking Friday!

I Heart Ruler

I have a strange attachment to office supplies. Nothing creepy…but I definitely feel an unnatural emotional link between me and my cube accoutrement.

I keep a special stash of various sizes of purple and yellow post-its…not the average everyday canary yellow ones but the darker and richer yellow. I have these rad scissors that have a hidden blade on the handle to open boxes (or stab unsuspecting scissor nappers). I have the metal ruler with cork backing that I have had for at least ten years. I have a scotch tape dispenser that works like a packing tape dispenser with the little mini handle and everything. I love these things. I protect them. Don’t steal my ruler because I will kick you (and I will know you stole it because I wrote my name on it in sharpie).

I don’t mind sharing…I am not a selfish person. But finding my scissors across the room is a little distressing. What if I decided to move your car and park it a block away. I know…jacked up!

It’s the golden rule folks…do unto my office supplies as you would want me to do unto you…or something like that…I’m a heathen…you get the drift.

Shut Up Inner Ashley! I Can’t Hear What the REAL People are Saying

It is a wonder that I have any friends at all. Seriously, I don’t like meeting new people. Not because I don’t like people, but I hate the awkward conversing parts. It is so much easier to talk to people who get me or have a clue what I am talking about.

It is hard to talk to a person when your inner monologue is moving as fast as your lips are, saying, “Why did you say that? That sounds stupid. God shut up! You are talking too damn fast. That sounded bitchy. Did you just roll your eyes? God! Why DID you say that? First impressions loser.”

A little look into my brain. A little self critical I know, but aren’t we all. That may be why I enjoy this blogging thing. I can write what I mean. Yes, text can be misinterpreted, but at least I have the opportunity to hit the delete key when something completely moronic flows from my fingers.

Dance Monkey! Dance!

Apparently my “big girl blog” is not “big girl” enough. So…I am going to be the master of my own domain. Only problem…this master isn’t so good at making decisions. So it is going to be more of a democracy and I am going to be more of the tap dancing monkey who performs a little show for you each day.

As my constituents, this is your first responsibility…help me choose my domain name. Here is what I have so far…please give input or other suggestions:

whiplashley.com
a-is-for-ashley.com
smashleyland.com
smashleyface.com

P.S. update on the crazy from yesterday…I finished sorting my post-its, and apparently, during the night, some horrible person decided to steal a single blue pad of post-its. What the hell am I going to do with the six other colors?!?!

Next Stop...Loonytown

I do not have any problems with my craziness. I have embraced it over the years and I have come to truly believe that “normal” people are one of two things:

1) boring
2) fooling themselves

I agree that there is a certain level on the crazy scale where crazies no longer are quirky and odd but become downright scary, but I pay special attention to my own crazy to make sure that if I ever notice myself climbing the scale, I know to go seek professional help.

Lately I have noticed things in myself that do indicate an increase in crazy, but they can’t possibly foretell any crack-up or postal moments, can they? I should probably go to a professional, but I feel like my seven loyal readers understand my mental state much better than any shrink can…so help a girl out…here are my symptoms:

The other day I was sorting post-its (yes the project in itself sounds crazy, but it was an actually demand of my job). I have seven different colors of post-it pads that needed to be grouped into packets of seven with each color represented. I carefully made four even stacks of each color in rainbow order and began to pick one color up at a time to put into the set. After about five sets, I realized that one of the four stacks in each color was getting lower than the others. This made me twitch a little. I quickly reorganized the stacks and changed my pick up pattern so that I took one from each pile each time to keep them even.

Today I went to the bathroom. I saw the two rolls of toilet paper that were exposed for use. The top one was nearly empty, about an eighth of an inch of paper left on the roll. It would make sense to use that roll up so that the roll could be replaced and nobody would risk being without paper…yes I know…I am over thinking the toilet paper…but I couldn’t do it. I had to even the rolls. I even took more paper than was needed to equalize the rolls a bit faster.

I just threw away six pieces of note paper with the exact same things written on them. I wrote the note first quickly to get the thoughts down. I copied it a second time but missed a word. I copied it a third time, but the ink from my pen made a little smear. I copied it a fourth time, but I didn’t like the way my printing looked. I copied it a fifth time, but I wrote too big in cursive and it didn’t fit on the paper. I copied it the sixth time and I finally got it right…just then the person that I was writing the note to, came over and I just told them what the note said and threw all six copies away.

So…thoughts?