I hope you didn't read all this PASSWORD NONSENSE! Just scroll down.
Keep scrolling because if you try to read this you will inevitably want to STAB someone, anyone, in the nearby vicinity and I do not want to be responsible for something like that especially so close to the holidays so just keep on scrolling my friend. Put down the knife.
Uh oh, I read some of it. *picks up knife* Those Microsoft bastards seriously recommend ILuv2PlayB@dm1nt()n as a password?! There's only one thing left to say....
My teen son and I went on road trip last week so the orthodontist could tighten his braces for five minutes and charge me $250. My optometrist appointment, although cheaper, was also somewhat painful considering that Dr. Win taught me all about ocular migraines.
Yup, fun road trip.
Actually it was fun. My son and I share the same off-kilter sense of humour so we found a way not to fret about his teeth pain and my self-diagnosed impending blindness/impending stoke/[insert some other impending worst-case scenario here]. How did we do that? With the help of Scotland of course....
Before we left on our road trip yesterday, someone tweeted the "OMG trampoline" video and I was immediately hooked. Firstly, I apologize to Scotland. This is not a funny situation but something about the combination of imminent disaster and sheer lunacy engaged that immature 12 year old in my brain, the same one who would shove an entire toffee bar in his mouth just so he could a. maximize the sugar rush and b. glue his jaws together to impress his buddies. (Suddenly I recall the time I ate an entire tube of toothpaste, but I digress.) Anyway, I really do apologize to the Scots. Psychologically speaking, I guess my main coping mechanism with anything is to laugh first, ask questions later, and then wallow in my regret and shame indefinitely. I knew my son would cope in a similar way so I quickly shared it with him. His reaction? Ditto.
That's why I recommend this video as a sort of stress therapy for other pea-brains out there. How so? Well, as we learn from circumstances surrounding the man who shot the video, one's day could always be much much worse. Thus "OMG trampoline" has become my new catchphrase for much needed perspective.
I used it at McDonalds after our appointments. While ordering our food my debit card was repeatedly declined (apparently it expired last month). At the same time, I had a little reunion at the counter with a group of people I hadn't seen for years who suddenly found themselves about to pay for our lunch. Awkward. But my son paid instead. Later, we sat down, made eye contact, shook our heads at that embarrassment and had the same thought, "OMG Trampoline."
Pathological examples apparently include seriously unhealthy fixations such as anorexia nervosa or de Clerambault's syndrome when psychiatric patients are absolutely convinced their doctors are in love with them or even people who are convinced that aliens leave messages on their voice mail (or maybe just being Donald Trump).
In a senseless way it sorta makes sense doesn't it? That is why I have formulated my own pea-brained theory about monomania: tragic patients, creepy stalkers and Roswell pilgrims aside, I believe everyone has a mild/moderate case of monomania.
Think about it. We probably all need to be a little more self-reflective and a little more critical of our perceptions and why we believe what we believe.
I definitely do. My typical idée fixes include
1. Something I like to call "worst-case-scenario-izing."
2. That I strongly resemble Russell Crowe, or if I'm truly being honest, he resembles me.
3. I sometimes believe wholeheartedly that a clever turn of phrase in a film or TV show was actually, at some point, inspired by something I said.
There's new research that suggests forgetting is linked to doorways. Apparently, when we travel through a doorway, our brains use this "event-gateway" as a visual signal to file information away and then move on. This explains why we sometimes can't recall why we entered a room.
This makes sense to me. I compare it to sorta closing a window on my computer. In other words, "I'm done with that. Next."
And this is why I love wacky scientists. They explain my brain glitches. They make me less pathetic. It's not age, it's not stress, it's not lack of sleep, it's not watching Teen Mom 2, it's the doorway's fault.
However, despite my new-found excuse/dubious scientific principle, this information conjures in my brain a variety of other pea-brained theories and thoughts and questions:
1. Do you think this explains why open-concept homes evolved?
2. This doesn't explain that one time (ok, maybe three times) I phoned someone and then I was surprised who said hello because I forgot who I was calling.
3. Nor does this explain what I was looking for in the fridge a few minutes ago.
4. But it does explain Scooby Doo and the gang becoming so discombobulated in all those classic hall of doors scenes and maybe even why people became idiots on Let's Make a Deal.
5. I think it explains this too but it doesn't explain....
...Oops. I can't remember the conclusion to #5. I left my office for a moment, promptly forgot I was writing this, and returned several hours later. Damn doorways.
Each player begins by choosing a caption (from a list) and writes it on the game piece. Game pieces are then randomly switched. Silently, that player then draws a picture to go with the caption. Once complete, more random switching occurs, then that player writes the new caption for that drawing (without seeing the original caption or previous drawing). More switching ensues then another player draws the picture for that caption and so on. After four drawings/captions, players look at the last drawing to guess which drawing belongs with their original caption. Hasbro explains it much better here.
There's a way to get points but the best part for us was unrolling the drawings to see how ideas were interpreted (misinterpreted) and images progressed (regressed).
Below's an example I found funny. The original caption is first but remember, as the game continues, the player did not see the previous interpretation.
Original caption & first drawing: Look! The banana learned how to pole vault!
Caption given by another player to this drawing: My bacon rocked the track meet!
Caption given to the next drawing by another player: Bacon wins gold at the Pork Olympics!
And so on: Bacon places 1st overall, seriously kicking some snowman ass!
It's bought this beauty of a T-shirt at the Antigonish Highland games in Nova Scotia and I will never throw it out! *Cue Braveheart music.*
Okay ladies, let’s just end this now: guys have a right to their crappy shirts. This is just part of being a guy. It probably begins as soon as we can sit up and drool like a pro. Just like babies, who says we have to move beyond shirts that we can wear all day and sleep in too (and then wear again)? Huh? Who says?!
When I was in my teens I woke one morning and my Mom was spot-washing the floor with my favourite sweat shirt. Sure it had a hole in the front. Sure the cuffs were torn. Sure it said “John Deere.” Sure it was stained. Sure it had been washed so many times it was an indeterminate colour.
Here’s the thing though: these are the very characteristics that made it perfect. And another thing: it’s hard to find a super cool comfortable shirt. So when we guys find one, why wouldn’t we keep it for nineteen years?
Recently, a woman told me about another woman (ya right) who hid her husband’s favourite shirt in the trash because he would not agree to chuck it. So she chucked it. I repeat: she chucked it without his permission. This is also known as breaking one’s marriage vows.
Anyway, unfortunately for her, garbage collection was not for two more days. Oh she claimed she had no idea where his beloved shirt went but his suspicion grew and after searching high, searching medium, and searching low, he finally checked the trash and there it was. And then he smiled. Why? It now had yet another stain. Thus it would irritate her even more.
Now guys, I’m not suggesting that we should treat our wives disrespectfully. Consider this. Once, for my wife’s birthday, I gave her a very special present. I gift-wrapped one of my shirts (the very one she most loathed) along with a pair of scissors. She immediately knew what to do. This proves we men can indeed be
a. understanding
b. compromising
c. civilized and
d. adorable.
I granted this wish. Once. See? Very reasonable. But that’s over and thus I am allowed to wear any hole-in-the-armpit-stretched-and-crumpled-like-a-calf-suckled-on-it-shirt I want. For the rest of my life. And I don’t have to wear pants either if I don’t want to. (Just sayin.)
So ladies, go ahead and buy your men spanky new replacement shirts. Dare ya. (And good luck with that.)
