Tuesday, December 13, 2011

I Am Sorry I am Not Sorry

Frankly, the term “I am sorry” is the most overused word in the English language.

I am sorry, but I am most definitely an apology addict.

I am sorry I got so drunk. I am sorry I got into a better school than you. I am sorry that I am a stickler for grammar. I am sorry that you don’t have a car. I am sorry that I am taller than you. I am sorry I have such neat handwriting. I am sorry you walked into me.

All of these things have come out of my mouth in the last 48 hours, but the one that forced me into writing a blog about it was this one:

I am sorry, I have Celiac.

Recently, this is a sentence that has been word vomiting from my mouth far more frequently than it should be. As if my pre-existing ordering awkwardness wasn’t already weird enough, I now need to explain to all wait staff that I have a dietary limitation. I am now that girl.

So, when I feel like a waitress is judging me for customizing my meal, instead of leaving my [very personal, noneya business] explanation out, I always end up not only over-sharing, but also asking for forgiveness.

I am sorry, I have Celiac.

I stop and think: what exactly am I sorry for?! Well, I profusely apologize that my genetic defect, which has turned my world upside down in less than three months, is now going to inconvenience you. Now, instead of simply writing my carbon-copy order down, you now need to note that I need dressing on the side/no croutons please/ no bread on the side/ need to make sure the sauce has no gluten. Your life must be so hard.*

*Your life is so hard, that is, until you go to eat the free dinner you are provided in the back, and not think once about any of the ingredients in the chicken dish you are shoving into your mouth.

I am so sorry that I need your help in learning about the ingredients in the food you are about to serve to me, only doing so because I am unable to find said ingredients on your website which I most definitely scoured prior to my arriving at your restaurant. I am so sorry that if you don’t do this small custom order for me, that I will spend the next several hours doubled over in pain because it was such an inconvenience to you.

Well, guess what. I am not sorry…so, I am not going to say it anymore.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Fool Me Once: Stop Going To Nightclubs, Fool Me Twice?

Lets, for a brief moment, relive the painful memory that is November 2008, when Plaxico Burress accidently shot himself in the leg.

In avoiding the obvious questions I had as an avid, my-dad-raised-me-as-a-boy-when-it-comes-to-football fan, abridged into the following overly long question: “Um, why was Plaxico Burress packing in the first place… in a bar… the night before a big game against Washington…with other Giants players…with the gun stored in a position that could shoot himself or others…without a safety on?”

I digress.

I actually want to think about the public consequences that came of his poor decision, such as:


  • Plaxico’s recuperation process after physically shooting himself in the leg
  • being convicted of a felony, and forced to serve time
  • Never being able to play football as well as he did pre-shooting self in leg
  • The financial burden in paying legal fees and not having the security net of a professional football play salary
  • Letting down an entire football team, and its corresponding fans
  • His forever tainted public image as the “idiot who actually shot himself in the foot.”
  • Crushing a certain 21 year old fan, who was relying on him to pull through as her favorite Giant when Michael Strahan retired. Ahem.

Not to mention the toll it took on me, I mean Giants Nation…as if it isn’t hard enough being Giants fans already. If I had a dollar for each moment of second-hand Plaxico embarrassment I felt, I would most likely be writing this from my private yacht somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean. Ah, a girl can dream. Its fine though, I mean really who doesn’t like having to defend the reasoning behind their team’s wide receiver shooting themselves in the foot in the middle of the season?

Giants Nation Moral Lesson: no more packing whilst in Manhattan nightclubs.

Fine. Easy. We move on…

…or at least we had moved on until Monday night, when four members of the Giants starting line-up were caught in a fatal Manhattan night club shooting. [read the embarressing story here, thanks espn]

Déjà vu, anyone?

Luckily, no one from my beloved NYG franchise was hurt, but it sparks 3 immediate alarming thoughts for me:


  1. Did we not learn our lesson the first time? (see above)
  2. Can we not find better establishments to hang out at whilst enjoying ourselves? Perhaps places where people aren’t packing might suffice.
  3. Is it necessary to start running a nightly program where players need to check in weaponless, and can’t leave until the morning?

Also, Victor Cruz, who was rapidly climbing my “Favorite Giant Player” ladder has been forced to the bottom, as I don’t think I can come to avidly supporting someone who might accidently shoot himself in the leg…again.

Monday, November 14, 2011

[Insert Quote from the Procrastinator A La Nickelodean's 'All That']

So recently, while at a church council meeting [yes, I was asked to join church council…that’s another story in and of itself…] we began talking about the validity of blogs.

Evidently, in order to stay up-to-date [which we know I am currently nowhere near], I need to blog every two to three days.

Panic.

Remember when I used to be such a good little blogger because ohmygodmyreadersneedsomethingtoreadanditismydutyasaselfproclaimedbloggertopost?

Ah yes, the good ole days of having a functioning computer at home, and not having the sleep-inducing side effects of diagnosing Celiac Disease (which by the way I officially now have…)

In the middle of my church meeting, I then had a sudden urge to blog…not just blog, but meaningfully and passionately blog…

…it was an urge that clearly passed, as by the end of the meeting, I had no doubt completely forgotten about blogging and moved onto more important, in-the-moment issues, such as why I had such a deeply rooted headache in the core of my brain.

I almost completely forgot about one little justslightlyneurotic.blogspot.com, until again today JSN was brought up in a conversation.

I again wee-womped at the fact that I have been badly neglecting JSN. I started to feel guilty...

...then after deciding that my website definitely does not have feelings, I realized, more importantly, that I will now need to rely on my unreliable memory to remember what I did throughout the 2011 year, as opposed to being able to flip through my electronically captured inner monologue. Sigh.

So here I am, writing an apology note to the vast space of the world wide web, JSN.blogspot, and well, myself and promise to do a better job of keeping my life somehow logged.

Did I really just write a blog excusing my lack of blogging? Yup.
Do I promise to start blogging more, despite my life with a touch of completelycrazy? Yup.
Think I can procrastinate doing so until tomorrow, when I honest will write about something other than my lack-o-bloggin’? Yup!

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Camp Anawanna?

Apologies for my lack of blogging lately, but don’t be looking for any blogging next week either.

Why?

Because I will be camping [for the first time ever].

No need to adjust the brightness on your monitor, I did just say camping.

What started out as a joke between friends has quickly escalated to a very real reality. I will be one with nature beginning on Monday. Sound the alarms.

Surprisingly, I am actually very excited to partake in my first camping trip. For one, I will be going in toe with 6 of my closet friends, copious amounts of alcohol and scrabble. All of which amount to a wonderful time separately, never mind when they are combined together. Secondly, I have been [if only just slightly] neurotically checking the weather forecast, and it seems as though things look relatively dry*

Much to my worry, I have gotten mixed reviews re: my upcoming camping trip. Statistics based on initial reactions are shared below:

  • 50% agree that I will enjoy camping…and maybe even love it
  • 30% think that camping is the most wretched activity ever to be invented by man
  • 18% politely expressed that everyone has that “one camping story” and that they can’t wait to hear mine
  • 2% immediately warned me not to trust anyone if they said they would bring a sleeping bag for me to borrow.

These reactions worried me for many reasons, the most glaring reason being that I am, in fact, relying on someone to bring me a sleeping bag. Do you not think I will be a fun camper? Do I seem like a high maintence person? Why don’t you think I will like camping? [Insert neurotic questioning rant here.]

I decided that, instead of allowing others to decide whether or not I would be a good camper, I would myself decide if I could hack it in the wilderness of New Hampshire during October.

Here enter my Pro/Con Camping List:

These are the reasons why I will be a fantastic fall camper.

  1. I am excited! Generally, positive attitude = positive experience. I think [I am going to have fun], therefore I am [going to have fun].
  2. I can do cold weather. I don’t just “do” cold weather, I excel in cold weather. Cold builds character, and I have lots of character. Let’s take this opportunity to remember my collegiate years in the arctic, where yours truly joined a sorority where it was tradition to all sleep in one room with the windows open all year round.
  3. I like nature…as in I like gazing at stars, sitting around camp fires, and hanging outside with friends…I think.
  4. I can sleep anywhere, provided it isn’t extremely uncomfortable, light or hot, and that I can fall asleep on my stomach.
  5. I am excited to turn off my cell phone…can you hear me now? Nope.
  6. I am very educated on what to do if something goes wrong. I have seen pretty much every episode of “Man vs Wild”, as well as “Man, Woman, Wild.” I feel confident on my abilities to thrive under pressure in an emergency. I think of my continuing outdoor education and my epipen in a similar manner: I learn to use it with the hopes of never having to.
  7. I love the people I’m going with. Good company = good time.

These are the reasons why I might not be a fantastic camper.

  1. The closest experience I have ever had to camping would be day drinking at the Hunt. The Hunt, for those of you who don’t know, is a horse race in Jersey where the waspy 20-somethings of New England pretend to be outdoorsy by standing in a muddy field in preparation for a fox hunt. This is also an opportunity for wasps to wear their Barbour jacket, Hunter boots, and Rayban sunglasses just to say as to say “I’m loaded, waspy, but can be bro outdoors.” I wish I could pretend that I wasn’t absolutely dying for a Barbour jacket, but I completely am. I digress.
  2. Nature…as in existing with it for an extended period of time. I wouldn’t be concerned if we were taking a short camping trip, however, me being me agreed to go on a six day camping excursion, having never gone before…not my brightest idea.
  3. Bugs. I don’t do well with bugs, spiders, snakes, or anything else I have seen on the Discovery Channel.
  4. Hi, I have Celiac. No one wants to go camping with someone who has a food problem.
  5. Hi, I have an epipen. No one wants to go camping with someone who could die because of said food problem.
  6. I am no good at hiking, but I think I am saved with the group I am going with, as the word “exercise” is often perceived as a bad word.
  7. I have a very vibrant imagination and am extremely paranoid. This cannot be a good combination in the middle of the woods with a bunch of pranksters.

Stay tuned for my camping experiences, and that one token camp story that is bound to be born.

Signed, Woman of the Wilderness

Monday, September 12, 2011

Hi, My Name Is "Gluten Girl"

Problem: Extreme fatigue.
Origin: Undiagnosed Celiac Disease.
Solution: No more gluten!

New problem: Extreme fatigue.
Origin: The decision process in deciding whether I can eat something or not.
Solution: To Be Determined.

There are four words that now almost constantly monopolize my brain:

“Can I eat this?!”

As if I didn’t already [over]analyze the nutritional value for all food I allowed into my digestive system, I now have to break down each ingredient within something I want to eat in order to ensure that it is gluten free.

It is exhausting.

It sounds relatively simple. [Stop eating wheat products, dummy!] When in reality is isn’t.

Gluten is in everything.

I am slowly learning that it is a complete waste of energy for me to even look in any menu sections besides those clearly labeled “Salad” and “Entrée”

Of course, my obvious “I want what I can’t have” mind set [also known as beingawomanitis] immediately sends me into a carb craving frenzy.

Instead of looking at all the things I can have, I stare into the realm of gluten possibilities, and need to turn on my will power with every single meal I eat.

Sigh.

I understand that my being a dummy and looking in the sandwich section sets me up for exhaustion, but what I am also learning is that I need to breakdown even the “safe” sections of the menu.

I am talking to you, soup and salads.

Here I am, already having made the “good” choice in committing to the non-blatantly gluten sections of the menu, but now I also need to breakdown the boring stuff.

In a nutshell [which I also can’t currently eat do to the pine nut problem]:

Salads?

Does it have croutons?
If yes, remove from options.
If no, continue on.
Does it have fun flavoring?
If yes, remove from options.
If no, continue on.
Is there even an iota of a chance that the dressing will contain trace amounts of gluten?
If yes, remove from options.
If no, continue on.

The ending order? “Oh hi, I’ll have the garden salad with plain grilled chicken, no croutons, and oil and vinegar on the side thanks. Does that come with bread? None for me thanks.”

Stop having so much fun, dinner order.

Soup?

Are there noodles in it?
If yes, remove from options.
If no, continue on.
Is it thick?
If yes, remove from options.
If no, continue on.

The ending order? “I’ll have a cup of your…chicken broth?”

I kid of course, but really dissecting each ingredient in every meal I eat really is exhausting…but not nearly as exhausting as I am when I have gluten products in my bellah.

Stay tuned, this will definitely get easier with time, and think about all the money I will save avoiding meals out!

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

And Then We Had An Earthquake

Here I am blogging about hurricanes while earthquakes are disrupting the entire East Coast.

Scroll down to see the devestating damage in Boston during the earthquake that tore through the Northeast just moments ago...






Miss Irene [Meep!]

Hurricane Irene has been monopolizing my brain for the past 48 hours.

For those of you who don’t know, I have an abnormal natural curiosity for natural disasters, especially if they affect my beloved Massachusetts and/or my weekend plans.

This leads to Irene.

Bostonian meteorologists always predict that the storm is going to affect us in some way, no matter the path of the hurricane, nor’easter, tornado or volcano. Storm a’brewing in the Gulf? There is always a chance it could hit us. I mean, if the jet stream carries it up around Canada, this could mean big problems for Massachusetts. Right, because that is going to happen.

This year, the suspense is building even further, as New England is apparently due for a large storm this hurricane season. Why tell that to anxious weather-watchers like me? Because now we are hooked, and we look to the weathermen as the beacon of light to lead us through the big storm. Literally. It is times like this where I completely forget about how I dislike meteorologists for always being wrong. Suddenly, they can do no wrong in my eyes [at least until the storm completely misses us, and David Brown has caused me monsoon anxiety for no reason whatsoever.]

Back to Irene.

Because meteorologists are always constantly adjusting the radar, it means they are constantly reporting to drooling weather geeks like me, which in turn means I begin to spew useless information about Irene to anyone who will listen to me.

Sometimes I wish I stopped for just a second and asked: “Self, does anyone else really care that Irene is most likely going to become a category 3 storm by evening? Or that maximum winds have hit over 100 mph? “ If I did, I would be able to answer both questions appropriately: no and no. I would also be able to avoid all of those awkward looks I get from coworkers when they casually bring up Irene, and I am able to, not only talk about it in an overly-educated manner, but borderline attack them for not knowing that 600,000 Puerto Ricans are without power today because of the storm last night.

The real origin of my hurricane anxiety sprouts from this:

Irene stands to join New England during two of the most important weekends of my summer; one being Di’s birthday/Countryfest, and the other being Labor Day. I have taken it upon myself to create a detailed itinerary so that we can all co-exist together in harmony [if it is possible to harmoniously exist with a hurricane.]

Di’s birthday comes on Saturday, and as any good daughter should, I will be celebrating her birth by drinking copious amounts of [gluten free] alcohol while wearing a cowboy hat and scheming as to how I can convince Kenny Chesney to notice/marry me at Countryfest. [Sorry Mommy! I love you!] Unfortunately, Irene didn’t purchase a ticket to Countryfest, and its a sold out show. This means one thing and one thing only: Irene is not welcome to crash Gillette Stadium on Saturday, so I am hoping she can plan accordingly [especially after what happened to Sugarland at the Indy State Fair.]

She is, however, allowed to move in anytime after 2AM on Sunday morning. She then has a fairly open window to do as she pleases [within reason] until Thursday, when she will need to vacate the greater Boston area.

Thursday leaves a bit of leeway for Friday, when I will need Irene to be completely gone while I celebrate the great holiday of Labor Day on the beaches of Martha’s Vineyard until Monday.

I feel that I am being extremely generous in allotting Irene a five day slot for her picking. Lets hope she is polite enough to follow suit and come when she is invited.

As if my actual storm anxiety isn’t high enough, Irene was also the origin of my body dimorphic problem my high school pointe teacher, so every time the weatherman says the name Irene, I fight the urge to listen for her subtly disparaging comments about my weight and/or wait for a swift whack at my butt if my extension wasn’t to her liking.

Hasn’t happened yet, but we still have some prime prep time before Irene graces us with her “presence.”

Monday, August 15, 2011

FOUR/FORE/HOWEVER YOU SPELL “HEADS!” IN GOLF SPEAK

I genuinely love watching sports.

I am surprised that some super successful man hasn’t swept me off my feet and claimed me on that characteristic alone.

There is nothing more I love than cuddling up on a Sunday and watching football all day long [bonus points if the New York Football Giants are televised.]

In reality, this little afternoon never happens, but in my head it is wonderful and it also includes calorie free snacks and chocolate.

You know what does happen in reality on Sunday afternoons?

Golf.

I hate golf. So does a majority of the female population.

Frankly, I am not sure how people consider golf a sport, but not dance. That, my friend, is a different issue entirely.

Anyway, here I am, snuggled up on the couch ready for an afternoon of, well really anything besides golf, and I am clicker commando-ed by my father who just so happens to love watching golf.

Apparently I was witnessing one of the “biggest golf moments of the season.” [Please contain your excitement, I know I was able to.]

My dad, completely enthralled by the whimsical sport that is golf, has gone into a typical sports-trance where he no longer acknowledges anyone in the room. My mom and I continue to carry on a conversation, because let’s face it, you don’t actually need to hear what is going on in order to follow the game: he either gets it in the hole, or he doesn’t. end.of.story.

After coming to a natural pause in our conversation, my mom and I realized that this whole “watching golf” excerpt of our afternoon was nowhere near its conclusion, so we decided to make it interesting.

[Insert excessive cheering/whooping/booing/ No golf claps permitted, please here]

I must admit, after our new rule implementation, I have to say that watching golf wasn’t even completely miserable. Dare I say, even semi tolerable?

I feel, that should there be another unforeseeable-forced-golf-watching session in my future, I will be able to stomach it, with the help of facebook and jsn.blogspot, of course.