Shopper's Shoulder

Welcome back, friends. It's been a while. I've returned to the working world and am actually really enjoying my new job. However, I've suffered an unfortunate demise since last we met. I've been officially (self) diagnosed with Shopper's Shoulder. Not Tennis Elbow, not Golfer's Wrist, not Runner's Knee (or Runner's High, unfortunately). Shopper's Shoulder. It is a repetitive stress injury incurred from the cumulative impact of overhead motion required for trying on clothes. If I were lifting weights or doing anything else that required substantial arm motion, it might be a more difficult diagnosis. I might actually consider consulting a professional. But this is a total gimme:

1) I have shoulder pain

2) when I lift my arm

3) and the major post-Christmas sales just ended

You see what I mean? Who needs an MD -- it's just plan logic. The truly perplexing thing is this: What's been keeping me injury free through so many previous shopping seasons? How did I survive so many years of Last Call without needing rehab in the off season (also known as the period of time after a major purchase when I let the smoke from my credit card cool off)? I'm trying to pinpoint the moment when things really went south, but these things tend to be cumulative. It's been building over time. And now here I sit. Just getting used to being 30. Getting in the swing of the new job. Preparing for Mardi Gras. And just when you think things are perfect -- bam! Layed up with Shopper's Shoulder.

The Sound of Silence

Six years ago, when my husband and I were first dating, I offered to accompany him on a grocery shopping trip to Winn Dixie just because I wanted to spend as many hours in a day with him as possible. And on said grocery shopping excursion, I even pretended that his love of Kraft cheese singles, Hormel Chili, and Lucky Charms (likely to be consumed in the same day) wasn't completely revolting. When he left town (for an agonizing 48 hours), I would sleep over at his empty apartment because it made me feel like I missed him a little less -- it's embarrassing to say that out loud. How things change...

My husband just left town for two weeks and the liberating feeling is indescribable. It's bliss. I'm not saying that I won't be glad when he returns; I'm just saying that I am very much enjoying:

1) not having to devise covert operations for smuggling newly purchased goods in the front door to avoid a "how much did that cost" inquiry;

2) having total control over the television and not being subjected to endless hours of political talk shows;

3) sweet talk to my dog (a/k/a the only perfect man in my life) without ridicule;

4) keeping the house squeeky clean and tidy;

5) girls' night in, girls' day out, girls' night out, etc.;

6) being able to make whatever I want for dinner without having someone call my vegan food disgusting (which takes a lot of nerve coming from someone who has devolved from Kraft cheese slices to generic processed cheese slices);

7) not sharing my king size bed and being able to ALWAYS find a cool spot -- and enjoying four pillows instead of two;

8) being able to fall asleep in the dark rather than under the glow of husband's reading lights and with the sound of a newspaper or the pages of a book;

9) not nagging; and

10) watching Girls Just Want to Have Fun while playing hours of internet Scrabble -- enjoying 1980s kitch while indulging in dorky online board games would never be possible in a million years if I wasn't enjoying total solitude.

Fourteen days. Half a month. And it's mine .....aalllllll miiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnneeee!!

Meth Mouth

I'm referring to the guy who sat across the aisle next to me on the plane ride from Dallas to New Orleans yesterday. I had just made it to the last leg of my trip back to NOLA after 4 long hours of delay at SFO, followed by a long hungry flight to Dallas and another two-hour layover. My dog and I had both visited the powder room, we had refueled, and were reinvigorated for our 1-hour flight back to New Orleans. I had reached the tail-end of a great PD James mystery novel and was very much looking forward to utilizing that hour to finish my book. Much to my chagrin, I never had a chance. We hadn't even taken off when the anorexic-looking, fidgety guy with hugely dialated pupils and facial scabs who reeked of wine sat down in the seat next to me across the aisle sat down and turned his body so that his legs were in the aisle and he was squarely facing me (it wasn't until later that I noticed his really bad teeth). As an attorney, I pride myself on the art of conversation -- and the artful tactics of avoiding it or ending it if absolutely necessary. I was totally out of my league with this guy. He had decided he was going to talk to me and there was no way out. The lady in the window seat on the other side of him periodically looked over his shoulder at me as if to communicate a silent pity for me (as well as a silent relief that she wasn't the one being held hostage by Meth Mouth). He clearly was high on crystal meth. I know this for several reasons, including drug ed from 4th-6th grade and having watched multiple episodes of Intervention. While I do have empathy for individuals who are fighting such demons (we all have them in our own ways), I have a particular disdain for adult men with children who are drug addicts because of the effect that it had on my own family. But I digress...

I have been known to dominate conversations and have an unfortunate habit of interrupting people -- I wasn't able to get a word in edgewise with Meth Mouth. He started off by telling me about the past several days he spent in Las Vegas (including details of the nudity in Cirque du Soleil's "Zoomanity", the play-by-play on his poker experiences at Caesar's, MGM Grand, and Mandalay Bay, and the literal blow-by-blow of his attendance at a UFC event). At some point Meth Mouth asked me what I did for a living -- I told him I was an attorney -- BIG MISTAKE. His follow up was, "Oh, well, you're going to love this story..." He then proceeded to tell me a story involving a construction job, his wife's sudden death, the full-faith and credit clause of the constitution, organ donation, a house in Katy, Texas, life insurance, discrimination, his 5 kids, an employment lawsuit, a medical condition that makes it difficult for him to sit for long periods of time, and the three-pronged test for common law marriage. I spoke not a word -- it was like he was talking at warp speed -- with hands flailing in between itches and fidgets -- I was trapped. My dog had taken the easy way out and had curled up in his carrier for a nap -- apparently even dogs have limits to their loyalty. I did feel bad that his wife had suddenly died -- he clearly was distraught and I had empathy for his loss. However, when he went on to describe his sudden 40-pound weight loss and his inability to sleep, his chronic broken bones, and lamented going to Vegas as a single guy with those nasty meth face sores that he claimed were caused by an eye infection (?! HELP!), I wanted to say, "Well, if you lay off of the meth, you might find that it will help all of those issues." When we finally arrived in New Orleans after what seemed like an interminably long time, I knew this guy's entire story, gratuitous medical details and all. And he wasn't finished yet. He followed me out of the plane and continued his ramblings until I finally was able to excuse myself to duck into the nearest ladies room. I would not have been surprised if he had followed me in, or had waited for me outside. Thankfully my tactic had worked -- I had found freedom. Never has an airport lavatory been so appealing. After boiling my hands and chafing them with soapy water to remove any residual Meth Mouth funk (his animated story-telling had included occasional dry-heave inducing physical contact), my dog and I went out to greet my husband (who had flown back the previous day) at baggage claim. As tired as I was when I got home that night, the physical contact with Meth Mouth left me feeling semi-violated so I took an extra long shower which included a full-body exfoliation. I even flossed my teeth twice.

God Bless America

I just few home for Christmas. My flight from New Orleans went through Dallas, where I changed planes onto a massive jumbo jet in which people from everywhere converged to fly to San Francisco.  The flight was teeming with people, I was with Shih Tzu, and as luck would have it, I was crammed into the second to last row (row 43 to be exact).  Call me crazy, but American Airlines seems to have made the seats even closer together which I soon found out after the man in front of me reclined his seat and, although inducing clostrophobia, then served as a convenient  head rest for me. The flight attendants were perhaps the bitchiest and snippiest I have ever had the misfortune of encountering. I had the chills and felt as if I was coming down with a cold. And my seat was right next to the lavatory. The flight was miserable. Having decent foresight, I had downloaded an Agatha Christie book onto my i-pod and attempted to escape into my 1915 London crime drama. When I finally arrived in San Francisco, I deplaned and met my mom at the baggage claim and was immediately rewarded for my hell-flight with a sighting of perhaps the cutest man in uniform EVER.  When I finally liberated my Shih Tzu from the confines of his sherpa carrier, I turned around and was greeted by a friendly voice: "Oh my gosh, that is the cutest dog! What kind of dog is he?!" The voice came with an adorable smile and a very hot man dressed in his Navy dress blues. I don't know if I was overcome by the fact that I had encountered the first nice person since leaving New Orleans several hours earlier, or if I was overcome by the dimpled-smile and general hotness of the tall, dark, and handsome uniformed man in front of me, but I was a little bit rattled and I wasn't the only one so entranced.  My mom was transfixed as well because she started asking the sailor where he was going, where he was stationed, how long he had been there, wished him a merry Christmas and a safe return.  Then I found myself in the middle of a detailed conversation about the sailor's hopes to be re-stationed to San Diego, which is where I went to college and where my half-brother was stationed as a Navy SEAL for over ten years, so naturally I had a lot of input on the subject.  If I was single, I would have wrapped him up in a bow and gotten him for myself for Christmas.  However, I would have had to go to the mattresses against my mother because she also had the same idea.  After the sailor wished my mother, my Shih Tzu and me a very merry Christmas and politely absented himself to collect his C-bag from the turnstile, I heard my mom  say, "Whoa. If only I were your age." And in the blink of an eye, I had snapped out of my trance, and happily recalled that I was indeed married to a wonderful (albeit un-uniformed) guy.  And so I am left with the recollection of a friendly smile after the world's worst flight and a renewed appreciation for the fact that our military service men (and women) not only risk their lives in an underpaying job for the sake of our freedom, they look damn good while doing it. God bless America, and especially our troops who can't come back to the states to spend time with their families this Christmas.