On Being Invisible

A lot of my readers always ask me the age old question, "Dearest Ms. Daisy, have you figured out the secret of being invisible?"  Well, kind readers, you're in luck, because I'm here today to tell you that I just figured it out.

In order for this to work, you're going to need to have two things going on.  First, you need to be female.  Second, you need to have (or borrow) some children.  You may think this bizarre, but let me explain it by anecdotal evidence in at least three different scenarios.

Scenario 1: The bike store

Not invisible:  Walk into the independently owned bike store being female and having no children present, and you will receive quick attention and help.  Several people will offer to show you around to different bikes, can I help you, what are you looking for, would you like to go on a ride with me later because I can teach you how to bike faster (not kidding).  When you do make a purchase, you get random discounts (20% off?!  For me?!  Thanks!).  

Invisible:  Walk into the bike store with children.  Tell your children not to touch anything or run around.  Wait five minutes for help.  Sweat profusely because you are sure any minute your little darlings might tip over a $3,000 bike and break it.  You might get a discount if you come back alone when you pick up your freshly tuned-up bike.  Good luck.

Scenario 2:  The grocery store

He wasn't this old. He was 40ish. Just in case you wondered.

Not invisible:  Walk into the grocery store being female and having no children present, the greeter tells you, "I know you've told me before (um, not really), but what is your name again?  I promise to remember it this time."  You tell them your name, then they go get you a cart and ask if you need help finding anything.  You do your shopping then attempt to exit the store quickly, avoiding eye contact with said greeter, but as you walk through the exit, the greeter yells out while waving bye to you, "Have a nice day, and remember to drive safely, (your name)!"  (Uh, thanks.  You too?)

Invisible:  Walk into the grocery store with children.  Tell your children not to touch anything or each other.  Walk much faster than they can so that they don't have time to stop and fight with each other in the aisles.  Wish you could stand there and read the labels longer.  Use the U-scan, exit the store, unnoticed.

Scenario 3:  The gas station

Not invisible:  Pull up to the pump, no children in vehicle.  Get out, swipe card.  Be interrupted.
Man on other side of pump:  Hey, how are you doing, do you want some free gas?  I have $6 left over, you can have it, just here, put it in your tank.
Me: (On phone: Hey, honey, I'll call you back.) What?  Really?  What do you mean?  How is it free?  Can't you use it?
Man: Well, I mean, I'd have to walk all the way (ten steps?) into the gas station and get my $6 and I'd rather just give it to you.
Me:  Umm, really?  Are you sure?
Man:  Yes, here!  So...
Me:  Awesome!  You're so nice!
Man:  (Clears throat.)  I, uh, helped that lady over there, you know.  She needed a few bucks to get home and I gave it to her, yeah, I mean, I do that kind of thing now and again.
Me:  Oh!  Wow.  That's very nice of you.  (Getting free gas.)  Thanks for the gas!
Man:  (Big inhale, chest sticking out.)  Yeah, no problem, you have a nice day!
Me:  Thanks!  You too!
Call honey back: Dude, I just got $6 in free gas by some random guy.
Hubby:  WHAT ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW?!
Me: (oh emm gee, just my saran wrap dress, why does it matter?) Black leggings and a striped shirt.
Hubby:  Oh.  Okay.
Me:  You think my face isn't cute enough to get free gas or what?
Hubby:  Not what I meant.
(Me:  I could really make him dig himself into a hole here and that might be fun, but I am too excited about getting free gas to pursue this at the moment.)

Invisible:  Pull up to gas station with children in car.  Pump gas.  Drive away.   Oh, wait, what?  You were at the gas station?  Huh, didn't see you.

There you have it.  Basically, if you want to fly under the radar, you grab some grubby little tykes and have them follow you around wherever you go and you can instantly disappear.  It's like the cloak of invisibility you never knew really existed.

If you are male, you will probably never be invisible, and if you bring your children with you, every woman in a ten mile radius will look at you with kindness and awe, because you must be a really good Dad, and that will make women stare at you and smile.  It's better than walking around with a puppy.

Another riddle solved.

Peace, love, and random discounts,
Ms. Daisy

Questions I Wish You Would Answer

1.  Why do children follow you when you are clearly walking into the other room, purposely away from them?  Do they have really bad skillz at reading social cues?  Or are they just trying to annoy you on purpose?

2.  Why do children get louder when you answer the phone?  Why does it sound like they are killing screaming animals when you take a business call?  ("I'm sorry, I can't hear you, it's just I'm standing here...in...a...um, nature center...where a wolf is...uh, eating a cat and a screech owl at the same time...")

 3.  Why do children pretend they don't like something that they like when they are grumpy?  You want grumpy?  I'll give you a big fat reason to be grumpy!  Did you just enrage the Mom Monster?!  Guess what?!  You just lost at life!

 4.  How much therapy do you think children will need from comments like, "Well, if you keep that up, I'll probably end up punching you in the throat/selling you to the gypsies/secretly moving to Italy/lighting that X-box on fire, so make a good decision please, thanks."

5.  How many times do you think you can feasibly answer the same question or say the same thing until you literally go straight up nuts?

6.   Is it wrong to record your whining child and threaten to put it on youtube?

7.  Why are the offspring of your own body so entirely and completely different from each other that you wonder if they have been abducted by aliens and given brain transplants?

8. Why is private school SO FREAKIN' EXPENSIVE?  It's not even that good!

9.  What time is the official time it is okay to start drinking ice wine on any given day?  (They sell it at the grocery store...no more need of Canadian vacationers...)

And the best thought: These are my monkeys, this is my circus, I only have a decade left to straighten it all out.  Awesome.

Peace, love, and of course everything is just fine, why do you ask?
Ms. Daisy

Self-torture: getting out the neck and shoulder pain

Oh!  The soreness!  

Yes, it's wimpy, but the pool was closed and I was unable to swim for eleven days (shoot me now).  Yesterday I was back in the pool getting a chlorine fix (not kidding, I didn't soap my skin so I could sniff that stuff to full potential all day long; swimmers, you know what I'm talking about) and I was so excited, I went ballistic.  It was a distance day, which is great as I'm training for a distance swim, but if you're a swimmer, you know that being out of the pool for more than three days makes you feel like you forgot how to swim entirely and that the water has converted into a special form of molasses, which extrapolated its intensity during the six minute swim.  Oh, joy.  It also helps when the last set called is an all out one, since you've spent it and burned it up already since you thought you were done (who even calls crap like that!).  But, alas, you cannot back down, because you see people next to you going off the wall doing butterfly, so you push through, grinding your teeth and squinting your eyes, making faces underwater and hoping nobody will much notice.

And then you get out and go home.  And die.

(After you eat 3 breakfasts.  Duh.  Hello, fresh eggs from my favorite chicken, I love you.)

And then you sleep weird and your neck feels like you must have been in a secret car accident that nobody told you about, so you are doubly awesomesauced.  

What to do in a situation like this?

(I know.  It's SUPER common!  I'm here to help, what can I say.)

You have a few options:
1) Drink a bunch of ice wine and you will be able to ignore the neck pain for a few hours.
2) Go to the chiropractor.
3) Get a massage.
4) Massage yourself with special elements of torture.

Let's explore the pluses and minuses of each option.

Option 1: Ice Wine Fix
This is probably the best tasting option of them all, with massage following closely behind for slot 2 (that's it's own kind of delicious).  However, my ice wine hookup involves whenever people I know go to Canada and go get some and bring it back, which means you have to rely on other people traveling to yonder lands.  It is also expensive, with the whole "one grape only gives one drop of wine" and people harvesting it at midnight by hand thing going on.  It's really kind of snobby and posh, but due to the high demand and low availability, this option falls into a category of less than practical.  Sad.  And also, you (and by you, I mean "I") could potentially become an alcoholic.  (But seriously, if you're going to Canada anytime soon, you better bring me some.)

Option 2: The Chiro Solution

This is a good option, but depending on the chiro, there is a temptation for them to keep telling you to come back next week, which means that you are cutting time out of your schedule and money out of your pocket.  When you're really messed up, you need to suck it up and do it.  But really, I don't think you ought to be a once a week-er, unless you really were in a car accident (and that only for a time).  If you are in severe acute pain, you should just go do it. I have had myraids of times where I could not turn my head or walk (I do all my own stunts), and I went in there and was fixed up in fifteen minutes.  The problem arises when you moderately screw yourself up on a regular basis and don't want your husband to know that you went a little crazy because then he'll be all like, "You are pushing it too hard, you need to stay home and rest." (Which is the only thing that makes your rage level hit one thousand because HELLO, you should never rest.  And are you telling me what to do?)  Being that he notices the outflow of cash, he'll pick up on your antics if you're going to the chiro every week and kabosh it in two seconds.  So keep this card in your back pocket for emergencies only, like when you literally cannot walk without tears falling down your stone-cold face.

Option 3:  The Way of the Massage

Everyone knows that this is an amazing option.  You cannot argue one bad thing against it, except for the fact that it is ridiculously expensive, and if you're debating whether to get a massage or feed your children organic chicken, I have to go with the organic chicken every.single.time.  (#firstworldproblems)  The last massage I got left me half conscious, drooling, underneath the magic hands (and feet, it was ashiatsu) of my famous masseuse friend, Kelli B.  I don't know how I drove home.  Not even kidding.  It was a new form of a drunk coma.  I opened the windows and tried to drink water to keep myself alert enough to make it without running over all the everything in the way.  I think I was successful.  (Maybe that's when I got into a secret car accident.  Huh.  Interesting.)  Anyway, if you've got cash to burn, take this option.  If you're cheap, go with #4.

Option 4:  Inflicting Pain Upon Yourself With Specially Designed Objects of Torture
This is the option for when you need relief now, you want it without paying for it, and you are desirous of hearing yourself make that laugh-cry pain of pure joy.  You know what I mean, right?  When you are so sore, that you need to get the pressure on it, but by doing so, you feel simultaneously pleasure and torture at intensity level 99 exploding out of your muscle(s).  It's pretty much the best thing ever, but it causes you to laugh, hyperventilate, and cry all at the same time.  I choose this option on a regular basis.

But what instruments of torture to use for such a special occasion?  I have two that seem to do the trick.  The first is the original Backnobber.  If you've got a spot next to your shoulder blade that JUST NOBODY CAN FIND, but dear sweet glory, you wish someone could elbow it in vicious punishment for you, but they CAN'T, this is the tool for you.  Have you seen it?  It's this S-shaped ditty that you can put right into that pain spot, and pull forward at whatever pain level is suitable for you (ranging from eyes closed and smiling to blood involuntarily squirting out of your eyes).  You pick. You can keep it in the car, it is light, travels easily.  So nice!  


The other is the Rumble Roller.  It's this foam tube covered in nobby glory.  There are smooth (and less expensive) foam rollers, and they have their place, but if you want involuntary tears, you need the Rumble Roller.  With this, you can put it on the ground and roll out your legs, back, neck, armpits, whatever.  Your body weight dictates the pressure, which seems to be just about right for torture level awesome.  Just this very morning I was rolling around torturing every large muscle group on my body.  Pure awesome torture right at your fingertips.  What more could you want?  I know, a massage.  I meant for free.

So if you've got some muscle soreness and you want to whimper like a baby girl, I recommend the instruments of torture.  After they're purchased, they're free for your continual and perpetual use.  Yay.  Pass me a sip of your ice wine while you're at it, would you?  Thanks, you're a dear.

Peace, love, and roll with it,
Ms. Daisy

I'm wearing black for the funeral of fun, a.k.a. summer

Well, it's here.  The death of fun, warmth, outdoor swimming, and walking barefoot outside.

You know, I hear a lot of people talk about fall and how they love it.  They say how they just adore the trees changing colors, the pumpkins, the crisp weather, back to school, apple cider, and college football.  (College football is okay, but they could totes play in the summer.)

You know what I have to say about those people? 

I say they're sick.

What happens in the fall?  Everything is on the way careening off the cliff to it's death.  Oh, look at those lovely dead flowers. How about that dead grass!  Aren't the dead leaves so nice?  Good, now I can rake them!  Hooray.  Yes, please can I have blisters on my hands from using the rake, thankyouverymuch.  You get to wear MORE clothes.  Put away your happy sandals, switch them out for having to hide your cute pink toenails.  But wait, there's more.  Sweaters.  Because feeling bulky is such a great lumpy feeling underneath your seat belt.  Maybe it will be winter soon and we can add in wearing a gigantic parka under the seat belt, too.  I can hardly wait.

So here I am today, wearing all black to commemorate the day.  It is not the official death of summer, but it is the social death of summer.  Kids are posing everywhere with backpacks and creative pinteresty parents are doing something adorable and posting it on facebook (I'm not 100%, but I can imagine).  It's so sick I could puke.  Goodbye, freedom.  Hello, shackles of schedule.  Goodbye, barefoot running through the grass.

The only bright side is that without the horrors of the other seasons, you couldn't passionately love that which is summer.

Go sip your pumpkin spice lattes with your school books in your hands and make the best of these horrible 9 months.

Peace, love, and heavy sighing,
Ms. Daisy

It's just your life.

Hello and welcome to your life.  You get to pick your path (within reason) and fly with it.  I was just speaking with someone this morning who has arthritis, and I suggested the unmentionable: that they reduce or eliminate sugar (as well as taking turmeric/curcumin with black pepper and maybe a little tart cherry juice.  Yeah, for real, try it.).  But that’s the thing, if sugar (crack) makes you happy, and you don’t mind that you can’t walk or exercise, then go with that.  I don’t even mean that in a snarky way, I mean it literally.  You’re the only one who is going to pay the price in your own body for your decisions (although your death will affect your family and friends, so go ahead and be a selfish pig if that’s how you roll.).  You get to live with the chronic pain and debilitation, your spouse can’t feel it, your doctor can’t feel it, and your friends will either feel sorry for you (poor baby) or think you are a bozo for wimping out on their antics (hey Nancy!).  

 

HEY! Is this you?

But do pardon me, because I am inclined to convince you otherwise.  Here I go.

I can see how it seems to be the easier way to eat whatever you want, smoke whatever/whenever/how much ever you want, sleep whenever you want, work out only if you feel like it, but, oh, the price of that life!  

 There was a study that wasdone in Potsdam, Germany, on 23,000 adults over the course of several years.  They asked them four (somewhat) simple questions:

       1.  Do you smoke?

2.  Do you eat well (this sounds really nebulous, but there were specific guidelines that included things such as eating a certain amount of fresh fruits and veggies, eating clean meats, not eating processed foods, etc.)? 
3.  Do you maintain a healthy weight? 
4.  Do you exercise regularly?

People who answered with four healthy responses (no smoking, yes, I eat well, yes, I maintain a healthy weight, and yes, I exercise regularly) cut their all-mortality rate (this includes all the biggies - cancer, cardiovascular disease, the whole 9, etc.) by 80% against those who answered with four unhealthy answers.  Okay.  I know you didn’t hear me because you are not freaking out.  Let me repeat myself.  You can cut your risk of death by EIGHTY percent.  I don’t know if you know this, but 80% is some pretty darn good odds.  If you had an 80% chance of winning a kajillion (a jillion jillions) dollars, I’d say you might take it.  If you wouldn’t, well fine, I will. 

Kinda like this, but multiply the intensity by a kajillion.

If you think about those questions for about two and a half seconds, you realize that 3 out of 4 of them are your own choices, and the fourth follows two others (in general).  This makes me want to reach out of your screen right now, grab onto your shoulders, look you deep into your eyeballs, and tell you (probably in a highly spaztastic voice), “You are a main player here!  You can make decisions to elongate your life, enhance your lifestyle, and improve your quality of life!  You can do this!  Why wouldn’t you?”  And then you’d be all, yeah, I know, it’s cool, I should exercise, but that’s just to shut me up and pacify me because I’m jumping up in down in front of you still holding onto your shoulders.  Well, guess what, homie?  I ain’t letting go because you cannot be hearing me if you want to continue to pursue your death.

Excuse me, is this your dinner?

So what’s your excuse?  You like to eat crap?  Crap tastes so dang good that you wanna go with that in your swan dive off of the cliff to your death?  ERMERGERSH, just stop it.  I promise you that if you start eating well, your tastes will change.  You will crave what’s real.  If you can break up with sugar, you can look at a pile of ice cream and think of it as disgusting.  (It takes a while, but it’s f’rizzo.) 

And while I’m on that soapbox, sugar is worse than crack.  Do you want some inflammation?  Do you want to grow cancer?  Do you want to blow up your strep throat?  Do you want to stay sick longer?  Do you want to have horrible cholesterol numbers?  (Hint, big sugar has money and they love it that you think it’s because of fat.  They’re laughing at you right now.)  Do you want to be addicted?  Get your IV sugar on, baby.  Light up your brain like a crack addict.  

In fact, a study was done on rats that caused them to be addicted to IV crack and sugar and let them make their decisions on what they wanted to get high on, and they picked sugar eight times more (read it again, I said IV crack vs. sugar.  IV CRACK!!  Holy crap!  Eight times more!  That is freakin’ nuts!).  They even picked sugar when they were being electrically shocked.  They were receiving physical punishment and they went for it anyway.  Does that sound like you?  Oh.  Sorry.  Don’t mean to step on your inflamed, sick toes.  Wait, yes I do.  I want you to think about it.

Pick better.  

If you need a hit, may I suggest exercise?  It has its own crackalacka ways (well, I suppose minus those bothersome times of spending days and nights strung out under trailers in abandoned garages in the middle of Detroit).  Once you get into a good groove, you can become addicted to the endorphins that are released as you work out.  Instead of all of the negatives that come along with the horrors of sugar, you can trade that in for a healthier heart, a happy body, better sleep at night, an ability to maintain a healthy weight, and an increased libido amongst feeling generally awesome (I haven’t even mentioned how you will actually be awesome, too).  

May I recommend swimming, running, and biking?  Perhaps a little weight lifting?  Perhaps a few (hundred) pushups (doing them on glass shards to increase your toughness is completely optional)?  If you can’t feel the motivation, sign yourself up for a race.  Perhaps the sheer horror you would feel at being last would inspire you to dig deep and get your exercise on.  Please tell me that you have some inkling toward competition.  Please.  If you don’t, well, take your sad sack self and do your pushups anyway.

It is not rocket science.  If I told you I had a magic pill to make you live longer, better, and with a clearer brain and vigor, I guarantee you little druggies would be eating it up like crack candy.  Well hello, it is available to you!  You have to change (shriek!), but it’s really worth it.  Well, if you’re into living longer and better, I guess.  (Maybe that’s not your thing.)

Oh, just do it already!  (I’m still hanging on to your shoulders.  Can you hear me yet?)

Peace, love, and live, dang it, LIIIIVE!
Ms. Daisy

Moderation (is dumb)

A common response that I hear while speaking on the plethoras of poisons of this life is, "Everything in moderation."  You will be surprised to hear (not) that I have heard it pretty much every week of my life (or more) for the last six or so years.  In fact, if you know me personally, it is highly likely that you have said it to me at some point.  

Weird side note: some people think that this is a quote in the Bible or something.  I didn't realize that until I read people questioning it's source online.  If you were unsure, that phrase has origins from various sources like Socrates, and is even sometimes attributed to Hesiod and being an inscription on the temple of Apollo at Delphi, but it is not a verse in the Bible.  (You didn't think that, did you?)

After I have heard this statement, I usually think of Inigo Montoya and his phrase, "You keep using that phrase.  I do not think it means what you think it means."  

What does it even mean?  

I would submit that the phrase, "Everything in moderation", really means, "Shut up, please, and leave me alone.  You are crazy wacked and off the deep end.  I am normal."  If this is what you mean to say, then I can accept that.  Sometimes I think it can mean, "I don't want to do that."

If, however, you really do mean, "Everything in moderation", then I have a few questions.  

Okay.  So.  Por ejemplo.  Let's say that I've been talking about high fructose corn syrup and I'm spouting off about how mercury is found in high fructose corn syrup and that mercury is a neurotoxin and your dendrites in your brain shrink back and lose their conical structures and collapse when exposed to mercury and yada, yada, yada.  You say, "Yes, Ms.  Daisy, but remember: everything in moderation!"  

A few things come to mind.  In this example in particular, how much corn syrup constitutes moderation?  Once a month?  Once a week?  Once a meal?  Once a minute?  Because unless you are looking out for genetically modified high fructose corn syrup (or regular level fructose corn syrup), you are going to be eating it in every single foodlike substance you have in your entire cupboard because it is all over every grocery store (well, maaaaybe not Whole Foods, but they have cane sugar in everything up the wazoo) and in nearly every quasi-foodlike substance.  Are you saying to me that you really do check the ingredients and avoid it out of your desire for moderation most of the time?  I kind of feel like this might not be the case, but I could be totally wrong.

And do you mean everything in moderation?  Like arsenic?  Do you eat arsenic in moderation?  Or should we punch people in the face in moderation while swearing at them?  It would be, after all, in moderation.  (Are you thinking about punching me right now?!)  What about wiping spaghetti on the walls - if we do it in moderation, it's all good!  

Maybe there are some things we need to avoid always.  Like human trafficking and murder and stuff.  Or inhaling sarin gas, playing with broken thermometers, burninating the peasants and their thatched roof cottages, and things of that nature.  I would add a few more things to that list (like consuming fluoride and Froot Loops, or shopping at Wal-Mart, but I guess that might be getting a little too particular).  

The real guts of this phrase really comes down to the speaker.  The moderation is in the eye of the beholder.  Who is the ultimate determiner of what excess is?  How can you find the mean and average (and thus, the "moderation" point) if the line of excess is drawn at different locations for every single person on the earth?  My idea of corn syrup in moderation is once a year (and that, accidentally).  It would be the same line of moderation for corn syrup as it would be for arsenic in my mind, but I suppose that is not the same for everyone reading this (maybe).  Your definition for moderation in swimming in chlorine might be less than my thrice to five times weekly level (it's only an hour, so it's moderation). 

When it comes down to it, the word "moderation" means nothing because it means every point on the line.    (But I suppose I ought to warn you to just take it for what it's worth.  Coming from my perspective - a.k.a. the right perspective, I have discovered I have only two speeds: balls to the wall and zero.  Libra schmibra.  That's Latin for "whatevs".  Moderation is dumb.  Let me tell you what I really think.)

Why not strive for better?  Why not strive for best?  Instead of aiming for moderation, I suggest we strive for excellence.  Just something to think about.  

So the next time you're tempted to say it, if you really mean, "Shut up, crazyface", maybe it would be better to just go with that instead.  

Peace, love, and he was still Trogdor!
Ms. Daisy