BANISHMENT 15: Long Distance Relationships

It's been a little over a year since I started dating Handsome Thunder. This is monumental news for me. I have problems deciding between mexican or chinese, refried or baked, so one could seriously wonder if I have such extensive commitment issues with takeout, how could I ever settle on a man - something that is far more tenuous and has potential repercussions infinitely worse than diarrhea.

The commitment to Handsome Thunder, however, is even more applause-worthy thanks to a thing called "state borders." Ever since day one of full-on-courtship, Handsome Thunder and I have resided in different parts of the union. I in the State of Music. He in the the State of Corn. Separated by the state of Really Appalling Rednecks.

At the beginning, the distance was fine. It was the I'm-getting-to-know-you-and-am-not-sure-if-we-should-be-in-the-I'm-in-a-relationship-on-Facebook-state-yet, so the miles were a little healthy. It gave us breathing room to figure things out. And just enough space for me to not hyperventilate of claustraphobia. But a year later and a deep dive into Oh Dear, I Think I Love You Lake,  the 561.44 miles, 9 hours and 4 minutes of roundtrip travel (not that I'm counting), are stinky cheese. Over the course of the past few months, I have developed a seriously unhealthy relationship with my car. I could write reports for the Department of Transportation, giving insight into Indiana's highway system. I know which gas stations have the cleanest bathrooms and what exits you can find Starbuckses on. I know where the cops hide, I know what times of day are traffic pits, and I know if I stop once for gas and once for bladder relief, I can likely clock the trip in 4 hours and 6 minutes.

But the worst thing about long distance relationships isn't just the driving. It's the part where you actually miss having a human being in front of you. One who can see all of your You-Definitely-Shouldn't-Have-Said-That Looks and can feel all your I-Love-You-Now-More-Than-Ever squeezes of the hand. Not to mention having to go to awkward professional functions stag because your plus-one is four plus-hours away, or having to call taxis from the airport because your ride is in another state. When normal people are getting off work and going to meet their significant other to make some dinner, watch the game, or do other socially-acceptable couply things, I sit down on the couch and think, "Hmm. Maybe I should read this catalog again. And then perhaps categorize my books by degree of depressive content. And then maybe do laundry one more time because I'm not very sure I got the color load clean the first time around."

For Lent if I could, I would give up long distance relationships. I would compress the state of Indiana to the size of a peanut and force all inhabitants to relocate to the Greater Nashville area. I would rid the world of Kentucky's potholes and not be allowed to operate vehicles for more than fifteen minute intervals. But as this is the real world and not the Truman Show, as Handsome Thunder lives in Indi-bloody-ana rather than You're-The-Only-Ten-I-See, I will continue to pack weekend bags for weekend trips to the Hoosier state and tell you, no fingers crossed, that the 561 miles is worth the 56 hours with my plus-one that lives plus-four hours away. And don't worry. As of yet, no repercussions worse than diarrhea.

BANISHMENT 14: Wearing Pants to Meetings

I recently started a new thing called working from home. This is the new fad. The capris of professional fashion. It cuts down on costs, improves employee morale, and saves you from ever having to talk to a "co-worker" at a "water-cooler" before going to sit at your "cubicle" ever again. It's a better deal than those knives that cut through steel you see on the Shopping Channel at three in the morning.

But working from home, like Hot Yoga, isn't really for everyone. It should only be reserved for people who are extremely self-disciplined and 100 percent OK with feeling more lonely than the Unabomber. There are a lot of hours where the only person to talk to is yourself. Or perhaps those bizarre carved statues everyone seems to put on their mantle. You immediately become the kind of person who stands by the coffee pot, tapping your fingers on the counter, and saying out loud, "So what are we going to do today?" as though you're going to make a plan of attack with the kitchen utensils.

Once you start working from home you will, most assuredly,  start making obscene amounts of lists on post-it notes and leave them scattered around the house. A breadcrumb trail of your day's work progression. You will invest in office supplies and learn all sorts of things you never cared to know about printer cartridges and FedEx shipping practices. You will become attached to your stapler. You will buy a ludicrously expensive business chair for your desk that has leather and levers and a compression air chamber and you will show it off to your friends (if you have any anymore) as though it were your child's first soccer trophy. The days of the week will start to blend together and the only way to distinguish between the seasons will be when you take the time to peek through the blinds and check out the day's weather.

You will also, and perhaps most importantly, forget where the dry-cleaner is located. All of a sudden, you will have no interest in freshly ironed pants. Or, for that matter, hot morning showers. You will buy pajamas in bulk and get the nice silky kind that feels good on your bum. You will hold meetings with important people while wearing dried toothpaste smears on your t-shirt. You will sign contracts in slippers, read files on a porch swing, and conduct conference calls pantless.

I certainly hope that if you're the kind of person who begins working from home that you've already acquired the important things in life like a wife or a husband. If not, your chances of becoming the Cat Person have severely increased and your only true chance of matrimonial bliss will come if the mailman fancies how you look sans shower. I wish you and your silky PJs good luck.

BANISHMENT 13: Self Pity

Do you know what The Worst is? The Worst is spending long stretches of time listening to someone talk about how bad their life is. How their lawn mower doesn't cut their grass at perfect ninety degree angles and how they, poor dear things, have a broken food disposal and a dinner party on Friday night. Self-pity is the redneck step cousin of venting - the normal human release of anger. Venting is letting the steam out so it can frolic in the air and go play with other pieces of oxygen, leaving room for you to do healthy things like bake cookies and alphabetize your DVD collection. But self pity is a whole other breed of human ugly. It's letting the steam out only momentarily until you scramble ferociously to catch it in a plastic bag, haul it back down to reality, and then let it out again. It is the pimple-faced, Venting YoYo.

My friend, who is neither subtle or simple minded, says indulging in self pity is no less than climbing into a pile of your own doo doo, clumping it in your hands, rubbing it all over your face and hair, then sitting there all day waiting for people to walk by so you can dramatically hunch your shoulders and say, 'Look at everything I have to go through!" When, let's just be honest, you could have left the poo on the ground where it belongs, gotten out of Toilet Valley, and taken a long hot shower called Moving Forward. 

For Lent if I could, I would 100 percent buy a remote and press a prolonged Mute command on anyone who began telling me how angry they were that their JCrew sweater frayed after three weeks or how their manicure chipped while they were cutting into a steak at Ruths Chris. Self pity is 1) highly unattractive, 2) pretty uncourageous, and 3) the first thing I would club in the face with a nail-covered baseball bat.

BANISHMENT 12: Standing in Close Proximity to Strangers

Tonight, thanks to Handsome Thunder’s Valentine’s genius, I had the very special experience of going to see the Avett Brothers at the Murat Egyptian Room in Indianapolis. If you are the kind of person who drinks obscene amounts of coffee, loves mandolins, pipes, and very skilled whistling, you are probably sitting in front of your computer right now seething with jealousy. The Avett Brothers are better than being an eight-year-old and getting a snow day due to potential onslaught of seriously cold flurries. In other words, the Avett Brothers are wonderful. They are classy. They are the kind of men who wear bowties and look like they should have been born in an English library. Their beards are fantastically well groomed and could beat a King Charles Cavalier at Westminster.

And while the Avett Brothers are the bees knees, the Murat Egyptian Room is not. Rather, it’s kegger land for Indie kids who grew up eating unhealthy amounts of corn. There are no seats, five bars, and at least 12,000 good reasons to continually be applying hand sanitizer.  Handsome Thunder and our group of really fantastic looking friends showed up decently early. We got a spot in the mass of humanity, roughly fifteen rows back, and were pretty pleased with our body-to-Avett-Brother-distance. The only problem was the conglomerate of Intoxicated Indianites to our left. They were egregiously tall men, hobbit like women, and continually full hands of beer. I immediately wanted to decapitate them.

Unfortunately, as my father and mother did pass some morals on through the genetic line, I didn’t decapitate the Intoxicated Indianites but rather stood beside them and looked at them as one might a peculiar monkey that has started growing bright fuchsia hair on its bum. While I’ve seen numerous people act in numerous fashions, I am somehow still always shocked to see what some people consider to be socially acceptable. Appalling, my dear Watson. 

The Avett Brothers finally appeared and in this drunken swaying mob of mandolin loving hipsters, we were standing by the most severely indiscrete assholes that had ever entered the Egyptian Room. Whenever songs began, they transformed immediately into bobblehead dolls that pumped their fists in the air as though this weren’t a folk concert but a UFC fight. They sent their hobbit sized girlfriends on beer runs who always came back, squeezing their way indelicately through the mass, and always leaving their smell on my corduroy jacket. They sang obnoxiously loud, requested songs that didn’t even exist, and blocked everyone’s vision within a 10 mile radius.

While I love the Avett Brothers and Handsome Thunder for getting me tickets, for lent I entirely give up standing in close proximity to strangers. In particular, Intoxicated Indianites. They smell rank, dance weird, and are unpopularly tall.

BANISHMENT 11: Grocery Shopping at 3 PM

Today I opened the refrigerator. This is always an interesting experience because I can never remember exactly what I left there. Every morning it turns into “Let’s Make a Deal” in my kitchen. What’s behind door number two? Perhaps a treasure chest of lamb chops and indecently tasty tangerines? Or will it be curdling milk and thoroughly rotted tomatoes?

This morning, however, The Deal was very boring. The ketchup was sitting with the eggs making fun of the orange juice that was all but empty. The rest of the shelves were pretty naked, save a package of tortellini and some sweet and sour sauce I got from the Chinese Dragon about 3 months ago. It was certainly time for some food remodeling. So this afternoon when I was out running errands, going to UPS and doing all sorts of other popular business things, I decided heck, why not, let’s go ahead and swing by that ole grocery store and stock up.

I don’t know if you are at all like me in your grocery shopping habits, but I find I rarely enter the land of carts and produce unless its post-5 or official weekend. Going during the day just feels peculiar. Like I’m on vacation at the beach and must remember to swing by Aisle 3 to pick up more sunscreen.

When I walked into the grocery store today, something automatically felt off. As though I was walking into the wrong-gender bathroom. It took a second for the peculiarity to register, and then, upon realization, I became thoroughly embarrassed and wanted to crawl into the tiles for dear life. Unbeknownst to me, I had entered the land of the elderly.

I wish, at that point in time, I had a large pad of paper, a pen, and at least 30 spare minutes. I would have bolted the doors shut and walked to every grocery-store inhabitant, polling their age. Kroger Census 3:00 PM. I would have determined, blindfolded, that the median lifespan of coupon-clipping, cart-pushing, milk-guzzling shoppers was 97 and three quarters. It was grocery store “rest period” and no one under the age of 80 was allowed in the aisles. 

My grocery store excursion, which was so small that it only required a hand-held basket, was elongated thanks to Wrinkle Invasion 2010. Gray haired grannies were apparently never taught the standard grocery store etiquette. I don’t care if you are eighty-seven and a relative of Betsy Ross. You cannot turn your cart horizontal, press your buttocks up against the Raisin Bran and spend five minutes trying to decide between original and brown sugar oatmeal. You are blocking the path and that is an automatic foodie foul. Additionally, it seems as though legislation must be passed that does not allow the elderly to operate the self checkout lane. Precious though they be, entire centuries pass as they attempt to locate the bar code on their Vaseline.

While I love old people with all of my heart, I’d rather play Poker with them than but heads over heads of lettuce. I will never ever dare to grocery shop during the day again. It is the horrendously scary territory of slow motion and those who enter will likely come out as gray chain smokers who never heard that cigarettes cause cancer. And death.

BANISHMENT 10: People Who Use Their Cell Phones Whilst on Public Toilets

I was in Panera today working. This happens a lot because they have free wifi and bagels that involve asiago cheese. After a couple of hours and far too much coffee, I found myself in need of the ladies room and left my editing to hang out with the soups and sandwiches while I went to squat above the glory that is and will always be public toilets.

I was minding my own business in Tinkle Town, somewhere between the squat and expert foot flush, when all of a sudden, from the other side of the metal door, I heard a very unexpected phrase: "Thank you."

This puzzled me immediately. Why was this peeing stranger thanking me? I hadn't so much as passed toilet tissue underneath our adjoining stalls.

But my confusion was quickly rectified when the conversation continued without me.

"Well, you know Fran (and yes, she actually said Fran), you just have to put your foot down. You have to tell them this was the deal from the beginning and they have to uphold their end of the bargain."

And then there was a lot of mmm hmmming.
Hmm. Yes, yes. Hmmm. I understand.

I was appalled. My name was not Fran. She was not telling me to put my foot down. Peeing Stranger had to be participating in the cardinal sin of public bathrooms: she was talking on the phone.

I don't know about you, but the thought of having a nice little chat on the tele while I'm doing my business is a little grotesque. There is all that flushing and swirling and release of bodily fluids. I don't want my friends or colleagues to know what it sounds like when my lunch comes out my opposite end. And I most certainly don't want Peeing Strangers' friends to know whether or not I was going #1 or #2.

With all expediency I did the foot flush, washed my hands, and exited the bathroom. I was afraid, should I linger any longer, that I'd be tempted to send her cellular device down the commode with her whiz, pulling a Jackie Chan kick in of the stall door. Next time I doubt I'll be so kind.

BANISHMENT 9: The Belief that Sexy Men Don't Go #2

I have always had an issue with pretty boys. Sexy men. Ridiculously good-looking members of the opposite sex. They have this uncanny perfection that makes me believe they dry clean their socks and began flossing as early as their second trimester in the womb. I imagine they only grocery shop at Whole Foods and possess breath, regardless of pepper or onion intake, that tastes continually of wintermint gum. They always frighten me with their stud-like composition and I whimper back into my corner to brush my teeth, three times daily, like all normal human beings who suffer from bad breath syndrome.

Harry Connick Jr. is the ultimate of pretty boys. He has the kind of hair you see women swinging about in Pantene Pro-V commercials. He wears Gucci and Armani and can tell you the virtues of two-button, three-button, and four-button suits. And then he sings Ray Charles in a way that immediately makes you want to take said suits off him. He is suave. He is debonair. But then he does a remarkable thing: he talks.

I don’t know if you’ve ever carried on a conversation with Harry Connick Jr., but I am certain only one phrase could describe him after: cataclysmic goofball. When I saw him last night at the Ryman, he did seal jumps in the air. He spent most of the night perfecting his gay voice, while dancing awkwardly to grandfather tunes. It was fantastic, it was wonderful, and it made me realize something shocking: sexy men are humans, too.

At no point after the show did I wonder whether or not Harry’s breath tasted like mint. I was certain walking in front of it would be akin to walking by a Mexican Grille. And underneath that nicely ironed designer shirt was probably a beer gut in hibernation, waiting for couch and WHO DAT time to break out the bulge. Not to mention the mismatched socks that were likely incased in his shined leather loafers.

Despite popular rumor, ridiculously good looking members of the opposite sex are only a slightly evolved brand of the traditional male. They, too, belch, run red lights, leave gum wrappers in inappropriate public places and, most importantly, go #2 in the toilet. Thanks to Harry, I’m no longer scared of the sexy man breed. I mean, seriously. Who be scared of anyone who has purchased Febreeze in bulk?