For those of you opposed to the scatological, this will only make you unhappy

So we got this raisin bran cereal at Costco the other day. And actually, now that I think about it, I should back up and talk a little about my upbringing, because that's more the story.

I think I’ve said this before, but with the countries we lived in while I was growing up, plus the fact that my dad worked in public health, poo was a viable dinner table topic. At a very young age I was well versed in all kinds of parasites, their life-cycles, the ways in which they manifest in humans, and what one would do to treat them.

I do find them fascinating. Guinea Worm is my favorite, because I find it the most repulsive. Anything that bursts out of your skin, as a whole long worm, that you have to twist around a stick slowly, over weeks, to extract from your body? Wins the parasite prize, in my book.

And Betty hates talking about this kind of thing. Every once in a while she’d say, “Please. Could we just have no more anal talk at the dinner table?” Alas, it was in vain. It’s an endlessly riveting topic. For some.

Plus, if you have ever backpacked anywhere like Nepal, you know that weird things happen with your bowels, even if you don’t have parasites. Travelers will sit down at breakfast and be all, “Dude, my poo was green. Has this ever happened to you?” Because all these startling things happen, and you want to check in with others to know if it’s normal or if you need to see someone about it.

And if you have ever had parasites, you know how weird and compelling a lot of the details are. On top of this, you know full well that parasites are transmitted through fecal-oral contact. In other words, if you get parasites, it’s probably because someone who served you some food had some teeny-tiny microscopic bit of fecal matter on his hands.

Just knowing this makes you throw up a little in your mouth. But it also makes you think a lot about fecal matter. Or poo, as I prefer to call it.

If you’ve ever had worms, you know it’s just too horrifying not to talk about. And if you’ve ever had or had to share a room with someone who has Giardia, I assure you, it’s hideously unmistakable. And unforgettable.

So in my growing up and in my travels as an adult, there has always been a lot of poo talk.

Before college I didn’t realize that most Americans are not OK with it. I really embarrassed a good friend of mine in college in front of her boyfriend and a few other people by saying something like, “Right – that was the day you had the terrible diarrhea!”

She pulled me aside later to tell me how upset she was. Was I trying to embarrass her?

Seriously, that was my first realization that diarrhea was not something to admit to. Huh.

But you know, you are who you are. And your topics are your topics, although you grow and learn and realize the need to censor. Sometimes. When you really have to.

So back to the cereal. We bought this raisin bran cereal at Costco the other day. It's delicious and really crunchy and has tons of raisins. It's easy to eat a huge bowlful. Or maybe two.

However, I now just refer to it as colon blow. Like, “So, can I pour you a nice bowl of colon blow?”

If you are someone prone to constipation, you might want to get this cereal.

Honestly. My Monday was an emergency poo-fest. I got in the car at the end of the day and said, “So, I don’t know if it was the raisin bran, but…”

And Nick said, “You don’t actually need to complete that sentence. I know you, and I know precisely where you are going to go with it.”

It’s amazing how fast you get to know people.

noun. 1. the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best [Origin: bef. 900; ME; OE hopa; c. D hoop, G Hoffe]

I have had a number of people tell me that I've given them hope.

Seriously. I was at the allergist the other day, and the nurse said that I'd given her an immense amount of hope that even though she'd dated a ton of horrible men, she would find a good one.

Some people have been quick to explain that they don't mean it badly - it's not that they thought it was hopeless for me. But the fact that I found Nick gave them hope that they would find the person they wanted as well.

And I am not remotely offended. Because, listen, I'd gotten to the point where I was pretty sure I was never going to get married. Unless I decided to settle. This has given me romantic hope for the entire world.

The morning after Nick proposed, I woke up thinking about how completely amazing it was that I was engaged.

I turned to Nick and said, "You know, this is just incredible."

He smiled. "It really is."

"I mean, if I can get married, anyone can."

He gave me this shut-up-WTF look. "I happen to think you're an absolute treasure, and I feel very lucky."

He was about to be a little offended.

I had to explain that the fact is not that I have low self-esteem, or that I don't think that I'm worthwhile, or I that I see myself as so undesirable that nobody would ever want to be with me.

No - it's not anything like that.

It's more like this - a combination of things that had led me to believe that it was just going to be impossible. One, that I'd had this streak of dating such damaged men - men who just weren't remote possibilities for successful long-term relationships. Either because they were mean, or unable to commit, or just so numbed from traumatic upbringings that they didn't really feel much.

And when I sat down to examine all those guys? I had to admit that the only common denominator? Was ME.

So there was the choosing - over and over - of the wrong guys to contend with.

And then, there are a variety of particular things about me that I believe narrow my range of possibilities. I have this odd, goofy, slightly wicked sense of humor. Often, things I think are soo amusing are not what the general population finds hilarious. So I don't meet a lot of men I think are funny. And there are plenty of men who don't think I am.

Add to this the fact that I can bore easily, and if I get bored with you, I will start amusing myself. And if you don't think I'm funny? We really won't be having fun.

I don't know if you've ever told a guy he's amusing (or droll, or clever) but not funny? It really doesn't go over well.

And I need a lot of affection - a lot of I love yous. I need someone who will make me feel very loved and very safe. On top of this, I am really, really strong - in good ways and bad. So I need someone strong who won't let me push too far.

Plus there are at least 37 or 73 other quirks or wants that I won't mention here that made me think, you know, if there are 26 Ones for most of the world, I probably have, I dunno, 12 or 13. And how the fuck do you come across one of your 12 or 13 in the entire, wide world? I was thinking, "What if one of them lives in Idaho? I'll never meet him!"

Because I didn't want just someone, right? I wanted someone completely and utterly superamazingfantastichilarious. Who thought the same of me.

I don't know anyone who is like, oh, I just want a warm body. No, we all want someone we think is amazing, who thinks we're extraordinary as well.

So I think about it like this.

If I was able to find this person, all the more normal-ish people, with fewer particulars, or a less bizarre senses of humor, or more whatever and less whatever else - all the more normal people will absolutely, without question, find the right person without an extraordinary amount of difficulty.

And the people who fall more in my category? Will find the person as well. I believe this absolutely and truly.

Tired

This topic is so boring. Thinking about it bores me. This first paragraph will probably put you to sleep. But I'm not quite sure what to do about it.

Lately, I go to bed tired and I wake up tired.

Tired and tired and tired. Everything seems like effort. I drag myself into the office, and I get through the day. But every time I'm in the bathroom I look in the mirror and think, "Holy crap! Why do you look so tired?"

I wonder if I'm drinking too much caffeine, but I mostly just drink it in the morning. And the truth is I love coffee, love the caffeine. Plus, how to wake up tired and not have coffee?

Perish the thought.

On grim, grey days, I expect the tired - weather and sunshine really affect me. But on bright days, I feel like there's just no reason for it. But even so, with the happy sparkly sunshine, I could go back to bed and stay asleep for at least another couple hours.

I'm not unhappy - quite the opposite. And I'm not depressed. This isn't heart or soul tired, it's physical. But what to do about it? It drives me crazy that I'm not the perky (yes, a word I hate, but it's my norm), energetic, jump up and down-y person that I like to be.

Purely because I'm just so effing tired.

Nary a modicum of moderation

I know I lack moderation, and when I am being mindful, I do try to be more moderate. But the problem is that in the moment I’m always like, “Yay! Fun! What a great idea! Yippee!”

Judgement goes out the window.

I recently had such a good reminder of this out with an old friend of mine. He’d been out of the country, so this was our first real catch-up in over a year. We met at Proof, which I love love love.

He was already there when I arrived, so I just ordered a glass of the white he’d chosen. We finished our glasses of wine over intense conversation. And then our server came by and asked if we’d like another. I didn’t love the one he’d chosen, so she recommended an Austrian white that was delicious. Really easy to drink. Yum.

And so, catching up on a zillion things, we finished those, and she asked if we’d like another. We looked at each other and he suggested we get an appetizer and one last glass of wine. Which we did. We got a ginormous platter of absolutely delicious cured meats.

But the fact is this. Cured meat does very little to mitigate three glasses of wine. And why is it that, in the midst of having fun, when someone suggests another, I always think it’s such a fabulous idea?

Even though I joke about it, I’m not sitting home drinking bottles of wine alone. But out, when someone else is like, “Let’s have more!” I’m never, ever the voice of reason.

And why do I even begin to think I can swill as much as men who are practically twice my size?

The answer is, I don’t. Think, I mean. In the moment, I’m not thinking at all. If I were thinking, I’d be like, “Lisa, you are a little person. And two glasses of wine are more than enough. You should sip water and not get ridiculous.”

Right. Which is never what happens. What happens is I say, “Sure! Fun! Bring on the ridiculous!”

These other people, often being people much larger than me, they wind up fine the next day, while I wind up thinking I’m going to die.

Nick picked me up from the metro. I poured myself into the passenger seat all, “Whee!”

He just sighed, less than delighted. And understandably so. Because, poor man, he got up at 5 am to travel for work, turned around and came back to DC, and kept working till he picked me up. And there he was, at 9:30 at night, forcing me to drink water and eat a sandwich.

And sometimes I am not super cooperative. I don’t get belligerent, but that doesn’t mean I won’t keep walking away from the glass.

“C’mon. Drink your water!”

“I am!”

“No, you’re not. You’re standing across the room checking email.”

Eye roll. “Fine.” Sip sip. Get distracted. Walk away again.

“Lis! You’ll feel so much better if you eat some sandwich. Eat!”

I eat but I act like I’m doing him a favor. Like, he’s so lucky I’m eating this turkey and cheese sandwich he so nicely made me.

And again, if I were thinking, I’d realize that a sandwich and a huge glass of water are probably the best idea that’s been presented to me all evening. And I'm doing nobody a favor.

Honestly.

Sticking the landing

It turns out you're not supposed to congratulate women on getting married. Did you know this?

I have received, and happily - oh so happily - a number of congratulations.

Practically everyone I've told has congratulated me. Personally, I've always congratulated anyone who has ever gotten engaged, woman or man.

On Friday evening I was at Nick's office, and saw, for the first time since we got engaged, one of his colleagues. I like him. He's very kind. He's also very socially correct, very proper.

We really don't know each other. He has no idea what a Philistine I am.

And so, when he saw us, he kissed me on the cheek and said, "Best wishes! I congratulated Nick but I haven't seen you!"

I said I'd just heard that it was proper to congratulate men, while you're supposed to give women best wishes. And I was just wondering why.

So he said, "Well, you're essentially congratulating the man on having gotten the woman to marry him."

"OK."

"But you wish a woman well because you don't want to suggest that she's been working to get married. You don't want the implication to be, 'Congratulations! You finally got a husband!'"

Now, anyone who knows me knows that it hasn't been my life goal to get married. And truthfully, I'd almost given up on it, I'd gotten so jaded. But I do feel like I've worked for this. I want all the congratulations anyone is offering.

And I said, "Oh, but that's how I feel! Yay! I am so lucky! I got a good one!"

I put my arms up in the air, like a gymnast at the end of a routine. I mean, like a gymnast wearing high heeled boots and a bright pink winter coat and pink flowery hat and carrying a big orange bag. So maybe like a brightly clad, winterized, graceless gymnast. But still.

As I did this I said, "I do! I feel like I finally stuck the landing!"

He giggled. Because what else can you do when faced with this kind of behavior?