Now before you go freaking out calling the police, I don’t mean the kind of body you would have to move out to the desert, requiring a shovel and a deep hole. No, that’s a whole different conversation and level of friendship. I’d probably have to know you for more than ten years to do something like that. But no, that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about a body that’s passed out on your couch for some reason or another. A mom. A dad. A brother. A sister. A son. A daughter. A grandma. Your dude. Your lady. Whatever they may be to you. If they’re passed out because of too many Lemon Drop Martinis, El Patron shots, or something stronger I’d like to think that my friends could call on me for help. No judgment. No drama. No gasps of horror. No lectures.

The ”please don’t tell anybody about this–” preamble would not even be necessary with me.

I read something recently about the depths of friendship and the whole moving the body situation, they got all into it with details, scenarios, and different types of friendships. And it got me thinking about the type of friend I am.

I’m not the fake Facebook friend, I’m the body-mover. I realized that I’m one of those people.

I’d probably show up with a great piece of chocolate and tell you there’s no need to move the body, just leave it there. There’s no social worker coming over. So let them sleep it off. But if you still wanted me too, I’d help you move it. I work out. I’ve got muscles. We could do it. Then we could feast on chocolate and I’d probably try to throw in some Goodfellas type of jokes just to lighten the mood. And there would be no chisme, no drama, no judgment. Just safety in knowing that The Guat’s got your back. Really I’m the last person to be judging anybody, my life isn’t all happily ever after, it’s like a Spanish soap opera, but with more clothing and less good-looking people.

But while I was contemplating what an awesome non-judgmental body mover I would be, I realized that I only had a few of these type of friends on my speed dial. I had movie-going friends, writing pals, eating lunch time friends, give me a ride to the airport friends, and go to a game with friends. Not too many move-a-body friends, or relatives for that matter.

I felt a little bad about that, but then I realized you only need a few of those friends. Bodies aren’t that heavy if you’ve got a plan. You really only need one friend like that. A strong one, or maybe one that studied physics in college, stuff that would make body moving easy. I mean it would be awesome to have like twenty body moving friends, but realistically I didn’t see that in my future. But I could be wrong. In times of crisis people come through for you. They surprise you. So you never know.

Television

Escape.

For when you’re having a bad day.

For when you want to unwind.

For when your other half annoys you.

For when you get writer’s block.

For when you really need a laugh.

Television … Comedy on television … is the great escape.

Escape.

Image via Despair.com

Sometimes you have to look at the bright side to get through the tough times.

Most of these identities are imaginary and we do our best with our makeshift costumes and equipment made out of recyclable materials. However today I thought I would step it up a notch and provide an experience where I didn’t have to use an old Gatorade bottle or paper towel roll. Today we finally made our way to see the Space Shuttle Endeavour, something he’s been wanting to do ever since it made the long trek through the streets of our city and found its home at the California Science Center.

It was something we were so jazzed up about that I got advanced tickets so that we wouldn’t have to wait in the crowded line. I never get advanced anything but when it comes to kids’ activities I totally learn. I don’t want to get caught by every parents’ worst nightmare … The Public Meltdown. So you do whatever it takes, which includes the strategic planning of a genius … of a Mission Impossible agent … of a mother of two.

You get advanced tickets that give you an entrance time well after morning traffic, but before nap time. You plan it to get an awesome three or four-hour block of engaging entertainment. You check for the closest parking lots and always bring cash because you never know when the machines could be down. In addition you pack whatever it takes … granola bars, Goldfish Crackers, grapes, cheese sticks, fruit wraps, pita chips, an arsenal of juice boxes, books, learning toys with all the Disney, PBS, Sprout Channel, and Nickelodeon characters, and the master savior … The Ritz Cracker.

You walk out the door with your two kids and five bags and you think … I got this. I got this!  You slip in the Jack Johnson CD and know you’ll be there by track five or six. The morning rush hour should no longer exist.

And then you’re zooming passed the cars until disaster hits. Traffic. You don’t understand it. There shouldn’t be any. Did you expect big rig trailers and trucks … yes a few, but not a massive traffic jam filled with SUVs and sedans. You don’t understand it. And then after an hour-long trek, which really should have lasted twenty minutes, it hits you. Caps, gowns and Hawaiian leis. Graduation. College graduation.

By the time I finally parked, I was down to my last Ritz cracker. But once we got inside, I didn’t need the emergency reserve.

It was one small step for man, one giant step for Guatkind.

Our astronaut experience awaits.

The cool art/display that caught our  eye at the entrance.

My son intrigued by the mysterious white smoke coming up from the display. He’s discovering the power of science.

The journey begins, everyone was so excited that the juice boxes were not completely finished.

Checking out the amazing space stuff and educating ourselves before heading over to the exhibit.

This is where we pretended to be Mission Control engineers. My son did a great job with his countdown.

One of the best parts of the day was the simulator. Where he got a chance to blast off into space, fix a satellite in outer space, hang out on the moon, and then land the shuttle. He was a good astronaut and so was my daughter, very brave during the take off and landing.

After our awesome astronaut experience we headed over for the main attraction.

Definitely worth the hour-long traffic. Definitely. The Holy-Crap Moment of the day happened right here.

The experience had such a “wow” factor that we had to take home a souvenir. And this one entertained them all the way home. No need for Jack Johnson or emergency reserves.  Outer space rocks.

And then it hits you … you’re the female version of George Costanza except you’re in your thirties and  you’ve got hair. Gray hair, a multitude of gray sneaking in, the bad kind. The stressful kind. So maybe you need to examine these rules a bit closer. Part of this whole Happiness Project challenge involves mindfulness and I couldn’t go forward without examining some of my rules.

Image via happiness-project.com

I know I’m a Chapstick type of chick, but I’m still a complex human being. I’ve got layers. So my list was a little long. But I narrowed down the rules that could use some tweaking. But could I? I’ve had them for a while. They were rules, right? Dude … then I realized. This is not Monopoly, you can totally change the rules. These were the contenders.

Hit the snooze button.

Finish the to-do list.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

Calm down.

At first they seem pretty good. Finishing my to-do list was necessary. It gave me umph! at the end of the day. A high-five for crossing everything off my list. Victorious at the end of a very tiring day. And of course I had to be in hurry, how else could I finish the list. Hurry to be on time. Hurry to finish working out. Hurry reading this book. Hurry  I only had 24 hours. But then I thought if I had all these things to do why would I hit the snooze button in the mornings? It’s just taking time away from finishing the list. Am I sleeping longer? Yes, but then I’m in a hurry because I snoozed it. Then there’s the calm down, effect. I realized that sometimes you need to feel a little rage. Case in point my run-in with the personal space hijackers at the beach. Calming down is not necessarily what you want to hear or feel at the time. Just feel it. Repressing emotions just lead to crazy later.

That is what I learned after a brief review.

But the most eye-opening examination happened to be the one that Gretchen Rubin gave me. Apparently she agreed with me about the hurry, hurry, hurry. It’s not very constructive and it’s probably more stressful. So she gave me an idea.

Instead of hurry, hurry, hurry. Try “I have plenty of time for the things that are important to me,” even if I hit the snooze button.

“By questioning my True Rules instead of applying them unthinkingly, I could make sure I applied them only when they’d guide me to decisions that reflected my true priorities … By mindfully deciding how to act in line with my values instead of mindlessly applying my rules, I was better able to make the decisions that supported my happiness.” — Gretchen Rubin

And so with this advice I added a few new rules to my list courtesy of Rubin’s chapter on mindfulness in hopes that more happiness and less craziness comes pouring in.

First thing is first (as in when the plane is going down, grab the oxygen mask and put it on yourself first before helping anybody else … you can’t help if you’re not breathing).

Down with boredom.

Get some work done everyday.

Choose the bigger life.

People succeed in groups.

But I’m still keeping the snooze button, sometimes you really need it.

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• Happiness Project Update 24: Stopping the Autopilot (thewishfactor.wordpress.com)

Boomerang — 1992

Coordinate.

You got to CO-OR-DI-NATE.

Patterns are the only way to go.

Mushroom patterns.

What!

You are not family. You are not friends. You are not even hi-and-bye acquaintances. You’re strangers. Complete I-don’t-know-you people who should respect the personal space radius surrounding me. At least a three to five yard circumference, depending on where we are. But you don’t get it. You just don’t. You walk on up with no regard for that piece of earth, that region, that atmosphere that surrounds me and that I lay claim to as soon as I walked into it. Psychologically speaking, it’s mine. I called it. But there you are, completely disregarding the rules of the universe, thus branding you a jackass.

I’m tired of you, constantly showing up. Unannounced.

If this goes any further, we might have lead roles on the latest episode of Oxygen’s Snapped!, and I assure you, you probably wouldn’t like the part. But you have no one to blame but yourself. And don’t claim ignorance. I know you know. You do. You know. You just don’t care and it’s this blatant disregard that really burns me out. If you keep at it, there’s no amount of chocolate that will help settle the wrath boiling within. So you better recognize and get steppin’. Recognize!

I wake up early, you know. I don’t like waking up early. I’m not a morning person, but I make it happen, because the reward is big. The beach. It’s nature. It has the perfect spot just waiting for me. It’s not too close to the waves, but not too far from the shoreline. Just close enough to hear the waves crashing and smell the salt of sea. It’s a place where the sand is soft and not too grainy. No seaweed in sight, no seagulls, and far enough from the volleyball courts so that I don’t get smashed with one in the face. The perfect spot for your towel. Me time with a view. These things are necessary for my own sanity. So I get there early, so I can get my spot. I scout the space. The beach is huge. Miles of space. But I figure out which piece of sand is best for me, and I set up my personal space radius. Towel. Chanclas. Beach chair. Bag.

This is me. This is my spot. Ready for “me time,” until they show up … personal space killers.

There it is. You see me. I know you do. You see the stretch of sand on the right, the stretch of sand on the left. Those patches are attached to me. Anything within arms or foot reach is within my personal space circle. You know that. I know you do, because I bet you don’t sidle up to anybody at the ATM machine. You give them their space. So why? Why do you insist on hijacking my personal space? There is plenty of  sand and space beyond mine. Plenty. And some without seaweed. But what do you?

The Personal Space Hijackers. It looks like I know them, right? My towel is next to the buckets. You would think I was part of the family, right? NO. No. I’m not.  These are the people who suck.

Are you kidding me!

Really?

I know you heard me and my suggestions for you to move further away. I know you saw my dirty looks and eye rolls when you didn’t. I know you heard my hostility. But no, that didn’t matter. Nice or angry, neither approach worked for you. You didn’t care. You just had your agenda to hijack my space and ruin my day. You suck. I bet if I were wearing a thong and showing half my ass, your wives and their crazy bitchy nature would have walked further down to the empty piece of land a few yards away. Thongs.

I’m not the thong-wearer. I’m a board shorts apparel owner. So in order to regain my personal space, I had to leave my perfect spot in search of another. I ended up surrounded by seagulls, seaweed scraps, and no direct view of the beach. Just cellulite and bikinis that really should have been one piece swimsuits.

Karma … you better handle this. Personal Space Hijackers suck. They really do. I hope there is a flat tire with no spare, no air-conditioning, and no cell service in their future. I really do.

Here it was Thursday and you wouldn’t leave me alone.  You just had to follow me, like some crazed stalker. You tried sucking me back into that dismal state that only Wednesday drama can do. You followed me into Thursday, clutching onto my sanity and peace of mind. You suck, Wednesday.

Normally I don’t consider Wednesday ”hump day” or get-me-to-Friday-already day, because when you’ve got two kids the days sort of blend together and they sort of lose their feeling. You don’t realize what day it is until you turn on AMC and see what’s playing. Although sometimes I wish my life was an hour-long drama or better yet a half-hour comedy. It could be wrapped up and resolved by the end of the episode and I’d be drinking coffee at the end of the day and smiling as the credits rolled. It’s too bad I don’t drink coffee. Everyone I know drinks coffee and they seem to be getting passed Wednesday just fine.

I normally let go of 24 periods that suck. I try not to have too many emotional hangovers because they rob me of the chance for a better day when the sun rises. But not today. Pinche Wednesday.

I needed it to be neatly wrapped up already. I didn’t feel like re-winding the events of the day and going through all the what-if scenarios. I was so wishing that Jack Bauer would swoop on in and save this nuclear mess that I call life. But Jack Bauer did not come.

It’s days like this that I don’t like gray hair or wrinkles or age 37. Days like this make me look in the mirror and wonder if I have any brown hair left willing and able to take on any new adventures out there. I know there’s Nice N’ Easy, but that’s like cheating. I don’t mind having gray hair. I like them when they are born out of excitement and living an awesome state of existence. Stuff like bungy jumping, zip lining, paddle boarding or anything ending in “ing” really. But when these gray little fiends rise out of the depths of despair during the ”for worse” part of your days I’m not so much a fan.

No Wednesday you suck. You gave me a few new ones, and I wasn’t really happy about it.

And then it happened. The death of Wednesday, just like that and it was all because of a tea party.

A tea party.

I had forgotten that  I was invited to a pre-Mother’s Day Tea Party at my son’s preschool. In truth I wasn’t sure what to expect with some of the Children of the Corn parents planning to attend the festivities. But I promised my son I would attend, so I braced myself and forged on.

It ended up being exactly what I needed. Thursday rocked. It was definitely a cure to my emotional hangover.

The Invite

The treats await.

On my place mat.

The snack at the tea party.

These were gone by the time I took my second sip of tea. Most of them eaten by my son of course. I was glad that each table had its own … I didn’t want a riot to ensue.

While snacking on treats I explored the Mother’s Day folder created by son.

His notes amused me.

This was his how well do you know your mom quiz. I wondered what the teacher thought as she wrote down his answers. It definitely got a smile from me.  I think he’s too young to know about AMC and HBO, so he stuck to the PG rating show.

My portrait. I’m smiling, can you tell?

On our way out the little goodie bags await.

Thursday … yeah … definitely the cure.

Image via despair.com

Sometimes you just have to take a day and chocolate is the only answer.