Friday Poundings: GUYS I'M DEPRESSED

Are you sitting down right now? If not, you might want to because I have some shocking news. Some news that I already gave away in the title.

I am depressed.

I know, I know -- this comes as a real surprise. And trust me, I was as surprised as you! I thought I was happy and fulfilled, but I can't argue with this diagnosis because it's based in scientific fact. Here's what happened:

I was reading this article on Cracked about things you can tell just by looking at people. And one section of the article talked about how people hold babies. From this I learned that a vast majority of people hold babies with their left arm, regardless of which is their dominant hand.

I thought about this for a second and I was like, wait, what? People hold babies with their left arms? That's crazy. I hold babies in my right arm. See, as proof, here is a picture of me holding a baby in my right arm:

The baby's face has been replaced with this terrifying clown in order to protect her identity. And also, to scare the sh*t out of you all.

Haha in this one I gave myself a crazy clown face too! Aren't we having fun?? 
Oh wait, I forgot -- this post is about me being depressed. WE ARE NOT HAVING FUN.

And do you know what the article went on to say about holding babies with one's right arm? THAT IT IS LINKED TO DEPRESSION! They don't know why the two are linked; they just know that they are.

So naturally, I realized that this meant I am depressed. Or at least, PROBABLY depressed. But I didn't stop there -- I needed to find the truth. So I did some googling, and based on what I found, I no longer have any doubts about my mental state. I have lots of symptoms:

-- I have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. This has become especially pronounced ever since we got a down comforter for Christmas. Have there been any studies linking down comforters with depression??? THERE SHOULD BE.

-- I feel sad sometimes, particularly when something bad happens to someone I care about but sometimes even when something bad happens to someone in the TV.

-- I have difficulty concentrating -- especially when I'm really excited about something

-- I often have feelings of guilt, like when I do something bad and then lie about it

So now that I'm depressed, does anyone have any recommendations for music I can listen to that will let other people know I'm going through a rough time? None of the emo bands that were popular when I was a teenager are around anymore, and I really don't want to get stuck listening to the wrong depressed-person music. Then all the other depressed people will laugh at me and I'll fall into a deeper depression.

I've already shaved one side of my head, which I think is a step in the right direction.


Also, seriously, holding a baby in your right arm is a sign of depression? That is madness, I tell you. But I read it in Cracked. So it must be true.


And in closing, I just wanted to share this completely unrelated story: when I was at Georgetown, I had a work-study job in the Art Department answering the phones. One day, a lady called to complain about a play that was being put on by the school.

Well, I had absolutely no idea what this lady was talking about. She kept insisting that there was a play being put on at the University that was "NOT of a subject matter appropriate for a CATHOLIC university, thankyouverymuch!" I tried to think of all the plays that were going on on campus at that time but I couldn't think of what she could be objecting to -- and she wouldn't tell me the name. She just ranted and she raved about how she didn't feel comfortable sending her children to a school that would endorse such "smut" and that her good, Christian offspring had no business being exposed to such foul, dirty language -- and right there in the TITLE of the play, no less!

At this point I REALLY had no idea what she was talking about. A play with bad language in the title? Surely I would have heard of that. Finally she tried to spell the name of the play -- it being far too dirty for her to say aloud. But I couldn't hear her very well so I still had no idea what she was trying to spell. Anxious to get off the phone with this nutjob, I assured her that I would look into it and that I was certain the University would not endorse smut and that her children were getting the finest education possible. She eventually hung up.

For days I wondered what the hell this woman had been talking about. For dayyyyys. And then I saw a poster for a play being put on at the school and finally it all clicked. The play whose name was so dirty that this good Christian woman couldn't say it out loud?




THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES.



So, in case you were wondering if people that crazy really exist: they do.

I really don't think I'm depressed, though. Honestly, a depressed person would never use so much color in a drawing.

Costco on the Weekend

I was going to include Costco in with yesterday's post about straining relationships, but I quickly realized that I had too much to say about Costco to just tack it on to the end of another post. It needs its own.

I don't think there's a Costco in the country that isn't jammed to the rafters every weekend. Between the enormous, laden-down shopping carts parked haphazardly all over the place; the big families of shrieking idiot children; THOSE MOTHERF***ING FOOD SAMPLES that drive men to madness ... a trip to Costco on a Saturday could shred the nerves of even the steeliest among us. Worst of all is the stress that this godless place puts on us fools who insist on going there on the weekend.

I have, in the past, gone to Costco by myself. I have more patience for it, and so I enjoy it much more on my own. But Jesse loves the idea of Costco -- he loves the samples; he loves seeing what fancy beers they have in stock this time that they didn't have last time; he loves checking out the non-food section of the store to see if there's anything he can't live without.

But like a new mother, he has largely forgotten the pain and remembers only the incredible joy that comes from scoring a gift pack of Chimay that comes with a chalice, or from that $1.50 hot dog that came with a drink. And so he always wants to come along. And it turns out the same every time:

We always start the shopping trip out together. Jesse pushes the cart as I check out all the neat stuff they put near the entrance. Jesse quickly gets annoyed, however, by the large families of idiot children who park their ginormous carts in the middle of the aisle. As his irritation increases, his language gets worse and worse until I take away the cart and tell him to go on ahead.

I always take the cart away before he has a chance to start swearing AT the idiot children, but it's usually a close one.

I meet up with him again in the pasta section, where he grumpily demands that I "go faster" because "this is boring." With a dramatic eye roll, I tell him to just leave me alone to do my thing. He goes off in search of food samples.

I keep shopping, grabbing all the usual stuff and maneuvering my cart around all the salivating morons who are willing to waste hours of their lives waiting for one bite of a f***ing microwaved taquito. One time we saw two men fighting over the samples. I repeat: two middle-aged men FIGHTING because one of them took the last sample and the other thought he had more of a right to it. The guy who got the sample then THREW IT IN THE OTHER GUY'S FACE and they almost started punching each other.

OVER ONE F**KING BITE OF NASTY REHEATED CHICKEN POT PIE.

Animals.

Once I emerge from the frozen goods section, I head into the fresh meat and cheese section in the middle of the store. This is where things REALLY start to get hairy. Carts are EVERYWHERE, as there are samples being given away at each end of every aisle. And oh, the families of idiots abound. The hungry children, who were apparently told that Costco samples would be their lunch that day, elbow their way to the front of the line, completely ignoring my repeated requests for them to "excuse me. Excuse me. EXCUSE ME." (the best solution, it turns out, is to tap them with your cart. Don't HIT them with the cart; just a gentle tap so they know you mean business. Once they figure out you're not trying to cut the line to get a piece of cracker with some dip on it before they do, they'll usually let you by.)

Okay, SERIOUSLY people, WHAT IS THE OBSESSION WITH THE F**KING SAMPLES? IT IS A PIECE OF CRACKER WITH SOME DIP ON IT AND YOU ARE WILLING TO GET FLATTENED UNDER A SHOPPING CART JUST TO PRESERVE YOUR PLACE IN LINE TO GET IT.

A piece of cracker with some possibly-gross dip on it is apparently one of the few causes ordinary Americans consider to be worth dying for.

ANIMALS.

As I navigate through this part of the store, grabbing tubs of hummus and a whole rotisserie chicken for $5, I note with a certain amount of angry jealousy that there's Jesse off in the distance, going from sample line to sample line, eating all the crackers and all the dips without a care in the world. F**k him.

By the time I get out of the deli section, Jesse will have tried all the samples so he will come looking for me. 100% of the time, I will be in the produce room, which means he won't be able to find me so he will call my phone. I seriously can't think of a single time in recent memory that this has not happened.

Then we'll load up on cases of beer, and the cart will officially be too heavy for me to drive so Jesse gets put back on duty. He curses and shoves his way past the remaining idiot families (and by this time, I don't try to stop him. If it were me driving the cart, I'd be mowing them down like this was a game of Road Rash) and we get in line behind 2384972843 other people to pay at the front.

Just your typical ordinary Saturday crowd.

At this point, Jesse is once again all Costco'd out after that tough final march from the beer section to the front of the store, so he wanders off to the food court to buy us each a hot dog. I stay with the cart while he eats his hot dog; then he comes back and takes over cart duty while I take my turn in the food court with my hot dog. At some point during my hot dog break, Jesse will reach the front of the line and will go to pay for our stuff. He will pull out my Costco card -- you know, me, the girl who was standing in line the entire time and is now 30 feet away in the food court, fully visible -- and the cashier will angrily accuse Jesse of trying to pull a fast one by using someone else's Costco card. Someone with the same last name who was just standing there LITERALLY THREE F**KING MINUTES AGO.

So Jesse will beckon me over to the register to explain to the cashier that it is my card and all I want in this world is to eat my hot dog while my husband pays for the groceries. And then the cashier will bitchily inform us that in the future, Jesse either needs his own card or I need to be present during the transaction. 

I then set fire to the Costco warehouse and beat the cashier senseless with a reasonably-priced five-pack of tire irons, because COSTCO ON THE WEEKEND IS A GODLESS PLACE THAT DESERVES TO BURN.

GOT FOUR MORE TIRE IRONS IN CASE THAT ONE BREAKS, BITCH.

Ahem.

Turns out Jesse isn't the only one who forgets about the pain of Costco and remembers only the incredible joy that comes from owning your own 24-pack of Sugar Free Rock Stars.

Speaking of which ... how many of those do we have left? We might need to go to Costco this weekend.


Shit.

The greatest tests of any relationship

There are plenty of actual studies out there showing the stress and divorce rates associated with things like long-distance moves, death of a child, long-term illness, etc. But those studies are both 1) not funny in the least, and 2) not truly reflective of the stresses most likely to tear even the strongest relationships apart.

I mean, yeah, sure, if I lost both my legs in a car crash, that would probably be pretty taxing on my marriage. But how often does that happen?! Not nearly as often as ...

Putting Together Furniture

This is such a well-known fight-starter that I almost don't have to write this section at all. You've all been there.

Here's how it goes down: First, you and your hunny pick out a cute dresser from IKEA. You get it home and, riding that emotional high that comes with getting a great deal on something, you decide to immediately start putting it together.

So you carefully pull out every piece and organize them OCD-style in rows across the living room floor. You grab the directions and hop to it. And of course, the first few steps go well -- putting those drawers together is a breeze, and so you and your smoochie-poo catch each other's eyes and smile knowingly, assured of your own awesomeness (I mean, helloooooo, everyone knows that putting together furniture makes couples fight. But look at you guys -- mouthing "I love you" as you attach the handle to the drawer you just put together).

But then -- something goes wrong. 


Maybe a screw is missing.

Blaming Sweden and the Swedish people are both very common occurrences when Operation Build a Dresser starts to go south.

Maybe you realize that the top and bottom drawers are slightly different, and you've put the wrong side-pieces on them so you'll have to take them apart and start again.

Or maybe, and God forbid this ever happens, but maybe -- maybe the drawers aren't fitting properly into their slots and neither of you can figure out why.

Next thing you know, you're sleeping on the couch and your snuggle-bum is calling a lawyer. All because of those smug Swedish bastards.

To be fair, I shouldn't really single out IKEA, since they are hardly the only ones selling do-it-yourself furniture. Just recently, Jesse and I were hanging mirrors in our workout room and within the space of about ten minutes, we went from mouthing "I love you" to calling each other "dumb bitch" and "you f**king idiot". The key is to give yourselves immunity in advance of starting the project with this little vow:

I do hereby swear that if, in the course of this project, I become violently angry and start swearing or calling you names, I will stop myself and take a five-minute break until my nerves settle. I also do hereby swear that if YOU become violently angry and start swearing or calling me names, I will not hold it against you afterwards. You are not my enemy. I am not your enemy. The dresser/side table/china cabinet that we are building is our common enemy. A house divided against itself cannot stand.

Then you shake hands and begin.

Of course, this vow will not do you any good in the event that ...

Your Driving Directions Fail You

I don't really remember life before GPS -- back in the days when you could get so f**king lost in the middle of nowhere that you had to ask a serial killer for directions to the interstate -- but that doesn't mean I haven't had my fair share of marriage-shaking scream-outs in the car. Don't get me wrong; I'm sure that talking GPS devices help with this problem of couples fighting over directions, but they certainly haven't eradicated it completely. They've just changed how the argument sounds.

You see, GPS isn't infallible. Sometimes the GPS thinks you're on a different road than you're actually on -- either because the roads are too close together or stacked vertically or something -- so it gives you absolute bunk directions that are not helpful at all. Or sometimes there's been construction recently, so the GPS directions are meaningless. And sometimes, the damn GPS is just plain wrong. And since many people rely on their GPS with the blind faith of a cult member, in these situations, they panic. And then they scream at their smoochie-poo until the car windows fog up.

Actual quote from this past Friday night.

You really get into trouble when one person would trust the GPS with their life while the other views it with a healthy dose of skepticism and is thus happy to disobey the "idiotic route this thing wants us to take." The GPS-apologist takes it as a personal insult that the GPS-skeptic isn't willing to sign their life over to the magical satellite-powered device that knows how to get ANYWHERE ON EARTH, STEVEN, AND DO YOU KNOW HOW TO DO THAT? NO, YOU DON'T.

The GPS becomes a third participant in the relationship. Fights break out and jealousies erupt over the GPS's special position.

GPS is nearly as dangerous to relationships as getting lost was back in the days before GPS existed. 

But you know what else is dangerous?

Going Together to a Store Only One of You Finds Interesting

Why do we do this to ourselves? WHY!?!?! 90% of the time, there is no reason for it. You could go to the store yourself and be just fine, yet you bring your spouse along anyway. Because we're just gluttons for punishment.

This particular fight-starter cuts both ways. Neither you nor your schmoopie is immune to the insatiable pull of a store that the other does not AT ALL want to go to.

One time, Jesse brought me along to the home brew shop. Now, I spend a lot of time talking with him about home brewing. While I wouldn't consider myself as much of an expert as people who actually DO it, I'm pretty damned knowledgeable by now about most things home-brew-related.

But that doesn't mean I like going to the home brew store.

I mainly hate it because Jesse always takes SOOOOOO LONNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG. 

And then I go wait in the car, because I value our relationship too much to see it end over this.

Just kidding. I throw an on-my-back-on-the-ground screaming temper tantrum.

It's okay, though -- I get my revenge on him. We went to Michael's Crafts together because I needed some picture frames and card stock, and he whined so much that I almost punched him in the face. And sometimes, when I'm feeling really bitchy, I'll bring him along to the grocery store.

When will we learn not to do this? Probably never.

And if we ever do get divorced, it'll either be because of the whole hobbit-foot couch-crowding thing, or because THAT GODDAMNED NIGHT STAND TURNED US ON EACH OTHER.