The Hottest of Pots

Last night I drove down to Provo to have dinner. I knew that we were having dinner, but I didn't really knew where until I was about halfway down when I got the text for the address:

Four Seasons Hot Pot and Dumplings.

A wave of nostalgia hit me as I prepared my colon for the fiery poops that would surely ensue.

For those of you who don't know, hot pot is a Chinese cooking method in which they basically leave a giant pot of boiling broth on the table into which you dump all of the things you want to cook (beef, chicken, unidentifiable meat, veggies, unidentifiable veggies, noodles, etc.). You can usually also decide to have the pot divided in half, in which half is a regular broth, and the other half is a broth frothing with foreign spices glowing bright red that begin to eat away at the pot itself. Since it's so hard to decide which, you get to have both (Which means you also get to decide which kind of poop you'll have later. JUST KIDDING. Because you only get fire poops). *

Some really fancy hot pots have people that come out and do the noodle dance for you. No, not the PB&J otter noodle dance, but where they swing a giant noodle through the air to stretch it out and then subsequently throw it into your pot (Here if one if you want to see it). It's a frightening process because sometimes they pretend to try and hit you in the face. 

I walked into the restaurant and it was like a little piece of China had been plucked away from the homeland. Or, you know, a Chinese family opened a restaurant in the middle of a large college city. It was humid and smelled like, well, every restaurant in China (which can best be described as spicy with a hint of raw meat). There was the familiar bar of foods: raw meatballs, raw shrimp, raw...blocks of white stuff--you know, all the essentials. I scooped up what I wanted and plopped it into the bubbling pot.

Since the four of us at the table had all been to China at one point or another, we started to play the, "Do you remember when...?" game. 

"Do you remember when mushrooms grew in our bathroom?"

"Do you remember when that taxi driver tried to charge us 100 quay to go two blocks?"

"Do you remember when wouldn't pay for our internet for days and decided that indoor heating wasn't totally essential?"

Oh, I remembered. While a lot of things didn't happen to me personally, usually some kind of variation did. Part of me expected that after the dinner ended, I would hop onto a bus filled to the doors with people and a baby peeing on the floor.

"Do you remember when you ate a popsicle that had red beans inside it?"

It was funny; while most of the memories were seemingly negative things (like a man throwing up on me), they were somehow slightly endearing in my mind. They were those little gems of my life that I had experienced in a foreign place that most people don't understand unless you've lived there.

"Do  you remember the skinned animal faces at walmart?"

While I had a lot of hard times in China, I had a lot good times too. I saw amazing sights and met some of the kindest people. Mostly I learned how to try and laugh at a situation that looked pretty grim and shitty. There were days when I putting a smile on my face as I walked out the apartment building into the smog and past the smells of the sewer coming from who knows where, was all that got me through the day. Now I get to look back at that accomplishment.

"Do you remember when our toilet spit up sewage into our apartment?"

Out meal ended about the same time a new couple had entered the restaurant and were preparing to ready their ingredients in the pot, looking a little confused.

"Just dump it all in." I leaned over and told them. 

They followed my instructions only to be chastised by our Chinese host. He descended upon them telling them that certain items should go in first and what goes where and blah blah blah. I tried not to make any more eye contact with them seeing as how their first Chinese experience was ruined and I was the culprit. 

"Do you remember when you ruined that couple's dinner?" 

I do. Really I just wanted to pat them on the back and reassure them that this was the authentic experience. Taking advice from a stranger, dumping everything in, and hoping for the best.

No, really, just have a try. Have a try.

*If you're wondering where the dumplings are in this story, I was too. We asked our host where the dumplings were (since they were so clearly explained in the SIGN OF THE RESTAURANT) and he informed us that his aunt had moved back to China and she was the one who made the dumplings. Apparently, she had left no recipe, taught no one else, and had decided not to change the sign.

The Holy Cheesus Be Proud

I've always believed in true friendships. Usually, I find that they revolve around some kind of dark humor, slight sacrilege, and a love for food. Beth and I have a strange bond, especially when it comes to our cheesus.

The holy cheesus watch over us and the marinara be proud.

Cheesus crust, I can feel hell opening up right now.

Swimming and the Good Wife

I've recently become a bit obsessed with The Good Wife, the lawyer show about the wife of a disgraced politician. That's seriously oversimplifying everything, but you can Google everything and spoil it for yourself.

Now, when I say obsessed, I mean it's a little bit overboard on the amount of time I spend thinking about this show. Primarily, I try to identify with the main character of the show, Alicia Florrick.

I like to identify Alicia as an independently strong woman. She sticks up for herself, doesn't take crap, knows when it's OK to have a few too many glasses of wine, and make fun of herself. A little strangely, I relate in a lot of ways, because I'm obviously a Chicagoan housewife turned kick-ass lawyer due to a public indiscretion with my husband. WE'RE JUST THE SAME, OK.

Well, mostly I've tried to emulate Good Wife status when I'm down in the dumps. Good Wife spent a good chunk of her life putting her lawyer-ness on hold to raise her children. While she definitely never regretted setting aside the law for her family, it seemed like there was something missing from her life. Then due to unexpected circumstances, she found that missing piece and her life was then just a show about how great being a lawyer is and how she only wins her cases and she never gets wrinkles. HA, if only (except for the part about the winkles). 

Good Wife finds that once thrust back into being a lawyer, her life is hard in a completely new way. She has to juggle home and work life, maintain great hair and outfits. and be confronted with moral dilemmas on a daily basis. While her name implies that she is nothing but good, Good Wife also finds herself in sticky situations because she occasionally decides to be--NOT SO GOOD. 

But that's what I like about her. While I want to heroine-ize her*, I see her being a person. Good wife messes up. I mess up. Good wife overcomes obstacles. I overcome obstacles. I think you guys might have missed it, but we are basically the same.

I recently found myself in a bit of a rut. I filled this rut with countless hours of The Good Wife, pizza, and trying on my entire closet at late hours of the night. Everything was feeling a little sluggish, so I decided to take mental inventory of my life. I was exercising, working, seeing the people I cared about, so what was the issue? What would Good Wife do?

While it was easy for me to look into Alicia's life as to what she should do (Run for the State's Attorney's-ship, duh!) because I'm the omnipotent one in this situation, it was a little more difficult to look at myself. In fact, it was damn frustrating.

I was doing all the things I deemed correct on my checklist:

Working: Check
Eating: Check
Personal Fulfillment: ...Crap

I wasn't exactly sure what that even meant to myself at this point, which was a strange feeling. I wasn't unhappy, but I wasn't exactly sure how to fix the feeling that lingering feeling. What would Good Wife do? So, I took my power stance, put on my metaphorical power suit, and stepped out the metaphorical door and into my metaphorical courtroom. For me, I determined I needed to start swimming again.


Swimming for me had always been a release. It was really the first (and only) sport that I excelled at and taught me the meaning of discipline and hard work, not to mention that weird friend bond you have with your teammates. So I took my power stance, put on my literal swimming suit, stepped out the locker room door and into my real life swimming pool.

I AM GOOD WIFE, HEAR ME SWIM.

First thoughts upon jumping in:

"Fuck, it's cold."

"Why did I used to enjoy this?"

"If I suck in more water, I can clear out my sinuses."

"If I suck in more water, I won't have sinuses."

"What is Michael Phelps?! A wizard?!"

"I'm going to pretend to go my normal speed, but I'm actually racing you, the guy next to me."

"OK, I still enjoy this."

I told myself I was Alicia at this point. While still being pretty rusty, I just needed to get my feet off the ground and jump into the deep end (literally, two points for puns). This wasn't going to be easy, but giving up would be more disappointing to myself than getting the engine going again. Not to mention the giant wave of nostalgia that I was getting. The general feeling of weightlessness, the taste of chlorine (yes, it tastes strangely good, OK?), and the tightness of your lungs until you get that breath of fresh air; it was intoxicating.

The day my cap broke was the end of an era for past Ryan. Poor cappie had been around for years and seen me through quite a lot, but it was time for something new...to squeeze the life out of my head.

So I've continued this for a bit. Keeping my swim gear in my car in case of emergency (the great flood, you know?!) and actually utilizing my gym's amenities. Although the routine doesn't change a lot, it's been weirdly relieving to add this to my days.

Now I'm one step closer to Good Wife status...but substitute an advanced law degree with a Bachelor's from Southern Utah University.

*That means I want to shoot her into my veins.

Anxiety

As a kid, people always described me with words like, "shy," or, "quiet." I would actually say that a lot of people still describe me as that way; the kid who would rather sit in the front of the classroom, but only talk occasionally. That kid who spins his thoughts over and over, until he can pick the one that seems right for the situation.

Anxiety is a sneaky little bastard who has hung out with me most of my life.

I'm going to go back to my Mormon roots for a second and pull out the well-worn technique of looking at a dictionary and explaining what anxiety is. If you would all turn with me to your DSM-V handbook and look up Social Anxiety Disorders:

A.  A persistent fear of one or more social or performance situations in which the person is exposed to unfamiliar people or to possible scrutiny by others. The individual fears that he or she will act in a way (or show anxiety symptoms) that will be embarrassing and humiliating.

B.  Exposure to the feared situation almost invariably provokes anxiety, which may take the form of a situationally bound or situationally pre-disposed Panic Attack.  

C.  The person recognizes that this fear is unreasonable or excessive.

D.  The feared situations are avoided or else are endured with intense anxiety and distress.

E.  The avoidance, anxious anticipation, or distress in the feared social or performance situation(s) interferes significantly with the person's normal routine, occupational (academic) functioning, or social activities or relationships, or there is marked distress about having the phobia.

...Etc., etc., etc.

If I was going by the book, I would now open up a dictionary and read you the literal definition of anxiety (Something along the lines of how anxiety is more related to social exclusion whereas fear is related to actual physical harm. I feel the need to make that difference.). I would now break this apart piece by piece, until my ten minutes were up and I could sit down and relive myself from all the pressure of giving a talk in church once a year. But I'm pretty shit at being a religious person, so I'll ask you to picture a shaggy-haired kid with large round glasses in the fifth grade. That kid is me, in case you were wondering.

Fifth grade Ryan was quiet. Teachers liked him, parents adored him, and lots of kids found him a little strange. He was very selective about who he chose to be his close friends, which resulted in him only having a few he was comfortable being himself around. One day while at his friend's house, Ryan got more rambunctious than he usually did because he was comfortable. He was being loud and saying most things that popped into his head without everything going through the filter first. While in the middle of running through the house, Ryan remembered the name of a scary movie he had been thinking of all day and subsequently yelled the plot to his friend when out of the corner of Ryan's eye, he saw his friend's mom. The music was loud, kids were running and screaming, and here was Ryan screaming morbid things like murder across the room. It didn't look good. At least, to Ryan it didn't look good and that was all that mattered. He went home feeling rather despondent and the thoughts kept spinning and spinning: what was she going to think of him now? This noisy rambunctious kid--talking about murder! He must be no good. He must be weird. He must be a bad seed. After that, Ryan didn't really like seeing his friend's mom very much.

This little anxiety monster has followed me around for most of my life. There are days when he is really quiet, and there are days when he will not shut the hell up.

"Remember that time you walked into your professor's office and because you stared at him too long he hates you forever?"

"Don't forget about the time you walked into class late, no one will forget that."

"Everyone still remembers that awful campaign slogan you made for jr. high class elections."

"That homeless man remembers the time you farted near him".

"You asked for that day off and now your boss wants to fire you."

I spin these thoughts over and over again, each time making sure that they grow until it's the only thing I can think about, Then there's anxiety, sitting on my shoulder getting fatter and fatter as each thought becomes a slight obsession.

"You can't win in that race and when you lose no one will forget."

"Your friends only tolerate you."

"You're going to fail that class, flunk out of school, and end up alone."

I am ashamed to admit that sometimes I seriously acknowledge these thoughts. Dammit, I really am going to end up alone with a shitty job and no name for myself. I'm sure that even my cat will leave me. Well, he'll probably just eat me. 

They stick to my brain like everything to a George Foreman grill.

There were days when I felt like someone had made my brain into a washing machine full of bricks that pounded on the edges until I felt like I was going to burst.* It was usually during those times when I distracted myself with music, video games, and books. This way, I'd be able to wrap myself up in something that was outside of my own head so I wouldn't become to physically and emotionally exhausted.

Within the past several months of my life, I've had a lot of...grownup life things happen to me. I say grownup because I always joke about how "grownup" I am with my friends (hint: I'm not) and these were things I had never really to prepared for. I had to make a very serious relationship decision coupled with some serious family issues that had arisen. One left me feeling hurt while the other left me in a very cold disposition. 

...Looking at it now, I guess it wasn't a terrible combination for the situation.  

I had gotten very stuck. I stopped blogging because I felt like trying to find things to joke about would almost be like lying since I didn't really believe anything that I tried coming up with (Believe me, I tried; and in all honestly my wonderful and terrific writing probably would have suffered if I had chose to share it). I distanced myself from any social network that I had and instead tried to focus in only on work.

Each and every day I was digging myself deeper into my own little anxiety hole.**

And it sucked.

Then came my epiphany: It was me.

I was the one who decided what I got to do next. As simple as that was, it hadn't really dawned on me before to just stand up against myself and do something. New empowered Ryan started not putting up with shit. New empowered Ryan gained a strange new confidence that he hadn't really ever seen before. New empowered Ryan put himself out there and firmly decided what he wanted. New empowered Ryan only talked in third person!

I got to be the hero of my own story. I got to be Han Solo when he decided to take initiative for saving the galaxy. I got to be Indiana Jones in his last crusade (but nothing more because there definitely no more movies about Indiana Jones after that). Apparently, I get to be Harrison Ford, and I will roll with that.

While I still didn't blog, it was more out of just serious neglect than crippling anxiety (like your first ten goldfish..minus the crippling anxiety). While I've still maintained my distance from social networks, it's less out of weird validation and anxiety, and more from just not needing that around. The endless spinning brought on by over-thinking; not speaking up and wishing I had, or speaking up and wishing I hadn't significantly slowed down. In fact, it made this weird turn around where I did a lot of talking with little regret (except the time I decided to engage a homeless man). I was getting the support I needed from the people who mattered in my life and I didn't see this change going away any time soon.

Now, this post has been something of a struggle. It's been edited, read, re-read, re-edited, completely changed, and left alone to simmer for a very long time. Every time I looked, it changed a little; leaving old parts because I liked them and some serious erasing because why would Ryan five minutes ago ever say something so ridiculous . Now I'm just comfortable with the whole thing.

There are still days when the little anxiety monster still likes to hang out on my shoulder (e.g..: parties and surprise gatherings), but he's gotten a lot more quiet. That, or I've tried to stop listening. Either way, I'm comfortable with that.



*Even as I write that sentence, I have a slight twinge of anxiety from fearing that people will think that's a horrible analogy.
**Do I have enough analogies and metaphors for anxiety in this yet? Because I also worry that I may be using analogy and metaphor incorrectly sometimes, which is why I included both right here because I am shit with grammar and just the English language in general. Now I worry that grammar isn't even the right word.

Dear Girl Above Me

Dear girl above me,

I know we've never met before, or ever really seen each other, but I assume that we both know that the other exists. I'm sure you've seen me passing out of the driveway, or carrying groceries into the door, and I don't blame you for not saying hi (I mean, I haven't said it either, so we're all good on those grounds).

You have a dog, which is super great! Our dogs even have a lot in common sometimes! They're quiet, respectful, and don't bark a lot. I forgot to mention that my dog died a few years ago (so she's not as lively as she once was). Your dog, on the other hand, seems to be full of life and so do you! I get the talking in a weird baby voice to your dog and having it chase things. I also realize that I used to do that with my dog outside (You know, when she was alive.) so that people indoors could maintain some peace and quiet. I'm sure our dogs would have even gotten along because I can tell that your dog likes to talk (bark) all the time! For instance, at 3am the other morning, she just wanted to let the whole neighborhood know where she was and you decided that a good run around the house might help. I think we really bonded at that moment.

I also get the whole "spousal problem" thing! I mean, if I was home alone, I would talk as loud as I could on the phone to my friend complaining about things he was doing. He left the TV on again!? Ugh, he is just the worst (I assume.). But here's where you lose me: Every time your so-called hubby returns home from wherever he goes during the day, you two seem to have a fully functioning wood shop up there. It would seem to me that after complaining on the phone for hours at a time about this person that you wouldn't be able to haul heavy lumber around the house together, but you two seem to make it work! (I guess that's what marriage is all about, right?)

Us below you also think that your furniture is probably great where it is. To us, it sounds like you've rearranged it about every day since you got there and it has to have reached some sort of feng shui. Also, if it's dead bodies (No judgment! We've just speculated that loud thumps followed by long silences could be some kind of "Silence of the Lambs" type scenario, but we don't want to be nosey.), please drop them on a mattress or something.

Have you ever heard of the hit television show, "American Idol?" Every song you've sung to could definitely bring you fame and fortune, *hint hint.*

Maybe we could be friends, but our sheer proximity really prevents me from doing that right now. There are days I want to knock on your door and tell you that I can hear you screaming at the TV, but I don't want to make you feel embarrassed. I'll also admit that it's a little nice pretending like I know your life because I can hear every little move you make.

I will also definitely take the instance of when you threatened to throw up on your significant other so that he would leave you alone and apply it to my daily life. That was a metaphor, right?

Sincerely,

The guy passive-aggressively complaining about you on the internet

P.S. We can still hear you faking sex.

Pseudo-parenthood, Part 2

Stella and Steve have left our presence. After chewing on multiple items of clothing and basically anything in sight, paired with multiple escapes (probably coordinated by Steve), we were over owning rats. I know, I know--we only had them for about a week, BUT THEY WOULDN'T LOVE US. Yes, I mean to say that crawling over my body with little rat feet isn't love.

How did we fill this void? With a guinea pig of course. Yes, on our trip to return our small rat "friends," we happened upon the small tank that held three little guinea pigs. Three little fluff balls making tiny guinea pig noises that kind of sounded like a wave machine, but with more guinea pig. It was like a two-in-one bargain!

"I like the brown one, because it's a loner." I said to Beth.

It was true. Our little spotted guinea friend didn't play with the other two orange-spotted pigs and kind of just moseyed around the tank and looking for something else to do.

"I think that's why I like him too." said Beth.

With that, we chased our new friend around the tank until we were able to successfully catch her in a cardboard box. Her name is Wallace and she will love us.

Wallace took kindly to her new home by not moving or doing anything in particular. She actually resembled a guinea statue until I tried to touch her where she would turn into a small race horse to escape my grasp. Things I did not know: Guinea pigs are faster than you think.

"Wallace likes to nibble." Beth sent me in a text the next day.

"Wallace bit me." I sent back later that day. It turns out that screaming, "LOVE ME!" while holding out your hands to catch an escaping guinea pig doesn't actually make them warm up to you faster.

Here's to our second chance at pseudo-parenthood. Because guinea pigs can't fit through small bars...and neither can children.

Stress Poops

"They're stress pooping! Everywhere!"

Again, I find a little pellet settled nicely on a blanket, or a pillow, or my shoulder. Little Stella and Steve couldn't handle being held, touched, or even really looked at. The stress proved too much and manifested itself in a little brown turd.

I never thought I would have to restrain a small animal, but that's all I've been doing lately. The cage (probably manufactured for a small dog), has proved useless in their relentless attempts at freedom. The moment one gets put inside, it will climb up the bars to what I only imagine it screaming, "FREEDOM!" in a Mel Gibson voice. We've since amped up our security with chicken wire, numerous blankets, a candle, and a laundry basket. We thought it would be enough, but I still come home to find these little Houdini's sitting on the top, looking at me with a smug look of satisfaction that says, "Fuck your cage."

Having an animal that doesn't want to immediately snuggle is also frustrating. Dogs: Always. Cats: Eventually persuaded. But NO. They can't just calm their tiny little heads down so that I can GIVE THEM MY LOVE. It really gets me right in that spot that hurts. The metaphorical heart, or whatever.

Steve and Stella, such a dynamic duo. While both are girls, Beth and I decided that Steve was the best option because we don't conform to gender stereotypes. We're progressive by letting our pets have whatever name we choose for them.

So basically I'm writing this to inform you I have rats living my apartment now. Our landlord said no pets, so we got rats because they're under the threshold of real pets, right? Little pets that won't relinquish their love to me.

I'm only waiting to get home to find Steve sitting atop the cage with his little mouse paw flipping me the bird.