the $64,000 question.

So my intent was to blog about something lighthearted today. The past two entries have been pretty heavy, even for my standards. I delve into heavy stuff, sometimes with reluctance, but most times with both feet. A swan dive into hectic and complex feelings and emotions. It’s the therapist in me, I can overanalyze and therapize just about anything. “Oh? You like chocolate, you say? Well, of course it represents your overactive libido and your inappropriate attachment to your mother….” That type of analysis would make Siggy proud. Andiepants breaks apart feelings into smaller and smaller fragments until their origins become transparent. I relentlessly pick apart the tangled web of emotions, carefully, methodically and examine and analyze every strand. But sometimes, my overworked, overanalytical (not a word, by the way), intensely anxious, underpaid (grossly!) brain decides to wave the proverbial white flag, puts in a call to its union rep and goes home. 

Sometimes, friends, I want to hang up my therapy pants. As much as I love it, there are times when I just really want to put this aside and adopt a whole new career. Doing what, you ask? Professional puppy-hugger, perhaps. How great would life be if you could hold and snuggle puppies for 8 hours out of every day? Mmmmm bliss. Or maybe a licensed, certified finger painter…call andiepants for all your finger painting needs. I could live in an industrial loft space, dipping my hands wildly into paint and splattering them onto a canvas, and then selling it for thousands of dollars. I like the sound of that. Or how about a highly trained and experienced high five specialist? I could just stand outside of a highly populated area and high five people all day long. Sometimes I need to give the brain a break… a chance to just float merrily along in its sea of brain-y goo. Take a personal day, brain! A neurological sabbatical, if you will. Take the day off from firing off millions of signals and responses and thoughts and stressors and gahhhh…. This is why I grind my teeth.

And in the interest of floating merrily along in a sea of brain-y goo, I’d like to put forth a deep and profound question courtesy of a movie I recently saw: If you could choose to be any animal, what animal would you choose? In the aforementioned movie (it was called “The Other Guys”, and it was hilarious), the person asked chose “BearDog”. However, it was his reasoning behind his choice of BearDog that made the absurdity of this choice insanely awesome. He stated that he chose BearDog so that he could live in the house like a dog, but poo in the woods like a bear. Now that is a well thought out argument if I’ve ever heard one.

This cinematic discussion caused andiepants to think of my own choice if ever faced with this important question. There was a time in my life when I would have immediately replied that I would like to be a cow. In my youth, I was something of a cow collector, a  bovine aficionado, if you will. Whenever someone incredulously asked “why?!?”, I would state that they are “sooooo cute”. However, after getting a bit older, and ESPECIALLY after moving to the southwest, I no longer feel this way for several reasons. Most involve the horrible and cruel treatment of the herd (especially the whole slaughter thing), but also because of the herd mentality that befalls those of the bovine persuasion. You never see any free thinking cows! No cows are standing on soapboxes, calling for change or attempting to unionize. I once explained to a visiting friend that cattle guards (those grated structures they place across the roads to keep cattle in one location) are there just in case the cows run amok. Mike, overhearing this, whipped his head around to my direction and speared me with a look of contempt. “Who told you that?” he asked, “Cows? Running amok? They’re the most docile creatures in the world, andie.” (Sidenote: apparently my husband to be has never heard of the running of the bulls…. Not so docile, my friend. Or mad cow disease… or the bovine equivalent of a complete overthrow of the government: a moo d’etat [ha! Get it! Moo d’etat! Sigh..]).

Anyway, no more dreams of being reincarnated as Bessie, so what then? Well, I have standards friends, and if I come back as an animal there are some rules to adhere to. First, nothing too small for fear of being trampled, eaten or just plain wussy. There goes mouse, squirrel, rabbit, frog , etc. Secondly, nothing nocturnal. I’m a big fan of the sun (proclaims my millions of freckles) and I’m not too fond of the dark (I think the lemur community might frown upon the use of a night light). Third, nothing overtly vicious. Yes, readers, being a lion might be awesome, but I don’t think that andiepants has the constitution to rip a poor little antelope to tiny bloody bits.

So to summarize, the chosen animal can’t be too small, can’t be slaughtered regularly for food or clothing, must observe the normal circadian rhythym that I am accustomed to, and not be especially carnivorous or violent. What animal does that leave us with? I think the answer is pretty obvious. Andiepants will obviously reincarnate as a winged unicorn. I mean, its really the only creature that fits the bill. And I will prance around the universe, swishing my little unicorn tail with reckless abandon. 

enjoy your thursday and be happy. 

andie. 

The Triumphant Return of Andiepants. Part Two- Transition

Welcome back. Now that I’ve expressed the brunt of my rage (if you missed it, see Part One-Anger) I can move forward to the second force which has been throwing me out of my proverbial comfort zone: transition. Ah. The big T. Even the word itself gives me a tight little knot of anxiety in my belly. Anyone who knows me is fully aware that I despise transition. It’s just so……..uncomfortable. Somewhere along the andielife, I have become a nest-er, a little barnacle. The running joke in my family for many years was to immediately assume, in a half joking accusatory manner, that I was pregnant, due to my strong nesting instincts. (I’m not, by the way). This strong impulse to nest arrived rather suddenly. One day in my early twenties, I realized that I like arranging things, I like setting up rooms, I LOVE making beds (weird!), and I like making a little andiehome for myself. I have now accepted the idea that I’m a homebody, and prefer snuggling up on the couch with wine and a good book to prowling dance clubs in my hot pants. I’ll choose a house party with 20 good friends over the “hottest new bar” any day. Don’t get me wrong, friends. I enjoy throwing some heels on and shaking the andie-butt from time to time, but much prefer the comfort and positive energy of a friends couch and some great conversation. This used to give me so much guilt in college! My sorority sisters would whine at me and attempt to guilt me into whatever bar was having a special that night. And I would go, begrudgingly, sipping my beer and making superficial small talk to whichever drunken frat boy happened to be in my vicinity.

Mike is obviously well versed in my barnacle-y disposition and now presents an idea, accompanied by the phrase “or something like that.” Consider this example: “Hey andie, do you want to go to Ruidoso for dinner? Maybe that Sushi place?…….. Or something like that?” He has adopted this necessary phraseology due to my nearly instantaneous attachment to ideas. Sushi? He wants sushi? Oh I’d like sushi, I wonder what I’m going to get, what should I wear, do you think they have hot sake there? For the andiebrain, the idea of sushi is a seed that has already taken root, and began to bloom into a little tree. Or in the case of my namesake, a barnacle that has permanently attached itself to the underside of the boat. Take that! However, for mike, and probably the rest of the world, these ideas are just wafting by, floating in and out of the brain like the wind, with no significant attachment. Mike might then decide that he is not in fact in the mood for sushi, but would like steak instead. He then presents this idea to me and I am horrified. But I already had my sushi order in my head! I was going to wear my favorite sushi shirt! Now I have to change! You can’t just change your mind! I have barnacled!

But yes, people can just change their minds and andiepants is just going to have to deal with that. I present the above, long-winded example to illustrate how resistant andie pants is to change. Sometimes I fight change with everything I have, which is always futile. The only thing that we know for certain is that everything will change. And for the past month, I have been up to my eyeballs in some good old-fashioned change. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about it, without using the word icky, and could use your help. So lets try and figure this out.

I love having a home. Even though I have moved around incessantly, I always manage to become very attached to the places I live. Since growing up in the beautiful metropolis of NT, I’ve lived in three different residences in Geneseo, four different houses on Long Island, and two, soon to be three, residences in New Mexico. Each house (or room) held some character, some personality that I grew very fond of. There was my balcony in my childhood bedroom, my purple room in the sorority house in Geneseo, the ridiculously awesome closet in my Little Plains bedroom, the Main Street backyard, and most recently the 12^th street bathroom. Of course, some residences had their down sides (like psychotic landlords that screamed and cursed at you), but generally speaking, I have been pretty lucky in terms of living situations. My roommates and former landlords (save for one) have been great. As mentioned above, I barnacle very easily and I have cried when faced with moving out with every place I’ve lived. I’m serious. I cried during EVERY SINGLE MOVE. I’m continually shocked that I seem to have an endless supply of tears, because emotional andiepants becomes a wreck during moves. Moving has always been a very stressful, taxing experience for me, and when we arrived in New Mexico, which was a gigantic move in itself, I thought that I would be able to relax and nest. Mmmmmmm nesting. And that was how it was for the past 5 months, until Scoutypants came into our lives, and the true nature of Gary Krivokapich was revealed. But I refuse to give him any more space in my brain, or to send any more energy in his direction, so lets move on.

Currently, A-pants, Scouty McDoodle, and Mikeyface live in what I call a “transitional house”. An amazingly generous couple in our crazy little town offered to let us stay in one of their houses that was currently vacant. So that is where the cagg family has been since the middle of March. Though it is an adorable house with ample space and cozy rooms, I feel like I am going out of my mind trying to fight my nesting impulses. Most of our possessions remain in boxes in the addition to the house. We never know where anything is. Just this morning, as Mike was making breakfast, we had to dig through the kitchen boxes to find a spatula to complete the meal. I hate it. I want to unpack, to create my own space. And yes, I will be able to do that in about a month when we move into our house, but for now, I just feel a bit like I’m lost at sea. I have my life raft, and I’m thankful for that, but I just want to get to shore and move on with my life. You can’t decorate a life raft! Because you know its temporary. Why waste the energy arranging and unpacking just to pack up again in three weeks? I did however make a few concessions in regards to nesting. We hung my fathers painting on the wall, which always brings peace and calm to my mind. I also purchased a vase with some lovely silk hibiscus and dahlia flowers for the table. Mmmm flowers.

I am incredibly excited about becoming a homeowner. Woo! What a step. The house that we are purchasing is pretty awesome too. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big kitchen (yay) and a big fenced in back yard. Mike is practically foaming at the mouth with all of his excitement regarding home improvement projects. It becomes clearer to me every single day that Mike and I are so different. My idea of relaxing involves a glass of wine and a bubble bath, where his mecca of relaxation involves lumber and power tools. Different indeed. But somehow it works. I’m already dreaming about what colors I’d like the bedrooms to be, and where I’m going to hang my favorite things.  

Becoming a dog mama is harder than I thought it would be. I had dogs growing up, Bandit and Fuggles, respectively. I’ve mentioned both of them in this literary masterpiece, and love them both to pieces. But, dear readers, I never had to train them. I was only 5 years old when Bandit came into our lives, so my parents and brother took the lead with him. I was able to just sit there and play with him. Not a bad gig. And with Fuggles, I was away at college for most of his puppyhood, so again missed out on the training. My mom and dad were the ones who had to instill the discipline, rules and regulations, who had to put their stern-pants on when Bandit peed on the floor, or Fuggs ate my moms slippers. I was able to just prance in and love on them. I was able to swoop in, play with them and console them about their mean parents. Now I’m the mean parent! Crap. Don’t get me wrong, readers, I loved Scout the instant I laid eyes on him, but sometimes I get so frustrated! We have only had him for 4 weeks, and he has made incredible gains. He is completely housebroken (hooray!!), does pretty well with sit, come and stay, (…..when he feels like it) and has the sweetest disposition. However, he is still a puppy in many ways. I came home the other day to my little Scoutypants, laying on the floor, with one of my black old navy flip flops clasped between his sweet little paws, contentedly destroying it. Ah! I bought him all these chew toys that lay on our floor unused, and he chews my shoes. Sigh. He also has boundless energy and runs laps around the house. We walk and run him constantly to try and burn off some of the puppy energy, but are still sometimes overwhelmed. We are so thankful for our friends around town of who have dogs he can play with. Scout had his first date yesterday with a lovely little two year old blue heeler mix named Dutchess. He behaved pretty well, and when he got in her face too much, she nipped at him to put him in his place. Go Dutchess! They had a great time running around the park together, while their people ate a picnic dinner.

To summarize, in the last 4 weeks, I have been kicked out of an apartment, have moved into the transitional house, purchased a new home and became a dog mama. Friends, I am exhausted!! I read an article somewhere that listed off the most stressful events that can occur during ones life. Number one? Getting married. I happen to be doing that later on this year. Number two? Having a child. No, readers, I am not pregnant, but I did become a dog mama, and sometimes attempting to train a rambunctious one-year-old puppy who follows you everywhere and drastically alters your ability to travel and move around freely, whose favorite activity is eating your shoes, and who depends on you for everything feels like caring for a baby. Number three? Buying a house. Yep, I’m in the process of doing that, too. Holy crap. When I moved to New Mexico six months ago, still battling with an intense anxiety disorder, it was my intention, my focus, my plan to adopt a simpler existence. To shed the extraneous stressors that had been popping up in my life like unwanted facial blemishes, to utilize this quiet environment and lack of stimulation to reset my internal balance. I did not anticipate that I would encounter three significant life changes in 4 weeks. Readers, I am exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally. There was a time where I was contemplating trying to make a move in my occupation, but I have decided against that, out of sheer exhaustion. No more life transitions at the moment! I am closed for business. 

Enjoy your tuesday and be happy, 

andie.