Love-Hate Relationship: Pawn Stars

I have a love-hate relationship with Pawn Stars in that I love to hate that show. Loving to hate it, though, I continually tune in. It's like a small display of humanity with a large dose of greed and arrogance.

Today, for example, this dude came in with a scrap of paper signed by a certain George Washington (name ring a bell, anyone?). Originally, he had no idea what it was worth and wanted a small chunk of change for it. Once the appraiser guy shows up and tells him it could go between $10-15,000 at auction he suddenly won't take less than $11,000.

Why?! In an instant, it became precious and just not worth it to sell for $8,000. Really? I don't know about you, but if I had to choose between a piece of paper (we're talking the size of a check) and a few stacks of a certain green paper, I'd take the cash and run out the door.

Another guy was with a roofing company. The roof collapsed into a closed off room in this house and in the floorboards he found these really cool and very old handcuffs. Again - finds out their worth and suddenly can't part with them for anything less than an obscene amount.

Wait - let me get this right... you just admitted on national tv that you STOLE property from a house that your employer was paid to work on? Yeah, that's what I thought. But now it's your most treasured item?

Horsehockey!

You've gone from Bob the guy needing cash so bad he's hawking something he stole to Greedy McGreedyson that suddenly feels entitled to more money.

Damn I hate those people!

But I love the show.

And so the cycle continues.

What do you have a love-hate relationship with?

Calling Me "Picky" Doesn't Come Close

Just last night I was begging Elliot to try his pesto pasta before wrinkling up his nose and declaring it gross. I tried to negotiate. I pleaded. I threatened. He resisted.

Fred politely glanced at me and said, “You know we shouldn’t be surprised to have a picky eater. Maybe we should shove vegetables down your throat and see if you like them.”

Damn it. I hate when he's right.

You see, I have this strange disorder called Ihateveggiosis. It's been a life long battle and one that I will continue to fight until the day I'm nailed up in my coffin (or Fred pushes me over the side of a cruise ship)(or Elliot shoots me while pretending to be an army guy)(just sayin'). The symptoms are gagging, eye rolling and tongue sticking outtage at the mere hint of the word vegetable. Symptoms will increase when vegetables are in sight. Hospitalization may be required if one is ingested.

It is a strange and uncommon disorder - so much so that googling it will not give you any information. Believe me, I have tried. I've googled every form of it I can think of: I hate veggies, Veggies are gross, veggies taste bitter, why do I hate veggies, Why do I hate some of the prettiest looking foods on the planet? etc.

As long as I can remember I've never liked them. I'll eat corn, potatoes and beans (but only in the form of baked beans). The rest - gross. Bitter, gaggish and disgusting.

I wish I liked them. They're so bright and so fresh-looking and nothing but healthy for you. And cobb salads look amazing. But. I have tried them so many times in so many ways and nothing works. I literally cannot swallow them before they are gagged on and spit out.

I am a 32 year & 10 month old baby all rolled into one.

Oh, also?

I hate any meat that cannot serve as a form of livestock on Uncle Bill's farm. Deer is not livestock. Any kind of game is just that - gamey. And dips - yech. Sour cream, creme cheese (yes, includes cheesecake), ricotta cheese - all gross. Mayo is nasty. Anything with the word 'salad' is likely not going in my cakehole either. I don't eat fish and don't drink beer. I don't like Mexican or most Chinese foods either. Kiwi fruit is out as are tiny berries - raspberries, blueberries, blackberries. Rice Krispie bars, yogurt, cotton candy and circus peanuts too.

Everything else? I'll eat. Well, maybe.

Best. Spam. Ever.

Pro: Someone thinks I'm marriage material.

Con: The same someone thinks I'm a dude.

Check out this spam email I got the other day:

Hello honey!! I am for a good mature man.
As for myself, I am a pretty Ukrainian lady.
Are you fond of Ukrainian ladies??
We are not just pretty and clever, but very tolerant as well..
Ukrainian ladies? esteem family and tend to be with their beloved ones a great deal of right time..
It's right time to meet each other!
I'll be waiting for you on international marriage site. Bye dear!!

International Marriage Agency

She called me HONEY! *squeal*

PS: I deleted the link for your safety - but I'm inclined to think this is truly legit because their site address included the words sex, beer and lady in it.

Happy 4th Birthday, Elliot James

Depending on who is talking to him, a birthday wish could be made to Elliot, Elliot James, Little E, eL Train, Firefighter Elliot, Urlacher, Little Fred or even Que-ball.

Regardless, that guy is 4 today.

And, was officially so at 5:01pm. You see, my doc had tickets to the NU Basketball game that night so around 4:00pm he asked if I could just get things moving along so he wouldn't be late.

Well, I had nothing better to do, the epidural was wearing off and daytime tv was over - so hurry it up, I did.

First Battle of 2011: Anna Loses

I walked up to the paint counter and confidently handed the guy my two chips.

Me: One gallon of each, eggshell for the brown and semi-gloss for the gray. I am painting the gray over an obnoxious blue sponge painted wall - do I need a primer?

Guy: We have some paint that is paint and primer, want to do that?

Me: Yeah, that'd be great.

Guy: So, regular old Ultra then?

Me: Yep!

I continued to shop, mentally thanking Fred for his countless hours of Consumer Report research leading me to this particular store for this particular paint. Cruised back by the paint and picked up my cans.

At the checkout my total was obnoxiously high. I stared at her in disbelief and vaguely remember saying "what?" to her when she said the total as my mind completely clouded over with simple math of the items I bought. $60 I was prepared for and maybe even up to $70. But $90-something? Whaaaaat?

Turns out Ultra should never been in the same sentence as 'regular old' as this Ultra paint just cost me $34/gallon. I was expecting $20 and what should have been $40 in paint was now $68.

The cashier asked me if there was a problem and I muttered something about not knowing that he was selling me the expensive stuff (which, side note, Consumer Reports will tell you is not-a-lick better than the regular stuff) and that I didn't need the primer and paint for both and wow wow wow I didn't know it was going to cost that much.

Enter a manager. He happened to be right there so he came over to see what was going on and informed me that the paint was mine. I agreed to Ultra. I had him color the paint. It was custom and non-returnable. Nothing to be done.

So.

Not.

Fair.

I left the store with my overpriced paint.

Home Depot 1, Anna 0.

So What Now? I'll Tell You.

Once I get into this place – this dark, shadowy hole – it’s easy to burrow deeper but hard to dig out. A whisper, a sideways glance and even a simple shutting door can turn into self-determined personal attacks. At its worst, a pile of money could be within my grasp... and I just. don't. care.

Surprisingly easy to get in to but difficult to get out.

Somewhere inside me, no matter how deep it’s currently buried, I know there is peace, love, acceptance, happiness and any other hippy-dippy term you can think of. It’s what drives me to dig in, claw my way out of this hole and reclaim myself for myself.

And, believe me, I don’t do it alone. I don’t know that I could.

I have a fabulous therapist, an arsenal of meds and a strong base of family and friends that are close, completely aware and ready with open arms whenever I need them.

Recently, I hit the turning point. I know this because I wouldn't have been able to write yesterday's post on the downward spiral for the simple fact that there is no end in sight. So being able to look back and figure out where I'm at in all of this can only mean that I'm on my way back up.

I am digging and the outpouring of support from yesterday’s post will do nothing but help me along. I will get there. Only this time, when I get out, I will get to work. I want to get the old Anna back, dust her off and spruce her up.

2011: The Year of Re-Constructing Anna

I want to find that person that only stopped laughing when she couldn’t breathe and could always find the silver lining. I want that patient and understanding good friend back that listened until you were done talking. I want the stick in the mud to get unstuck and un-muddied and then I want to paint her a glossy red and turn her into the mom that Elliot deserves, the wife that Fred wants and needs and – most of all – the person she deserves to be.

I’m getting me back, yo, and she’s going to be awesome.

An Explanation of Absence

I was getting my ankle examined after a nasty fall in the spring of 2000 when the doctor looked at my friend and asked her a variety of questions. Questions that I was stunned to learn the answers to: is she irritable? is she negative? does she have low energy?

All of which she nodded yes to him about – and then vehemently (and lovingly) shook her head to me with a look saying “I’m telling him the truth, Anna, whether you like it or not.”

Bewildered, I listened as he expressed his concern that I was depressed. He told me what I was likely feeling and as soon as he started talking it all became so clear: ohmigawd what I feel is different and has a name and isn’t normal and is really, really, REAL.

I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t feel that way: muddled thoughts, low self-esteem if any at all and a general gray overcast on everything in my life.

It’s come and gone since then at various times but has been back with a vengeance for a while now. Looking back on my posts, I can see it plain as day that something was changing in me again – something sort of out of my control yet so very controlling. Something making me lose hope in the world and myself, making the simple act of getting out of bed a true chore. It makes me intolerant, snippy and cold. It makes me hate myself with a vengeance I can’t even explain – I do not deserve to be happy, I do not deserve to look or feel good about myself and I certainly don’t deserve the unconditional love that Fred and Elliot give me every day.

I am unhappy. I am frustrated. I am ... well, me.