One of my favorite things in the world is seeing a UPS or FedEx truck in front of my house. I am usually let down when the driver jumps out of the truck and crosses my neighbor’s yard, but sometimes – just sometimes – the package is headed here.

Today was one of those days.

I was handed a large box from the delivery-man and headed straight to my kitchen counter where I tore the box open and found this.

In case you don’t know what this is (*waves at southern Californians*) it is a therapy light for people with Seasonal Affective Disorder. When you live in Ohio with its thick clouds and oh-so-gray-winter-days, you get depressed. It’s that simple. Out of the 101 cities in the United States with the lowest average sunlight, 19 of them are in Ohio; 14 Ohio towns are in the top 55.

Therapy lights produce intense light which is shown to improve mood and a host of other SAD symptoms. And, I have been wanting one for years. Just ask my Zoloft.

So, today I got one. Except I didn’t order it and there is no note, receipt or packing slip. Nothing. I have no idea who bought it.

Of course, I thought there was a chance that I took my Ambien and ordered it in the middle of the night, because I have been known to find plates next to my bed which clearly contained nachos and don’t remember eating a bit of them. I have also been known to hallucinate so I knew there was a distinct possibility that in a stupor, I suddenly felt the need to order this lamp. But, according to Amazon I haven’t placed any orders in the last 30 days.

The only thing I can think of is that someone is either SUPER KIND and wanted to remain anonymous or is sick of me complaining on Twitter and/or Facebook about not having a happy light and just wanted me to shut up.

In which case, I’m going to start grumbling about needing a million dollars.

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People, please learn from my mistakes.

My husband recently tore a muscle in his leg at our daughter’s basketball practice for the second season in a row. He was showing off, dribbling the ball between his legs and then going up for a dunk, when he felt it tear. Or, he was barely moving. You pick the story that a 41 year old man would tell and run with it.

Because he was hurt and resting, I made the mistake of going to a personal training session by myself the other day. (Before any of my kind commentators say, “OH! She’s always SO broke, yet she goes to a personal trainer” that’s because we pre-paid for it last year before we landed in this financial ditch, thankyouverymuch. I don’t need to tell you that, but I will because that’s just the kind of gal I am.)

When you show up for a couple’s training session as a single you have to do a lot more work, because there is no down time and trainers are mean. Okay, not really. But kind of. On top of that, upon my arrival I tell him about the recent death of my cousin and make the ridiculous statement, “Now, let’s get to work on my cell inflammation!”

So, he puts me on this stair machine that I’m pretty sure is the staircase to hell, except it goes up, and he starts me at a pace that is reserved for people who walk steps for their job. Like professional step walkers. That’s all they do.

I immediately can’t breathe and he is talking to me AS IF I SHOULD REPLY and the only thing I can get out of my mouth is, “I can’t do this!”

His reply? “You ARE doing it.”

Technically, he’s correct. I’m climbing up, now at the forced-rate of two steps at a time, and simultaneously utilizing the side-rails and pulling myself; the entire time thinking I will go careening off the back of the machine, right into the wall.

And I’m breathing – HARD. I wouldn’t even call it breathing; it’s more like desperately trying to force the carbon dioxide from my body before I lose consciousness. All the while, my trainer is standing next to the machine right under my uncontrollably huffing face.

All I can think is, GOOD NIGHT MAN, move away from my breath! But, I don’t have enough air to actually say this to him, and I am sure it’s obvious that I ate Tofurky for lunch, but he stands his ground and I start to think, maybe he can handle it because he’s Scottish. The only other Scottish guy I know could drink pints until he’d vomit all over himself and then start drinking again.

Then I think about how I used to call my trainer the Australian, because I’m ignorant like that. I still don’t even know if he’s Scottish, but I think so because his accent sounds a lot like Shrek.

Then suddenly I was done. Well, after a lot more painful stuff and two more sets on the steps and legs so jelly-like that I seriously considered sliding down the railing to the first floor where I did even more painful stuff, I was done.

Thanks to my constantly-wandering mind and the determination to not have an ambulance called on me, I did it and it felt great.

But, next time I’m bringing my husband and mints.

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This morning, the young, English-Irish boy-band, One Direction was on the Today Show. This is why I sang, “What Makes You Beautiful” roughly 5,000 times today. Send help.

I’m not necessarily a big fan, but they have catchy tunes and I had the show on behind me as I worked. I couldn’t help but hear the screaming. Their demographic is decidedly high-pitched.

I don’t know why young girls make shrill sounds to prove their affection, but it’s certainly nothing new. I did the same thing for Rick Springfield, Jack Wagner, and later John Stamos; which says more about General Hospital’s casting than it does about music.

Girls scream, weep, and reach their arms out to the performer and, if touched, vow not to wash their hand forever. Have you ever seen me with soap on my left hand? That’s because I’ve been Jessie’s Girl since 1982.

Of course, the yelling isn’t just limited to the fans of male singers. I once took my daughter to a Hannah Montana concert (this was before anyone knew her as Miley) and after listening to 18,000 fans greet the band, my ears rang for days. I’m pretty sure Taylor Swift wears her hair long to hide her earplugs.

So, what say you? Is this a right-of-passage for all young girls or should we be telling our daughters that screaming and crying over someone you don’t know is kind of ridiculous – because it is, you know?

But, for the record, screaming on a roller coaster is TOTALLY legit.

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My son’s Cub Scout troop went around the neighborhood yesterday afternoon to drop off bags in which people can leave canned goods. Next weekend, the troop will collect the bags from the porches of those who wish to donate and the boys will deliver the items to those in need.

Of course, my 10 year old son proved that no good deed can go without some tomfoolery, because as the first neighbor opened the door, my son asked, “Trick or treat?”

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