Thursday, June 30, 2011

Ink.

Prepare yourself to see exorbitant amounts of my pasty and squishy white belly. And armpit.


Let's get started!
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You're an asshole for taking a close-up of my face right now.  I'm pretending I don't hate you.
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Outline is done.
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Smile at what?  This is when the crazy eyes started.
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Done with the black shading on the feathers.  I'm actually bleeding in this one, I think.  But, lucky you, you can't see it because I shrank the image down.
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Sometimes it tickles.  How fucked up is that?
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The brown for the leather strap looks like really weird blood.
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Turquoise beads are done now.
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I really hate this shot...  But you can see the colors better in it.  So I'm sucking it up in the name of art.
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The finished project.
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I'll try to remember to get a good shot of this once it's healed.  And a shot of my other tattoo. 


My friend asked me what it felt like.  It's pretty difficult to describe to someone who has never had a tattoo done.  It's kind of like hot needles dragging across your skin, somehow slowly and quickly at the same time.  And when you're ticklish and getting a tattoo on your side, it's especially painful and tricky.

I'm not sure if I made it through my tattoos as well as I did because I'm that awesome or because I just really didn't want to have to come back and get worked on in the same place again.

Also, my right side hurt more than my left, which was kind of weird.  But this piece was substantially bigger.

I'll elaborate on the concept in another post.  This one has so many pictures that it's bound to be crazy long now.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Flippety-Flop.

I have a lot of shoes. 

At last count there were 56 pairs.  I've bought several pairs since then, so I assume the count is closer to 65 now.  While that pales in comparison to Dog the Bounty Hunter's wife, I still feel it's quite a bit of shoes for one person to own.

No, I don't wear them all.

But I do, in all reality, wear at least 35 of them on a semi-regular basis. 

That being said, I need to get rid of a bunch of shoes before I move.  If anyone wants any of the pairs I decide I no longer need, you are welcome to them.  Otherwise I will donate them to Goodwill.

As I started going through my shoes yesterday, I realized something weird. 

I have, like, four flip-flops from Old Navy for which I cannot find mates.

I rarely lose socks to the Dryer Monster people so often complain about...  How did I lose an entire shoe?  It's not like they're hard to find or anything.  And I'm not the kind of girl who goes to a friend's house and regularly (or ever) returns wearing only one shoe.  (Seriously, who does that, anyway?)

So, I'm really curious, to say the least.

Where the fuck did the other shoes go?

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Sunday Funday.

I'm trying to get working on going through the shitload of stuff I have to sort out before I can pack and leave in six weeks. 

It's not going very well. 

Like, I should be folding the nearly literal mountain of clothes in front of my closet, but no.  Instead I'm here.  On my laptop.  Enjoying how the keys feel since I cut my nails last night.  And trying not to itch the seven billion mosquito bites on my feet.  Especially the right foot.

Mosquitoes are stupid and serve no purpose other than to irritate our skin with their saliva and transmit blood-borne diseases.

As stated on Twitter, I put some pink in my hair last night.  I'm probably going to be putting more in tonight or tomorrow, so I'll put pictures up after that (Patty).  Last night was more of a trial and I'm thinking I'll ask my mom to help my with round two.  She's good at dying and what not.  I am relatively retarded when it comes to hair.  I'm lucky my perm stayed in.

In case you can't tell, today is a better day and I am currently keyed-up on Coke. 

While I'm still all hyper and excited, I should sort through those clothes.

Yes.  That is what I'll do. 

I hope everyone is having a fabulous Sunday!

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Proof That I Will Never Be A Mechanic.

Last night was beautiful.  Perfect temperature.  I was minding my own business with my windows down, hoping to catch a breeze, while driving home somewhere near a quarter to one this morning.

I had just left my friend's house and I have to drive on a brief stretch of highway that is mostly bridge to get to the freeway in order to go to my house.  As soon as I got on this bridge/highway, my car started to make a weird noise.  Something like a scraping or ripping sound.

I will be the first to admit that I have no idea how cars work.  But I'm not too bad at figuring stuff out.  And I typically manage to keep calm in an emergency situation (unless there's vomit, but that's another story completely).  So I calmly made the decision that I was afraid to drive and needed to know what the sound was.

I pulled over onto the practically nonexistant shoulder on the bridge, put my emergency flashers on, and got out with my flashlight to assess the situation.

In a dress.

I'm just glad I wasn't wearing heels.

I know my front tires are getting a little worn, so I checked all around them first.  Nothing.  Back tires.  Nothing.  I tried to avoid the broken glass and got down on my knees to check underneath.  Nothing unusual.

What the fuck?

There's not even something caught in my door that could be making the noise.

Maybe I imagined it.  (I love that my brain always comes up with this answer.  Like I'm actually going to imagine a noise like that.  Silly brain.  Imaginations are for kids.)

I get back in my car and wait for any potential traffic to be clear of me, turn off my flashers and get back on the highway.

25 mp/h, no sound.  40 mp/h, sound.  Definitely did not make that up.

So I pulled over and put my flashers on again, called my brother (who was apparently already sleeping) a couple times, watched a cop car drive by, then gave up and got out with my flashlight again.  Still nothing that I could see.

I decided I couldn't just sit there on the side of a bridge forever.  I needed to be somewhere safe, or at least somewhere the drunk drivers would be less likely to plow into my unnmoving vehicle.

There aren't exactly a lot of options in that area of the highway, though.  And I can't drive over the massive island to backtrack to the exit I just left without a monster truck.  So I went the closest place I can think of.  I merged onto the freeway with my flashers still going and drive no more than 30 mp/h until I reach the first exit and pull into the first parking lot.

Which just happens to be Denny's.

Yay.  More drunk people.

Drunk stupid people.

I finally gave up and called my mom, who had to get out of bed in order to come get me.  I felt like a teenager again.  Probably because the first time I locked my keys in my car I was at that same Denny's.

I got out with my flashlight again and checked my engine to see if anything visible could be making the noise.  Like a mouse or a scarf or something.

This was when I realized once again the level of stupidity by which I am constantly surrounded.

I was standing at the front of the parking space, peering under the hood of my car with a flashlight.  A car started to pass my space, then backed up and just sat there.  Waiting.

I had to physically walk to their car and tell them I was not leaving before they would move on.

Stupid fucking hillbillies.  I wasn't even in my car!

Eventually my mom came and drove my car while I followed in hers.  It took 45 minutes to make what is usually a ten minute drive.

I realized that the sound was coming from the plastic protector bullshit that goes under my car.  It has been slowly trying to escape from my vehicle for the last two years.  Every time momentum would start to get built up, air would get caught under the plastic piece and it would start to jump up and down, scraping on the pavement on every "down."

My favorite part is that I can't just take the plastic off because there are a bunch of other interconnected pieces.  I have to put it back on and wait for it to fall off again.  Presumably in traffic because it's just a dick like that.

Now I'm afraid to drive my car anywhere because I don't want to have the same thing happen again.

This is just bullshit.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Definite Conclusion.

It's really fucking hot outside.

I don't even know how many times I've said that in the past few days. 

I have come to a conclusion based on this fact.  And the fact that I feel weird stalking my friend's parents' house after he goes home in a week.

I need a pool. 

I had forgotten how awesome it is to have one at my disposal. 

It's great for a variety of reasons.  Like, it's cool when it's really hot outside.  And when my friends are hanging out talking in the deep end and I want to face them and talk to them simultaneously, I will tread water for-fucking-ever.  Seriously.

It's like jogging.  But with more resistance.  And it's easier on your joints.  So, way better.

Yet I can do it for longer than jogging.  Explain that one.

What you should take away from this is that I need a pool.  Or a new friend with a pool that wants me to come hang out for like an hour every night.

Do you have a pool?

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Cutting the Strings.

I feel as if I've been writing a lot about my ex lately. 
I tried to look at recent blogs to see if I really have, but it looks like I've been writing more about anxiety than anything else.
Which makes sense because I've been pretty much bat-shit crazy for the last week. 
This is due in part to the fact that I saw him for the first time in months.  And the fact that I'm freaking out about school and moving.  Also, I just started bleeding.  Again. 
It seems like this happens every month.
I know; it's weird.
So, I was only freaking out on about fifty different levels while simultaneously (and unwittingly) experiencing the wonderful symptoms of being a woman.  Thanks, fucking Eve.
When I get really high anxiety, I tend to think about my ex more because he was always the one who could easily talk me down. 
I mean, sure, he called me fat and useless and a cunt...  But being able to calm me is kind of a gift.  No offense, Oosrael.  You do an amazing job.  It's just one of the things he was exceedingly good at.  And I will never understand why. 
That means that having the bouts of tremendous anxiety I've been having are even harder than they should be because I don't know how to get all the thoughts and memories out of my mind. 
I think it's actually really healthy for me to have had to deal with my mind this weekend mostly on my own.  I feel like I'm in a much better place right now, mentally, than I have been in weeks.  Maybe even months.
Don't get me wrong.  I'm completely freaked out about the major life changes I'm about to undergo.  And I still miss having a man-friends to hang out with.  But I’m getting used to not having that attention, too. 

In other news, I started a pretty good (but sort of predictable rom-com) book this weekend.  And took a 3.5 hour nap.  I haven’t done that in probably a decade.  Yesterday I even got to go swimming, which was pretty much amazing.  There were even a few shooting stars after dark. 
It’s too easy sometimes to forget how amazing my life (and the people in it) is (are).  Sometimes I forget to just be.
Maybe I’ll make a mid-year resolution to work on that. 

Probably not. 


P.S.  I’m finished talking about him.  I can’t imagine how sick you are of reading about him if I’m this sick of talking about him.  I’m going to push him away to a distant memory where he belongs and be done with it.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Daddy's Girl.


Yesterday, I finally got my dad to watch True Blood.  After over a year of telling him he should.

It was a lot easier than I really anticipated. 

All I had to do was turn it on. 

I read my book during a couple of the episodes, but it was nice to just sit there.  Not worry about anything.  Just be.


Because yesterday was Father’s Day and I got to relax and have a pleasant evening with my father last night, I feel compelled to mention that I have pretty much the best dad ever. 

Like, so good kids with poor male role models gravitate toward him.

It’s not that he’s without fault.  My dad is far from perfect.  But he is probably the best man I have ever known in my entire life.

My track record may make it seem as if the males I have known might be somewhat questionable in the awesome manliness department, but I have known some very decent men.  Friends’ dads, teachers, bosses, bus drivers; you know, the usual.  But not one of them can ever compare to my dad.

He taught me to wrestle—actually, he taught me it was okay to beat up the little boys in my elementary school, but, you  know, same difference.  He taught me to appreciate more in life by having a sick and twisted sense of humor.  He sang me to sleep when I was little.  Actually, he’d probably still try now.  He accepts that I swear to him (not at him) and cry for no reason. 

I can’t recall ever having seen him cry.  Not even when my grandfather passed away last year.  He’s a man.  Men don’t cry!  They drink tequila.  Sometimes.

My father will always be the standard by which I measure men I date.  I know no one will ever measure up, but maybe one day someone will get close.

With my luck, he would find me completely unattractive.  But maybe I can brainwash him into somehow finding me fascinating.

Unlikely, I know.  But I can fantasize all I want.

He is the perfect king in every little girls’ princess fantasy. 

Sometimes I am lucky enough to feel like I deserved to be his little princess.  

Every day I am blessed to be his daughter.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

I'm Okay. No, Really.

Today is better.  

No, really.  It is.

Well, kinda.  I've managed to tuck away most of my feelings again.  (Don't tell me that's bad for me because I can't function any other way.)  It's just how I operate.  I keep everything nice and put away until something triggers an explosion of emotion.  Then I freak out for a while.  Then I'm fine again.

Actually, I think most everyone in my family is like that.

It may not be healthy, but it's just how we are.

I'm just scared because I can't have my typical level of control over a situation.  I like to have some semblance of control over everything.  Right now I have control over nothing.

I think it wouldn't be so hard if I was still speaking to the person who used to talk me down from emotional and anxiety-ridden mountaintop.

It's funny how you don't realize you actually miss someone until you remember the things they did for you that no one else can do in quite the same way.  Even if it wasn't worth the pain they caused you.  It's still hard.  And forgiveness takes so much longer than I thought it would.

It's funny how ultimate forgiveness seems to hurt as much as leaving in the first place.


On a happier note, I am going to see The Green Lantern tonight.

I love comic book movies, but this is one of the few for which I really don't care about plot or dialog.

Why, you may ask?

Well, dear reader, that is because I will be watching nearly three hours of Ryan Reynolds floating around in a green CGI suit.

I'm going to need popcorn and candy just to give my mouth something to do other than drool.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Anxiety 1 (billion), Bunny 0

I feel as if I'm caught in a maelstrom of anxiety.

I can't escape it.  No matter what I do; it's unshakable.

I'm stuck in the fucking anxiety Titanic.  And I think I just hit the iceberg.

I'm saying that based on the fact that I'm hiding on my bed typing and drinking a vodka lemonade with six months worth of accumulated shit (figurative) dumped out of my purse in front of me.  Instead of dealing with the cat shit (literal) that's currently waiting for me in the garage that I had intended to focus on.

Yesterday everything I ate tasted like crap.  Today everything I have eaten has also tasted weird.  The difference is that today I don't even feel like eating.

Crying, yes.

Concentrating in order to keep myself breathing at regular intervals, yes.

Eating?  Not so much.  No.



I've spent half of my life thus far going around trying to help fix other people.  But I don't know how to fix myself.

There are very few people who know me well enough to know how to fix me.  And none of them are anywhere near me (physically, spiritually, geographically, whatever).  I guess I'm lucky that only one of them is gone from my life completely.

I don't know if I can take two more months of this.

What if it never goes away?  What if the things I think may be causing it are really not what's at the heart of the situation?  What do I do then?

And why do I keep feeling so emotionally starved?


I am so tired of being crazy.


P.S. I have a story for you.  But it's a funny story for a funny day.  Obviously that day is not today.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

I Think All My Mirrors Are Broken.

I spent far too much of my day yesterday scrutinizing my body.  Looking to see if I had muffin top over my shorts, or if you could even see it through my loose-fitting tank top.  Pinching my belly fat while sitting at my desk.

Maybe if I pinch it enough it will go away.

Probably not. 

I’ve also been trying really hard lately to stand/sit up straight.  My posture is kind of atrocious.  I’m tall (ish) and a lot of my friends are not.  I’ve reached a point where I feel weird when I’m around people who are my height or taller.  Mainly women.  I don’t really have a problem being surrounded by tall, handsome men.  But what woman doesn’t?

Also, boobs are heavy.  I’m lazy and I get tired of trying to hold them up.

But I need to correct my posture before I get stuck looking like Quasimodo forever.  I need to be able to look confident and professional when I sing.  And I need to look classy instead of weird when I wear heels.  The fact that standing up straight makes me pull my stomach in instead of push it out could be helpful, too.


I had an hour till kill between the time I got off work and the time I was supposed to go to my voice lesson (that had been rescheduled from Saturday because I was too busy staying awake till four in the morning to get up at ten… Except I got up at ten anyway because I had to call to cancel the lesson and it was too beautiful outside to go back to sleep), so I went into town to copy some music I was supposed to give back to my teacher three months ago. 

I had planned to go home and make dinner after and it’s annoying to try to sing properly when I’ve just eaten.  

Plus, my only food options were Subway, McDonald’s, and sweets from Starbucks.  So, I just decided to wander around in Barnes and Noble for about a half an hour and try to find a new book today. 

I didn’t.  I ran out of time.

I think it was because I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for and it’s been a long time since I just browsed in there. 

I forgot how much it is like my own personal promised land.

I’m getting off topic.

I know.  It’s what I’m good at.

Anyway, so I was walking from my car down the sidewalk to Barnes and Noble.  I was wearing these canvas wedges that I’ve had since I worked at Payless, so over two years, with Bermuda shorts and a long kind of loose fitting/flowy tank-top.  And my Ray-Bans.  The best sunglasses ever; a birthday present from my dad.

There was a group of teenagers sitting between the trash can and the door.  I was trying my best to keep my good posture and not step on any of them.  I thought I was in the clear when the 12 year-old (looking) girl on the edge started talking to me.  Loudly, to get my attention.

     “Are you a model?”

     I stopped and looked at her.

     “No.”  I said as flatly as I possibly could.  I don’t trust 12 year-olds.

     “Oh.”  She said, then turned back to her friends as I turned and walked into the store.

I spent the next two hours analyzing if she was being sincere or a bitch.  I assume all 12 year-olds are bitches.
 
With good reason.  I was 12, once, after all.

The thing is that they’re really easy to see through.  She didn’t have an attitude when she said it, which is pretty much how preteens operate.  They think they’re getting away with sarcasm, but they’re really just being little bitches.

I couldn’t find any indications of insincerity, so I’m currently forced to believe she was actually being sincere.   Which leads me to wonder why she chose to ask me the question. 

Maybe she asked every person who walked in front of her and I just happened to be the only one passing while I was within earshot? 

Maybe it was the fact that I can actually walk in the shoes I wear?  Admittedly, some are better than others.   But three-inch wedges aren’t exactly that difficult to walk in anyway. 

Was she sitting at such an angle that she couldn’t see my stomach?  Did she think I was wearing the biggest padded bra ever? 

I bet it was the sunglasses.  Could have been the sunglasses and the shoes. 

Maybe I just need the Magic Mirror from Snow White.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Jealous Much?

I wish I could do this to my hair.

Sunscreen is for Chumps (And Those Who Don't Want Cancer).


Apparently I drive a lot.

I am basing this statement solely on my driver’s tan.

It’s fucking awesome.

My skin is naturally very light.  If I’m in the sun quite a bit, though, it has the potential to become a pretty nice golden brown.  This is one of those things I blame on my Native American genes.  And not a negative blame, like "you ate the cookie I was saving for later."   More like, "you baked a three dozen cookies while I was at work" blame.

I have one arm that’s in the sun twenty or more minutes a day and the other just hangs out over in the shade.  Being all albino and shit.

There’s only been sun for a week and I’m already nearing the point in the summer where I put sunscreen on my left arm and nowhere else.

Tonight I’m sitting outside with my left arm in the shade while waiting for my right one to burn.

I’m just sadistic like that.  And when you’re white like I am, sunburns are so commonplace they don’t seem that bad.  Until you get cancer.


In other news, my shorts from last year don’t fit.  And not in a good way.

I’m debating whether to cut down more of what I eat, or exercise a lot longer.  I feel like I’m fighting against a wall.  And the wall is kind of a stodgy dick.

It’s not that I’m trying to get super skinny, mind you.  I’m just not built for that.  And I think skinny girls seem as if they’d be uncomfortable to have sex with; I’d like to at least be moderately comfortable (in bed).  Or at least to cuddle with.  (Example of weird shit I think about on a fairly regular basis.) 

I just really want my clothes to fit.  Since I not only refuse to purchase new clothes, but also will not have shopping funds, like, ever again.  It does not behoove me at this point to gain or lose a lot of weight. 

I want one of those office setups where you can walk on the treadmill pretty much all day while working.  The only way it could get better is if I could combine showering, working, and walking.  I would mention dessert, but that seems a little counterproductive at this point. 

Monday, June 13, 2011

The Inevitable.


Firstly, I have amazing friends. 
 
They fill my life with love and laughter (and lots of “that’s what she said” jokes).  They remind me how awesome my life is, can, and will be.  They take me to brunch when I am poor.  They give me extra hugs when it’s obvious I need them.  And they accept the fact that I will order a second Strawberry Lemonado from Applebee’s after seeing my ex, then sing all the words to “Fuck You” very loudly in the car on the way back to their house.  

Secondly, I cannot wait to get out of this town.  I am so incredibly tired of running into ghosts and living with demons.  

I am tired of feeling inexplicably guilty for going to fucking Target.  I am tired of feeling like I shouldn’t be seen in any bar ever.  

I am tired of avoiding streets and stores.  I am tired of semi-hiding.  

I guess that, really, the worst is over.  I doubt I’ll even stumble across him again before I leave.  

That means the last time I’ll see him in my life, he’ll have had a Mohawk.  

I wonder if he’s even working anymore.


I went to a dance show to see two of the sisters in what I consider my extended family Saturday night.  

The show was great.  

That was where I saw him.  For the first time in months.  

Typically I’m pretty good at avoiding places I think he might be just because I think we have nothing left to say to each other…  And I really believe we are both sick and tired of fighting with each other.  That’s all our conversations ever turned into anyway.

The memories are really the hardest part that’s left.

The idea of someone that looks at me like I’m the most amazing thing on the planet.  Someone who I am attracted to that is completely attracted to me. 

Someone who, despite those things, in no way deserved me.

Once I realized his daughter was in the show, I hoped I’d somehow luck out and they’d sit in a completely different area or go to the matinee.  Only one of those hopes was realistic, I knew that.  

Goober was adorable.  It’s insane how much she looks like him.  The whole time she was dancing she had the same expression on her face that he used to have while on his bike.  

I briefly considered saying hello (after the initial panic attack had worn off).  But I know it’s better this way.  With no contact.  No acknowledgement of each other’s presence.  

I'm starting to wonder if it ever becomes not-awkward to run into an ex (who is not currently your friend).  Even someone you know you don't want to be with. 


My quasi-sisters were fantastic.  And gorgeous, as usual.  I’m really glad I got to see them dance; I never have before.  

Actually, I never tried to be involved in “family” activities as much as I have in the last few months.  I think that’s one of the best changes I’ve made this year.  


I initially intended this post to be a semi-funny story about getting kinda drunk at Applebee’s after the show.  But then I made the mistake of listening to this song.  I’m a sucker for Blue October.  Stupid Facebook feed.  That, coupled with my lack of sleep last night, has made me seriously contemplative.  

Suck. 

Friday, June 10, 2011

The Pill.

Did you know that women are attracted to different kinds of men while on birth control than while not?  So, if a woman stops taking the pill while dating someone they met on the pill, the woman may not be attracted to that person anymore.  

True story. 

As if I needed more incentive not to take this little daily circular millimeter of drama inducement anyway. 


Also, it's making me gain weight in a very obvious way now AND it's making my boobs bigger.  Which is completely unnecessary.  


I quit.



**Edit**


I just found this article about a male birth control injection.


Yes, please.


Because it's 100% effective, and I don't have to remember to take it. 

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

So, You Thought You Had Some Weird Habits?

I hate it when people try to predict what I’m going to do or say.  I don’t like the feeling of being trapped in that box of predictability.

I don’t like the feeling of being trapped.

I hate it when people try to tell me what to do even more.  If you try to tell me to do something, there’s a 50/50 shot I will choose to do the exact opposite thing just to piss you off.  If I am asked to do something (kind of politely), I totally don’t mind. 

I also forget what someone may have asked me to do almost constantly.  In these cases it’s not that I don’t want or care to do it, it’s that I was already thinking about what I’m going to do after what I was just asked to do.

I listen to the music you and your friends do.  But I also listen to the same music as your parents.  And sometimes, the same music as your grandparents.

Actually, I might sing the music your grandparents like.

I can’t focus easily on things unless I find them fascinating or important to me. 

A conversation between you and me?  Totally important to me.  My Biology lecture?  Kind of important, but I still fell asleep every time.  My Biology reading homework?  I bet the dog would really like to go for a walk right now.  Maybe I should take him.  Then I’ll make seven batches of cookies.  I guess I don’t have time to finish reading this before I go to bed…

The only way I can get through doing homework that I can’t concentrate on is to listen to music.  Not “modern” music, because I’ll sing along.  Not opera, because I’ll sing along.  Not Mozart, because it’s fucking predictable and even though there are no words, it’s just violins, I’ll sing along.

To do homework, I have to listen to “The Rite of Spring” by Igor Stravinsky.

You know this.  It’s the dinosaur thing from Fantasia.  NOT Fantasia 2000.  The original.  From the 1930’s.

Now you know why I get along so well with the elderly.  I am one of them.

I don’t like to mix my foods prior to putting them in my mouth.  This is probably the chief reason I don’t like gravy (other than maybe just a taste).  Dipping sauces are okay.  Stirring the cheese from the top of the refried beans into the beans at a Mexican restaurant?  NOT OKAY.  Unless they are solely yours and you don't have to share.

Mixing happens during food preparation or after the food has left the plate.  For instance, I love macaroni and cheese with peas.  Seriously.  It’s amazing.  But the peas either get mixed in the pot with the mac and cheese or I put a forkful of peas in my mouth with a forkful of pasta.  There is no mixing on the plate. 

I haven’t run a mile since I was probably ten.  I used to love running.  I’d do it all the time.  Now, running a mile again is my exercise goal.

I sweat like a whore in church when it’s hot outside (since the sun is shining, I think NorCal is finally gearing up for its regular 1 billion degree summer).  This doesn’t work out well for me because I also prefer opening the windows in my car to running the air conditioner. 

As a result of this unfortunate side effect of my random German genetics (why could I not get all the Cherokee genes?  Seriously.  I’m just stuck with the straight hair and high cheek bones while my brother gets to have the brown hairless skin that only sweats when he’s outside, doing something manly*), I hate sweating. 

I’m learning to be okay with it.  But only in very specific situations.  And only if I get to take a shower afterward.

I have a love/hate relationship with spicy food.  I love it.  And it hates me.  More specifically, spicy food hates my tummy.  Jalapenos, which used to be one of my favorite foods on the planet, are murder on my gut.  Sometimes I still eat them.  Those are the nights I have to sleep sitting up and gripping a bottle of Tums. 

It’s only worth it while I’m actually consuming them.

I’ve wanted to write a book practically since I could read.  I just have a really hard time sticking with a project that long.  Even big crochet projects I wander away from for a few months.  Then it takes me a little while to figure out where I left off.  And what hook I was using, since (obviously) I needed the hook I had been using for something else during my break from the project.

I also really like green grapes and sharp cheddar cheese.  Together. 


This doesn’t even come close to being a list of all my strange little habits.  This is more like a spoonful of them.

But I did realize one thing while writing this.

I am so eccentric, I have to be rich by the time I get old.  Or I’ll be the crazy 75 year-old woman walking her cats through the McDonald’s drive-through in a stroller to get them a filet-o-fish.


*My brother felt the need to point out that he sweats when he's not doing manly things, too.