so here is a slightly perplexed looking screenshot of me wearing panda-print footy pajamas from earlier today.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
98 degrees
As if the heat wasn't an indicator, today the people in my neighborhood proved that summer has finally arrived. I never realized how annoying a season can be until I got my driver's license.
Nothing tests my patience like driving through a neighborhood in the summer. Between the children running amok in the street, the joggers, the roller-bladers, the bicyclists, the women walking with strollers, the kids on mopeds, the skate-boarders, et cetera, et cetera... it is a wonder I haven't hit anyone. Because of all of these potential victims, you have to drive sooooo sloooooowly. But no matter how slowly you're going, you will still get screamed at by parents who act like you jumped the curb and drove onto their lawn going 60mph, intent on running over their child. It doesn't matter if your car is basically crawling, overprotective parents will freak out.
Ugh. I just can't even.
It must be the heat that makes the (nonexistent) speed so frustrating. Throughout the next couple of months, I'll basically be reduced to an angry puddle of sweat on a daily basis. It happens every year, but I'll try not to let it affect my blog too much... cheerfulness might be a stretch, but I'm aiming for general whimsy. We'll see. :P
Nothing tests my patience like driving through a neighborhood in the summer. Between the children running amok in the street, the joggers, the roller-bladers, the bicyclists, the women walking with strollers, the kids on mopeds, the skate-boarders, et cetera, et cetera... it is a wonder I haven't hit anyone. Because of all of these potential victims, you have to drive sooooo sloooooowly. But no matter how slowly you're going, you will still get screamed at by parents who act like you jumped the curb and drove onto their lawn going 60mph, intent on running over their child. It doesn't matter if your car is basically crawling, overprotective parents will freak out.
Ugh. I just can't even.
It must be the heat that makes the (nonexistent) speed so frustrating. Throughout the next couple of months, I'll basically be reduced to an angry puddle of sweat on a daily basis. It happens every year, but I'll try not to let it affect my blog too much... cheerfulness might be a stretch, but I'm aiming for general whimsy. We'll see. :P
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Cool story, bro.
Last night, I neglected the pact that I made with myself... I didn't post on here. I don't feel all that badly about it though, considering my power was out, making blogging a virtual impossibility.
This is as good of a time as any to show you the true extent of my paranoia, a phenomenon brought on primarily by an overactive imagination and watching far too many crime shows on television.
I was innocently watching 500 Days of Summer in my bedroom, mentally preparing myself to write the most insightful blog post in human history, when suddenly I was enveloped in darkness. It took a second for me to comprehend that my power had actually gone out and that I was not, in fact, abruptly afflicted by blindness. After the initial shock passed, the fear began to creep over me. For some unknown reason, I held my breath for a full minute, hoping that the electricity would immediately turn back on (I still have no idea why I thought breathing would impact this). When it didn't, I flat-out panicked.
Here is my honest-to-god logic: it isn't raining, so a murderer must have cut my power.
To avoid being murdered for as long as possible, I began using the light from my laptop to try and find my cell phone. I was attempting to silently text my mother without alerting the criminal to the fact that I was on to him/her/it, but there was only one problem... I couldn't find my phone. Clearly, the murderer had somehow managed to steal it to keep me from calling the po-po.
And that's when I lost my cool. I made my way slowly out into the hallway, keeping my eyes peeled for any suspicious movement. "Mom?" I called into her open bedroom door.
"Yeah?" She replied groggily, her voice already lacking patience. We are not a family that enjoys being woken up for anything short of an emergency (which clearly, this was).
"Are you aware that the power is out?" I asked calmly, trying not to let anxiety to creep into my voice in case the murderer was listening.
"Oh. That's weird," my mom responded, clearly not impressed by the urgency of the situation. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Protect me from the serial killer that is obviously outside?" I was growing exasperated with playing it cool at this point.
That got her attention. "What? Honey, it's probably our entire area. Have you looked to see if anyone else has power?" Mom asked sensibly, sounding much more alert in response to my obvious concern.
"Hardly! I'm not going out there. That's where the murderer is lurking."
This conversation could only go on for so long before my mom was forced to get out of bed and figure out what was actually happening. As it turned out, my entire town had lost its power. I still have no idea why, but the good news is, I'm still alive. Hooray!
This is as good of a time as any to show you the true extent of my paranoia, a phenomenon brought on primarily by an overactive imagination and watching far too many crime shows on television.
I was innocently watching 500 Days of Summer in my bedroom, mentally preparing myself to write the most insightful blog post in human history, when suddenly I was enveloped in darkness. It took a second for me to comprehend that my power had actually gone out and that I was not, in fact, abruptly afflicted by blindness. After the initial shock passed, the fear began to creep over me. For some unknown reason, I held my breath for a full minute, hoping that the electricity would immediately turn back on (I still have no idea why I thought breathing would impact this). When it didn't, I flat-out panicked.
Here is my honest-to-god logic: it isn't raining, so a murderer must have cut my power.
To avoid being murdered for as long as possible, I began using the light from my laptop to try and find my cell phone. I was attempting to silently text my mother without alerting the criminal to the fact that I was on to him/her/it, but there was only one problem... I couldn't find my phone. Clearly, the murderer had somehow managed to steal it to keep me from calling the po-po.
And that's when I lost my cool. I made my way slowly out into the hallway, keeping my eyes peeled for any suspicious movement. "Mom?" I called into her open bedroom door.
"Yeah?" She replied groggily, her voice already lacking patience. We are not a family that enjoys being woken up for anything short of an emergency (which clearly, this was).
"Are you aware that the power is out?" I asked calmly, trying not to let anxiety to creep into my voice in case the murderer was listening.
"Oh. That's weird," my mom responded, clearly not impressed by the urgency of the situation. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Protect me from the serial killer that is obviously outside?" I was growing exasperated with playing it cool at this point.
That got her attention. "What? Honey, it's probably our entire area. Have you looked to see if anyone else has power?" Mom asked sensibly, sounding much more alert in response to my obvious concern.
"Hardly! I'm not going out there. That's where the murderer is lurking."
This conversation could only go on for so long before my mom was forced to get out of bed and figure out what was actually happening. As it turned out, my entire town had lost its power. I still have no idea why, but the good news is, I'm still alive. Hooray!
Friday, May 27, 2011
Dat ass.
"Hey, did you see that girl's ass? I saw that girl's ass! Did you see it?"
Honestly, it is a bit of a relief to report that no, this was not the first time that a human of the male variety checked me out. Though I would feel a little awkward if I was blatantly ogled by every guy I passed, it is nice to be occasionally noticed. However, this announcement was a little extreme.
My friend and I were walking along the sidewalk at our local outdoor mall, barely noticing as a pack of boys (whose age I estimated to be roughly junior-high) strolled past us. They did not capture my attention until one of them began yelling at the top of his lungs, "Did you see DAT ASS?"
Um.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I was offended. Despite my rather unflattering jeans, my ass is quite lovely, thank you very much. I was more just blindsided by this approach. What was the intended effect? Did this kid hope that I would turn around and respond, "You noticed my ass? Wonderful! Please, I must have you right here on the sidewalk!" Maybe if he was a little older and more attractive... or, you know, maybe not.
That kid is going to get bitch-slapped at least once in his life if he ever says that to a girl who is easily offended. Fortunately for him, I just laughed as I asked my friend, "Did that seriously just come out of his mouth? And was he talking about me? Because these are hardly even my good jeans."
Honestly, it is a bit of a relief to report that no, this was not the first time that a human of the male variety checked me out. Though I would feel a little awkward if I was blatantly ogled by every guy I passed, it is nice to be occasionally noticed. However, this announcement was a little extreme.
My friend and I were walking along the sidewalk at our local outdoor mall, barely noticing as a pack of boys (whose age I estimated to be roughly junior-high) strolled past us. They did not capture my attention until one of them began yelling at the top of his lungs, "Did you see DAT ASS?"
Um.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I was offended. Despite my rather unflattering jeans, my ass is quite lovely, thank you very much. I was more just blindsided by this approach. What was the intended effect? Did this kid hope that I would turn around and respond, "You noticed my ass? Wonderful! Please, I must have you right here on the sidewalk!" Maybe if he was a little older and more attractive... or, you know, maybe not.
That kid is going to get bitch-slapped at least once in his life if he ever says that to a girl who is easily offended. Fortunately for him, I just laughed as I asked my friend, "Did that seriously just come out of his mouth? And was he talking about me? Because these are hardly even my good jeans."
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Sequel
Tonight, my friend and I went to the latest available showing for Hangover: Part II. The theater was sold out, the aisles crammed pack with adults craving a couple hours of raunchy humor. But at least for me, as soon as the trailers began playing, the confusion set in.
It was a preview for The Smurfs, followed by Mr. Popper's Penguins, Judy Moody, et cetera, et cetera. I kept shooting my friend befuddled glances, whispering "What the fuck?" after every single one. I could not comprehend why advertisers would possibly think that trailers for children's movies were appropriate before Hangover. And then... Kung Fu Panda began to play.
There was an instant uproar. People were shrieking about refunds, and one man attempted to lead a revolt by suggesting that everyone turn on their cell phones in protest. As this rebellion started, my friend rushed out into the lobby to alert an usher or someone to the problem at hand. Everyone else continued to bitch at the top of their lungs, yelling, "Why the fuck would a showing to Kung Fu Panda sell out at 10:00 at night?" No one could answer this question, but after about twenty minutes, the trailers for the correct film began to roll.
After all this drama, we walked out of the theater about forty-five minutes after the movie was technically supposed to end. I could still hear people griping about it as I walked out to my car, but seeing as the wind was blowing my skirt up around my waist, I was pretty glad that everyone seemed too distracted to notice.
As for the actual film, it was better than I expected. The original was so shockingly hilarious and unpredictable that there was no way the sequel could match it without over-doing it, but I appreciated the effort. Though it was obviously only made as attempt to financially prosper further from the first one's popularity, I don't feel like I wasted my money. I was positively rolling throughout, though one aspect to the end (no spoilers) still makes me shake my head in frustration. IT MADE NO SENSE. It's so hard for me to keep from spoiling you right now, but I'll refrain. Urghh.
Oh, and I feel the need to mention: Bradley. Fucking. Cooper. Yummmmm.
It was a preview for The Smurfs, followed by Mr. Popper's Penguins, Judy Moody, et cetera, et cetera. I kept shooting my friend befuddled glances, whispering "What the fuck?" after every single one. I could not comprehend why advertisers would possibly think that trailers for children's movies were appropriate before Hangover. And then... Kung Fu Panda began to play.
There was an instant uproar. People were shrieking about refunds, and one man attempted to lead a revolt by suggesting that everyone turn on their cell phones in protest. As this rebellion started, my friend rushed out into the lobby to alert an usher or someone to the problem at hand. Everyone else continued to bitch at the top of their lungs, yelling, "Why the fuck would a showing to Kung Fu Panda sell out at 10:00 at night?" No one could answer this question, but after about twenty minutes, the trailers for the correct film began to roll.
After all this drama, we walked out of the theater about forty-five minutes after the movie was technically supposed to end. I could still hear people griping about it as I walked out to my car, but seeing as the wind was blowing my skirt up around my waist, I was pretty glad that everyone seemed too distracted to notice.
As for the actual film, it was better than I expected. The original was so shockingly hilarious and unpredictable that there was no way the sequel could match it without over-doing it, but I appreciated the effort. Though it was obviously only made as attempt to financially prosper further from the first one's popularity, I don't feel like I wasted my money. I was positively rolling throughout, though one aspect to the end (no spoilers) still makes me shake my head in frustration. IT MADE NO SENSE. It's so hard for me to keep from spoiling you right now, but I'll refrain. Urghh.
Oh, and I feel the need to mention: Bradley. Fucking. Cooper. Yummmmm.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
House hunting
My dad and his girlfriend recently put their house up for sale, and today I tagged along as they went house-hunting. My family has moved about fifteen times since I was born, so this was definitely not a new experience for me. That said, this time the entire process felt... strange.
When opening your house to potential buyers, your life is essentially on display. People open every cupboard, every door, trying to imagine their own belongings in place of yours. They judge your taste in decoration, discussing how they can "fix" the choices you have made. All of the things that make a house your home are viewed in new terms, such as "a good usage of space".
I find this so unsettling. I don't like looking around at the components of someone's life and imagining my own possible future there. To be honest, I can't even explain why. This feeling goes completely at odds with the other half of my brain, which loves the possibilities of looking around a home and envisioning what my life would be like if I were to move there.
I'm probably only overanalyzing the entire process because I already felt weird about it. This is the first time that I have looked at a house with my parents, knowing that I would not be living there with them. By the time they get settled in their new house, I will be living on my own, either in an apartment or a dorm room. What would have been my potential bedroom is now a potential guest room. This was one of the first situations that has really provoked the realization that I won't live with my parents forever. Weird.
Meh, I felt like rambling today. Sorry about that.
When opening your house to potential buyers, your life is essentially on display. People open every cupboard, every door, trying to imagine their own belongings in place of yours. They judge your taste in decoration, discussing how they can "fix" the choices you have made. All of the things that make a house your home are viewed in new terms, such as "a good usage of space".
I find this so unsettling. I don't like looking around at the components of someone's life and imagining my own possible future there. To be honest, I can't even explain why. This feeling goes completely at odds with the other half of my brain, which loves the possibilities of looking around a home and envisioning what my life would be like if I were to move there.
I'm probably only overanalyzing the entire process because I already felt weird about it. This is the first time that I have looked at a house with my parents, knowing that I would not be living there with them. By the time they get settled in their new house, I will be living on my own, either in an apartment or a dorm room. What would have been my potential bedroom is now a potential guest room. This was one of the first situations that has really provoked the realization that I won't live with my parents forever. Weird.
Meh, I felt like rambling today. Sorry about that.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
A brain freeze on steroids
For the past couple of days, it has felt like there has been an active construction site going on in my head. Every time I open my eyes, it feels like my brain swells to about three times its size, threatening to burst open my skull.
Migraines have been a constant struggle in my life since elementary school. They are often so painful that I physically cannot seem to get out of bed and even attempt going about my daily routine. Instead I lay with my face buried in my pillow, hoping sleep will provide an escape from the pain.
Not today, my friends. Though it seemed like my brain was throbbing to the beat of my heart as soon as I opened my eyes, I stumbled out of the safe haven that is my bed and went to work. Sure, my hair was the same frizzy mess it had been when I awoke, and I may have been wearing my pajamas. Still. It was a victory, and I will celebrate it as such.
Katey - 1, Migraines - 5,000,000
Okay, so it was only one battle in the war against my ailment. Whatever. I'm proud of myself for rising above it, despite the fact that I spent the entire day contemplating plucking out my eyes to release the pressure.
Migraines have been a constant struggle in my life since elementary school. They are often so painful that I physically cannot seem to get out of bed and even attempt going about my daily routine. Instead I lay with my face buried in my pillow, hoping sleep will provide an escape from the pain.
Not today, my friends. Though it seemed like my brain was throbbing to the beat of my heart as soon as I opened my eyes, I stumbled out of the safe haven that is my bed and went to work. Sure, my hair was the same frizzy mess it had been when I awoke, and I may have been wearing my pajamas. Still. It was a victory, and I will celebrate it as such.
Katey - 1, Migraines - 5,000,000
Okay, so it was only one battle in the war against my ailment. Whatever. I'm proud of myself for rising above it, despite the fact that I spent the entire day contemplating plucking out my eyes to release the pressure.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Can I get yo digits?
There are effective methods of giving a guy your phone number. I'll go out on a limb here and say that the best way is to wait until he actually, you know... asks for it. However, patience has never been my strong suit.
Filling the void where patience should be, I have always possessed an abundance of craziness and awkwardness. The discomfort of people around me tends to be a direct result of the combination of these traits. With this in mind, today I'm going to tell you two stories that demonstrate how not to give out your phone number.
Numero Uno
In the autumn of my sophomore year of high school, I was an obnoxious not-quite-sixteen-year-old. I implore you to keep that maturity level in mind as I relay to you my actions on that fateful afternoon.
Every October, the Indianapolis Zoo decorates for Halloween and puts on themed festivities. While riding the train that takes visitors around the park, volunteers will perform skits at each stop. My best friend (Mallory) and I were able to ride the train a limitless amount of times for free, one of the many perks of being a zoo intern. This was the only time that we ever exercised that right in excess, all to gawk at a particularly attractive volunteer.
The first time that we rode the train, we simply had a little time to waste. The skits were all ridiculously cheesy, but our laughter and mocking commentary kept us plenty entertained. And then... we saw him. The clouds parted and light shined down on a man so sexy, he could only be a Greek god. Or maybe he was just "the Prince" in a cheesy skit based on The Little Mermaid. Whatever. Either way, when we reached the end of the tracks, Mallory and I decided we still had "soooo much time to kill" that we might as well ride it again.
The second time that we rode the train, I shamefully admit that we may or may not have made inappropriate catcalls along the lines of "Ow OW!" There may have also been some whistling involved.
The third time that we rode the train is the reason why this story is relevant. Mallory scrounged up a piece of paper and a pen, and we wrote each of our phone numbers under the labels "Blonde" and "Brown", giggling all the while. We then proceeded to fold it up and chuck it at this poor guy as we passed. It was only after the fact that I realized: we had not even supplied our area codes.
Numero Dos
Nowadays, Mal and I frequent Steak 'N Shake, as it is the only establishment open late at night in my town. About two weeks ago, we ended up chatting with our extremely cute waiter. It was his first day, and he sheepishly admitted that we were only like his tenth table.
Last night, we were back in our usual booth. We were seated in a different waiter's area, but Mallory kept catching his eye and smiling. When she had cleared her plate, she wrote her number on it in ketchup, labelled "For *****". We witnessed him laughing and attempting to copy it on a piece of paper as we left, but the numbers were nearly impossible to decipher.
So. Here's my advice:
a) If you decide to throw your phone number at someone from a moving train, it might be best if you include all of the digits. You should also probably avoid referring to yourself as the incorrect terminology for your hair color.
b) When writing with condiments, it's best to allow yourself enough space to actually be legible.
c) If you prefer not to make an ass out of yourself, avoid doing these things. They never turn out well.
Filling the void where patience should be, I have always possessed an abundance of craziness and awkwardness. The discomfort of people around me tends to be a direct result of the combination of these traits. With this in mind, today I'm going to tell you two stories that demonstrate how not to give out your phone number.
Numero Uno
In the autumn of my sophomore year of high school, I was an obnoxious not-quite-sixteen-year-old. I implore you to keep that maturity level in mind as I relay to you my actions on that fateful afternoon.
Every October, the Indianapolis Zoo decorates for Halloween and puts on themed festivities. While riding the train that takes visitors around the park, volunteers will perform skits at each stop. My best friend (Mallory) and I were able to ride the train a limitless amount of times for free, one of the many perks of being a zoo intern. This was the only time that we ever exercised that right in excess, all to gawk at a particularly attractive volunteer.
The first time that we rode the train, we simply had a little time to waste. The skits were all ridiculously cheesy, but our laughter and mocking commentary kept us plenty entertained. And then... we saw him. The clouds parted and light shined down on a man so sexy, he could only be a Greek god. Or maybe he was just "the Prince" in a cheesy skit based on The Little Mermaid. Whatever. Either way, when we reached the end of the tracks, Mallory and I decided we still had "soooo much time to kill" that we might as well ride it again.
The second time that we rode the train, I shamefully admit that we may or may not have made inappropriate catcalls along the lines of "Ow OW!" There may have also been some whistling involved.
The third time that we rode the train is the reason why this story is relevant. Mallory scrounged up a piece of paper and a pen, and we wrote each of our phone numbers under the labels "Blonde" and "Brown", giggling all the while. We then proceeded to fold it up and chuck it at this poor guy as we passed. It was only after the fact that I realized: we had not even supplied our area codes.
Numero Dos
Nowadays, Mal and I frequent Steak 'N Shake, as it is the only establishment open late at night in my town. About two weeks ago, we ended up chatting with our extremely cute waiter. It was his first day, and he sheepishly admitted that we were only like his tenth table.
Last night, we were back in our usual booth. We were seated in a different waiter's area, but Mallory kept catching his eye and smiling. When she had cleared her plate, she wrote her number on it in ketchup, labelled "For *****". We witnessed him laughing and attempting to copy it on a piece of paper as we left, but the numbers were nearly impossible to decipher.
So. Here's my advice:
a) If you decide to throw your phone number at someone from a moving train, it might be best if you include all of the digits. You should also probably avoid referring to yourself as the incorrect terminology for your hair color.
b) When writing with condiments, it's best to allow yourself enough space to actually be legible.
c) If you prefer not to make an ass out of yourself, avoid doing these things. They never turn out well.
A goal that is attainable, but just barely
So, it has been almost exactly one month since I have posted anything on this blog. I feel slightly ashamed, mostly because I started so many entries just to surrender to the jumbled mess that is my thoughts and admit defeat. I had no idea how to even begin to articulate the things that I wanted to say, so I just didn't say them. That is an embarrassing fact, and I am going through an abrupt change as we/I speak. No longer will I almost break the backspace key in frustration as I clear away my half-assed attempts to express myself.
It may be shocking that I am capable of making further delusional promises to myself, but this next (rather grandiose) one was inspired by the revelation that I had about two minutes ago: I am sick of letting my days blend together as if my life is bland and uneventful. Every single day, something significant happens. Therefore, I plan on blogging about said significant situations/thoughts/whatever every single day. Probably until I die... or maybe not.
I might as well establish some exceptions to this new plan right here and now, just to avoid future shame, embarrassment, and rambling apologies similar to the one that is currently happening. If I simply do not have time to blog one day (because yes, my life is craaaaaazy enough for that to occasionally be a problem wink wink), I will write two entries the next day. This isn't BEDA; I can skip a day if I see fit. So... there. The other exception that is coming to mind right now is when I'm traveling. I cannot guarantee that I will be able to update this while on my many adventures (don't smirk at me! I go places), so I suppose we'll just deal with that when the situation arises.
This is going to be such a bitch. I immediately regret my decision, but... see you tomorrow.
** OH. I should probably go ahead and make it a general rule that midnight is not a factor. If I haven't gone to bed yet, it's still the previous day to me, so it counts. Yeah.
It may be shocking that I am capable of making further delusional promises to myself, but this next (rather grandiose) one was inspired by the revelation that I had about two minutes ago: I am sick of letting my days blend together as if my life is bland and uneventful. Every single day, something significant happens. Therefore, I plan on blogging about said significant situations/thoughts/whatever every single day. Probably until I die... or maybe not.
I might as well establish some exceptions to this new plan right here and now, just to avoid future shame, embarrassment, and rambling apologies similar to the one that is currently happening. If I simply do not have time to blog one day (because yes, my life is craaaaaazy enough for that to occasionally be a problem wink wink), I will write two entries the next day. This isn't BEDA; I can skip a day if I see fit. So... there. The other exception that is coming to mind right now is when I'm traveling. I cannot guarantee that I will be able to update this while on my many adventures (don't smirk at me! I go places), so I suppose we'll just deal with that when the situation arises.
This is going to be such a bitch. I immediately regret my decision, but... see you tomorrow.
** OH. I should probably go ahead and make it a general rule that midnight is not a factor. If I haven't gone to bed yet, it's still the previous day to me, so it counts. Yeah.
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