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How to Land a Job as a Classy Hooker or Someone Who Gets to Look at Eddie Vedder’s Butt

*I apologize in advance to the straight men who read this blog for the photos of attractive men that follow.  This is post is not about attractive men.  It’s just how the photos happened to work out.  Ladies and gay men, you’re welcome.

I have to say, I’m a pretty lucky person.

I’m lucky because I have some pretty hilarious Facebook friends.

And in a world where it seems like people are consistently content to cut each other down, to take pleasure in others’ failures, and to get so caught up in the frantic climb to the top, like so many salmon swimming upstream, sometimes it’s just nice to have people who make me laugh.

Even if it’s at myself.

Especially if it’s at myself.

In a fit of frustrated self-pity yesterday at not being able to even get interviewed for jobs I don’t really want (Ding! Ding! Maybe that’s the problem.), I did something bad.  I committed a Facebook faux pas.  A Facebook party foul, if you will.

(A farty foul?  A parbook foul?  I’ll work on that.)

But the point is that it wasn’t good.  It was like when you’re at a party, everyone’s having a fantastic time just chillin’, having a couple of drinks, perhaps discussing how it’s physically possible for Jared Leto to still look completely jumpable while wearing a spirit hood, and yet, beyond all reason or comprehension, he does… you know, the usual party stuff, and somehow you manage to knock over an entire pitcher of a tasty, alcoholic beverage and some jerk yells, “PARTY FOUL!” across the room and everybody boos.

As if you didn’t already feel awful enough.

Embarrassing fact:  I just learned what a spirit hood is for the first time this morning thanks to laxsupermom’s comment on my post from yesterday. And I have to say, I see the appeal.  Especially if it comes gratis with a Jared Leto attached.  (Photo source.)

So what I did is I posted one of those, oh-I’m-so-bummed-and-emo-so-please-feel-sorry-for-me-even-though-I’m-making-a-joke-about-myself-under-the-guise-of-humor status updates.  It said:

With “Hot Sauce Maker” and “Freelance Writer” as my last two positions held, I suppose I can understand why no one wants to interview me. :(

Yep.  Complete with sad face emoticon.

Fortunately, my friends are not the types who would let this dampen their spirits.  Nor will they play into my self-pity, because, let’s face it — that doesn’t help anyone.

Instead, they offered me several potentially lucrative job opportunities working for them that hadn’t even occurred to me:

  • Part-time wearer outer of 1-year-old twin girls who gets paid in mashed bananas and limitless laughter (thanks, Jenn!);
  • Roadie for a travelling masseuse to the stars, where my payment for strapping a massage table to my back and carrying around a bag of assorted lotions and lubes at rock concerts would be backstage passes to said rock concerts (thanks, Kathryn!);
  • Professional traveling hippie/road trip partner-in-crime a la Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty in Kerouac’s On the Road, who gets paid with the freedom to do whatever I want, as long as it doesn’t cost any money.  Because we wouldn’t have any (thanks, Ashley H!);
  • Classy hooker, where there would be “no getting near the twig and berries,” and yet I would still get paid with “free dinners and Kentucky Derby races” (thanks again, Ashley H!); and
  • One opportunity where I might actually get paid.  Like with money.  And I wouldn’t have to take off my clothes.  (Thanks, Ashley L.!)

I’ll admit — some of those gigs actually sound kind of cool to me.  I’ll leave it to you to figure out which ones those are.

“Okay, Mr. Vedder — would you please remove your shorts?”

And finally, there were the comments that weren’t job offers, but written solely to comfort and console me in my time of need.  Comments like:

  • “You forgot street-walker.”  (Thanks, Kelly — I forgot I did that from 2003-2004.  I’ll add that to the ol’ res.  Maybe I’ll get some bites.)
  • “I didn’t know you made hot sauce.”  (Thanks, Heather — I was a regular hot sauce makin’ machine, during my time in Costa Rica last year.  Sadly, my dreams of choking on capsaicin for the rest of my life were capped when I had to return to the real world.)
  • “I’ll interview you if you just need to feel better about your experience. :)”  (Thanks, Tim — Because I don’t actually want a job.  I just want a fake interview that’s somehow supposed to make me feel better about my work experience even though you’re not “interviewing” me based on my work experience.  But actually, when I think about it, that might work.  So ignore my sarcasm.)
  • “Yeah unless your last name is Tabasco?”  (Thanks, John — I knew I should’ve married up.  Of course, if I married someone from the Tabasco clan, I wouldn’t be making the sauce — I’d just be bathing in the money it procured.)

So there you have it.  Nine bulleted reasons why I love my Facebook friends.  Really!  I do — for always making me laugh.

And, in case you’re wondering, I really do have Hot Sauce Producer and Freelance Writer on my resume.  It’s a very particular set of skills, but combined with a winning attitude and a go-to personality, it just might make me the perfect match for a company that’s going places.

Big places.

Related post: Why You Should Either Pay Me to Collate or Contract Bird Flu.  Or Both.

Skeletons in my Underwear Drawer

This morning my neighbor told me that her 2-year-old daughter named her “pet” (aka. stuffed) monkey after me.

At first, I was flattered.  Until I thought about it.

Also, I want to show you something.

Something special.

THIS is my underwear drawer.

underwear drawer

But the drawer itself isn’t what’s important — it’s what’s inside the drawer that’s interesting.

Ready?

Here goes…

What?  You thought I was going to show you my underwear?  Don’t worry — I removed all the dental floss thongs, crotchless panties, and battery-operated boyfriends before taking this photo.

Obviously.

What I didn’t remove is this manila envelope.  This manila envelope has sat at the bottom of every underwear drawer I’ve owned — including the plastic set of drawers that was the sole piece of bedroom furniture in Justin’s and my first apartment — for the past 19 years.

The only thing that’s changed about this envelope in 19 years is the thickness of its contents and their respective weight on my psyche.

4th Grade certificates

See, my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Maetzold, was big on certificates of achievement.  Like, way big.  And even though the computers, printers, and software in 1992 were beastly dinosaurs by today’s standards, Mrs. Maetzold always took the time to design and print certificates that were unique for each subject or area of achievement.  The special colors, boarders, pictures and puns were exactly the type of encouragement our tender, 4th grade hearts needed to stay motivated.

Certificate for excellence in Math?  I think that’s the last time I ever saw one of those awards.

So she would give us these certificates whenever we did well on something — a test, an assignment, or just did something that impressed her that day.  And she gave us these manila envelopes, told us to put them in the bottom of our underwear drawers for safe-keeping, and instructed us to use it to store the certificates we earn throughout the year.  Then, if we’re really diligent, we could just keep on savin’ right up through high school and beyond.

Which is exactly what I did.

Hey, don’t judge me — I don’t have much in the way of material things from my past.  And I know it sounds strange, but whenever I’m feeling a little blue, the contents of the folder in my underwear drawer are sure to bring a smile to my face.

100% on the Social test?  See?  I told you I wasn’t always awkward.  Wait — maybe she meant social studies.

Certificate of Achievement

My, how I’ve changed.

This one’s the kicker:

Ah, Mrs. Maetzold.  I’m sorry I didn’t manage to live up to your expectations.  At least not by the age of 28.  But I have to say… don’t you think maybe they were a little high?  I mean, “Most likely to succeed” is a lot of pressure to put on a 10-year-old.  Maybe it should’ve been something more specific like, “Most likely to graduate high school,” or, “Most likely to not go to prom,” or “Most likely to make it from here to the bathroom without tripping over her own feet.”

Except that last one wouldn’t have been true.

I do have 1 other thing besides certificates in my certificate folder.  Something cryptic.  Something that most definitely does not make me feel good every time I look at it.

Letter to Myself

What is this?

What is in this?

This envelope scares me for 2 reasons:

The more obvious is the fact that it is probably filled with wild expectations that my 10-year-old self had for my 40-year-old self — scary things like having a career or raising children.

The less obvious is the fact that up until today, I thought I wrote whatever’s inside this envelope back in 4th grade.  I could’ve sworn it.  I was positive Mrs. Maetzold had us write these letters to ourselves at the end of the school year and told us explicitly to keep them in our underwear drawers with our certificates, where we’d be sure to never lose them.  But, as I was going through the pictures for this post, it became glaringly obvious that this envelope is from my high school.

At least 4 years later.

In another state!

Clearly, that is not the handwriting of a 4th grader.  Maybe a 5th grader, but definitely not a 4th grader.  But it is most definitely MY handwriting.

This can only mean 1 of 2 things:  Either I put the original envelope inside this high school envelope for extra protection and can’t remember doing it; or, I actually wrote whatever is inside during high school, not 4th grade, can’t remember doing it, and I made the whole thing up about Mrs. Maetzold making us do it.

Either way, this can’t mean good things about my mental stability.

Anyway.  There have been times when I’ve wanted to rip that sucker open so bad I could hardly stand it.

See?  Still closed.  Though, wouldn’t it be messed up if I did open it, and all that was inside was a piece of paper that said, “PSYCH!”

But now?  Now I know I’m definitely not ready.  Whether I wrote it in 4th grade or 9th, I know I’m not ready to live up to my own expectations.

And while I suppose that does reflect a certain level of maturity on my part (Way to go, Mrs. Maetzold — at least we got something right), it shows just how far I have to go to be happy with myself.

And, when I’m not, I’m glad there’s motivation to be found at the bottom of my underwear drawer.

Flushing. But Not Another Post About Toilets.

***WARNING***  You probably shouldn’t read this post if you just ate.  Or are currently eating.  Or ever plan on eating again.  Thank you.

I’ve been hesitant to write this post this morning, not solely due to the grotesque nature of the topic, but because I have a rather large commitment happening tomorrow — nothing big, mind you — just a baby celebration I’m throwing for one of my best friends in the world and 30-40 of her closest friends — and I don’t want today’s subject to freak my friend — or the dear girls who are helping me organize the party — out.

So let me preface this by saying, I.  Will.  Be.  There.

My whole predicament started about a week ago when my dear neighbor (and she is a dear, dear neighbor) invited us over for dinner.  Fantastic!  Except when we arrived, she sounded terrible, and kept insisting the problem was her allergies.

Turns out, it wasn’t.

And apparently she must have licked all of my food, because I’m pretty sure I’m currently suffering from a wee bit of a cold.  I thought it might just be a false alarm and all I needed was a good night’s sleep last night, but that wasn’t in the cards because Capone decided he was going to be sick as well, and let’s just say that the nastiness coming out of his orifices was far worse than anything currently coming out of mine.

Ahem.

The bad news is it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.  The good news is I have a couple of cold remedies up my sleeve that, while I might be fairly drained during my prep work today, should hopefully fend this thing off long enough to ensure that I am a fully functioning team member tomorrow.

It’s important to remember that I am not a doctor.  Not even close.  But these are the steps I take whenever I have a cold, and they never seem to last as long as they do with other people:

1)  I know it sounds obvious, but I wash my hands ad nauseam when I have a cold.  Every time I blow my nose.  Right before I touch any food.  Any time I touch… anything.  All.  The.  Time.  To the point where they’re chapped and dry and it makes no sense applying lotion because I’m just going to be washing them again in a few minutes anyway.  This is not only for my benefit, but also for the people around me.

2)  I sneeze or cough into my shoulder — not my hands.  Think about it.  How much stuff do you touch with your shoulder?

3)  Switch out my toothbrush.  Just think of how many germs that bugger must be carrying.

4)  Vitamin C.  I load it up, baby.  Like 3 pills a day.

5)  And finally, my absolute savior, a sinus rinse.  Like I said, I’m no doctor, but not only do these puppies drain all of the gunky nastiness from my cold-riddled head, I do believe it also rinses out tons of germies that would otherwise still be swimming around wreaking havoc in there.

It consists of a simple plastic squirt bottle and some saline packets.

I warm up my water a bit — Just a bit!  You don’t want to boil your nostrils.

Add the saline…

And then squirt it on up.

Obviously, if you’re going to try this, you’ll want to refer to the directions.

Now.  I’m not going to lie and tell you this is a pleasant feeling.  Far from it.  You know how it feels when you jump into a pool and get water up your nose?  Well, it’s like that.  Because… you know… you’re squirting water up your nose.  But just like the uncomfortable pinch from a shot or a good ol’ eyebrow waxing, it’s a necessary discomfort that’s for our own good.  And, I’ve discovered that adjusting the direction of the spray (within the confines of your nostril, that is) can make a difference in just how uncomfortable it feels.

Plus, it’s kinda cool when the water — and other gunk — comes out the other side.

Just sayin’.

Don’t worry, I’ll spare you that picture.

I rinsed once this morning, and already I’m breathing easier and the elephant who’s taken up residence on my chest feels as though he’s losing weight.  So.  Fear not.  I’m doing everything in my power to not be an infectious germ farm come Saturday.  I will. not. let. this. win.

*Contrary to how it may appear, this post is NOT a paid advertisement for NeilMed Sinus Rinse.  That just happens to be the brand I picked up from the Walgreens, but I couldn’t care less which brand you use.  NeilMed did not pay me for this post.  Though if they wanted to, I could care which brand you use.

It’s Okay to Be Yourself (As Long As Everyone Likes You)

I think it’s probably obvious by now that I’m a little ADD.  ADHD.  ABCDEFG.  Whatever.

For example, I meant to start writing this post an hour ago, but instead I got sidetracked by looking up furniture painting tutorials so I could paint my hand-built office desk, which made me realize that the office desk really shouldn’t be a priority when I still have to decide on a menu and make a bunch of decorations for this Saturday’s baby shower party, which led me to searching through recipes online while concocting a partial shopping list, which made me realize I hadn’t uploaded some food photos I took the other day, which made me remember I wanted to print some photos to send to some friends, which somehow led me to downloading free Photoshop actions off the internet and trying them out on the aforementioned photos.

And now I’m hungry.

And I forgot why I started writing this post.

Oh, yes.  My inability (or flat-out refusal?) to focus on any one topic for very long pretty much guarantees the completely random, fickle assortment of writing topics you find on this lil’ blog.  One day I might be lamenting about how I can’t find a job and nobody loves me, and the next I’m passing out recipes for hummus or posting pictures of my knife-wielding neighbor at her 2-year-old’s birthday party.

It’s crazy in here.

What it’s like inside my head during an office meeting.

And usually, once I post about something that’s been plaguing me, it gets moved into the digital archives of this blog and removed completely from my mind.  My little mind elves don’t have a file system — once an idea is made reality, they crumple up the evidence, throw it in a trash bin, light a match, and toss it in.  Then they dump the ashes out through my ear.  So usually, the only way I can remember what I was thinking about yesterday is to look at the blog.

But there is one thing recently that has stuck around in my mind, for one reason or another.  It’s my post from the other day about how I’ve grown more socially awkward as I age because I worry that people won’t like my real personality.  It generated some intriguing comments of agreement, and one in particular (thanks, Greg!) that hit a nerve, stating that children have the admirable quality of not really caring what adults or peers think about their personality — it just is.  So, why does it matter when we’re older?

Etiquette?  Politeness?

Sure, I guess.  Everyone should be nice to everyone, and blah, blah, blah.  But beyond that?  What factors stipulate how we should behave in polite society?  Why can’t I laugh — loudly — at a restaurant if someone says something deliberately funny?  Why does the sound of adult laughter so commonly generate irritated looks from people nearby?  (Obviously, I wouldn’t do this every 2 seconds and interrupt other people’s conversations, but once?  What’s the problem?)

It’s times like these when I’m glad I’m not single.  Single people have it rough out there right now.  In a society where you’re only expected to act a certain way so as to “not give off the wrong impression,” how is anyone supposed to make any sort of impression at all?

Enter my friend Maria, and her obviously charming and hilarious brother.  (I don’t remember her brother’s name, nor have I ever met him, but I’m sure he’s charming and hilarious.)

Maria is incredibly articulate and intelligent (just check out her blog, which she hasn’t updated in way too long), laid-back, a world-traveler, and stunningly gorgeous.  Yet.  She had a difficult time filling out her online dating profile to reflect any of her uniqueness beyond the whole, polite, standard online profile clichés.

(I hope she doesn’t get mad at me for posting this photo, but I had to get my point across — the girl shouldn’t need help filling out a profile.  By the way, she’s not Indian, but this photo was taken of her this year while she was in India studying yoga.)

So her brother took it upon himself to write one a little less… stuffy:

About Me:

If you’re looking for someone with the brain of a supermodel and the body of a scientist, look no further! Here I am.

My name is Maria, and I am a Japanese/Mexican exotic gourmet blend. Born of human parents, it would stand to reason that I, too, am human. But am I really? I don’t know. I might just be a cookie monster.

An exhaustive account of all the facets of my awesomeness would be impractical—nay, impossible—so here are the wave tops. I’ve spent a lot of time in South Africa rehabilitating orphaned baboons. Whoa! Did you just fall out of your seat because you are so amazed? Calm down, partner. I’m just getting warmed up here. So let’s see… I was once featured on the Animal Planet TV channel, so yes, I do consider myself a celebrity (very famous). I studied yoga in India. (Shout out to all my mad-smart Subcontinent homies!) I graduated from Chico State with a degree in something. I think it was anthropology or animals or multiplication or something weird like that. I once woke up while working in the Costa Rican jungle with a tarantula in my bed, and I didn’t even care. That’s right. I didn’t even care. I said “Hey, buddy.” It’s because I’m a world-class badass, and I knew that the tarantula would get the hell out of there once he recognized my face (very famous). Once when I was a teenager and I worked at a movie theater, Kevin Mitchell—the 1989 National League MVP (duh!), came up to buy some popcorn from me. I was like, “Hey, you were my favorite player when I was a kid.” He came back like he was all offended and said, “Were?” So I was like, “That’ll be $107, please.” I also know how to properly use a semicolon. If you are one of those unfortunate souls that didn’t already know that a semicolon is used to join two closely related independent clauses, then you disgust me and you deserve to be trapped in a forest for days on end with no one but a Bob Dylan-obsessed fan who insists on singing his entire anthology in an all-too-accurate impersonation. And not the funny kind of impersonation. The kind that makes your marrow ache. THAT kind.

What’s that you say? For the love of God, tell you more? Very well, I shall. You should know that I love cats. Baked, boiled, fried… it doesn’t matter to me. In fact, I have two cats, and they’re looking more and more delicious every day. Now you might think from what you’ve read so far that I’m an animal lover. Well don’t jump to conclusions, Hoppy Hopperson. I draw the line at hippopotamuses. They’re fat, surly, filthy creatures, and they have no business interfering with my happiness. If you happen to have a pet hippopotamus, I will not consider dating you. Also, you’re in violation of several city ordinances.

For Fun:

I teach yoga & do massage, so clearly I love violent movies & video games. I also love riding bicycles. I ride normal bikes, but eventually I’d like to purchase one of those bikes w the enormous front wheel and the tiny back wheel, a la 1882.

Favorite Hot Spots:

Locally I like Bidwell Park, T.Bar, and my backyard (and not just because of the underground dungeon, which is admittedly charming).

……….

Well?  Okay, so this is admittedly a little over-the-top, and Maria intends to take it down a notch to better reflect her slightly more reserved personality.  But you get the point, right?  Most people would be too afraid to post something like this because it might make them stand out.  It might turn people off.

But if this is who you are, and you’re trying to attract people to you, whether romantically or just friends in life, why would you want anyone who doesn’t like you?

I know this is way too long, and I apologize.  I meant to be finished with this 4 hours ago.  I guess my point is that I wish more people would just be real.  No more masks.  No more judging.  Just us.

And don’t worry — tomorrow will probably be a post about awesome little party appetizers or home office decor and I’ll have no clue why people are emailing me about the new Remove the Mask movement and how I can get involved, because my mind elves will have already dumped these ashes and moved on to tartlets and parsons desks.

My mind is exhausting.

Chatty Cathy — er — Katie

Is it just me, or do all people get more socially awkward as they age?

I’m pretty sure it’s just me.

It’s unfortunate, because it almost feels as though I’m rolling backwards through developmental stages.  I’m the mental — though certainly not physical — Benjamin Button.  It’s like I was born to mingle and network as a kid, when my mom would let me crash her social gatherings because I was such an adorable little adult, holding my own in conversations and, more often than not, hogging the spotlight with the only thing I really had going for me — my ability to talk.

And talk, I did.

But with time, it’s been brought to my attention on more than one occasion that chattiness becomes much less adorable as we get older.  Friends’ parents were always saying, “Katie, you’re too loud,” and people started worrying — justifiably — that I might say something inappropriate at a formal social gathering.  The very thing on which I’d learned to rely so heavily as a kid had turned into a liability.

Conversely, there are other times I’m told people want me present in certain situations to stimulate conversation.  When two different groups of people are brought together for an event — like a good friend’s parents and her soon-to-be in-laws, I’m brought in as the “ringer” whose sole purpose is to entertain via unrehearsed speech.  I suppose it’s because I’m not afraid to embarrass myself.  Or I understand that people are just people, and most of them have something they like to talk about.  I just have to find it and ensure them I won’t judge.

So sometimes I’m expected to talk, and other times I’m expected to shut up.  And these conflicting expectations have often been presented by the same people.

I’m still pretty confused about the whole thing.

As a result, I’ve started to feel all discombobulated when I’m thrown into a room with strangers.

Then yesterday happened.

Yesterday, I was not a great blogger.

Not just because I didn’t post anything, but because I didn’t take any pictures of the day’s events. Aside from the Annual 4th of July Parade, which is happening today, my neighborhood decided most of the night-time celebrations would happen last night, since most normal people — aside from those of us still somehow managing to leach off our marriage partners — have to go to work on Tuesday morning.

Except my husband.  Seriously.  If you want the type of job where you have the most days off ever, join the military.  Of course, the trade-off is that you don’t get to choose where you live and the government can send you into countries that tend to hate us whenever it wants, but vacation time is vacation time, amIright?

But back to the holiday festivities.  Justin and I decided to join my old manager from the bar and her son — Hey Danielle and Travis! — for some fun at our largest neighborhood lake.  We had a blast, but it did make me realize 2 things: Sun and beer don’t mix very well with me, and we really need to make friends with someone who owns a boat.  Boat friends are the best friends.

Then we headed back home so I could make some food to take to a party.  I did take pictures of the food, and it’s one of my absolute favorite party appetizer recipes in the history of ever, and I will be sharing it with you soon.

I was nervous about this party.  I’d been taking one of my dogs on our morning walk on Saturday, when I ran into some distant neighbors with whom we used to socialize a couple of years ago.  They live about a mile away, and we’d lost touch over time, not making the effort to walk further than “just down the street” to say hello.

They’re fantastic people.  They live right on the lake, and they have a boat.

Not that I would use them for their boat.

I don’t think.

They remembered my name, they said, because I’m the chatty one, but they couldn’t remember Justin’s.  I wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment.  But then they invited us to their party, which was going to have food, drinks, and live music.

Twist. My. Arm.

So we headed over last night, Justin toting our cooler of beverages and me armed with my favorite party appetizer ever.  I wasn’t sure how to behave since I knew virtually no one, so I figured I’d test the waters before committing to a personality.  We greeted our hosts, put our offerings on the food table, and plopped down on some lawn chairs to listen to the band.

When they finished the song they’d been playing when we arrived, I immediately started clapping and cheering.  Loudly.

I was the only one.

It became clear that they’d been playing for a bit with virtually zero audience appreciation when the lead singer gave me a big thumbs-up, an audible “thank-you” through the mic, and the base player mic-whispered, “tough crowd.”

They played another.  I clapped enthusiastically again, enticing a bit of accompaniment by some people nearby, and shouted, “You guys rock!”  A little fireball of a Mexican woman whom I later learned was named Carmen looked at me appreciatively and shouted, “Yeah they do!” before walking over to introduce herself.

Before long, people were approaching me asking if I’d made those delicious little appetizers.  And they weren’t afraid to talk to me because clearly, I wasn’t shy.  And I even decided to do a little professional networking while I was there, since the online job search has been getting me exactly nowhere, and it’s possible I have a lead or two there as well.

It wasn’t easy to put my fully outgoing persona back on for an evening after years of trying to suppress it into tolerable, toned-down submission.

But you know what I realized?  I think, for the most part, people like and appreciate the chatty Katie.  I know the band did.  The people who walked away with the promise of an appetizer recipe did.  And anyone who didn’t is probably a little too stuffy for my taste, anyway.  I’m friendly to everyone, and anyone can be my friend.

Is that really such a terrible thing?

I don’t like feeling socially awkward because I’m afraid to be myself.

It turns out in the end, a stranger at a party not liking me is far better than me not liking me.

You know?

Mischief of One Kind and Another

For someone who doesn’t technically have a job right now, I sure do feel busy.

It’s almost like looking for a job is a full-time job.

Except it’s not, at least for me, because I’m also up to my fake twitching eyeball in other projects.  For the blog alone, I owe you probably about 64 updates about what’s going on with our home changes, I’ve got some really fantastic recipes to share, and the consumption of the Spanish bottles of wine we brought home have inspired some really deep thoughts, like why was the Bachelorette so hung up on that Bentley guy (I mean his name is Bentley, for crying out loud), and I wonder how long I can get away with not removing the toenail polish I applied before leaving for Spain.

Apparently the answer is at least 5 weeks, because I only have about 40% coverage left per toe and I still haven’t fixed it.

So aside from all the blog posts gurgling around in my head, I have projects galore.  The office is still a work-in-progress, and hopefully I’ll have updates soon.  I’m applying for jobs.  I’m working on writing projects.  I’m one of the first few people getting to read my friend’s yet-unpublished novel.  And on top of all that, Alaina’s baby shower is in a mere week-and-a-half.

What’s that?  You didn’t know I was throwing a baby shower?

Let’s see… we all know I’m awkward around children, I’d probably make a terrible parent, and until recently I assumed a boppy was something teenagers took recreationally at raves.  So me throwing a baby shower makes perfect sense, right?

Lucky for me, Alaina doesn’t want just a baby shower.  She wants a baby party — complete with alcohol, drinking games, and… wait for it… boys.  See, just because she can’t drink, she doesn’t feel the need to punish everyone else.  Especially me.  And I’m also fortunate that a couple of her other dear friends are helping me out.

So this is pretty much what my world looks like right now:

(This last one actually has nothing to do with the baby shower.  It’s for a different project entirely, but I couldn’t resist.  You know I like to keep you guessing.)

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m pretty excited for this baby shower to happen.  Not to give anything away, but it’s probably going to involve a relay race with strollers and the chugging of White Russians from baby bottles.  The drink — not the people.

How twisted do you think I am?

Answers to your BURNING Questions (Pun Intended)

Sometimes I like to pretend that I’m more popular than I actually am.

You know, like if someone asks whether I can grab a drink next Saturday, I might tell her, “I think I’m available that night, but it seems like I remember there’s a possibility that I might have had something going on so I’ll check and get back to you.”

The problem is that people know me and know I’m not actually that popular, and inside I’m probably jumping at the chance to go out.  But I have to play it cool, you know, so I don’t scare away potential friends.

It’s kind of like when you’re playing the dating game and you don’t want to show your potential love interest you’re too interested, because displaying intense desire translates to desperate, which translates to if nobody else wants to date you, then why would I?, which translates to unattractive and undesirable candidate for courtship.

Which is complete BS if you ask me, because just because I’m eager to hang out with you doesn’t mean no one else wants to be friends with me.  There’s like… a whole waiting list of people who want to be friends with me.

And the cycle continues.

So.

Since I’ve gotten a couple of questions about things I’ve mentioned on the blog out of curiosity or my lackadaisical approach to follow-up, I’m going to pretend that I’ve received a whole slew of questions about issues I’ve failed to address, because I’m pretty sure you want to ask me these things, but you haven’t because you’re too scared to make contact or you don’t actually exist.

Here we go:

Why did I put the tick in vodka?  I honestly don’t know.  But something (a faded memory from something I read?  Instinct?  Complete irrationality caused by paralyzing fear?) told me it was the right thing to do.  I thought if I put it directly in the toilet, there was a possibility it could crawl out and take revenge.  But if I got it drunk first, it would obviously be too uncoordinated to swim.

Makes perfect sense.

How’s the office decorating project going?  Umm… I was decorating the office?  Oh, yeah.  Well, I did buy that desk from Overstock, and it’s awesome.  But that’s about as far as we got until I got home from the bar (the one where I work — not where I drink) at 3 a.m. on Sunday morning to discover this sitting in the garage:

It’s probably been too long for you to remember, but I was originally going to create an L-shaped desk with the one from Overstock as the short end, and then use an old door sitting on top of some filing cabinets for the long end.  However, Justin insisted on building the long part of the L to match the desk we purchased, and I was all “Yeah, okay that’s great — I can’t wait to have a desk that you made with your bare hands (har-har) in like a year since that’s how long it will probably take you to make it,” and then Sunday at 3 a.m. I had to pretty much stick my entire foot in my mouth and then my calf up to my frickin’ knee because I’ll be damned if that desk isn’t just the most perfect, coolest desk I have ever seen.

Now we just have to paint it, and Operation Office Decor will be back in full swing.

What?  You’re still working in a bar?  Haven’t you gotten a real job yet?  Oh you just had to go there, didn’t you?  As a matter of fact, Saturday night/Sunday morning, right before I had to stick my entire foot in my mouth because it turns out my husband is actually pretty awesome at building desks, I worked my last shift at the bar.

It was bittersweet.  Bitter because I worked with some pretty awesome people I really don’t want to lose track of, yet sweet because I’m pretty sure that’s the last time I’ll ever have to wait tables again.

Oh, and also bitter because I still haven’t found another job.  Even just one for a part-time office assistant.  The pickins are slim out there, people.  And I can’t count how many times the evil Craigslist has broken my heart by making me think someone was emailing me with an actual response but it was really just spam.

I mean, don’t get me wrong — I’m enjoying the fact that I can spend the entire day not wearing pants because I’m not required to physically interact with the outside world.  But sometimes?  Sometimes I want an excuse to wear pants.

Speaking of not wearing pants, you already revealed that you umm… revealed the “girls” at the beaches in Spain, but that wasn’t the real question — the question was, did you remember the SPF 100 for your nips?  (It wasn’t phrased exactly like this, but laxsupermom really did ask this question.  And I kind of love her for it.)

Oh, yes.  I had expressed concern, prior to our trip to Spain, about the very real possibility of experiencing nipple burnage on the nude beaches.  Well, I’m very happy to inform you that I did remember to wear sunscreen.  Almost every time.  Some general pinkness did occur in the overall vicinity one time due to carelessness, but overall, my first nude beach experience was a thrilling success.

Thank you for taking an interest in my precautionary measures for avoiding skin cancer and public boob itching unbecoming a young woman.

Your concern means the world to me.

You can all now go back to your regularly scheduled programs.

I’m Pretty Sure My Dog Tried to Drown Me and Other Reasons I Probably Should Never Be a Parent

While my sister was here for an impromptu visit last week, we quite frequently took our 4 — count ’em, four — combined mutts down to the lake near our house for some much-needed energy expenditure.  On their part, not ours.  Kelly and I were too busy downing Cazadores tequila and Squirts to expend any energy on much else.

(Oh, and I didn’t take any pictures while my sister was here because I’m a bad blogger.  Bad.)

Now, my dogs love the water.  They jump right in, splash around, dunk their heads beneath the surface to cool off, lap some up, etc.  But Kelly’s dogs?  Kelly’s dogs loooove the water.  The chocolate lab swims around in circles while the little dopey (but I still love him) rescue mutt swims along the shoreline like a damn little beaver, and I’m pretty sure he’s taunting my dogs about the fact that they don’t go past the spot where they can reach the lake bottom.

Finally, I’d decided I’d witnessed enough mediocrity from my children dogs.  I waded in to just below the hemline of my shorts (didn’t want any of that pesky capillary action to take hold if the bottom of my shorts got wet), and used my sweetest, most enticing voice to call Capone, who looked more intrigued than Mara about the idea of possibly leaving the safety of the shoreline.

This is Capone.

He came as far as his legs would reach the bottom and let out a small whimper.  So I extended my arms, smiled in encouragement, and said, “Swim, buddy!  You can do it!  Come to mama!”

And then he jumped.

Not a slight push off of the drop-off edge so he could paddle his way to me, but a flat-out LEAP from the water and straight into my waiting embrace.  The problem is that my embrace wasn’t expecting to have over 50 pounds of muscular, soaking wet canine come barreling into it, and I was knocked flat backwards into the water as said canine continued to panic and use my body as a gripping post to claw his way to the surface.

I only bled a little.

Kelly laughed a lot.

After that I decided that maybe it wasn’t worth it to try to teach Capone to swim.  Clearly, he wasn’t grasping the concept.  What I didn’t realize is that Capone isn’t a take-this-in-baby-steps type of dog.  If he’s going to do something, then he’s damn-well going to do it.

Fast-forward to yesterday’s walk.  I try to take each dog on a 2-mile loop every morning.  I don’t dare try to walk them both at once, and I let each of them off the leash for a bit at the lake so they can cool down.  When I let Capone off his leash yesterday, he chased a couple of ducks into the water.  Of course, he only pursued them as far as his legs would reach.  They taunted him just a few feet beyond the drop-off, quack-laughing and probably saying, “Whew!  Good thing that dog can’t swim!”

I watched him.

He watched the ducks.

Then he did something strange.  He looked at me and let out a frustrated whine.  And I’m not sure now, but I think I might’ve said something like, “Yeah… too bad you’re too much of a pussy to go after ’em.”

And that’s when he jumped.  Except this time, there was no one there to catch him.  Instinct immediately kicked in, and he paddled his little heart out after those ducks.  He wanted those ducks.  Surprised, the ducks kept swimming and flitting just feet outside his reach.  Further and further from the shore.

My pride was quickly replaced by panic as I realized my dog, who’d never swum before, was now about 50 yards off the shoreline.  I kicked off my shoes and socks and frantically waved and yelled from the water’s edge, yet I still didn’t go in after him.  Finally — finally — the ducks flew off, and suddenly Capone realized he was in the middle of the lake.  So he turned around and swam back.

The end.

I guess my point in telling you all this is to explain why I’d be an entirely inadequate mother.  Aside from the reasons I wrote about here.  I love my dogs.  And you can bet I would’ve gone in after Capone if I’d sensed he was in trouble.  But 50 yards is kind of a long way.  Not to mention calling him a pussy.  What kind of caretaker does that?

I’m also not very good at other mom stuff — especially the gross stuff.  Especially the gross stuff that involves bugs.

Like today, Mara had a tick.

This is Mara.

The tick was on her ear.  Now.  I don’t know anyone who particularly likes ticks, but they rank pretty high on my list of the most repulsive things I’ve ever seen in this world.  And I’ve seen quite a few things.

Unfortunately, I knew this probably couldn’t wait until Justin gets home from work.  So I gathered the necessary supplies and called my sweet, trusting pup over to me, tweezers in hand.

I’m pretty sure I heard it let out a faint bug scream as its body burst between my tweezers when I yanked it from my poor mutt’s ear and dropped it into a vat — okay it was a cup — of frigid vodka I’d poured from the bottle in the freezer.  (Okay, I poured it from one of 3 bottles in the freezer, but that’s not the point.)  The point is, I’m not 100% positive I got the entire head out, but I’m willing to let closer inspection wait until Justin gets home because right now I’m still trying to shake the feeling that I have ticks crawling up and down my back and maybe I should check in the mirror one more time and I’m not sure if I can ever drink out of that cup again and why the hell do they have to look like such scary little aliens???

Also, I’m not sure I should waste any more money on flea and tick medication, because if I still have to go through trauma like this, what is the point?

So.  Considering the fact that I’m lucky my dogs are even still alive at this point, I think actual motherhood might be out of the question.  Unless they start making kennels I can just put my baby in when I leave the house…

Wait, that’s not cool.  Not cool at all.

Which Came First — The Chicken, or the Beauty?

I envy women who don’t need to wear makeup.

I know… no woman needs to wear makeup.

If that was your immediate response, then you’re either: a) One of those women who doesn’t need to wear makeup, b) A feminist male.

The women I’m talking about are sometimes those with smooth, luminescent skin.  Big doe eyes that don’t need added enhancement.  Bone structure.  Defined eyebrows.  Long lashes.

The list goes on.

There isn’t any one particular physical feature that defines a pre-airbrushed woman — she just is.

Sometimes it might be something inside:  A predisposed confidence and ease with her appearance resulting from true physical beauty, lack of judgmental figures in her life, or never comparing herself to models in magazines.

Her outward beauty could be a direct reflection of that found within.

What’s more, she has emotionally accepted the fact that she’s going to age, and she does it with grace and style.

For her, laugh lines are transformed into endearing accessories.  Like earrings.

Unruly streaks of gray hair morph into a sophisticated highlight she never has to pay for.

Sporadic battle scars, moles, and birthmarks become trademarked, unique elements of mystique.

It’s hard to decipher which came first:  Is her apparent beauty an inner peace derived from knowing she’s physically beautiful, or is it, even more poetically, a physical symptom of her beautiful soul?

If it’s the latter, maybe we all have a shot.

Whatever it is, I envy them.

And, ironically, that envy separates me even further as the woman I am from the woman I strive to become.

So.

I think, from now on, I might start being a little nicer to myself.  Less critical.  Not for the sake of vanity, but in the name of compassion.  Because I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that’s where it all starts.

What do you think?

Taylor Swift Doesn’t Know What She’s Talking About

***UPDATE*** It has been brought to my attention by my good friend Leslie (huge country buff and friend to country singers everywhere), that the person I should be slamming in the title of this post is Miley Cyrus and NOT Taylor Swift. Since it’s a pain in the ass to change post titles once published and they’re all the same to me, I’m not going to change it. But since I love Leslie and don’t want to blame Taylor for Miley’s missteps, I will, for the record, stand corrected.

(But Taylor probably doesn’t know what she’s talking about either.)

I’ve been to a few beaches in my time.

It’s odd because as a teenager, I always thought I was more of a mountain girl.  That might have something to do with the fact that I primarily grew up in Nebraska, and it wasn’t unusual to take family trips to the magnificent Rockies where my sister and I would don knee-length shorts and flannel shirts tied around our waists (hey, it was the 90’s grunge era, and if I’m not mistaken, the plaid shirt thing is currently making a comeback, suckas!), and we’d hike the scenic trails of Estes Park, marveling at pristine mountain lakes from pointy vistas, trying desperately to comprehend sheer size and distance based on the veritable layers of mountains that faded off into a purple haze on the horizon.

Fortunately, for the most part, the mountains still have that effect on me.

But nothing — and I mean nothing — has ever made me feel smaller than the ocean.

Except maybe that senior who called me ugly during my freshman year of high school.

But while oceans have swallowed ships the size of small cities and an entire mountain range that, if its base were above sea level, would boast peaks higher than the Himalayas, all that senior managed to swallow was a drop of my 15-year-old self-esteem, which, by comparison, was much smaller.

So, considering the fact that I haven’t yet been to outer space, the ocean reigns supreme on my list of awe-inspiring things in terms of sheer vastness.

In this life, I’ve been lucky enough to dig sand dollars from the warm gulf surf off the cost of Georgia; scuba dive the reefs near St. Lucia’s black sand beaches, feeling the stunning shock of sea gnats while gazing at the limitless colors of coral and fish; view the North Pacific, with its cliffs of rock rising out from its frigid depths, as it feasted on the remnants of hundreds of sand castles along its beaches; witness the power of waves that looked like building-tall scoops of ice cream sprinkled with runaway surfboards as they tested human courage on the beauty of Oahu’s North Shore; watch cruise ships dump inconceivable amounts of pollution into the shockingly blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico; buy trinkets sold by colorful hippies and artists while absorbing the vibrancy of the beach known as Venice; frantically flee strange, floating jellyfish in the bathtub-warm waters of the Caribbean while learning how to scream through a snorkel; accept a proposal for marriage on a beach composed entirely of shells on the east coast of Florida; and accidentally lose track of the top of my bathing suit in a wave working its way towards the famous shore of Tamarindo Beach in Costa Rica.

Until I recently dipped my toes into the surprisingly June-cool waters of the Mediterranean, I was convinced I’d seen it all.

But that’s the beauty of the ocean.

No one has ever, ever seen it all.

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza City

Formentera

Formentera

Formentera

Formentera

You know that song that’s all, It’s not about what’s waiting on the other side… it’s the climb?  I think it’s by Taylor Swift.  Well.  As you can see, she was dead wrong.

The climb, which we did on bicycles, sucked.  But that thing that was waiting on the other side?

Pretty.  Damn.  Fantastic.

Formentera

So.  To answer the burning question I know everyone is wondering but is too afraid to ask:

Did I “lose” my top on the notorious nude beaches of Formentera?

Let’s just say that I never realized how utterly uncomfortable bikini tops are — until I experienced a world without one.

Photo by Becca Gard

See more Spain photos here, here, here, and here.