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Thank God I’m Not Alone

I think it’s high time I tell you that WordPress (the platform I use to write this blog) has a nifty little feature that allows me to see the search terms people use that lead them to Domestiphobia.

So, if someone types, “Domestiphobia” into his or her Google search box and then clicks on a link to my blog, the word “Domestiphobia” shows up on my little list of search terms.

And I have to say, while I’m sure there are many crazier/sillier/funnier search terms out there leading people to crazier/sillier/funnier blogs, I just have to share some of my favorites:

1.  “Can you use a paint key for beer?” Well.  I can only imagine this highly practical question led you to this extremely informative (yet completely unrelated) post about how to paint a room entitled, “Painting 101: Bring Your Own Beer.”

But, just in case you’re still floating around my site because you undoubtedly found it interesting regardless of the fact that it didn’t answer your question, I’m going to answer it for you, because I believe that the more you know, the better equipped you are to deal with the world.  Plus, it gives me an excuse to open (and therefore drink) a bottle of Guinness we have leftover from cooking the corned beef and cabbage on St. Patty’s Day at 3:30 in the afternoon:

For those of you who aren’t familiar, a paint key is a simple metal tool (you can usually get for free at most hardware stores) typically used to open paint cans, but yes.  Yes, you can use a paint key to open a non-twist off bottle of beer.  (I’m assuming that’s what you were asking.  Otherwise, I’m not sure how else you would “use” a paint key for beer.  And I’m not sure I’d want to know.)

Allow me to demonstrate.

This is a paint key and a bottle of beer:

Simply hold the key by the long, skinny end and use the 3 notches on the round end to pry off the top by sticking the two bottom notches underneath the bottle top and lifting in an upwards motion with your wrist.

*I’d highly recommend using 2 hands for this – one to hold the key and the other to hold the bottle.  The one-handed approach shown here is strictly for demonstration purposes.  You know, so I don’t drop the camera.  Or the beer.  At this point, I’m not sure which is more important.

I often find using a paint key is easier than the cheap-ass bottle opener I have on my key chain.   (Yes, I have a bottle opener on my key chain.  Stop judging me.)  Come to think of it, I might just go ahead and hook the paint key to my key chain.  That would make me look chic in a groovy, DIY chick sort of way, no?

Right.

And in case you were wondering, yes.  I really did open the bottle and am drinking as we speak.  As I type.  Whatever.  I can do this because I’m a stay at home writer.

At this point I see that I’ve now spent over 500 words on this post so far.  Huh.  I’m going to have to shorten these up a bit.

*Did you know that you, as internet readers, tend to have a fairly short attention span?

2.  “Does Breakfast of Champions on kindle have pictures?” This question would undoubtedly lead you to my post  entitled, “Is That A Vagina on your Kindle, or are You Just Happy to See Me?”

And in case you didn’t figure it out by reading the post, yes.  Yes it most definitely does.

3.  “Kindles make you look like a pussy.” That’s more of a statement than a question, and I’m not sure why you would search for this.  That said, my answer is, no.  Your face makes you look like a pussy, but my Kindle does not make me look like one.  It might occasionally make me look at one, but not like one.  If you need an explanation for that, see the post linked in #2 above.

4.  “Stick the thermometer up my ass mom and nurse.” Huh.  I’d really not rather address that one (I do try to keep this site on the PG-13 side, after all), but I’m guessing that when this search took you to my post called, “I’m Too Sexy for My Hep Shots,” you were sorely disappointed.

5.  “Sexy hep.” Yes, you actually searched for this.  I’m not sure why.  But it probably took you to the post linked in #4.  Hope it helped!

6.  “DIY Fandelier.” What??  I thought I made that word up!  So why are you searching for it?  And, more important, why would you ever, ever want to make one of these?

Fandelier

7.  “Kinky Wrinkly.” What?!  I don’t know.  Honestly.

8.  And finally, my favorite (to date): “Phobia of opening those Pillsbury crescent roll tubes.” So HA!  I’m not the only one.

Salmon Crescent Bundles - Crescent Rolls

How’s that for SEO?

Turn the Page

I’ve noticed lately that I spend a lot of time missing things.

Tonight, on my way home from work, it was just me, the road, and the bright blue moon.  The backs of my hands glowed as they rested on the steering wheel, and I wondered who forgot to turn the lights off Upstairs because it almost felt like day – a day devoid of color other than soft indigos and aquas, but still light, somehow.

I usually pass a few cars on this stretch, but tonight the highway was eerily desolate – as lonely as a highway gets at 2 in the morning.  The feeling of isolation didn’t get better when Seger’s Turn the Page came on the radio, I kid you not.

On a long and lonesome highway
East of Omaha [And I am east of Omaha.  Way east.]
You can listen to the engine
Moanin’ out his one note song…

And it suddenly occurred to me that, no matter how much I don’t like this town or am antsy to move on, I’m probably still going to miss this road one day.

Much like I miss roads I’ve hated before.

Nostalgia does wonders for sour memories.

This I know.

This road is amicable, loyal, and has never failed to take me where I need to go.  And even if I’m no longer here several years down the line, I’ll be damned if this road doesn’t stay almost just as I left it.  Running from my house, to the bar, and back again.

One day I’ll turn the page on this portion of my life.  But this road isn’t going to budge.

And that’s somewhat comforting to know.

Cracked cake batter sky – Not the same moon from tonight, but close.  I took this photo from my back deck in November, 2010.

So Happy Together

Imagine me and you
I do
I think about you day and night
It’s only right
To think about the [blog] you love
And hold her tight
So happy togetherrrrr…..

-The Turtles, “Happy Together”

Okay, was that awkward?

And has it really been a year today since I started this thing?

I can’t believe how much has changed since March 2010.  And I’m just going to say it – 2010 was a bitch of a year.  For me and many people I know, it seems like last year was like dangling bait – giving us some things we think we might want, only to snatch them away again.

And then, just when we think we’ve hooked ourselves a nice big walleye, all we come up with is a bunch of seaweed.

Twenty-ten can kiss my ass.  Because it certainly kicked it.

But good.

So let’s look at a few of the things that have changed since I started this blog.

By the end of: March 2010 March 2011
Age: 27 28
Employment: Army contractor working with GIS and Sustainability programs. Waitress.
Approx. Number of Times Hugged by Drunk People I Don’t Know: 5-10 5,782
Countries Lived In: 1 2
Fluent in Curse Words in Number of Languages: 2 3
Blog Posts Written: 9 212 (260 including my Costa Rica cohort, Erin)
Blog “hits”: 225 29,278
Average “hits” per day: 45 149
Hard Drives Destroyed: 0 2
Aspirations: Undefined We’re getting there.

Interesting.

You’d think by these comparisons – especially the job thing – that I’d be less happy this year than I was last year.  But not true!

(In case you weren’t around, I quit my job in order to go to Costa Rica and make hot sauce.  Feel free to read about that fun little adventure over in the Bon Voyage section of the site under “Living and Learning.”)

In any case, think it’s safe to say that I’ve been going through a bit of an identity crisis since I started this blog (and honestly, it started even before that).  Whether you recognized it or not, a big part of this thing has been working through who I am – the things I like – the things I don’t like – and just putting it out there to see what I (or anyone else) can make of it.

So if you’re new here, click around.  Explore.  Ask me questions.  I won’t bite.

much.

It’s crazy for me to look back through actual documentation of the things I’ve done.  It’s definitely not much, but for someone who has a terrible memory, probably because she went through that pot smoking phase during her senior year of high school (sorry mom!), it’s nice to see.  Nice to see I did something, you know?

For example, I did a lot of cooking (You can see all of the recipes in the “Down the Hatch” section under “Living and Learning“):

California Grilled Veggie Sandwich

California Grilled Veggie Sandwich

Chocolate Peanut Butter Cream Pie

Chocolate Peanut Butter Cream Pie

Portobello Shroomies with Creamy Scallop Topping

Spinach Salmon Bundles, Cube Steak Sandwich, Shrimp Asparagus & Sundried Tomato Pasta

Spinach Salmon Bundles; My Favorite Steak Sandwich; Shrimpy, Garlicy, Asparagusy Pasta with Wine

I also did quite a few projects that can be found in “Crafts and Decor” and “Making Messes” sections, both under “Around the House“:

Kitchen Cabinet Cork Board

Cabinet Cork Board

finished mirror

Sprucing up Thrifty Finds

Kitchen Layout Options

How to Plan a Functional Kitchen Layout

So there’s definitely been some progress.

And obviously some fall-backs.

But definitely some progress.

Because, even with the job quitting and the Costa Rica traveling and the hard drive crashing and the overall turmoil I’ve been choosing to throw at my otherwise placid existence, I’m seeing an improvement on my outlook.

Defining Domestiphobia has allowed me to see why I was feeling trapped in my 9-5.  Why I felt the need to do more.  Why I felt like change – BIG change – more than anything, was the best thing that could happen to me.

In the end, it turns out, if your heart really wants something, you can do one of 2 things:  Deny it, or accept it.  While denial seems like the simpler option – simpler than rocking your world, shaking things up, embracing uncertainty – I can almost promise you that it’s not.

Regret, suppressed passion, and lethargy are not generally things that will make you feel good in the end.

In the end.

In the end, all we have is our own sense of contentment.  Did we love?  Did we laugh?  Did we learn?  Did we come out of it scarred, broken, humbled… but satisfied?

The truth is, we might never find that thing that makes us feel truly complete.  But the excitement of the search – the discomfort of the unknown – is the fun part.

Don’t you think?

Here’s to another year of living and learning.  Sometimes crashing, sometimes burning.

But hopefully it will be worth the ride.

And P.S.

For those of you who didn’t believe me about the green underwear:

Oh, yes.  I just posted a picture of my panties on the internet.

God bless America.

Where Corned Beef, Facebook, Lingonberries and Wandering Desks Come to Play

I have several things to address here.

First and foremost, Happy St. Patrick’s Day! I love this holiday, because even though I’m not Irish, it gives me an excuse to wear green underwear (green is my favorite color – not that you really need an excuse to wear green underwear) and drink dark beer (also my favorite color) and eat corned beef and cabbage like it’s my business when any other time of year people just look at me weird for actually loving corned beef and cabbage and wanting to eat it by the plateful until my skin forms a lovely crinkled pie crust of an edge around the waistline of my pants and why are you judging me?!

Second, I finally caved to Mark Zuckerberg, who’s undoubtedly trying to take over the world, and created a Facebook Page for Domestiphobia. I also learned that until I cave again and either pay to self-host this site or pay WordPress for an upgrade to edit the code for this site, I can’t just add a simple “Like” button to the sidebar that you can click to like Domestiphobia on Facebook.

So, in the interim, feel free to click the little Facebook doohicky on the right side of the screen, which will take you to the Domestiphobia Facebook page where you can click “Like” if you want to stay connected to me via Facebook. Of course, you don’t have to do this, but I’m not sure why you wouldn’t want to do this.

The tentative plan is to add photos to that page that you might not see here on Domestiphobia.net (not because I don’t want to share, but because I might never actually get around to writing entire posts about them) and also allow each of you to post photos, questions, links – whatever you want – and maybe generate some discussion. Who knows?

If nothing else, it’s a great way for all of us to cyber stalk each other.

Third, I’m really excited because in a couple of weeks, Alaina and I will be day-trippin’ it to IKEA in Charlotte with the intention of outfitting our homes with the latest in ready-to-assemble Swedish decor. She thinks we’re going so I can buy some things for the office and she can find some items for her nursery, but we’re really going so I can indulge in delectable Swedish meatballs with lingonberry sauce served cafeteria-style.

I just hope the Tracker can handle all of our purchases on top of our growing bellies (hers from the baby – mine from the lingonberries).

And finally, this Saturday (March 19th) marks the 1 year anniversary for this blog. I know, I can’t believe it myself. I plan to share some interesting facts about the site and maybe recap a few of my favorite posts, so if you’re new here or haven’t been able to read everything I post every single time I post it (although again, I’m not sure why you wouldn’t do that), Saturday’s post will be a good one to catch.

And now, because it’s gorgeous outside and because I’m no longer stuck in a cubicle, I’m going to go in search of something that could potentially be used for the top of my jerry-rigged office desk. (And no, the one from Overstock hasn’t arrived yet. I’m actually a little envious of its cross country tour, which has so far made stops in Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, and is now finally taking the straight shot over to North Carolina.)

Just a little tip for today: If you see me flying down the road in the tracker with my body contorted around a piece of wood that you would think would be way too large to fit inside my vehicle, don’t ask questions. Just get out of my way.

Thank you.

What? Everyone Knows I’d Be a Great Mom

The other night my sister and I were watching the same television show at the same time.

I know this because she called me from her apartment in Miami and we proceeded to discuss important issues like why the brunette would be a better choice for the Bachelor but he was so obviously going to pick the blonde because he’s a douche and just look at her.

*I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I only watched 2 episodes of The Bachelor – the first and the last.  And that’s only because there wasn’t a new How I Met Your Mother.  And I obviously can’t do something productive during T.V. time.  Because it’s T.V. time.  Duh.

Anyway, I politely told my sister to shut up and hung up the phone because the show was back on.

A bit later, she called me again.

Kelly:  Hey, did you see that commercial?

Me:  Umm… what commercial?

Kelly:  The one with the mom and the kid and the Jell-0 cheesecake things.

Me:  You know I don’t watch commercials.

Justin:  [pretending to work on his computer but snickering obnoxiously]

Kelly:  Oh, well it reminded me of you.

Justin:  [louder snicker – still doesn’t make eye contact]

Me:  How so?

Kelly:  Because if you were a mom, I could totally see you doing what the mom in the commercial did to her kid.

Justin:  [busts out laughing]

Kelly:  See, this adorable little girl is standing in front of her parents, and her mom is telling her this awful story about how another little girl got trapped in some horrible dark cave with snakes and bogeymen and no cartoons.  And the daughter, who looks terribly frightened, is all, “But she got out, right mommy?” and the mom, in complete seriousness, goes, “No.  She was trapped there for 100 years. All by herself.  And that’s why you should never take mommy and daddy’s Strawberry Cheesecake Temptations.”

Me:  [silence]

Kelly:  And that is so YOU!

Me:  What?! [looking towards Justin to gain a sense of camaraderie, but to no avail]

Justin:  [smiling]  You know you would.

And I hate to admit it, but it’s true.

It’s probably why my neighbors rarely ask me to babysit and why, when my sister does have a baby, she’ll be hesitant to ever let me near it.  Especially if “it” is a girl.

It would be like this cartoon from my favorite comic blog, Fudge That Sugar, so aptly explains:

Comic #17 by Kat at FudgeThatSugar.wordpress.com.

See, I would definitely be Kat in this scenario.  In fact, I probably have been Kat in this scenario.  I have very few qualms about telling it like it is.  Especially to children.

They need to learn, right?

I mean, really… what’s so wrong with letting my daughter think something bad will happen to her if she eats my food?  It’s MY food.  There’s a reason they make children so gullible.  Totally acceptable parenting, if you ask me.

Which you didn’t.

And now we all know why.

How to Remember the World is Big while Riding the Small World Ride

It’s not all too often that you find out someone you know is doing something truly, mind-blowingly admirable in his or her life.

And I’m not talking about having all the Christmas shopping done by Halloween or filing taxes by the end of February.

I’m talking about something remarkable.  Something challenging.  Something that would push you to the brink of your limits so quickly that you would never even toy with the notion of doing it yourself.

In fact, it makes you uncomfortable just reading about it.

I have a friend, and his name is David.  Actually, I’m not positive I can call him a “friend” as opposed to just an acquaintance since we don’t talk very often, but he keeps popping into my life at random, unexpected times, and the sheer happenstance of one such occurrence makes me want to refer to him as “friend.”

He lived in my tight-knit dorm during my freshman year at college in Ohio.  In fact, he was probably one of the evacuees during the Great Metal-in-the-Microwave Debacle.  After I quit school to take my western America  road trip, we pretty much lost touch.

Fast forward a couple of years to the time I was living in a small off-the-interstate town in south Georgia, of all places.  I mean, it literally was the place where people stopped to get something to eat on their way to Florida.  I know this because I brought them their steak and their peanuts and sang, Fried chicken, country hog, it’s your birthday – yeehaw! to them on their birthdays and swept up their peanut shells long after they left for the mystical land of Orlando to don Mickey Mouse ears and ride the Small World ride (undoubtedly getting the song stuck in their heads for days) and have far more interesting characters sing them far more traditional birthday songs than the one I got paid $2.13 an hour to sing.

But, if you’re lucky and I really like you, I’ll sing it to you on your birthday for free.

So anyway, I was at the “mall” in this south Georgia town with a friend one day when she dragged me into the Hallmark store (Rachel is a Hallmark addict and I love her for it) so she could pick up some new cards.  And there, perusing the shelves as though he had some business being at the Hallmark store in Middle-of-Nowhere Georgia, was David!

“David?!  What the hell are you doing in Georgia??”  I have a really warm way of welcoming people back into my life.

It turns out he was there to teach, and it’s a crazy small world, and blah blah blah, and yes, we should definitely get together for coffee and here’s my number so we can catch up and let’s be sure to not speak to each other again until I move to North Carolina and you move to Texas and we find each other via mutual friendships on Facebook.  Okay?

Okay.

And it’s via Facebook that I recently learned David is doing this truly incredible, inspiring thing in his life.

Are you ready for it?

Okay, here it is:

He’s walking the Appalachian Trail.  All ~2,200 miles of it.

Now, if you don’t know what that is or how big that is or what that means as far as sheer impressive distance, it’s this:

From the state of Georgia to the state of Maine.

That’s 14 states.

And he’s walking.

Across ridgelines and over mountains and through rivers and facing snow and rain and heat and mosquitos and bears and carrying everything he needs on his back like a turtle except he’s not a turtle – he’s a person – and he’s really doing this.  Alone.

For 5 months.

Nearly half a year of his life will be devoted to this thing.

You can read about David’s journey here on his blog, and I highly encourage you to do so because people just don’t do this every day, you know.  Sure, some people hop on the trail here and there and call themselves accomplished, but the thru-hikers are a special crowd.  You could read A Walk in the Woods by renowned travel writer Bill Bryson for a comical glimpse of what this entails, but even ol’ Billy didn’t do the whole thing.  Not even close.

Seriously?  How blown is your mind right now?  Because mine’s pretty blown.

And I hope he doesn’t mind that I’m writing this because he didn’t know I was going to do it.  But that’s what he gets for friending me on Facebook.

And I don’t care how small we sometimes think the world might be with our cars and trains and planes and phones and internet and everyone staying connected all the time because, when you’re walking across it, experiencing the grime on your face and the blisters on your feet, you just might finally come to realize that it’s not really as small as you’d thought.  It’s really not small at all.

Love the Girl Who Holds the World in a Paper Cup

Drink it up.

You know, I really don’t know much of anything.

What I do know is that sometimes I feel so lost, so clumsy, stumbling around like some idiot in the dark when the light switch is right in front of my face and there are so many paths I could take and there’s no one standing around with a map or directions telling me, Here – take this road.  And then I just get overwhelmed with indecision and sit in the middle of the intersection to pout until I get run over by an 18-wheeler.

But does anyone ever not feel that way?  (If you don’t, please don’t tell me.)

What I do know is that I probably shouldn’t attempt to write blog posts at two in the morning when I’m a) buzzing from a busy night of waiting tables, b) tipsy from a glass of Jack and coke, c) drunk off of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and cold, cold milk (thanks to a very special person whose underwear I happen to clean), or d) all of the above.

What I do know is that many of my days currently revolve around food.  Whether I’m planning it, cooking it, serving it, or eating it, I’m starting to feel like food is consuming my life.  And really – shouldn’t it be the other way around?

(Don’t worry.  I’m not sure what that means, either.)

What I do know is I have two of the cutest dogs that have ever walked the face of this planet and they’re so, so lucky because if they weren’t, I might have had a harder time getting over the fact that they destroyed my calla lilies today.

What I do know is that a girl at the bar totally made my night tonight when she walked up to me, slipped me a $20, and said, I’ve been a waitress before.  I know how it is.  You’ve been awesome.  I know my boyfriend’s a handful.

Her words made me feel really great.

And also a little slutty.

What I do know is that I can’t keep trying to measure my accomplishments (or lack thereof) against other people my age.  Because, the thing is, who am I to put a weight on accomplishments?  Education, income, career, lifestyle… they might all affect how “accomplished” an individual feels, but happiness – in my humble little opinion – is the only true measure of success.

And I’m talking about genuine happiness.  Not just the face you put on at the class reunion.

What I do know is that Catherine is a “blog friend” over on Simply Solo.  Her father, who must be the wisest man on the planet, expelled to her these words of wisdom while she was in the throes of a quarter life crisis: “We’re all lost, Catherine. Don’t you think I’m lost? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

What I do know is that I don’t know what I’m doing.  Not in the slightest.

But then, if it’s true that most of us really are lost, then neither do you.

And that makes me feel just a little bit better.

*Title from Danny’s Song, by Kenny Loggins.

No More the Meek and Mild Subservients, We!

When one of my old college roommates (and good friend) Marisa (I might have mentioned her yesterday) wrote me a couple of days ago insisting that I simply “must blog for International Women’s Day on the 8th of March or it will be a crime! A crime!” my response was obvious:

Me:  What is that?

Mari:  International Women’s Day. Tomorrow 8th March.

Me:  That was very helpful.  Thank you.

Okay, maybe that’s not quite what I said.  But you get the idea.

(I feel it’s important to note that while Marisa thinks she only gave me one day notice, she actually gave me a day and a half.  She’s currently living in Australia, which makes her inadvertently more considerate than she originally intended. )

She wrote me back and explained that today, the 8th of March, is the 100 year anniversary of International Women’s Day (IWD) and that I should write a blog post and link it to a website commemorating the occasion.  Unfortunately, I tried to become a “member” of said website and still haven’t received approval.

Story of my life.

But I figured that just because I haven’t been accepted as a member of a prestigious Australian site for young professionals, it doesn’t mean I can’t post something for IWD.

I thought of the many things about which I could write:

  • Hot topic women’s political issues
  • Gender inequalities in the work place
  • Menstrual cramps
  • Women in abusive relationships
  • Tampons
  • Sex slave industry
  • Etc.

Then I realized that these issues have been tackled ad nauseam, by people far more qualified to tackle them than me.  Furthermore, I really don’t want to isolate my male readers.

As Marisa pointed out in her extremely insightful article (if she sends me a non-Facebook link I will post it here), it’s difficult to write or talk about women’s issues without inadvertently (or intentionally, for that matter) blaming them on men.

Hell, even the phrase MENstrual cramps has a certain accusatory tone.

Know what I mean?

And the second I start sounding accusing, the men will start getting defensive, and then no one will really learn anything at all, will they?

And that’s not what IWD is about.  It’s not about “chicks before dicks” – It’s about “chicks WITH dicks!”

Wait.  That’s obviously not right.

But my point is that it shouldn’t be about the typical blame games and anger that have become associated with the word feminism.  It should be about the beauty of women and men, and how a better understanding of and respect for each other could make us all much happier people.

So, I’m going to use this as an opportunity to celebrate just one of the effervescent, brilliant, worldly women in my life (and I’m lucky to have many).

And, I hope that you, all of the women and men who read Domestiphobia, will take some time today to appreciate the women you love or have loved, the women who’ve made you think, the women who’ve brought you joy, and even the women who’ve brought you pain.  Because, in the end, none of us would be the same without them.

Marisa Wikramanayake, thank you sincerely for being a role model for women internationally.  You are a prolific writer, incredibly intelligent, inexplicably fearless, and just as beautiful outwardly as you are inside.

Oh, and I’m sorry I almost burned down the dorm with your metal pot.

*Post title taken from the song, “Sister Suffragette” from the movie, Mary Poppins

Why So Serious?

I am bored.  I am so bored right now, that I’m thinking about climbing over the railing of the loft area here in the coffee shop and balancing on one of the beams that crosses the loungy room below, just to see what happens.

I felt the need to leave the house because Justin is working nights this week, which means I’m supposed to somehow find it within myself to remain eerily quiet while he sleeps throughout the day, which – let’s face it – doesn’t come naturally to someone like me.

Yep, I’m one of those people.

I’m one of those people who doesn’t generally get invited to formal events or fancy work dinner parties because I believe using things like “inside voices” and “refinement” and “muted chuckles” as opposed to boisterous enthusiasm and inappropriate comments and uncontrollable laughter is for pussies fictional characters.

It’s fake.

Unless you’re at a funeral, or something.

But if it were my funeral, I hope you’d laugh.  Most likely because I would’ve died trying to walk the second-story balance beam at my local coffee shop.

Now wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

But you know, the older I get, I’m realizing that the idea of “embarrassment” is really only a state of mind.  And I can say that because I’ve done plenty of embarrassing things.  Like this.  And this.  Oh yeah, and this.

And I’m really not afraid to share those stories, because, you know, they happened. And I can choose to curl myself up into a little ball or worry and regret and wait for people to stop looking at me, or I can just say, So?  What are you gonna do about it? And I hope the answer is laugh, or at least learn, because otherwise I just completely wasted a really good embarrassing story on you and your dry sense of humor.

I will admit that I’m not completely immune, however.  There are some events that have been so ridiculously mortifying that my mind has done everything in its power to repress memories that would serve no purpose but to form an imprengable mental wall of blushing shame.  Events that, when someone unexpectedly brings them up, I can actually feel my throat dry out and heart stop beating – but it only stops for a second, because the relief of dying in the moment of reliving that embarrassment would be only too kind.

My friend and former college roommate Marissa was nice enough to remind me of one of those moments the other day when, as an introduction to her response to this game of internet tag, decided to say this in reference to me:

This is the woman who borrowed my metal pot to make popcorn in and put in the microwave thereby setting the alarm off and directing the wrath of our dormmates and fire brigade at me.

Okay.  Whoah.  First of all, Marissa – low blow.

Second, I was making Ramen noodles – not popcorn.

Third, I’m pretty sure the wrath (which wasn’t really wrath, but mild irritation, disbelief, and intense laughter) was most definitely directed at me, not you.

But no, I’m not really mad.  Everything else Marisa said was completely complimentary.  And you know, sometimes it’s good to be reminded of these things.  Humbling, even.

In my defense, I have been nothing but honest in saying that I didn’t start learning to cook until around 2006 – well after the metal-in-the-microwave incident.  The incident that, much to my horror, forced all of our dorm mates (thank god there were only like 23 rooms in our dorm) to pile out onto the grassy lawn in their pajamas because I had a hankering for some thirty-nine cent beef-flavored goodness.

What can I say?  I thought that the pot (the cooking pot, not the other kind – though wouldn’t it be nice if I could blame that?) was a shortcut.  A means to and end of my hunger.

Turns out it was a means to meeting one of the hotest guys on the campus fire department.

I only wish the circumstances had been a little better.  Like… you know… I hadn’t just almost burned down the dorm.

But, like any other embarrassing moment, there’s a lesson to be learned:

Kids, don’t put metal in the microwave.  And, if you do, make sure you at least look cute when the firemen show up.

Thank you.

So raise your glass if you are wrong
In all the right ways
All my underdogs
We will never be never be
Anything but loud, and nitty gritty
Dirty little freaks!

Do you have an embarrassing story to share?  Let it out!  It can be therapeutic.