Keeping a diary has never been my thing.
The whole, “Dear Diary, today I saw Jimmy. He’s really cute. I think he’s going to ask me out soon,” thing has never been my style.
Then again, Jimmy was never going to ask me out. He wore a pocket chain, had frosted tips, and he listened to Simple Plan. He was a 7th grade God.
I mean, now he has a criminal record, and I caught him stealing my $400 camera off of the counter at the convenient store, while I was buying sunscreen, but that’s entirely beside the point.
Keeping a journal always sounded a little cooler than a diary. It didn’t seem to require any type of introduction. It seemed deeper, more personal, and more intimate. I can admit to keeping a journal. Actually, I can admit to keeping at least 10 journals over the last 24 years of my life. I can’t honestly say I finished any of them, but isn’t that the point of journals? It isn’t about a start, or a finish. It’s about expressing your feelings, kneading through them in the privacy of your very own binding. Taking them apart and reassembling them like a Lego masterpiece.
That is slightly inaccurate. I never followed the directions on the Lego kits, which is probably why my parents never bought them for me. Now before you go all, “Oh no you DIDN’T, Legos were the bomb dot com” on me, I’m not bashing Lego. I’m just saying that instead of building the Lego Forest Police Station, (is that actually a THING?) I preferred to build…a really tall tower.
My favorite part of this, is that on the Barnes & Noble website, the description reads: Spot the robbers hiding the stolen goods behind a rock!
…Dumb criminals, everyone knows the big tree is where you’re supposed to hide your stolen goods!
What I’m trying to say, is that in a journal, I could take apart and reassemble my feelings, until I had them just right. Diary sounded too pretty, too polished, too clean. I needed something messy. I needed room to scratch things out, and the freedom to shamelessly tear pages away.
A journal sounds forgiving.
Like…Hey I don’t think you’re a bad person for writing this. Get it all out. We’re still tight.
Thanks, Journal. High five.
Blogging has always been in its own category, a category I was sure I wanted no part of. Blog? What is that? Is that even a word? It sounds like a disease.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry I have to be the one to inform you, but you’ve caught a bad case of the blog…”
Am I right? Of course I am. As far as I understood, the blogosphere was a place for people who had similar interests to connect. For example, sometimes blogging connections are made like so:
-Oh, you like to cook? I like to cook! Let’s be buds.
-Oh, you like to crochet? So do I! Will you accept this crocheted hat as a symbol of my bloggitude?
-You’re married, had the most amazing wedding of all time, and have three BEATIFUL children? Me too! My kids are cuter. Let’s be frenemies.
What the heck was I supposed to do in the blogging world? Where would I fit in?
-Oh, the squirrels are trying to steal YOUR crock pot? Me too!
-Oh, you creepily people watch at coffee shops and then write about them against their will? SO DO I!
-Wait, HOLD UP! You’re still trying to figure out how to Dougie? I heard all you need is a beat that’s super bumpin. Besties!
Not having a niche deterred me from blogging for a very long time. I briefly recovered from this fear while I was living abroad. I settled for keeping a travel blog…aaaand then I came home. Game over.
While sitting in a local coffee shop (coffee addicts, UNITE), one January day two months ago, I dove into the deep end and decided I was going to give this whole blogging thing another try. I have to say, so far it’s been a pretty wild ride. Lately, a lot of people have been asking me what kind of blog I write.
Usually I stick with “humorous self deprecation.” Somehow describing it as: “…Something about squirrels breaking into my apartment, being terrible at make up, and overcoming my importunate phobia of all things sharky” doesn’t sound very official.
I still don’t have a clique that I fit into. It’s like having lunch tray anxiety in the middle of a busy college cafeteria. You know your friends are somewhere, there is a whole sea of friendly faces, but you’re just not sure where you’re friends are, or where you are supposed to sit. Worst case scenario, just stand by the waffle machine.
You can’t go wrong with the waffle machine.
Tag Archives: humor
Dog in Purse Guy And The Sixth Backstreet Boy
I’ve expressed my love of coffee several times on this blog, to the point where you MAY be thinking I take it intravenously. There is one thing I love even more than coffee shops, and that’s the people inside coffee shops.
Contrary to popular opinion, I consider myself to be quite normal in many ways. I work full time, I exercise, I go grocery shopping, I shower, etc.
Disclaimer – Please don’t take the things I’ve stated to be the only bar for normal. If you don’t work full time (being a mother counts as a full time job), don’t grocery shop, hate exercise, and don’t shower, no worries I’m not here to judge. I’m JUST saying, that there are many universal things I do on a daily basis.
I’m fully aware that there are things I do that are not normal. I eat honey mustard sauce on my nachos, I get weird about other people sitting at my desk, and we all know about my shark phobia. Let’s get past it.
HOWEVER, coffee shops have their own patented blend of wacky. It’s amazing. I came into this coffee shop to write a completely different blog post, which I am now going to have to put on hold, because I’ve decided to write about complete strangers.
There’s the guy who always comes in with his dog…in a purse. HOLD ON! WAIT. First of all, there is a guy who always comes in wearing a purse. That, in itself, deserves honorable mention. What’s even more remarkable is that he always has his wiener dog inside the purse. There is a please leave your dogs outside sign on the door of the coffee shop, and he completely green lights this sign, every time. I’m not sure if he thinks that nobody can SEE the dog, because it’s a wiener dog, and maybe wiener dogs have an invisibility factor when entering coffee shops. I’m totally a dog person, and I have no aversions to dogs coming into coffee shops, but Dude, I can totally see your invisible dog. Time for a new invisibility cloak.
Then there is Short Shorts Guy. This is pretty self explanatory. It might not seem very glamorous that he wears shorts, but here’s the catch, he wears shorts ALL THE TIME. We live in New England, where one minute it can feel warm and sunny and the next minute we’re in a state of emergency, and the snot in our nostrils is frozen. If you’ve ever lived in New England, don’t even pretend to be grossed out by that statement, as if that hasn’t happened to you. Short Shorts Guy comes in, fresh from the blizzard, wearing his short shorts like there isn’t 85 inches of snow on the ground.
There is fedora man, who has a fedora that matches every outfit. You know how some people have underwear that has the days of the week on them? Well, I’d like to think he has the fedora for every day of the week. Last week he came in wearing a khaki suit and a khaki colored fedora with a tan feather in it. I’ve seen him with a red polo and a red fedora. This is amazing, he actually just walked in, and today he is wearing a light blue track suit with a light blue fedora. I imagine him to be the equivalent of one of the Backstreet Boys at age 60. Baby blue suit, matching fedora, quit playing games with my heart.
BACKSTREET'S BACK!
The book club makes an appearance at least once a month, and I have to remember to sit nowhere near them, because 90% of the time they are discussing a book that I want to read, but don’t want to have read to me. I’m not a fan of spoilers. At work one day, a student almost told me the ending to the third book of The Hunger Games, and I asked him to stop. He kept trying to tell me the ending, and it resulted in me telling him that I would send him to the principal’s office if he revealed the last three pages to me. I’m a hard core teacher. I keep the kiddies in line. On second thought, if I caught the book club on a night where they were discussing The Hunger Games, I’d probably pull up a chair, uninvited.
There are the yogis, who come in from yoga, sweaty, and freshly shavasanaed. I’m slightly jealous of these people, because somehow they manage to still look presentable after being in a 500 degree yoga class for an hour and a half. After yoga, I usually look like somebody cruelly pointed a high pressure water hose on a standard issue fire truck at me. Oh? You want me to invert and do what pose now? I don’t think I can balance on my head, do an upside down split, and grab both of my big toes. Sorry, teach. Now let’s go get some coffee.
Then there’s the girl who usually orders a chai. She sits in the window seat hunched over her laptop, demonstrating horrible posture. Once in a while, she accidentally yanks her headphones out of her laptop while her music is loudly playing, (that actually just happened). She awkwardly looks around, makes uncomfortable eye contact when people catch her staring at them, and then she writes about these people against their will.
I’m sure someone in this coffee shop is probably writing about her as well.
When Squirrels Attack
About a month ago, you all might remember when I wrote about the dinosaur/shark/bear living under my sink.
It kept Blake and I up until the wee hours of the morning, rattling beneath our hideous, yellow, vinyl flooring. At one point I was convinced that a burglar was breaking into our apartment to steal our brand new crock pot.
Confession: Our crock pot is probably my favorite thing in our apartment. Blake and I don’t really own anything valuable, with the exception of our camera. By now you know that the Nikon is permanently attached to my hand, and anyone trying to steal it would suffer irreparable consequences. It’s probably a shock that Blake wants to live with me, because we have a normal size television, and no video games. It’s our first apartment together, and most of our money goes into transportation, bills, and food. So unless a burglar is breaking into our apartment to steal my chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, there really isn’t anything of interest in our living space. (Go ahead burglar, I dare you. I have red lasers and traps set up all around my refrigerator, and you WILL be hanging by your thieving ankles if you put your grubby paws on my ice cream). We are one of those couples you hate, who would grab our box of sentimental mementos if there was a fire. Actually, Blake would probably grab his DVD collection. Other than the camera, I don’t even know what I would grab. Underwear? That’s always good to have right?
Back to the issue.
Judging my impeccable sense of hearing, and my keen eye for animal foot prints, it was most likely not a burglar, shark, dinosaur, or a bear. It was a squirrel…but how did it get there? Upon further investigation, we realized the bloody thing found its way into our floor boards by gnawing its way through the wooden garage door. That’s right, the little chompasaurus chewed off the bottom four inches on each end of the garage door, just enough for him and his little squirrely friends to squeeze through. Construction on the bottom of the garage door and two huge cinderblocks later, we had successfully prevented our intruders from entering the garage and nesting below our kitchen sink.
Fast forward six weeks.
Blake was in the bedroom last night getting ready to turn in for the night, and I was online shopping because I hate the mall checking my email. All of a sudden, we heard it. The beast was back. The scratching, chewing, nibbling noises started, but we couldn’t figure out where. After hushing each other approximately 10 times, and communicating with some seriously eccentric hand gestures, we realized the noises were coming from…no…wait…that couldn’t be right…
THE NOISES WERE COMING FROM THE DOOR!
It was at this point that the possibility of a burglar trying to steal my cookie dough ice cream didn’t seem ludicrous. I was convinced that somebody was at our door. That, or I’ve watched WAY too many episodes of NCIS. Special Agent Gibbs (AKA Blake) tip toed over to the door, and after close inspection, we found this:
Seriously?
Yes, SERIOUSLY!
Your eyes are not playing tricks on you.
The squirrel is trying to chew his way into our bedroom.
Awesome.
Selachophobia: An abnormal and persistent fear of sharks.
I really dislike sharks.
I think I just heard people attempting to bust open my door with a chopped down tree trunk, while simultaneously trying to light my apartment on fire with torches.
Beauty And The Beast style
WHAT? She doesn't like sharks? BURN DOWN HER HOUSE!
I don’t understand the whole shark fetish. Shark week is the least cool week of the entire year. In fact, I don’t even turn on my television during shark week. Why would I ever want to take time out of my life, to sit down in front of the television, just to watch a fifteen foot long beast rip a seal, human, or boat to shreds? I would rather watch paranormal activity alone in a dark room. I realize that I spent a great deal of time in Australia, which is the sharkiest area in the world, but I did a pretty good job of staying away from them while I was there.
If you’ve been following my blog, you already know that I am apprehensive and opposing of any animal trying to kill me.
This includes, but is not limited to:
-Sharks
-Dinosaurs
-Spiders the size of army tanks
-The time I had a dream that my dog was walking on two legs holding a shot gun
-The aliens from War of the Worlds
Sharks freak me out.
When I was six, my mom and I went on a camping trip, except, we weren’t REALLY camping. We stayed in a cabin with running water and a toilet. I suppose it was camping because we were in the mountains, and at night, we huddled around the fire pit and roasted marsh mellows? I don’t know. There were no tents, but there WAS a television.
One morning, I turned on the television, hoping to catch the latest episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Much to my surprise, a grown up movie was on! My mom was getting ready in the bathroom, and if you know my mom, you know that her morning routine allows time for six episodes of T.M.N.T. I began watching the grown up movie, which seemed like a fairly reasonable movie about nude grownups on a beach, sitting around a fire, and jumping into the ocean, (a perfectly suitable movie for a six year old)…Until I saw it—the monstrosity under water, thrashing a naked woman around like a dog with a chew toy. The water turned crimson as her limp, lifeless body floated on top of the ocean. All of the color drained from my face as I began screaming at the top of my lungs.
That is where my ludicrous aversion to sharks began.
The family trip to Universal Studios happened around age 15. I had been on all of the rides, some of them twice. I let King Kong rattle my cage. I stood fearlessly in center of a twister, as cows and bales of hay flew past me. I even took a trip back to the future. All of the rides seemed new and exciting…All but one, Jaws.
Approaching the fake large shark, next to the ride, hanging upside-down by its tail was too much for me. I did not want to stand next to the big fake shark, nor did I want to take a picture with my head inside the shark’s mouth for a novelty photo. I kept picturing the shark somehow falling free of the thick rope holding it to the wooden frame. I could see the possibility of it all happening, the fake shark would plunge toward me, mouth open, swallowing me whole.
But the ride? FORGET IT.
Whoever thought of a Jaws ride should be put on an island surrounded by sharks.
I’ve used this phrase multiple times throughout my life, to express my distaste for a particular group of people, who engage in behavior that I find offensive.
i.e. “People who drive in the passing lane, and go 40, should be put on an island surrounded by sharks.”
My family realized that the Jaws ride was the only ride we had not been on. Tauntingly, my loving father nudged me toward the ride.
“Hey Carley, ready to go on the Jaws ride?”
“No Dad.”
“We’re going!”
“No we’re not.”
“Yes we are!”
“I’m not going on that ride.”
I was about to suggest putting my entire family on an island surrounded by sharks, until Dad bribed me with five dollars.
I then used the five dollars to try and buy myself a new family when the ride was over.
Is my hipster shark less intimidating? No? I didn’t think so either.
Do you think the photographer who decided getting this close to a shark was a good idea, would be interested in sharing photo credit because my paint skills are so sweet?
No? I didn’t think so either.
[photo source]
5 Fads I Can Get Down With
I’ve never owned a bump it.
Fact.
The closest I’ve come to “bump it”, is driving in my flashy 2002 Ford Escort listening to old school hip hop. I may have uttered the phrase “bump it” once or twice in my lifetime. An example of this is when The Cupid Shuffle comes on my iPod and, I might say something along the lines of: “This is my Jam! Bump it!”
As far as owning an actual, real life, bump it? Never.
“I don’t even understand what a bump it is!” You might say.
Here, let me assist you.
Aside from the wildly catchy…ahem…theme song, you can see that the bump it is a fad, possibly induced from the show, Jersey Shore. It is meant to bump your hair up, giving you egg shaped extra volume. I’m just as guilty of listening to the B-52’s as the next girl, because a little “Rock Lobster” and “Love Shack” never hurt anybody, but I’m not about to sport a beehive. I’ve always liked being able to walk into my apartment without wedging my hair in the doorframe.
Fads are an interesting part of our culture. One minute you’re watching tv, and the next minute a commercial comes on advertising the latest fad – a bra that also serves as a flashlight, because who doesn’t’ need headlights for undergarments? However, I am guilty of a few past fads of the late 80’s through the 90’s, and if you’re around my age, I’m hoping you are also guilty of taking part in a few of these guiltless fads.
Fad #1 – The Skip It
Jump roping stopped being cool for a while when Tiger Toys came out with the Skip It. Why jump over a rope when you can cuff your ankle into a protruding cable with a ball on the end? The song didn’t lie either, “the very best thing of all, there’s a counter on this ball!” It was all fun and games in the play ground, skipping and counting along with your girlfriends, until somebody couldn’t jump fast enough. Skinning your knees on the black top was a sure way to land yourself in the nurse’s office, effectively making you late for snack time. If there was a chance the nurse had rainbow bright band-aids, it was all worth it.
Skip faster than the speed of light!
Fad #2 Tamagotchi
After killing (and crying over) approximately ten fish, my parents pulled the plug. Apparently fish flushing funerals aren’t how my parents wanted to spend their mornings before work, and apparently fish eating too much fish food isn’t comparable to a seven year old eating too much ice cream. The end result of too much ice cream was a belly ache, but the end result of too much fish food was death. The solution – A virtual pet with a restart button. Genius.
Fad #3 Neon clothing – My fashion sense in kindergarten was on point. Everything was neon. My tube socks were neon, my leggings were neon, and even my scrunchies were neon. At six years old I looked like I was heading off to either teach an aerobics class, or to my first college black light party. While I know my mother would like to take credit, because technically she bought my clothes, the pleading, whiny child in the mall was probably attracting more attention that she would have liked. Mom caved. This all could have been solved if Gap Kids would have accepted my trade bargain of one strawberry ring pop for one article of clothing. Suckers.
Do you have it in Lisa Frank? I'LL TAKE IT!
Fad #4 Gel Pens
Before Facebook determined the true validity of a relationship, there were gel pens. Nothing says everlasting love like “I heart bobby” all over your folders, notebooks, and hands in pink and purple gel pen. I owned hundreds of them. I even had that all black notebook that you would write on with the gel pens. This was way before Jay-Z said that all black everything was cool, I should get credit for that. During middle school science and math (the two classes I hated the most), we would all slip gel pen notes to each other between the cracks of our desks. “Jenny told me that Sarah talked to Ben, and HE SAID that Bobby said he wants to be your boyfriend.” From there it was simple, check yes or no.
Use your gel pens to write on your, "black paper, black notebook, all black everything!" -You're welcome Jay-Z
Fad #5 Roll On Glitter
Bath and Body Works was a roll on glitter gold mine. Roll on glitter was appealing because you had free range to apply however much you wanted. If you wanted a more toned down daytime look, all you had to do was roll the stick once over your eyelids and you were ready for your play date at the mall. However, if you fancied your eye lids to look the flashing side of a disco ball, you could apply, let dry, and reapply again for a real evening look at the school dance. Seriously, apply, let dry, reapply, and you would have been the center star of that awkward circle you know you and your friends danced in whenever “I Want It That Way” came on.
Can you see your reflection in my body glitter?
I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before more wild fads sweep the nation. Until then, I’m going to be wearing lime green leggings, applying my roll on glitter, while feeding my Tamagotchi, with I heart Ryan Gosling on my hand in pink gel pen, during the most epic game of skip it you’ve ever seen.
But I will never own a Bump It.
What are some fads that YOU guys and girls participated in? I am especially interested to hear the male perspective! Did you bleach your tips? Did you play pokemon? Watch Power Rangers? I call the red Power Ranger!
Make-up Melodrama: Avoiding Looking Like The The Joker In Everyday Life
Recently, I read an article that startled me a little bit. A UK fashion website posted findings from a survey conducted which stated, “More than a third of 3,000 polled were convinced their other half would not have been attracted to them had they not been wearing make-up when they met” (Daily Mail). That worries me. Have we, the female population, become so transfixed with powders and creams that we can’t conceive another falling in love with us without them? If I had been more concerned with make up when I entered dates, perhaps I wouldn’t have jammed my debit card into the ATM machine the wrong way, or walked into a clear sliding glass door at a gas station. Or dropped a large iced coffee in a guy’s backpack in college. True stories.
Hey, I never said I was smooth.
I am bad at make-up. A week ago one of my friends mentioned that the reason people always mistake me for a fifteen year old, AND the reason a referee at a volleyball game didn’t believe that I was the COACH, is probably because I don’t wear make-up.
Here are a few recent examples of such encounters:
“Oh are you a new student?” -7th grader
(That’s always what you want to hear while you’re teaching.)
Ref: “You’re not allowed to be on the court during warm ups unless you’re fully uniformed”
Me: “I’m the coach.”
Ref: “A little young don’t you think? How old are you?”
Me: “Old enough.” *grumble, grumble, grumble…*
(And THAT’S always what you want to hear while you’re coaching.)
My best friend, M (the ballerina), is awesome at make-up. If you recall from a previous post, she was the Sugar Plum Fairy in a performance of The Nutcracker this year. She was also Black Swan for Halloween, and her make-up was super accurate and totally stage ready. Maybe this comes from being on stage and learning tricks of the trade.
Whatever.
I never learned them.
M can do that eye swoopy thing with liquid eyeliner.
She can contour with blush so it looks like she has stellar cheekbones.
She can achieve the smokey look, blindfolded.
If I try to do any of that with full vision, it LOOKS like I did it blindfolded.
So I’m bad at make-up, and my hair is usually messy, and I GUESS I’m kind of clumsy. But hey, if you need any tips on how to look like the joker, THAT look I CAN achieve. I was The Joker for Halloween, and I terrified some little old lady walking her dog. It was Epic. The next morning, I forgot that my hair was still green and went to class with a green pony tail. Rocked it. At least my professor didn’t mistake me for one of the children at the university daycare and dismiss me back to the playground.
Note: That's not a gang sign, I swear. Just playing the part...being scary? Not sure.
I think my ambivalence to make-up stems from my childhood. My mom had a, no make-up until you’re a teenager, rule. I turned thirteen in eighth grade. Score! That meant that I could take my butterfly clips, and my gel pens, and join my friends in wearing glittery bright blue eye shadow and bubblegum pink lip gloss, right? Wrong. This rule then turned into, no make-up until you’re in high school. By the time high school rolled around, as if it wasn’t already an awkward enough period in my life, I just gave up. I assumed this would eventually become a, no make-up until you’re dead, rule. Pick your battles. I became wrapped up in sports and there is really no room for eyeliner and mascara on the basketball court.
Fast forward to present day and I’m being mistaken for a middle school student. It’s a vicious cycle. You might catch me with make-up on at a special occasion. It’s like catching a leprechaun, there has to be a trap involved, (a trap being a wedding or fancy girls night out where I fear being double carded if I don’t bedazzle my face). This “special occasion make up” usually consists of blush, which I probably dabbed off the brush seven times onto a paper towel first in fear of looking like a drag queen.
![[photo source]](http://images1.fanpop.com/images/photos/1700000/Beauty-the-Beast-beauty-and-the-beast-1712556-960-540.jpg){kind=link}