Monday, February 23

... About Things I Never Needed to Know

Reader, I'm a fan of the Food Network.  It's just one of the many ways my nerdiness chooses to manifest itself.

But it's nice to know that I'm not alone.  I've turned Bailey onto the show "Food Network Challenge," which is a food art competition show.  They make these crazy amazing cakes, or sugar sculptures, or chocolate pieces, and it just blows my mind.  And now Bailey likes watching it with me, and has even started trying to get other people interested by telling them how AMAZING some of these food sculptors are.

But you know what I can do without?  Learning how they make pork rinds.

*shudder*

I mean, seriously, Reader.  If you want to have nightmares for a month, just ask Dr Google to show you the liquified meat mixture they pump into Vienna sausage casings.  It makes my stomach churn more than the knowledge that someone actually chose to greenlight "Space Buddies."  And you know me.  I love knowing things.

Why, Food Network, why?  I want you to show me how they put the delicious chocolate core into Drumsticks, and I find it fascinating how different shapes of pasta are designed to hold sauce in different ways for different dishes.  But there are some ugly, ugly things in the world that I absolutely do not need to know.  Like that natural red food coloring is made from mashed up beetles.

Ew.

I don't want to know stuff like that.  Call me naive, but I'm a firm believer that I should be able to go through this life without ever having to learn things I don't want to know.  Like advanced mathematics, or how that zit Satan popped magically transformed into Senator Chris Buttars.  Ignorance is bliss, Reader.  If it's good enough for Stephen Colbert, it's good enough for me.

You know what, Food Network?  It's a good thing you still have enough fascinating programs to keep me coming back, despite your unnecessary tidbits about making Gogurt and such.  But if you show me that liquid meat again, I'm going to have to do something drastic.

What exactly do I mean by that?  Trust me, you don't want to know.

Sunday, February 15

... About Baby Steps

Reader, I'm quite proud of myself.  You should be, too.  Last night, I voluntarily introduced myself to and carried on conversations with perfect strangers.  Reader, I even danced.  When other people could see me.  And not in an, "Oh, crap, I left my blinds open and people could totally see me dancing!" type of way.  In a "social" type of way.

I know, it's a lot to digest.  Take a moment.  Breathe.

In.  Out.  In.  Out.

Okay, you doing okay now, Reader?  I imagine you're feeling pretty disorientated, so allow me to explain.  As you may be aware, yesterday was Valentine's Day.  This is a holiday designed to remind people in relationships to be more open and verbal about their feelings for their loved ones.  It also makes single people feel like losers.  In light of this, my friend Ryan decided to throw a "There's Nothing Wrong With Being a Cat Lady" Anti-Valentine's Day party, and invited me to come.

I agreed to attend.  Even though I was fully aware that Ryan was the only person I would know.  Because I was determined, Reader, to make myself meet new people, even though the idea of it makes my insides feel like I've had a large helping of week-old Frank LanJell-O Salad.  I get so nervous talking to people I don't know.  I feel anxious if the cashier at the grocery store strikes up a conversation.  Once, years ago, I went out dancing with a group of friends.  While the rest of my group met, mingled, and danced with the others there, I had what I can only describe as a panic attack and hid in a box for half an hour.

Literally.  I found a box and hid inside until I stopped shaking.

I don't know exactly when this aversion to social interaction started.  I've never been very good at making friends, and it takes me a very long time to warm up to (most) people.  But, I've come to realize that the older I get, the more I just plain don't like people.  And that's not the kind of person I want to be.  I want to like people.  Or, at the very least, I want to be able to tolerate people that are worth tolerating.  Or that can hook me up with cool merchandise of some sort.  Like DVDs or electronics.  Yeah, those are the kind of people I'd love to tolerate.

So when Ryan told me about his party and asked me to come, I put it on a metaphorical scale.  On the one hand, I'd have to spend time meeting and socializing with people, which terrifies me.  On the other hand, if I didn't attend, I really wouldn't have room to complain about not knowing a lot of people.  And complaining about not knowing  a lot of people fills up a good portion of my social calendar.

I knew that there was no way I was going to meet new people and make new friends without.... meeting new people and making new friends.  So I cowboyed up and went to the party.  And you know what, Reader?  I surprised myself by how much fun I had.  I don't know that any of the people that I met will be my BFFFs, but I learned a few names and shared a few laughs.  And I'm pretty proud of myself for that.

Maybe next Valentine's Day I'll have someone really special to share it with.  Like, someone that can help me get my hands on free tickets.  Hey, if you have stuff I want and are willing to share, I'll totally tolerate you.  Just don't expect me to dance.

Thursday, February 12

... About Patience

Reader, I consider myself a rational person (please ignore the last post, or any other evidence you have to the contrary). I think I'm reasonable.  I think I'm able to separate the reality of a situation from the way said situation effects my emotions.

That said, sometimes I think the Universe is just out to screw me.  And there are a few curveballs the Universe continues to hurl at me that I refuse to tolerate anymore.

Curveball #1: My inability to wake up in the morning.  Now, Reader, as I'm sure you'll agree, this one is entirely not my fault.  I purposely set my alarm to go off nine minutes before I need to get up, which allows me one full session of snoozing.  Well, the other morning I set my alarm an extra ten minutes early so I could get up in time to make myself breakfast.  My alarm went off, all right.  And it continued to go off for ten minutes, until the time when I normally wake up, at which time I finally regained consciousness.

Curveball #2: Stupid people.

Curveball #3: Whatever my hair is doing right now.  Because seriously, Reader, it's just not cooperating in the least.  How is it possible that my bangs grow out to the point of being completely unworkable in a matter of weeks, but the overall length stays the same for months on end?  How is it possible that some days it goes wavy on its own and other days it just does this weird flippy thing on the ends?  I mean, what I am supposed to do?  If only there were some sort of hair "products" or "styling tools" that one could use on their hair to make it look certain ways... but alas, that's too much to ask for.

I think I've paid my dues, Universe.  I'm no longer willing to put up with my inability to wake up.  I won't tolerate stupid people on the phone.  Or stupid people in the checkout line at the grocery store.  Or stupid people on television.  I mean, really, Universe.  Don't you think I've had more than my fair share of encounters with people of stupid persuasion?

I do.

I.  Do.

You know what else I think I deserve, Universe?  Magic powers to manipulate my hair any way I want it to be.  Or a new curling iron.

Wednesday, February 4

... About Discovering I Used to Be a Girl After All!

I had a very productive morning, Reader. And by "very productive" I mean "not at all so." It started much the same as yesterday morning, and the day before that. Which were very much the same as the first few days of every month since I started this job - I've spent hours upon hours over the last three days sorting, stamping, stuffing, and stamping our monthly customer statements.

Well, this particular morning, I was getting pretty tired of sorting, stamping, stuffing, and stamping. So I took a quick mental break and checked my personal email account. That's when it all started. In my defense, the events that followed were simply a result of pure animal instinct. Reader, remember what happens if you give a mouse a cookie? Or give a moose a muffin?

Well, if Kristen is bored at work and her boss is gone, she'll probably check her email. If she checks her email, she'll probably notice that her inbox has 13 pages worth of old messages. If she notices that her inbox has 13 pages worth of messages, she'll probably go through and start deleting ones she doesn't want. If she deletes the ones she doesn't want, she'll probably find some of those funny forwards and want to read them to see if they're worth saving. If she reads funny forwards to see if they're worth saving, she'll probably move some of them to her "Tidbits" folder. If she moves them to her "Tidbits" folder, she'll probably realize she has a lot of stuff in there not worth saving (and/or too hard to find to justify saving) and will want to give it a thorough cleaning. If she realizes she has a lot of stuff in there and wants to give it a thorough cleaning, she'll probably end up getting distracted and reading through 5-year-old emails for the better part of an hour.

So basically, email is to muffin as Kristen is to ________

a) moose
b) moose
c) knitwear
d) moose


But despite the rather extensive waste of time, I actually learned something from reading all those old emails. Reader, you'll probably never believe it, but I used to be a girl. And not just in the most literal sense of the word (that part's still true, pardon the pun). I used to be so silly, so overwhelmingly twitterpaited, so irrational - in short, so FEMALE!

It was such a long time ago, and for the past few years I've managed to convince myself that it never happened. I'm not going to lie to you, Reader. Part of me felt a sense of pride that there was truth to all those times I've been told I'm "not like a real girl," but part of me always wondered how my life would be different if I were a bit more girlie.

But right there, stored in my email, unraveling itself from all the 0s and 1s, is the proof that I was once just about as ridiculously girlie as one can get. You see, there is a series of emails spanning from May 2003 to about September 2004 - emails I sent to my female friends, my male friends, my brother, my guidance counselor, and possibly the Prime Minister of Canada - in which I went on for paragraphs upon paragraphs about how aghast I was about boys! Five distinctly separate boys, as far as I can tell. Five boys! In just a year and a half!

And oh, how very pathetic and whimsical I was about these boys! In one particular email, I described in great detail to all the incredibly patient friends I sent it to a story about how I had called a boy using a phone card so he wouldn't recognize it was me on the Caller ID, just in case he wasn't home, hung up on him when he answered (because I didn't want to have to explain why I was calling with a phone card), and waited for two hours to call him back so he wouldn't suspect it had been me the first time.

See? GIRL! You can't possibly be a bigger girl than that!

So I was trying to figure out where it all changed. I know that this girliness was actually more of a phase than anything - Picasso had his Blue period, Sting had his Reggae period, I had my Girlishness period. I know this because of an email from a good friend during this time in which he asked what was wrong with me, and why I was acting like I was over a guy when he had never known me to behave like that before.

Let's be honest. It's not hard to figure out what put me on the path to girlishness (any fool who knew me in high school/freshman year of college knows that one). But what turned me away from it again? I've thought about that today, and I think maybe it's because when I think back to these five boys, I automatically think of the five different heartaches they left me with. It's hard for me to remember the happy giddy twittery feelings. In retrospect, all I can really remember is the hurt.

But now that I realize that, maybe I can use that knowledge to be a mite more proactive about letting myself open up again. Because even though it hurt then, it doesn't anymore, at least not in the same way. I no longer think of myself as 'scarred' by past crushes and loves - just changed. It's amazing how a simple thing like wasting time reading emails can give you a new sense of self.

You know what else I've realized? I could really go for a muffin right about now.

Sunday, February 1

... About Mild Head Injuries

Reader, I'm sure you remember almost exactly one year ago when I posted about how my relationship with Ice was on the skids.  Well, Ice is at it again.

We've been getting along fairly well all winter.  Ice has been a constant presence in my parking lot, and together we've successfully imitated the Tom Cruise Risky Business slide more times than I can count (although, to be fair to Tom, I was wearing pants all but one of those times).  I've been fairly impressed with my ability to remain upright every time I've walked out to my car in the dark.

That is, until last night.

I was coming home from a night of wild shenaniganing with Maren and Lexie.  I'd stopped on the way to my apartment to buy a drink, because even though it was really really late (nearly 10 pm, if you can believe it!) I was craving a little Dr P.  So as I was walking from my car to my apartment, I noticed a bit of shininess on the pavement in front of me.  It was unusually warm yesterday - Lexie was even wearing flipflops during all of our crazy aimless wandering/time-killing-while-we-waited-for-our-movie-to-start downtown.  So of course, I assumed that the bit of shiny was just wet.

I was wrong.  It was Ice.

The moment Ice and I met, it threw me up into the air and brought me down directly on the back of my head.  Meanwhile, my drink slipped from my hand and landed all over my pants and, unbeknownst to me until I was looking for them later, my keys flew out of my jacket pocket and halfway back across the parking lot.

Reader, as you know, I am a certified hippopotmonostrosequipedalianist, and as such I like to always use the best word to describe any given situation.  I don't use "sad" if I can get away with using "morose" instead; I rarely say "that's too bad" in lieu of "that's most unfortunate."  Oftentimes, there is no ideal word for any given situation, but luckily there is a perfect word to describe what I was feeling at the moment the back of my head introduced itself to the parking lot, and the word is: "pain."

And that "pain" not only remained throughout the night, but intensified as the hours ticked on.  Now the sensation radiating throughout my skull can be described in a plethora of ways, including but not limited to: "ow", "ugggghhhh...", "I want my mommy", or "make it stop, please make it stop!"

I blame it on Ice, of course.  Because my utter lack of coordination is obviously not to blame.  No, it's all Ice's fault.  That much is clear to me.  Although not much else is at the moment, because ever since I hit my head I've discovered my judgement has been compromised.  For example, before going to sleep last night, as my brain was throbbing, I reached over and set my alarm to get myself up early today.  WHY?  I don't have to be anywhere until 11 o'clock today!  Question: Why would any reasonable person do that?  Answer: Blame it on Ice.

I hope Ice's effect on my ability to make decisions isn't long-lasting, or else the next thing you know you might be watching TV and spot me jumping up and down on Oprah's couch like a loon.