A few years ago I showed up to a Rascal Flatts concert in a porsche. Surrounded by giant trucks and honky tonk tailgate parties, I distinctly remember blushing as I got out of the sports car, wishing that I had insisted on driving my car. My Nissan 240 FX would have been much more appropriate, would have earned us much fewer stares. But my dear friend had offered to drive and though she shares my love of country music, she also loves flashy cars. She later traded in her porsche for a prowler which, if you’re like me and know nothing about fancy cars, is a tad bit nicer than my Nissan and earned us even more stares. I love this friend to death but I was always a bit embarrassed when she drove us places, especially when she drove us to country concerts. I felt smug and pretentious and was awkward and uncomfortable with all the stares and attention. I felt like an elitist showing up to mingle with the common folk, and I hated that. I knew that I was a “commoner” too, but couldn’t convince anyone of that stepping out of a porsche at a country concert. Continue reading
I’ve never liked butterflies. They’ve always kinda creeped me out but I’ve found that people think you’re some kind of monster if you admit that you don’t like them. It’s like saying you don’t like sunshine or rainbows. Sure, they’re pretty and it’s cool how they emerge from cocoons, but really they’re just colorful moths masquerading themselves as if they weren’t flying bugs.
And I hate flying bugs. I cringe and do a little internal freak out when they flutter and fly too close to me, flashing their colorful wings way too near to my face. I sense your judgment but I’m being honest here: butterflies, moths, bees, wasps- they’re all the same in my book. And even though I want to, society won’t permit me to swat these obnoxiously beautiful butterflies away. Because everyone hates bees and wasps but I’ve found people have an exceptionally low tolerance for butterfly-haters. Truth be told, I feel the same way about lady bugs. The only thing I like about lady bugs is that 1992 soccer movie with Rodney Dangerfield. But I digress. Lady bugs, butterflies: I’m on to you. The world might admire your beauty and grace but I see you for what you really are: dirty, nasty, flying bugs with a little splash color. S0 please, stay away from me.
I drank mold last night. A lot of mold. It still makes me gag when I think about it. I keep a 2 gallon jug of blue gatorade by my desk in my bedroom. Apparently it had been there for awhile. I burned my tongue on some scalding hot Easy Mac so I quickly unscrewed the top and chugged from the jug. I did this several times. I love blue gatorade. But when I was almost done with my gourmet meal, I was taking another swig and looked inside. There appeared to be seaweed floating around in my drink. An entire colony of mold had been growing in my blue gatorade jug that, now that I think about it, had probably been sitting by my desk since December. Maybe November. It wasn’t just a few spots of mold. It was giant pieces of waving, green mold swimming around in the blue gatorade ocean. And I had been drinking it, completely unaware. I continued to gag as I poured it down the drain, but not before showing my roommate who also nearly puked.
Seven years ago I sat in a locker room bawling for a good hour. They were fat, painful tears that left my eyes puffy and body drained. My college team was playing in the NAIA National tournament and I had missed a shot at the buzzer which would have won us the game to advance to the elite eight. I wasn’t crying about the shot, though. I was crying, sobbing rather, because I envisioned myself as a fourth grader, with a killer side pony, practicing my form with my dad in the backyard. I was replaying the hours and hours and hours I had spent on basketball courts from the time I first learned the game to that last shot as a senior in college. And I was realizing that it was all over. Basketball had consumed my time, my thoughts, my energy, my world for so long, and now it was over.
Growing up near the beach, I spent hours in the Pacific Ocean. I played the games most California kids played: dove under waves, or through them, or over them. I boogie boarded them and body surfed them. And just when I thought I’d mastered them, they’d slap me in the face or rip off my bathing suit bottoms or mess me up so badly underwater I didn’t know which way was up. But I still loved this unpredictable body of water and spent my time flipping, floating, and floundering, doing handstands, peeing, having mud fights; you know, the typical ocean shenanigans of a child. But even as a kid, I’ve always cherished my alone time and one of my favorite things to do at the beach was to sneak into the water by myself to simply float. Because floating in the ocean is kinda magical.
(not in the ocean but a floating polaroid of me, nonetheless)
The last time I floated was this past summer. I was training by the beach for a race and had done one of the longer runs. Afterwards, I was sweating and salty and so very hot that I decided to take a dip to cool off. I didn’t have my suit so I went in fully clothed. Yes, I was that
girl. I was sure people were raising their eyebrows at the sweaty blonde swimming in her clothes, but I didn’t care because I couldn’t see them. Because I was floating. Continue reading
Eye contact is a funny thing. Too much of it and you’re probably being too intense. Too little, and you’re aloof or socially awkward. You need to have just the right amount but different circumstances call for different amounts. Plus, there are other times when you’ll want to avoid eye contact altogether and at all costs. Though I missed “10 on the 10th” this month due to forgetfulness, I thought I’d make up for it now.
10 Tips for Avoiding Awkward Eye Contact
1) When being weird in the car, NEVER look around.
Singing in the car? Gettin jiggy behind the wheel? Great. But don’t glance at your neighboring cars. Making eye contact in the middle of hitting that high note or bustin that great car-dancing move, is just awful. Ruins the entire song. Picking your nose in the car? Have no shame. We all do it. Just remember to keep your eyes straight ahead (do NOT inspect your findings)
. If you look to the side, you will
be met with a disgusted and disapproving stare from a stranger who will quickly glance away. If this happens, do NOT glance back a second time. They are destined to do it as well and then the situation is doubly awkward. Continue reading
I’ve never been great at making a good first impression. I’m either dull and boring and forgettable or I’m terribly awkward and weird and unforgettable in a terrible way. I’m guessing this is why blind dates have not worked out for me. I would most certainly NOT get the first impression rose on The Bachelor if anyone ever decides to pay me $ 10,000 dollars to go on the show. I’ll accept nothing less. Just thinking about getting out of the limo and trying to make a good first impression on a guy in front of millions of viewers makes me cringe. I think I’d rather be in Christina’s shoes. No, I take that back. That was worse. But you get the idea; I am awful at first impressions. Continue reading
I’m not doing birthday shout-outs for everyone. Actually, I’ll probably only do one for my mom. Because my mom is special. Extra special. She’s my number one fan and I’m pretty sure she tells complete strangers to read my blog. (She might not when she sees some of the pictures in this post though) My mom is hilarious. And she doesn’t mean to be. I think that’s the best kind of hilarious. So Mom, I hope you don’t mind that the world wide web now knows the following things about you, but I love them all. Also, we got you a cool present so don’t think we forgot. And consider this your birthday card from me.
There are some mornings I wish I had a “re-start” button to push. I’d just need to use it six times a year, maybe seven. I had one of those mornings today; one of those mornings where it seems as if the universe was conspiring against me, determined to make me miserable. When so many things go wrong in one morning, there always seems to be a point when all I can do is shake my head and laugh. On these days I find myself saying, “ahhhhh ma-an” and “seriously???” quite often as all the little obnoxious obstacles to my joy continue to repeatedly rain down. Once I hurdle over one, I’m met with yet another, then another, then another and after about 3 or 4 jumps, I laugh and say, “Seriously?” to no one in particular.