So, if you ask me, referring to your own quirks is kind of like airing your cutest laundry.
I like Teri Hatcher, but she wrote a book and, honest to God, referred to it as kitschy in her own intro. Either because she thought it sounded modest or because she truly believed it was. I assumed the latter so I could give myself permission to continue reading and secretly liking her (the way I SUPER secretly like Tori Spelling after reading her book). Some people need a shirt that pretty much warns you. Like a T-shirt that reads: "So aDoRaBLy ZANY it hurts."
Anyway at the risk of sounding like one of those annoying losers, here it is anyway.
- I like my marshmallows lit on fire so that they are crunchy and smoky tasting, and then they melt my chocolate for me.
- I haven't bought a microwave yet. I have lived in this apartment for almost a full year. This is how I heated up a rocky road brownie from Zupa's.
- I'm obsessed with containers. Recently, I had an intervention for myself. I piled up all the "containers" I've been hoarding and put them in a pile. Then I looked around at my stuff. And asked myself if there were things spilling all over the place, needing to be contained. I bitterly replied "no" to me. So now I have to give all my containers to the Salvation Army. Dammit. I hear there is such a thing as "The Container Store." That makes me want to hide under my bed. But I can't. Because there are containers there.
- I LOVE the shaved head look on boys. It started in 5th grade. I am now about 9 months away from being 30, and it is still my preferred look on almost any man.
- My mom put up a baby for adoption. Four years ago. She is beautiful. And mischievous. Kinda like my mom.
- There is a random word in the English vocabulary you won't ever hear me say. I entered into a secret game last year with some friends, and if I get caught saying it, I have to do 10 pushups on the spot. Even if I'm in a parking lot (true story), a bar (true story), by the gas pump (true story), at sushi (true story). I can't tell you what the word is unless you agree to the game. Sowwy.
- Yes, I have done drugs. Yes, it was fun. No, I don't do them now. And I hope you don't either.
- I really like Taylor Swift. I know I'm not supposed to. But you know what, boys? Stop worrying your pretty little heads about the dorky music we listen to. It makes girls daydream about you. Same goes for embarrassing chick flicks. Do you have any idea how much action Jane Austen has gotten you? Just hush.
- All I cared about when I was younger was the pioneers. I wished I could be a frontier girl SOOOO BAD. I collected all the American Girl stuff that pertained in any way to American Girl Kirsten Larson. I wanted to live in a 4-room cabin. I wanted a friend on a ship, except not dead. I really dug the Sarah Plain and Tall stuff, even though they weren't really pioneers. As a little Mormon girl, my church celebrated Pioneer Day. My stepdad (now called Dad2) fashioned a covered wagon out of our Radio Flyer red wagon, with wire and linen. It looked just like a mini covered wagon. I got to dress up in what can only be described in a polygamist getup, and pull it around eating honey-buttered scones that were nothing like what the pioneers would have eaten. I have seen Legacy like 15 times. I delight in all things Oregon Trail, like "Jane got bitten by a snake," "You have crossed the Kansas River," or "Kirsten has dysentery." Just like all of you surely would, I feel like a kid again.
- OK, actually when I wasn't daydreaming about my bonnets and pet oxen, I was thumbing through Architectural magazines my parents used to buy when they were thinking of building a house. I played imaginary family scenarios out in the floor plans. I was so weird. And not in an adorable way.
- I'll pass out when they prick my finger. However, if someone nearby lets me talk about my favorite sugary treat of the week (the dessert-like salad at Zupa's, the sugar-encrusted sweet potato at any steakhouse, frozen custard, my grandpa's cream cheese frosting), I somehow make it through the squeamishness. The problem is that it's creepy. When they tested my cholesterol via BLEEDING me out through a HOSE, I had to ask the nurse if I could perhaps tell her about this very interesting sweet potato loaded with marshmallows and cinnamon honeybutter. (I don't know why we ever had to test my cholesterol.) She looked at me like I had two heads and jabbed my arm with her hose-probe and sucked life from me.
- I was sitting on my couch not too long ago, just watching a movie or something. I looked over toward my foyer area. I noticed something laying on the ground. It was a pair of my pants. These were them.
It was not laundry day. I was not packing or unpacking. I looked around the pants, and it became clear to me that I had come home from work, and just taken them off in my foyer, and eventually ended up in my yoga pants. I had zero recollection of any part of this. I was not under the influence of any substance whatsoever. No Xanax, no alcohol. Nothing. This kind of thing happens about once a week. When I say my brain has not functioned right since Rbf's accident, I'm not being zany and cute. I am being horrifically honest. Widdabrain is a very sad thing and doesn't go away overnight.
- My phone is full of pictures like this. I can't remember what I'm supposed to shop for, and print cartridges are my nemesis.
I like Teri Hatcher, but she wrote a book and, honest to God, referred to it as kitschy in her own intro. Either because she thought it sounded modest or because she truly believed it was. I assumed the latter so I could give myself permission to continue reading and secretly liking her (the way I SUPER secretly like Tori Spelling after reading her book). Some people need a shirt that pretty much warns you. Like a T-shirt that reads: "So aDoRaBLy ZANY it hurts."
Anyway at the risk of sounding like one of those annoying losers, here it is anyway.
My list of stuff about me.
- I like my marshmallows lit on fire so that they are crunchy and smoky tasting, and then they melt my chocolate for me.
- I haven't bought a microwave yet. I have lived in this apartment for almost a full year. This is how I heated up a rocky road brownie from Zupa's.
- I'm obsessed with containers. Recently, I had an intervention for myself. I piled up all the "containers" I've been hoarding and put them in a pile. Then I looked around at my stuff. And asked myself if there were things spilling all over the place, needing to be contained. I bitterly replied "no" to me. So now I have to give all my containers to the Salvation Army. Dammit. I hear there is such a thing as "The Container Store." That makes me want to hide under my bed. But I can't. Because there are containers there.
- I LOVE the shaved head look on boys. It started in 5th grade. I am now about 9 months away from being 30, and it is still my preferred look on almost any man.
- My mom put up a baby for adoption. Four years ago. She is beautiful. And mischievous. Kinda like my mom.
- There is a random word in the English vocabulary you won't ever hear me say. I entered into a secret game last year with some friends, and if I get caught saying it, I have to do 10 pushups on the spot. Even if I'm in a parking lot (true story), a bar (true story), by the gas pump (true story), at sushi (true story). I can't tell you what the word is unless you agree to the game. Sowwy.
- Yes, I have done drugs. Yes, it was fun. No, I don't do them now. And I hope you don't either.
- I really like Taylor Swift. I know I'm not supposed to. But you know what, boys? Stop worrying your pretty little heads about the dorky music we listen to. It makes girls daydream about you. Same goes for embarrassing chick flicks. Do you have any idea how much action Jane Austen has gotten you? Just hush.
- All I cared about when I was younger was the pioneers. I wished I could be a frontier girl SOOOO BAD. I collected all the American Girl stuff that pertained in any way to American Girl Kirsten Larson. I wanted to live in a 4-room cabin. I wanted a friend on a ship, except not dead. I really dug the Sarah Plain and Tall stuff, even though they weren't really pioneers. As a little Mormon girl, my church celebrated Pioneer Day. My stepdad (now called Dad2) fashioned a covered wagon out of our Radio Flyer red wagon, with wire and linen. It looked just like a mini covered wagon. I got to dress up in what can only be described in a polygamist getup, and pull it around eating honey-buttered scones that were nothing like what the pioneers would have eaten. I have seen Legacy like 15 times. I delight in all things Oregon Trail, like "Jane got bitten by a snake," "You have crossed the Kansas River," or "Kirsten has dysentery." Just like all of you surely would, I feel like a kid again.
- OK, actually when I wasn't daydreaming about my bonnets and pet oxen, I was thumbing through Architectural magazines my parents used to buy when they were thinking of building a house. I played imaginary family scenarios out in the floor plans. I was so weird. And not in an adorable way.
- I'll pass out when they prick my finger. However, if someone nearby lets me talk about my favorite sugary treat of the week (the dessert-like salad at Zupa's, the sugar-encrusted sweet potato at any steakhouse, frozen custard, my grandpa's cream cheese frosting), I somehow make it through the squeamishness. The problem is that it's creepy. When they tested my cholesterol via BLEEDING me out through a HOSE, I had to ask the nurse if I could perhaps tell her about this very interesting sweet potato loaded with marshmallows and cinnamon honeybutter. (I don't know why we ever had to test my cholesterol.) She looked at me like I had two heads and jabbed my arm with her hose-probe and sucked life from me.
- I was sitting on my couch not too long ago, just watching a movie or something. I looked over toward my foyer area. I noticed something laying on the ground. It was a pair of my pants. These were them.
It was not laundry day. I was not packing or unpacking. I looked around the pants, and it became clear to me that I had come home from work, and just taken them off in my foyer, and eventually ended up in my yoga pants. I had zero recollection of any part of this. I was not under the influence of any substance whatsoever. No Xanax, no alcohol. Nothing. This kind of thing happens about once a week. When I say my brain has not functioned right since Rbf's accident, I'm not being zany and cute. I am being horrifically honest. Widdabrain is a very sad thing and doesn't go away overnight.
- My phone is full of pictures like this. I can't remember what I'm supposed to shop for, and print cartridges are my nemesis.
- I can't do anything without Afrin. Sure, I've built up that dependence on it that we've all been warned about. But that's not why I can't breathe without it. I have f*cked up sinuses. I've had them roto-rooted twice in 12 years, and have to do it a third time. My nasal passageways have closed in on themselves. It's all very sexy. Like my dance moves in the club.
- I had a mullet in Kindergarten.
- I can't remember card games. I have to be re-taught every time. It's embarrassing.
- I name my cars. First there was my '87 Recaro Edition Jetta (which I actually spelled "Jedda" just now...sigh). Her name was Princess Jetta. The bumper fell off a lot when I drove it. My smartass mom gave me a plate frame that said "Princess" and had pink leopard print. It was back in 2000 when "Princess" crap started polluting pop culture, and my rowdy little German speedster did not look right with a Princess plate frame. She knew I would laugh. Which I did, but I actually put it on my car (other girls actually thought it was neat; it was easier to mock than a Roxy sticker on the back window, because it only required a screwdriver to remove, not razor blades) {Editor's note: Sorry everyone who ever had a Roxy sticker on their car}. Rbf had a beige Nissan Sentra my freshman year of college, and I soon screwed it onto his license plate to perpetuate the ugliness. He drove it around for like 3 days before finding it. Then there was Brenda. She was a '98 Accord (white). It looked like a mom car at the time, and Annie and I liked to snap our fingers all slow, and say "Piece-o-CAKE, Brennnn" like the hideous older sister in Sixteen Candles. So we named the car Brenda. (To bring her down with me, I will add that Annie's Ford Focus was named Geoff. And pointedly not "Jeff."). Then there was Sandals (my black SUV, named after the Sia song...listen to it and you'll know). And then the Warthog. Now that she's gone, I have the grimy little black Accord I named Scrappy. Scrappy will go forever. It won't be sexy, but it'll work.
Scrappy. Say it. It's fun after 4 or so times.
That's all for now. Hope you have enjoyed your peek into my super smooth inner-world. Maybe you should do an "About Me" on your blog!
Kisses!
3 comments:
Love it! Didn't expect a post. Happy there was one.
I'm tempted to ask about the secret word, but oh, that's way too much responsibility, which I shirk.
Thanks for starting my morning off right - unlike the telemarketer who called before 7 a.m.!
um, I technically DID want to know, love it all. You are beyond adorable. And I have on many occasions wanted to know if those were your real eyelashes, randomness I realize. I think that I would have to shoot myself in the foot if they were your real ones. :)
You were holding out on us with those sexy dance moves in Jackson.
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