I’m like a bird, I’ll only fly away. I don’t know where my soul is, I don’t know where my home is…

I’ve finally done something cool.

For once in my life, I have engaged myself into a trend that is actually cool.

For once in my life, I have done something cool to my hair.

And putting sun-in in my hair in sixth grade with a girl from school and getting grounded for doing so does not count.

There’s this new craze that’s all about feather extensions.

I’ve been hearing about it for at least a couple months now and I finally decided to be brave and get some feathers stuck all up in my boring brown hair.  Now, I’m fine, fresh and fierce with my fancy flying feathers.  Oh em gee, that was probably one of my most successful almost-alliterations.  That was a fuck-ton of f’s up in that sentence.

Also, the birds in my backyard and I have something in common now, so that’s pretty sweet.  I’m sure it’s not long before I sprout some wings and fly far, far away from here.  I’ll fly all the way to Hogwarts and become friends with the post owls in the owlery and if Hogwarts won’t take me I can fall back on being a post-owl/weird flying girl with feathers in her hair.  Clearly I have my life all figured out.

Anyway, it took like three whole seconds for Wen to put the little metal bead/clipy-thing onto my hair and to seal it with the three feathers I picked.  Picking my feathers was the thing that took the most time.  In fact, I changed my mind like 4 times.  I was originally going to be a pansy-ass scaredy cat and get all brown tones but then I was like, wait, you should get a light colored one so it’ll at least show uppppp. But then I saw a black and white one and was like Dude, that is MINE.  And it was Wen who told me I needed to have the purple one because that way I have something fun, awesome and colorful but it’s not so overpowering and it still will blend in a little bit.

So, yeah, I ended up choosing a black and white feather, a two-tone brown one, and a purple and black one.  As you can (kinda) see here: I took a picture to show you how it’s clipped in my hair.  I should note that I got all three of my feathers clipped in the same metal clip thing, but Wen really tried to get me to put each feather in separately all over the place.  I was much too chicken-shit to actually do that, so I clipped them together in the same place, somewhere it would show when I pin my “bangs” back.  It goes in this metal bead type of thing, and it holds the feathers and a tiny, tiny section of hair and then gets tightened so it can’t move.

See?

You can hardly tell!

It’s super cool!

The other thing that’s cool about these feather extensions is that they’re supposedly super low maintenance.  I can wash my hair just like normal, and blowdry and flat iron the shit out of my hair like I normally do.  They curl right along with the rest of my hair, too; I tried it out today.  Wen and what’s-her-face who owns the salon I popped into today to have them done told me that they last for a really long time also.  The lady who owns the salon had two in and she’s been wearing them for six or seven weeks and they looked fab.  So, if and when I’m ready for them to come out, I’ll just pop back in and they’ll take my feathers out for me.

Except, fat chance because if I lose my feathers there goes my plan of flying away to Hogwarts and my future as a post-owl.

Here’s what they look like when I don’t do shit to my hair:

Ps. How awkward is this pic of me?! Lolz

Peach out, lovers.

Well, baby, I’m a put-on-a-show kinda girl. Don’t like that backseat, gotta be first!

Here is what I have learned about success:

It’s all about managing expectations.

For example, I try to go first whenever I can when giving presentations in class.  That way, no matter how ill-prepared I may be or how often I fumble over my words or even how lame my powerpoint presentation really is, there is no one to compare it to yet.  Going first allows the presenter to set the expectations for the rest of the presentations and is the one that the rest are measured against.

If I can help it, I never, ever go last.  Going last is simply not an option.  I’m not that much of a douche bag that I will email my professor ahead of time and insist on going first, but I definitely try to be that person that is like, “Oh, yeah, no big deal, I’ll go first if no one else wants to.” You know, all nonchalant.  And when someone else is like “Oh, I want to go first!” (because that always happens- there are always other freaks like me who want to set the bar low) I’m always like *Hulk’d up* NO I’M GOING FIRST, YOU IDIOT FUCK!

Just kidding, I don’t turn green, grow three times my regular size, or bust out of my white (??) shirt and purple pants.  I don’t even shout at my classmates. I simply keep it real and let everyone know what’s up: I must go first.

In life, I finally learned to be that kid at a birthday party to have her gift opened first.  There were far too many times I tried to be that girl whose present was so good it had to be saved for last. You know, that whole save the best for last bullshit.  But what parents don’t tell you and what you learn after birthday party after birthday party is that it sucks when someone else gives the same gift as you- or worse, someone gives a better present than yours.  That is a situation that takes you on a bullet train to Sucktown.

The best time to give your gift is first.  That way, you have the best gift of the day, even if it’s just for a moment.  That’s a moment you can’t get back. And, that way, if there is a duplicate gift situation, you don’t look like a dickhole and you don’t have to sit in the corner and cry because someone gave the same gift you did.  You can know that you have won. (Because winning is really all that matters- ask Charlie Sheen.)

At work, you have to manage expectations too. If you do something really impressive one day that is something that is expected to be repeated, you better believe that you have just set a precedent.  You will be held to that standard from now on.  That is totally fine if you don’t mind working your butt off to constantly exceed expectations and/or consistently perform at a high level.  But if you’re lazy as fuck and it was done on a fluke, then you’re pretty much up Chocolate Creek without a popsicle stick. If you’re lazy as fuck at work and really just want to do the least amount of work as possible, then you should never do anything more than what is expected of you. Because that is the kiss of death for you, and you can no longer be lazy as fuck.

I have finally realized that even dealing with some family drama, it all comes down to managing expectations.  Drew and I have tried (and failed at) the being-sneaky approach- that just ends in tears (including my own). We can’t just lie about our plans and spring them on a certain person at the last minute- a shitstorm of drama explodes out of seemingly nowhere.  We have also tried the let’s-be-really-vague-about-our-plans approach and that just ended in bitterness, shouting, resentment, anger, and, yes, you guessed it, tears (including my own).  Being vague has usually just resulted in having to lie (which we all know I am not good at) and/or just really awful family moments.

So, this time, we are trying the honesty-is-the-best-policy approach.  This approach includes telling both parties exactly what’s up and setting clear expectations for everyone involved. That way, when the time comes to leave, no one is surprised or upset.  I’m psyched about this.

Here’s hoping.

So, my friends, go forth and embrace this managing expectations lifestyle I have adopted.  Share with me your success stories. Or just stories about your childhood birthday parties. I would enjoy that as well.

Oh yes, I can make it now the pain is gone, all of the bad feelings have disappeared. Here is the rainbow I’ve been praying for, it’s gonna be a bright, bright sunshinin’ day

I found a book in the study today that I was unaware that we owned. This is not really a difficult thing to achieve, as I have not actually taken an inventory of all the books we own.  But, you know, still. I found this random book and was surprised.

It’s kind of awesome actually, which makes me think this book belongs to Drew.

The tiny, weird-looking D’s throughout the book also make me think this book belongs to Drew, since his handwriting is super jank.

Or I could pretend that this book belongs to my very own version of The Half-Blood Prince.

This book is entitled 501 Things To Do If You DARE.

This book is obviously not mine. I don’t dare to do anything. I’m the biggest chicken-shit I know.

Let’s start off easy.  I’ll take a look at the very first thing to do if I dare.

Public Things: #1 Ride a Roller Coaster

Rating: One skull  & cross bones

For an added thrill, do it without holding onto the restraints.

There’s a small D written beside this one. The Half-Blood Prince is telling me he’s done this one. As have I. And I have done it with no hands, too. Who’s a badass now?!

#2 Drive an Autobahn

Rating: Four skull & cross bones.

A wide, well-maintained road with no speed limit? Mama, sign me up! In some places there are speed limits (and concessions made for conditions throughout), but it’s mainly a megafreeway with no restrictions on your lead-foot instinct.

Fuck no. I’m a terrible driver and don’t trust others. No thank you.

Oh, here’s one.  I jumped around to Athletic Things, located within the Public Things section.

#87 Go deep-sea fishing.

Rating: one skull & cross bones.

There is another D written by this one. The Half-Blood Prince is just a copy cat at this point.

I’m fairly certain that I have done this. I remember on one trip to Florida (with Dad and our first step-mom), we went fishing on this big-ass boat in the ocean. I remember having no form of excitement for this activity as 1.) I have no desire to fish; 2.) I don’t particularly enjoy the open sea; 3.) I suffer from extreme motion sickness.

I shit you not: I had to put my head between my knees and focus on my own breathing to avoid tossing my cookies in a planetarium. A PLANETARIUM. The stars were moving to fucking fast. Talk about middle school embarrassment. As if puberty and petty bitches weren’t enough to deal with in middle school. Ugh.

As far as the deep sea fishing adventure, all I can remember is feeling extremely sick, trapped on a giant boat in the middle of the ocean for hours. I remember getting sick and having my dad hold my hair back while everyone else had a grand old time fishing for sharks or whatever the fuck else lives in the ocean.  I also remember my step-mom telling me I was ruining our vacation by being sick on the boat during the fishing trip and how I was a whiney little brat in the car ride down to Florida because HI I HAVE MOTION SICKNESS AND BEING PACKED IN A VAN WITH FOUR OTHER KIDS SITTING BITCH NO LESS, A FUCKTON OF LUGGAGE AND MULTIPLE COOLERS WITH “SNACKS” WHILE THE WINDOWS ARE UP AND YOU SUCK DOWN YOUR CANCER STICKS IN THE FRONT SEAT AS WE WATCH COOL RUNNINGS AND 3 NINJAS* OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND EATING NOTHING BUT MCDONALDS FOR TWO DAYS AND HATING YOU AND EVERYTHING YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU’RE THE DEVIL AND YOU RUINED MY FAMILY BY BEING A BITCHY, INTRUDING HOME-WRECKING WHORE— uh, I guess I could stop there …

Awkward….

Anyway, where was I?

Yeah, motion sickness.

And I’m the life-ruiner??

* I was not mad at all about watching Cool Runnings and 3 Ninjas over and over again.

Finally, I looked at the very last thing to do if I dare. I thought it would be intense and exciting but it’s not. It doesn’t even bear a notation from the Half-Blood Prince.

#501 Drink some tea

Rating: one skull and cross bones

Dude. I drink vanilla chai tea all the time! It is my jam. Yummo. I have conquered #501!

Perhaps I should make some now to come down from that rage blackout you just witnessed…

You cut me open and I keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love. I keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love…

I’ve been menstruating since, like, sixth grade. Blood coming out of my body is not necessarily a new thing.

But, um, that blood comes out of my vagina. And it’s regular, you know? Like, I can pretty much count on it.  And when I forget about it, I just have to remember the last time I cried in my bed for three days in a row for no particular reason (e.g. Drew uses the last of the milk on his second bowl of cereal Christmas morning; a stranger at Meijer gives me a dirty look; a Folgers Coffee commercial on TV) and I’ll realize that it’s about that time again.

But, this morning, when I realized that my body was gushing blood, I freaked the fuck out.

I do not like blood. I’d be, like, the worst vampire ever. It makes me queasy. Ever since Drew wrecked his face and I had to run from the neighbor’s house at age 5 (or something?) to tell our parents Drew’s lip was … not really on his face anymore, things just haven’t been okay for me and Blood. Even when it comes out of my vagina, I have to distance myself from it; I have to pretend it’s not really blood. Ugh. I have the willies just thinking about it.

Anyway, this gushing blood? It was not coming from my ladybox.

(Sorry I talked about my vagina, Drew.)

I can’t even tell you the last time I had a bloody nose.

Even though I’m clumsy as fuck and run into shit all the time, I haven’t hit my nose in a way that makes it bleed. When Drew chucked a tennis ball at my face, my nose didn’t bleed.

I wasn’t even participating in a strenuous activity. Nothing happened. There was no trauma to my face.

(This leads me to believe that something exploded in my brain and that I’m probably going to die.)

I was driving to work this morning, just driving along listening to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone on CD when OUT OF NOWHERE my nose started gushing blood. Literally. I couldn’t get a Kleenex to my face fast enough. There was SO MUCH BLOOD. And it was everywhere.

I was so ill-equipped.  What, with the almost-empty, smashed-to-hell box of Kleenex I keep in my car, the fact I was driving at a barely-legal 78 miles an hour on I-96 at 8am, and OH YEAH I HAVE NEVER HAD A BLOODY NOSE AND ALL OF MY FIRST-AID TRAINING APPARENTLY FLEW OUT OF MY BRAIN IN A PANIC BECAUSE I DO NOT POSSESS GRACE UNDER FIRE.

My intention was that I would be able to stop at Starbucks or Beaners (fuck that, I refuse to call it Biggby) to grab a caramel macchiato or chai latte (respectively) and make it to work on time. Ohhhh, no. That did not happen, although I did pull into the Starbucks parking lot to try to stop the bleeding. To no avail.

I drove the rest of the way to work with a Kleenex shoved up my nose while I called my mother in a panic (she didn’t pick up; she doesn’t love me.) and machine gun-like sobs escaped from my lungs. I cried my way to work with a Kleenex shoved up my left nostril.

So attractive.

When I finally got to work, it looked like I had killed someone.

There was blood ALL OVER my scarf (the one Drew brought home for me from VIENNA!), my coat, the steering wheel in my car, my pants, both of my hands and all down my arms.

I was a fucking mess.

Seriously, that kid on youtube who got all upset about the blood? You know what I’m talking about: BLOOD?! NOT FUNNYYYYYYY!!! He was fucking right.

I even opened the first aid kit I keep in my car for sanitizing wipes to wipe all of the blood off of my hands and the steering wheel.  It only kinda worked, though, because the first aid kit is kinda old and it has been sitting in my car for a while so the wet-wipe thing I used was dried out.  So, mostly, I dumped a fuck-ton of antibacterial hand gel everywhere and wiped with the not-wet-at-all wet-wipe (because I DIDN’T HAVE ANYMORE KLEENEX LEFT!). Things didn’t really work out for me this morning as I was self-conscious about my bloody-ness all day long.

Here’s the silver lining though: at least this didn’t happen on a Monday. My whole week would have been fucked.

(OMG I can’t believe I’m even about to say this- because it’s terrible and very, very offensive, but oh well I’m going to anyway…) All I could think of, though, through the whole ordeal: If I had The HIV, this would be a nightmare. And if I was a hemophiliac, I would be so fucked right now.

Storybook endings, fairytales coming true… deep down inside we wanna believe they still do…!

One of my childhood memories includes our endless roadtrips to Florida for family vacations. At least once a year for a long time, we would drive down to Florida. This was before there were DVD players built into vehicles.

Mostly, I remember spending my time coloring in the backseat and ending up with some pretty jank coloring pages. I also remember singing along to Disney movie soundtracks at the top of my lungs. There were also some very long naps.

The other thing I remember is listening to Charlotte’s Web as a book on tape.

Dude. Why on earth did I ever stop listening to books on tape?!

All you have to do is sit there and listen to someone read to you.

It’s not even like that lame reading aloud we had to do in elementary school, you know, when you had to follow along. Or when you sounded like you had a stutter because reading out loud in front of people is hard. Or when you had to play that game where someone would be reading and then, like a dick, that someone would shout “popcorn!” and call your name and you were supposed to start reading but because you were busy picking at the chipped nail polish on your fingers or worried about the hole in the crotch of your leggings (because that’s all I wore in third grade, apparently! Thanks a whooooole lot, Mom!) you hadn’t been following along so you looked like an asshole.

What? I’m not bitter.

That is the best idea ever. Books on tape, that is. Not that shitty “popcorn” reading game.

I feel really good about this audiobook idea.

That’s why, when Harry Potter 7 came out and I hadn’t had time to read the book again before seeing the movie, I decided, OH EM GEE, I can totally just listen to it on CD!

Luckily, my mother is addicted to her ipod and happens to be a huuuuge fan of audiobooks. I never thought I’d be happy about that fact, but I think she might be on to something.

I listened to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows on CD. First thing in the morning, as I was getting ready for work in the morning, I’d fire up whatever disk I was on and let Jim Dale’s voice fill my ears of Harry’s last quest for goodness to conquer evil.

Once I finished Harry Potter, I perused my library’s choices of audiobooks.  I decided upon Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult. I seriously love her books. I never know what is going to happen. The ending is always a surprise, and that’s really awesome for books. I highly recommend pretty much anything by her. I read The Pact by her earlier this fall and that book was also excellent!

Finally, today, I started Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner. I enjoy her books as well. It may seem silly, but I actually was carrying the paperback version of this book around in my purse for probably a month. I hadn’t gotten past the first chapter. With the audiobook, I can listen while I get ready in the morning, I can take the book with me in the car on the way to work or when I’m just running around town. SO CONVENIENT!!

I’m seriously obsessed.

I’m never reading a real book ever again.

(Writing that kind of broke my heart. I take it back. I heart real books!)

Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue, and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

I remember in the fifth grade, we had to write a memory or something for our silly little yearbook. I remember that I was sitting in the middle pod of desks, next to the boy I had loved since the first day I saw him in third grade. He had broken his arm. Again. Now, I can’t remember what happened to make him break his arm this time. I can think of the time my friend broke her arm by falling off the monkey bars on the playground at recess in elementary school. And I can remember the time my other friend broke her arm when she fell on her rollerblades when we crashed loverboy’s birthday party in sixth grade, but I can’t think of why he broke his arm that time.

That is neither here nor there.

What I wanted to tell you was my memory.

Ding Dong! The witch is dead! Which old witch? The Wicked Witch! Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is dead!!

I was little, and my parents were still married. We still lived at the house on the lake, the one I remember as my first home even though it wasn’t the first house I lived in as a child. We were outside, and Maggie, our golden retriever, was outside in the driveway with me and Dad. I can’t remember if Mom and Drew were outside with us.

I must have just watched the Wizard of Oz.

Standing at the base of our driveway, by the wooden fence in the front yard, I stood. Though I’m not sure what I was doing down by the fence and the road, I’m sure it was something awesome, like picking grass, or licking rocks, or climbing the rickety, not-made-for-climbing fence. Out of nowhere, I heard something hit the ground with an odd jingle-smack. When I turned to look what it was, I saw that a set of keys had hit the ground behind me. From the sky.

I looked up and saw that the once perfect blue sky was dark, and there were words written in the sky. Don’t ask me what the sky said because I sure as hell can’t remember.  I could swear I saw that mean old, green-faced witch ridin’ off into the sky.

Yeah. That was my memory. That’s the memory I chose to write down to be published.

Really?! I think about that now and just think, Really, Katie? REALLY?! What the hell!?

The best part about this is that I swore that this memory was legit. I would have bet my life on the fact that this actually happened. Of course, when my mom read what I had written down (of course, once this silly little booklet was printed), she had no idea what the hell I was talking about.  The other best part is that I didn’t have a doubt in my mind about the validity of this memory. I didn’t believe I had anything to be embarrassed about by sharing this memory. I believed I had experienced something paranormal, g-d it! I had encountered a physical object falling from the sky! I had seen a witch writing words in the sky!

That was fifth grade. In fifth grade, I still believed  that this memory existed. Who am I?!

I was a weird kid.

Oh, remind me to tell you about the time I ran into a moving van on my bike. Or the time I got my fingers stuck in a wiffle ball. Or the time I found a power tool (drill) and put it to my forehead, turned it on and left a cut in the middle of my forehead. Or the time I played the piano with my face and cried every time I banged my head too hard against the keys.

I bet you’re glad you stuck around to read this.

Mama cut out pictures of houses for years from “Better Homes and Garden” magazine, plans were made and concrete poured, nail by nail and board by board, Daddy gave life to Mama’s dream…

Last week, I went with my mother to a furniture store.

We went to look for a maroon love seat for the study.

This new house is really becoming exciting. When all of this mess began, I was pretty psyched for her because it was kind of fun talking about all the fun things we would maybe have in this new family home. But then there were a lot of repetitive questions and I lost interest. And then I started to feel bitter because this was replacing our home. This brand spankin’ new house was going to make us have to get rid of the house I grew up in. And that made me sad. So I ignored all the new-house stuff. I became really irritated when conversations turned to all the “fun stuff happening with the house” because I really didn’t like this new-house stuff.

But the house is almost done. It has to be done by September 24 for the parade of homes. It’s gorgeous.  And now it’s super exciting for everyone.

So with everything coming together, we needed to find a maroon love seat for the study.  And we were going to just look at bedroom furniture for the room intended for Drew.

I was really, really helpful. Like when Mom asked me to go re-measure something because we forgot the dimensions, I went to the part of the store that had the dresser Mom was looking at for Drew’s blue room.  But then I saw this:

THAT BEAR IS WEARING A BASKET LIKE A BACKPACK. OF COURSE I WAS GOING TO WANT TO OWN THIS PIECE OF ART.

Hello! I LOVE BEARS! (And dinosaurs. But there were no backpack-wearing dinosaurs. Sad.)

So THEN I found THIS:

What a precious little bear face! I immediately wished that “my room” hadn’t been painted a perfect yellow color and that all my furniture and bedding wasn’t already decided upon. I wished I could change the design concept of “my room” to BEAR LAND.

And then I found THIS and knew that we had definitely made the wrong choice with the yellow.

DANCING, HAND-HOLDING BEARS. I was IN LOVE. How can you NOT love that?!!? It’s hilarious and precious! What an excellent conversation piece!! THIS IS ART!!!

I obviously was taking way longer than she had anticipated, so after a while, Mom came looking for me. I had been running around like a ninny, looking for all things bear-shaped/themed.

I found this gem when Mom found me:

It reminded me of the time I murdered one of God’s creatures. And Mom wondered what the fuck I was doing.

I told her I had a brand new design concept for any room of the house. I told her bears would look glorious in any room, or that we could spread them out throughout the house.  I told her that they would be great conversation starters and that if no one else would appreciate them, I would appreciate the bears enough for everyone on earth. Because I loved them.

But then she scolded me, reminded me I’m an adult and t0ok my phone away.  I followed behind her, dejected, as we made our way to the place where she paid for her maroon love seat and Drew’s bedroom furniture.

Looks like I did a lot more looking than she did. And the bears remain at the store.

I have the best Christmas Present ideas….!

nobody knows where they might end up, nobody knows, nobody knows where they might wake up, nobody knows…!

So, I think I mentioned this before but my mom is building a house. Well, obviously she is not the one doing the hard labor and constructing a dwelling deemed livable. There’s just no way that could actually happen. But you know what I mean.

Because of this new house, my mom is basically a basketcase and walks around life like a ninny. (I really wanted to use that word!) She has been trying to get her house “ready to put on the market” which means making repairs and throwing all of our random shit away.

None of this would really be worthy of telling you about except it is now encroaching on my life. I have been told that I must pack up all of my childhood books and the rest of the crap in my bedroom that I haven’t taken with me anywhere. Okay, fine. I can do that. But the repairs?  At least give a girl some warning!

After a night out terrorizing East Lansing with a couple of my best gals, I awoke this morning at 6:50 am (ish) to hear my mother fluttering around the kitchen and down the hall as her heels clicked against the hardwood floor. I immediately rolled back over and continued right on sleeping. Much too early to be awake. THEN, a text woke me up (thanks a lot, Nikki- lol just kidding! love you!) around 9:30 am or something. I deemed this a suitable time to rise. So after texting back and forth a for a while, apologizing to a couple people I happened to inappropriately drunk-text, and deciding I needed to watch an episode of Dawson’s Creek, I heard someone walkin’ around downstairs. I assumed it was my mom. (I have this joke with her lately that she just never goes to work anymore- but it’s totally a joke. She does go to work. And she loves her job. FYI. hahaha)

So, because I assumed it was my mom, I got out of bed, opened my door and took a first few tentative steps out into the loft before saying something snarky to Tam (my mom) about how she’s a slacker and never goes to work.

Oh. It totally wasn’t my mom. Whoever it was totally heard me get up and was like, “HELLO!?!”

Uhm. That’s a man-voice. WTF?!

Uhm. Hello?

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE SAID?! (Maybe I should have gone with something like “WHO DERE?!” bahahaha at least I crack myself up…)

“I’m John,” said the odd man in my home.

Suddenly, I was thankful I put pants on. I almost didn’t!

Uuuuuum, I’m Katie?

“I’m just putting up some drywall here for your mother?”

This is when I just retreated towards my room. I would hide until he was gone. My hair was huge and completely weird shaped. The X drawn on my hand in permanent marker from the bar last night was probably now transferred to my cheek. I didn’t need to know what this man looked like or what he was doing. Just. Go. Away. But he sounded busy, so I figured I’d wait it out.

Oh. Okay.

I hightailed it back to my room, closed the door, took my pants back off, and crawled back into bed. I texted my mom “it’s not awkward at all with this random man in my house or anything…” but she didn’t care enough about me to text me back.

It seemed like I was waiting forever. After an episode of Dawson’s Creek that I pretty much slept through, I decided I couldn’t live like a prisoner in my own home anymore. So I grabbed my clothes and tip-toed to the bathroom. After showering and getting dressed, I got the f outta there and ran my very-important errands. Yeah, right. I basically invented a reason to gtfo of my house for at least an hour.

HE WAS STILL THERE WHEN I GOT BACK. AND HE LOOKS LIKE SANTA CLAUS.

AND HE CONVERSED WITH ME AS IF OUR AWKWARD INTRODUCTION NEVER TOOK PLACE.

meredith grey knows what's up

So, I went right along with it. I pretended this morning never happened, just like the annoying thing that happened last night. And the awkward thing that happened yesterday after work.  If Santa can handle avoidance behavior, then I’m just gonna continue living my life “under a banner of avoidance.” Really, this just instills in me the idea that being “dark and twisty” and an avoider is okay. This all just really reinforces my belief that if I’m any one character from Grey’s Anatomy, it is indeed Meredith. And if you watch that show, she’s not exactly… stable. But whatever, she gets help and becomes bright and shiny. Maybe someday I’ll be bright and shiny Meredith too. Change does happen, you know. I used to be very Cristina, but as I just told you, I’m not so much anymore.

This got very off-topic. Where was I?

Oh yes. Santa. (Sidenote:  As I was writing Santa, I almost wrote Satan. Interesting.)

Santa Claus just continued on merrily, putting up drywall or something. And then he finally left, but not before asking me if it was okay to leave his ladder here since he would be returning at 9 am tomorrow morning.

I can’t wait. Maybe I’ll ask him for a pony tomorrow. Or maybe not since horses freak me out.

Oh, I know. I’ll ask him for a boyfriend an *NSYNC reunion tour! Ooh, or for Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears to bury the hatchet and get their love-fest back on. Or for Mel Gibson to not be so terrible and make him go away. (I could do this forever.)

Take me out to the ballgame, take me out to the crowd, buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks, I don’t care if I never come back…

Yesterday was Grandma’s 78th birthday.

She requested for my mom to make fajitas for dinner and chocolate cake. That’s exactly what she got. (Yum, btw.) And then we did presents and talked about how different life is now than it was when she was young. I love when that happens because her childhood is just so outrageous to me. She talks about how she used to iron her brothers shirts all the time and that amazes me because I’ve never ironed anything in my life, besides my hair. Jeeez! Although, I have used my flat iron to “iron” a few articles of clothing. Something tells me, though, that that is totally not the same thing.

Grandma enjoys getting pedicures and is seriously obsessed with sports. She cares about, like, every sport there is. Something is always on. Hockey, football, tennis, golf, baseball… it never ends. She tries to make conversation with me about it but it’s completely useless since I just don’t know sports or care to pay much attention to it.

For her birthday, my mom thought of something awesome to give her. She purchased tickets to the Detroit Tigers game that was at 1:05 this afternoon. Grandma has talked about how she hasn’t been to Comerica Park and how she so wants to go to a Tigers game for foreverrrrrr. So we just fucking did it. We got tickets, hopped in the car this morning and drove to Detroit to watch the Tigers play the Minnesota Twins. She was so excited and it was adorable. She was so surprised and it just made it really precious to give those tickets to her for her birthday.

As previously stated, I do not watch sports. Most importantly, baseball is just so not sexy. It’s like the least sexy of all sports. With football, you’ve got these buff guys who run around in spandex and throw people to the ground. That’s kinda hot. And with soccer, you’ve got these really lean, really fit, hot guys who wear pretty normal outfits and aren’t all ‘roided up. Swimmers… this is all I’m gonna say: baaaangin’ bodies. Hockey is hot because even though it’s violent there’s something about the thrill of the fighting; you know those guys aren’t pansies. Golf  isn’t exactly sexy but I guess it’s not not sexy. (Tiger Woods is a total douche but I basically pretend he doesn’t exist, so whatevs.)  I mostly just think of people my dad’s age when I think of golf, and that’s awkward. Never mind. Let’s move on. My point is that baseball is not sexy and I just don’t get it. No thanks.

But, despite my feelings towards baseball, to the game we went. There was way more traffic than anticipated and Grandma told me I looked like “Sarah Palin’s daughter with those new sunglasses”- whatever that means. (I didn’t take that as a compliment. Bristol Palin (and basically the whole Palin clan) is a hot damn mess. Not in the cute, fun way that I am.)  When we got there, it was sunny and nice and it felt so good because the air was BLASTING in the car. But we got to our seats and I wanted to die. It was scorching. I now have a really sexy tan. And by that I mean I have not-so-cute tanlines. And by tan, I mean I’m bright red. Despite putting sun-screen on, I definitely burned. Whatever, though, right? Sunburns are sexy. bahaha

Long story short, I’d go to another game. It’s just fun to be there, be a part of it and feel the excitement of everyone around you. I enjoyed eating a hotdog in the stands and I totally wished I had Tigers apparel because that’s the best part- dressing for the occasion! lol I’m such a girl.

UPDATE (seriously-wtf-day-is-it?!, July 13):

here’s a picture to show you how good my sunburn looks:

soooooo sexy!!! i know you're jealous.