Tag Archive: grandma


I am finally on the mend from being sick but still don’t feel normal.  I’m still a hot damn mess. My daily drug cocktail is outrageous and I am still amazed that I can take so much medication and still feel this awful. My body hurts. I have gone through at least three boxes of Kleenex this week. I have a really sexy cough that sounds like my lungs are rattling.  My voice is all snorkly. I sniffle and breathe out of my mouth. It’s disgusting.

I will take this time to tell you that I am well aware that my posts of late have been lacking, even prior to the sickness I have contracted.

To say the very least I have been extremely uninspired. I have come to dread having to sit down to write something.  I don’t know what has changed or what is different that has made me feel this way.

Probably four weeks ago, I had my first very serious thought of ending this.  I keep thinking I should just give up, quit. And then sometimes I reel it in and think perhaps I’d just take a break, a little hiatus, if you will. But I always talk myself out of it and convince myself that next week, next week will suck less and I’ll churn out something funny or worth reading.  No such luck.

So, let me just put it out there: I am so sorry.  I am sorry that coming here sucks now. You, my dear reader, are wonderful, and every time you visit my blogy-blog, I am so grateful.  Truly.  Even when you just pop by on accident or when you click on over and read without comment- I appreciate it. Even when you search something weird, like “dogs pooping on couch” or “grandma is obsessed with me” and end up here wondering what kind of fuckery is this?!, I’m glad you came by at all. If my words matter to you and/or if you look forward to getting a glimpse at how I view the world, I am sorry I have been really sucking it up lately.

I just wanted to acknowledge to you that I am well aware that it hasn’t been good lately.

Or, if you’re thinking it’s never been good and why do I even bother, then, well, uhmmmm… I guess this is just confirmation. So, good job! Go me, for reinforcing your original thought.

Here’s my promise: I will start putting forth real effort.  I will try to feel excited about blogging again. I will plan ahead. I will recapture my child-like wonder.  I will tell you about my love of Smokey the Bear. I will tell you things I’m excited about.  I’ll reinvest myself in you. I will reinvest in accomplishing a personal goal.  I will follow-through. Even when I don’t feel like it.

I feel good about this.  Thanks for listening!

Check back! Hold me accountable! Harass me when you hate something I do or say! Tell me what you want to read about! Let me know if something makes you laugh- or if you feel the same way!

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Dude.

I’m supremely hungover.

I slept until 4 pm today.

Actually, that is kind of a lie.

What really happened was I woke up at 8:30 this morning to pee.  I am fairly certain I was still drunk at this point, as I could not figure out how to execute the tasks of finding the light switch and turning on the bathroom light.  In all fairness, I was in a hotel (so my surroundings were less than familiar) and the light switches were on the wall outside of the bathroom.  I washed my hands in the bathtub (because I thought the sink was still full of ice and all of our liquor- it wasn’t.) and that’s when I found Seneca’s red thong hanging out on the ledge of the bathtub.

I remember thinking that was a little odd.

I crawled back into bed next to Seneca and went back to sleep until about 10 o’clock, when I heard Megan walking around our hotel room and starting to clean stuff up.  It was probably an hour later that we all actually woke up and pulled ourselves together enough to get in the car and go home.

When the girls dropped me off at home, I dropped my crap on my bed, grabbed a sweatshirt and headed back upstairs to plop myself down on the couch, where I had every intention of staying all day long.  I was too hungover to get up and grab a blanket so I used my hooded sweatshirt as a blanket and used a pillow on the couch to cover my feet.  I wished more than anything that I could just use the power of my mind to turn on the fireplace, but that didn’t really work out.  Instead, I watched The Office on DVD and froze my ass off.

I woke up around 2pm when I heard Grandma arrive.  I was drifting in and out of consciousness so I really have no idea what she was talking about, but it was too loud for my taste so I quickly turned the DVD player off, switched the tv to the channel that was playing some basketball, and went to crawl into my mom’s bed.

At about 3pm, I woke again.  Grandma had started vacuuming. I tell you, the woman cannot just sit and do nothing.  Even though my mom constantly tells Grandma not to use our vacuum (because she breaks them????), Grandma doesn’t listen and insists on vacuuming our house. I wanted to knife her, but not that badly because I didn’t expend any energy at all to ask her to stop.

It was about 4pm when I started feeling like I needed to stop procrastinating and do my homework. Only, it felt like death to not be horizontal.

I started my homework at about 7pm, and that shows.  I’m only slightly embarrassed to hand in my case study and I won’t be that mad when I don’t get 100%. I won’t be that mad because last night was fun enough to be worth less than 100% on the piece of shit case study I handed in this evening.

I am, however, a little disappointed in myself because, dude, I cannot drink like I used to.  Not like I could in college.  Growing up sucks.

It was never really a mystery to us why it seemed like our entire floor in the dorms in college hated us.

Sarah and I lived in the room at the very end of the hallway. Our perfect square of a room was the gathering place every Thursday night to watch The OC and later Grey’s Anatomy. Our room was the meeting place of the whole group of us for those three or four nights a week we went out to parties. And later, our sophomore year of college, our room was next door to two of our good friends, whose room would blare with the latest Justin Timberlake song or One Republic’s “Apologize” before it was cool and overplayed on the radio.

We did dumb shit, like dress up like the some cracked out version of the Spice Girls and sing really, really loudly after 2 in the morning. You know, when the whiners on our floor were sleeping, and had been since 11 pm.

As a group, we’re loud. I mean, I scream and screech a lot, I laugh loudly, and I shout when I’m happy or excited. Multiply that by at least four and you’ve got my core group of friends in college. And we were together constantly.

Add in the fact that we lived in an all-girls dorm. In the really, really old dorms. As in, I lived in the same dormitory my grandmother lived in. The same dormitory my mother lived in. It’s old. We also lived in the dorm mostly populated by the college of music kids. They’re all artsy and hipster-y and obviously too smart and better than us to get loud and crazy all the fucking time, like we did. The best part about our dorm is that it was the closet to the street with all the bars on it. And it was relatively close to a lot of the off-campus housing and greek life. (And let’s get real: I loved me some fraternity parties before I was of the legal drinking age.)

I think this photo adequately demonstrates the potential Le Le and I have when it comes to getting crazy. lolz (Ps. Le, does that headband look familiar? bahaha)

My point is, our floor hated us.

We were constantly hushed and asked nicely to be quiet. And when all else failed, we were told on. When we realized that the RA’s were about to come bust us, we’d quickly finish the shot glass full of five o’clock vodka on Leah’s or my desk, turn the music off, grab our coats and fly out the door.

I mean, we didn’t want to get written up. Again. Or have to pour our alcohol down the bathroom sink. Again.

Even when we weren’t drinking (illegally) in the dorms, we were loud. And probably really, really obnoxious. I’ll leave you with this one memory I have, a memory that really reinforced the fact that everyone on our floor just did not get me, or my friends.

You know how in college dorms there are all kinds of random-ass signs for random-ass shit? Like, sign up for ballroom dancing in one of the rooms by the cafeteria, or do you need a tutor for some really hard singing class you’re taking? Well, I can’t remember why we decided to make a sign but one night we did, and we hung it on the walls all over our hallway, and all of the doors to the bathrooms, and the mirrors, and the door to the stairs.

It was a nice sign. It didn’t ask anyone to donate their first born to some demonic cult or require anyone to spend any money on anything. It was just a nice little sign to remind people to have a good day and to provide a little pick-me-up. Sometimes people just need that. Classes are hard. It’s really hard to walk fifty feet to a building across a nice little field to go sing for a couple hours a day. And it gets cold in Michigan.  And sometimes blowing off class on a Friday to play Ultimate Frisbee in Adam’s Field is just really… hard. So we posted our sign to let people know we cared.

Our sign was not appreciated. When we woke up the next morning, every single sign had been torn down and thrown away.

The people on our floor were dicks. And they hated us.

Happy Thanksgiving from all of us here at my house.

And by “all of us” I mean Me, Grandma and Mom. And Stella, my satanic, life-ruiner of  a cat.

I did, however, learn something about Stella this week.

Lately, Tam has been been talking an awful lot about a neighbor’s cat who comes to visit Stella. It’s not that I didn’t believe her; I mean, sure, the cat probably does exist. I did, however, question the validity of her statements regarding Stella’s behavior towards this cat. I highly doubted that Stella even entertained the idea of having a little kitty friend, what, with her being a little bitch about everything.

Stella is not social. She is not going to just walk up to the window and become friends with this rando neighbor cat who sits on our front steps by the window and stares into the house, waiting for her.

That was exactly what Tam was saying was happening. She said our little brat of a cat had a boyfriend.

So right before I left to go celebrate the biggest bar night of the year with my girlfriends, Tam called for me to come quietly and watch as Stella spent time with her boyfriend. I crept up the steps and observed Stella sitting by the window, facing a big-ass white cat with the cutest little gray face.

It seemed I was incorrect in my assumption that Stella was incapable of having a friend.

It was precious. And Tam is convinced that this precious kitty cat friend of Stella’s is a boy but I don’t know how she could possibly know.

What I like best is that Stella is pretty much one of those princesses trapped in a tower. She can’t be an indoor/outdoor cat anymore because we are afraid she will get lost since she is unfamiliar with her new surroundings since we moved.  So, she just sits inside and has suitors come to her.

I forget the purpose of telling you this story about Stella. It was not at all related to Thanksgiving.

Interesting.

Well, happy thanksgiving to you and yours all the same. 🙂

Upon walking into the kitchen this evening for dinner, I realized something was different.

Everything was exactly the same, but something was different.

Grandma called my attention to it right after she said grace at dinner.

She gets her hair cut every five weeks. Like clockwork, she goes to get a haircut every five weeks. She gets the same cut every single time. Every single time, she has the same girl cut her hair, and she’s been doing this for fifteen years, she said.  The same girl cuts my grandma’s hair to a short, easy-to-do, low-maintenance haircut.

Except this time.

This time it was sassy. And cute. And fancy. I loved it, and I told her so. She seemed surprised, clearly still trying to decide if she liked the change she had made. But, seriously, it was adorbz. I should have taken a picture because I just know everyone would agree. In general, my grandma is what most people would describe as a cute little grandma. She just is. But with this new hair, it’s like a whole new level.

Grandma told me that she took a picture in with her this time.

She told me how she found a picture of a lady with hair that she really liked. She told me how she went to bridge club yesterday and showed the picture to the girls.  The girls at bridge loved it. When she went to breakfast this morning, everyone there told her to go for it. (The first Thursday of every month, Grandma meets classmates from high school for breakfast. How adorbz is that!?) When she showed the picture to her hairstylist, she got another positive response. Everyone was in agreement; she needed to do it.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what this picture was and where she found it. I know you’re wondering because I was wondering. And everyone she showed it to was wondering. Well my friends, here is the very best part of this whole story.

Grandma cut the picture out of the newspaper.

The obituary section.

Yes. She. Did.

The other best part of this story is that upon showing this poor woman’s obituary photo to everyone she knows, someone actually knew the lady.

So awesome.

Add this story to the list of reasons why my grandma is a pretty hilarious lady.  And even though I sometimes complain, she’s a gem. 🙂

I have never worked in the restaurant industry. I’ve never been a waitress nor have i worked in any job that involved food. (Well, except when I babysat and made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and apple slices. Or Kraft macaroni and cheese from the blue box with the powder cheese- because it’s way better than that shitty velveta cheese and shell noodles. Or that time I fed stolen crackers to a drunk friend in the communal shower room in the dorms in college- yes, you know who you are, and I love love love you.)

Anyway, that is neither here nor there.

My point is that I do not know the interworkings of being a waitress or what it’s like working in a restaurant.  So I might be a huge dick for sharing this story and my thoughts about what happened, but just blame that on the fact I’m an ignorant bitch. Or something. On this topic, at least.

‘Twas the night we dropped Drew off at the airport and we stopped on the way to Detroit to get something to eat. We stopped at a Buffalo Wild Wings because Drew and I cannot get enough of the Asian zing sauce. We also love the honey barbecue. Yummmmm!! Anyway. We went to Buffalo Wild Wings, and it was a Game Day Saturday so there were a shit ton of football games on. Grandma was in hog heaven, although it was “way too loud” for her likes.

The place was packed and we had to wait, like, fifteen minutes to be seated, which was fine by me because I was having plenty of fun dipping into the conversations of strangers. In fact, I was having such a good time eavesdropping, I forgot all about how I had been complaining for the whole hour before that moment that I felt like I was gonna vom all over the car and all over Drew.

I listened to a family talk about boring kid stuff. I listened in on a conversation between two ladies as they ate traditional wings and cheese fries. The fries looked gross so I moved to the next table down. And that was where I stayed. I was scoping out their table in hopes that we would be seated in their booth when they left in just a few moments. The three men at the table only had about an inch of beer left in their glasses and they had stopped eating their wings. They were mostly talking about football so they weren’t very exciting to me, but when they were getting ready to leave, I was hooked.

I watched as one of the men pulled out the cash to cover the bill. Their waitress came and before she could come back, the men downed what was left in their glasses and stood to leave.  It was obviously implied that whatever change was left was the tip for the waitress.

What happened next blew my mind. I have never, in my life, witnessed or heard of something like this happening.  My jaw dropped and I immediately tapped Drew’s arm to inform him that he needed to pay attention ASAP.

Waitress (while climbing into booth to catch restaurant patrons before they left): Hey, did I do something wrong?

Man who paid the bill (surprised): Um, what? No?

Waitress (confused): I just wondered if I did something wrong?

Man (confused): No.

Me: Drew! Drew, watch!!

Waitress: I mean, I just want to know if I did something wrong. Because you guys were here for, like, a long time and I just wanted to know. If I did something wrong, you can tell me. I make $2.65 an hour, so I make a living off my tips.

Man: *flabbergasted*

Waitress: Is there a reason you only left… I mean, did I do something wrong? I make $2.65 an hour!

Man: Nah, we’re straight. *Finally walks away*

Me: WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?!

Waitress: *Dejected; pissed off* Okay, have a good night. *Walks off to bitch to co-workers*

Me: Oh my gawd, Drew, did you just see that?!!? That girl just did that!?! Have you seen that before?! MOM! DID YOU SEE WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!

Mom: No! What happened?!

End Scene.

I then went on to explain what I had witnessed. She was shocked and appalled like I was. Drew didn’t seem amused so he ignored us and continued watching football.

Isn’t that outrageous!? I cannot believe she did that!? I mean, it is true that I have no idea how much he left her as a tip, and it is a dick move to tip poorly, and it didn’t seem like she was a shitty waitress, but even so! How bold of her! Even if she truly was concerned about her job performance and how she could improve, I can’t believe she did that!

Am I the only one!? Have you ever witnessed or heard of something like that happening? Does that happen often? ENLIGHTEN ME!

I realized I haven’t talked about Grandma in a while.

This is mostly because I’ve spent a ton of time at HomeHome this summer, at least since classes ended at the beginning of August.

Classes are starting this week. Boo 😦 RIP Summer 2010. So I’ll undoubtedly be spending more of my free time at Grandma’s again. In the meantime, here’s a classic tale of one of Grandma’s idiosyncrasies.

Every night, Grandma and I sit down to have dinner at 7 o’clock. We sit at the small-ish round, glass table in the kitchen because the dining room is too fancy and too large for just two people.  I generally sit down first, at my usual place at the table, where Grandma has set my place with a red place mat and her white porcelain dishes. There’s always a glass of milk sitting at my place beside a small lettuce salad or bowl of fruit, because you have to have a vegetable or fruit at every meal. When I take my seat, Grandma looks over the table and asks aloud, “What am I forgetting?”  I no longer respond to this question because the answer is always “Nothing, looks like everything’s here” and she usually just ignores it anyway.

She then makes some disparaging comment, like “well, this doesn’t look as good as the food your mother cooks, but it’ll be juuuuust the way we like it!”  or something like “I tried to work the grill again; that was a job Grandpa usually did…” when, in actuality, she did a perfectly fine job with the grill.  When she says stuff like that, it makes me kinda sad ’cause it’s just unnecessary and the negative things she says are pretty much unfounded. Sometimes I respond with “Noooo, it looks great” or I just shrug because it seems that my comments don’t really make a difference anyway.

By this point, she hasn’t sat down yet, but I’ve been seated for at least three minutes. Comfortably situated in the seat I always sit in.  Meaning, I have pulled my chair out, sat down, and scooted my chair in close enough to the table that I’m not far away at all from the table. No unnecessary reaching. It’s after these comments have been made that she finally reacts to me sitting at the table. There is plenty of space between me and the wall behind me. Sure, it’s a small space; where the table is, it’s in a little nook. But like I said, I am comfortably seated and I am not at all pressed for room. I’m not squished in between the table and the wall. All is well. It’s perfect. No fussing is necessary.

But ooooohhhh noooo. Grandma always, ALWAYS grabs the table and pulls it away from me to “give me more room.” She just grabs the base of the table and yanks it away from me, saying “Here Kate, let’s give you a little more room.”

I DON’T NEED MORE ROOM! More room is the last thing I need. I could hoola hoop with all the room I’ve got!

I have since stopped reacting in any way other than scooting my chair to follow the table. Before, I used to say something like “Oh, no, it’s fine, don’t worry about it” or “No! Don’t move the table!!” but my pleas go unheard. Or, maybe she hears them and just ignores me. The latter is more likely, as she has ears like a wolf, like me, so I know she hears me. She just chooses to ignore my requests.

So every day, I scoot into the table on my own and hope that she’ll forget to move the table away.

But, alas, she never forgets. So it’s a constant battle.

Maybe one day I’ll hold on for dear life to the table and pull it towards me while she tries to yank it away. Until then, though, it looks like I’ll continue to scoot my way across the nook to catch up to the glass table that keeps getting taken away from me.

I have been thinking and thinking all day long about what I was gonna write about today. I just couldn’t think of anything. And now, I have too much material. I have too many thoughts that don’t go together at all. One, I am sure, is an over-share. One is a confession. And one is just totally random, like that time I announced at work, unprovoked, that I wished my cat would just die (and Casey got really upset).

I guess what it comes down to is that this is my blog, and I can do whatever I want here. So I’ll just over-share as much as I want. You shut your mouth; you like it, and you know it.

One: The Over-Share

Yesterday, I had been hanging out in the sweat-lodge that is my room here at Grandma’s. Except, lately, it hasn’t been too much of a sweat-lodge. The two fans I have going and standing over the vent in my room seems to be working out for me this week. Win. Anyway, I was doing something (I can’t even remember what it was anymore. HOW OLD AM I?!) and just minding my own business. Kickin’ it with me, myself, and I.

Then I decided, ohhh em gee I’m totally brillz!

Two words, my friends: bubble bath.

Never mind the fact that I don’t even knowwww the last time I took a bath. Never mind the fact that it was 58,492 degrees where my room and bathroom is. Never mind the fact that baths make me feel like I’m dying.

I was like, Self, we are sooooo doing this.

I gathered up a book, my computer for some tunes (couldn’t find my headphones), and my phone. Just in case. (bahaha).

If I was going to be “relaxing” I thought I’d set the mood, like they do in movies. I dimmed the lights in the bathroom and set my computer on the counter, far away from water with the soundtrack to The Holiday playing on my iTunes. If I woulda had candles, girrrrl, you know they woulda been lit. I went ALL out.

There I was, chillin’ in the bathtub with my vampire book and my computer started making noises. Skype noises. What. The. Fuck. Inappropriate!  My mother was calling. OF COURSE I DIDN’T ANSWER. Hello! I was in the BATHTUB.

So I reeeeeeached, awkwardly, to get my phone (careful not to drop it in the tub! That would have been dumb.) and called that bitch up on the phone. But then we got to talking and I was no longer relaxing and then I didn’t want to be talking to her while I was naked so I made us hang up.

Two: The Confession

Before tonight, I had never eaten KFC or watched a show called The Ladies of Demolition Derby.

Now I can finally cross those things off my bucket list!

Three: The Random Fact

I went looking on the interwebz for a prompt to write on my blog because I seemingly lacked the ability to open the cabinets full of thoughts in my brain. So, the prompt I was going to use was “What book could you read over and over again?” from Plinky. I had a good answer, too. I didn’t even have to think about it. I just knew immediately what book that would be.

I’ll tell you right now. The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky.

What I can tell you about this book is that it’s truly amazing. I have read it a number of times and I get something new from it every single time. It makes me cry and it hurts my heart and it makes the reader feel. It’s just… amazing.

Here are a few gems from the book:

so this is my life. and i want you to know that i am both happy and sad and i’m still trying to figure out how that could be.
*the perks of being a wallflower

when the police came, they found my brother asleep on the roof. nobody knows how he got there.
*the perks of being a wallflower

i really think that everyone should have watercolors, magnetic poetry, and a harmonica.
*the perks of being a wallflower

maybe these are my glory days, and i’m not even realizing it because they don’t involve a ball.
*the perks of being a wallflower

sam and patrick looked at me. and i looked at them. and i think they knew. not anything specific really. they just knew. and i think that’s all you can ever ask from a friend.
*the perks of being a wallflower

i am very interested and fascinated by how everyone loves each other, but no one really likes each other.
*the perks of being a wallflower

Read it. You’ll love it. I just know it!

xoxo

SO. GOOD.

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.

I’m feeling uninspired today.

Do you know how hard it is to come up with something “interesting” to talk about? It’s hard. Really hard.

I’m back at Grandma’s after a week of being home-home. My life is no longer completely out of control and disorganized. I spent a good two hours last night unpacking all of my crap. I put my clothes away, hung shit up in my closet, rearranged the pile of crap on my printer, and color-coordinated slash synchronized my planners (yes, as in plural) and calendars (yes, as in plural).

I suppose that deserves just a tiny explanation.

I have two planners and two wall calendars. The only reason that I have two planners right now is because there’s overlap in the month of July. My planner ends in July (sad face) and the new one starts in July.  The only way I can make sure that I can plan far enough ahead and be aware of what is going on is if I have both of them with me. So there.

I also have two wall calendars so I can have various visual aids to guide me through the week. One calendar is of orchids. They’re lovely flowers. It has the whole month on it, holidays, class schedule, work schedule, moon schedules, you know how it goes. The other one is a dry-erase board that only fits one week at a time. This is where I can write in my work schedule, class schedule, tv shows I want to watch, various activities. Whatevs.

It’s obscene, I know. It’s too much.  But seriously, I love it. (I don’t curr, it’s sexy to let your freak-flag fly!) I LOVE spending all that time color coordinating crap so it looks pretty. I like highlighting stuff in my planner when I’ve completed a task. I enjoy going back through weeks in the past and admiring my work.

I also spent a good fifteen minutes today looking at school supplies. I could have taken longer, but I really needed to make sure I had enough time to get my pre-assignment done for my accounting class this evening. I knew exactly what I wanted but that didn’t stop me from perusing and wishing I had an endless supply of $$$$ to buy stuff I most definitely do not need. It’s not even that I spend time comparing and contrasting similar products. I just really like school supplies. Here’s what I bought:

One 1 1/2 inch binder

One 1 subject notebook

One set of dividers, with pockets (8 dividers)

It is a system of organization that allows me to excel in my masters’ program. Acutally, it just ensures I’ll get a couple looks and hear comments like “wow, you’re really organized…” and “that’s pretty impressive” with sarcastic and/or concerned tones. I think it makes people nervous that someone can be that meticulous. Maybe they’re afraid that I might be one of those crazy people who seem fine until they snap and kill everyone.

Just because I like things done right and believe that everything has a place doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me. It’s totally fine that I cringe when someone disrupts my color-coordinating system. It’s totally fine that when something is really cluttered it makes me incredibly anxious. It’s totally fine that the paperclips in my desk at work have a sorting system. It’s totally fine that I use one pencil and one pen among many available to me.

the girls at work think this is funny. it's not funny. so. not. right.

Anyway, I get it. It’s a lot. I’m clearly high-strung. I should probably chill out and relax a little bit.

You’re aware of the crazy now. We can still be friends, though, right?