Hi-Ho indeed

As I drove home from my Religious Ed on Wednesday night, I felt panic rise in my chest. My spring semester of grad school had finished the night before, ending my twice weekly drives to Clemson (90 miles round trip). I was about to hand in a massive project at work, one which had kept me in stress headaches for weeks. The RE class I was leaving was the last of the year, a year spent with 20+ little monsters of the first grade variety. Despite my often-stressful job and a heavy load of grad school, the one hour a week I spent with those kids was often the most exhausting one of my week. In the end, though, it was worth it. Playing a review game as part of our end-of-the-year party, I was struck by just how much they'd learned throughout the year. Who was our first Pope? What was Jesus' grandma's name? Why did Jesus die for us? They nailed almost every question- and, at the risk of sounding like a braggart, they can now almost pronounce Bishop Guglielmone's last name. ALMOST. I figure I can consider it time well spent if even one kid manages to hang on to the knowledge of God's vast love for him/her and what that means in his/her life.

The panic I felt was of the "what am I going to do now?" variety? I was genuinely anxious when I thought of the free time I was about to have on my hands. What would I do with myself in the absence of writing research papers on Charlie Sheen and figuring out a good craft to do for the second week of Lent?

Turns out my panic was unnecessary. The answer was spending Saturday morning garage saling with Alycia. Cooking in my kitchen. Going to a baseball game downtown. Spending time with John Paul.

Speaking of which, while I recognize the depth to which my prejudice runs, can we not all agree on the cuteness herein?



*I was singing the Snow White working song to him one day, you know- "Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go" and the only part that stuck with him was the "hi-ho". For whatever reason, it cracks me up every time he says it.

Life is good. I have a summer of great friends, beautiful weddings, and LOTS of reading to look forward to.

One More Class to Go This Semester and I am Wearing Thin...

This pretty well describes my experience in grad school thus far.

If You Give My Dad a Can of Rustoleum...

... he's going to want a jar of spot putty to go with it.

It's been a little bit 'If you Give a Mouse a Cookie' around my house this week. My parents are visiting while I'm on spring break from work, and my mom mentioned on the phone to me last week that they were bringing some stuff down to repair a few rust spots on my car. The conversation was something like "Oh we have this stuff, like a rust stopper, and I just thought we could spend a little time and put that stuff on, and then paint over it- you know, it's going to look great or anything, but it will hopefully stop the wheel well from disintegrating as you're driving down the highway one day." Okay, I agreed. That all sounds reasonable enough. Let's do it!

Oh, Karen of a Week Ago. So naive.

As we began to chip away at the relatively small area of rust, it revealed more rust underneath... and above, and to the sides and on and on. Power tools got involved and pretty soon the surface area had doubled, and then quadrupled. Alright, so there was a little MORE rust than we originally thought, but no big deal. We sprayed on the rust stopper and let it dry. In the meantime, my dad and I started watching DIY car repair youtube videos from the 80s, involving a product called Bondo Hair, which looks very much what I imagine would happen if you got an entire jar of peanut butter stuck in your hair. "Hey" said my dad. "This stuff looks better than the poly fiber strands we brought down. Maybe we should check it out at the hardware store." Okay, I agreed. There's an Advanced Auto Parts mere miles from my house. Let's do it!

Oh, Karen of Two Days Ago. So young.

On our way to the store we stopped for gas. While pumping, I was reminded that my windshield had been awfully streaky lately. "Hey dad, I noticed recently that my wipers have some little strings hanging off of them- is that bad?" He lifted one up and started laughing. "Uh, yeah. Those need to be replaced." "Really?" I asked? "How often are you supposed to do that?" He gave me a pointed look. "Every six months or so." I've owned my car for three years. Guess how many times I've replaced the windshield wipers?

So now wipers were on our shopping lists. It was about this time that my dad noticed that part of the casing on one of my back doors had become detached. Now, we can't have that, can we?

What had started as a minor spray-paint job had quickly evolved into an episode of Pimp My Ride, except I was drawing the line at painting lightning bolts down the sides of my car. (I drive a Ford Taurus. The idea of racing stripes doesn't exactly go with the 'roomy interior' and 'sizeable trunk space'.) It took multiple trips to both Advance Auto and Ace Hardware, but eventually we got our act together and would you believe that it actually worked?

Before:

*Not my actual car because we forgot to take a 'before' picture.

And after:

*Also not my actual car, but a spitting image. What can I say, I'm lazy?

Not too shabby, right? Only took eight hours to finish and a minimum of four years off of my life. All that stress makes me really want to go for a cookie. And if I'm going to have a cookie, I might as well pour myself a glass of milk to go with it...

This Post is Off the Heezy

I am the youngest person by a good 15 years at my job, though I know a certain Headmaster's assistant who would swear up and down that she's 29 (a lie). But most of the women I work with are literally old enough to be my mom, and- much like my mom- aren't always totally up to speed on pop culture.

To help in their education, I recently decided to use my God-given gifts to start an 'Urban Word of the Day' email* for some of my less, er, culturally-inclined coworkers. Listed here are a few sayings particularly appropriate to my life.

Work Mouth:

A form of self-censorship practiced at work to avoid offensive or cuss words. Typically includes cuss-replacements you learned from your grandma. Potentially embarrassing if accidentally used outside of work at parties or in the company of your drunk friends. May also be used in the company of grandparents, teachers, preachers, and others who disapprove of cussing.

eg. At a party: -Did you just say fiddlesticks? -Yeah, sorry. I still have my work mouth on.

My mother has had her work mouth on since 1949, I think, though her angry phrase of choice is 'horsefeathers'. I will admit to letting the occasional f bomb fly, but when I'm really mad, when my ire is just at an all time high and I can't take it anymore, I let loose with an 'OH HORSEFEATHERS'. Then people know I mean business.

Hangry:
When you are so hungry that your lack of food causes you to become angry, frustrated or both.

Many of the women in my office joined Weight Watchers at the start of the new year, and let me tell you- most of them have been hangry since January 1. It is not a pretty sight, and I face death glares every time I pop a bag of popcorn with lunch.

Premake:
The original version of a song that another band has made a remake of, often used in a sarcastic manner.

eg -Whoa, is that Journey singing 'Don't Stop Believin'? -Yeah, it's a premake of the Glee song.

This reminds me of dear Hannah, who likes to say that foods remind her of a food flavored that way- like "Wow! This banana tastes just like banana-flavored runts!" Same concept applies here- often the things which come later surpass their humble beginnings. And true story- when I hear Phil Collins singing 'True Colors' on the radio, I can't help but sigh and wish for the Glee rendition instead.

Social Terrorism**
When someone you know comes to visit unexpectedly and inconveniently, often staying for a long time, and you can't tell them to leave without being rude.

This... is my biggest fear in life. Forget actual terrorism- I am more scared of being cornered at a party by a random acquaintance, thereby being forced into MINUTES of painful small talk, than I am of a suicide bomber targeting my city. You know how they say that we can't let fear stop us from flying in airplanes or riding the subway or what have you, because then the terrorists have won? Well the social terrorists have won, my friends. I AM AFRAID.

I duck out the side door at church, I arrive at class exactly on time and leave the moment we're dismissed, and I hide in the kitchen at work events, under the guise of helping the caterer. It's become exponentially worse since I started working at a school, and have gotten to know more and more people in the community, which translates into more and more people to avoid at the grocery store.

So to any potential 2012 presidential candidates: if you want my support, let's talk about the REAL issues affecting our country, and finally declare war on Social Terrorism.

*All definitions provided by UrbanDictionary.com
** The best depiction of social terrorism that I've ever seen comes from here.

A Smattering of Adventures

As one can imagine, quite a few things transpired during my year-long absence from the interweb, which I will make note of as I think of them. Here's a random selection.

Last summer, I made a birthday cake for my sweet godson on the occasion of his first birthday, celebrated with a Curious George themed party. I was deliriously happy with the final product- I so lack any fiber of craftiness, that any creative victory, in my mind, is tantamount to producing the Mona Lisa. I can't even fake humility about it - I was all "LOOK AT MY CAKE. LOOK AT IT. IT'S LIKE WE'RE ON AN EPISODE OF CAKE BOSS OR SOMETHING".

Of course, what you can't see in this picture is the prep required for such an outcome.You can ask my sweet, patient roommates at the time: DISASTER IN THE KITCHEN. Seriously. I baked no less than 9 cakes to make that big yellow hat happen, and by the time the whole thing was over, it was like a frosting bomb went off in our kitchen and left no survivors. Not to mention that the assembling of the cake was a rather unsavory process that I'm grateful none of the cake-eaters were around to witness. There was a fair amount of 'smooshing' - that is, shoving bits of cake into holes. I mean, I washed my hands beforehand, but still, it wasn't pretty.

In August, we began the new school year. Our first crisis came on Orientation Day. The day before school started. Bodes well, doesn't it? Our Director of Student Life was out of the country at a conference and understandably, missed taking care of a few details. Like arranging for brunch for the 100+ new students and their parents who were coming in.

When we discovered this at 8 am the morning of, alerted by our panicked headmaster, my new boss, only there for less than a week, was sent to the closest grocery store for muffins and donuts, while I was charged with coffee duty. We don't have a kitchen in the school, and the only coffeemaker is located in the faculty break room, several long hallways and a staircase away from the cafeteria. On a day when we are expected to put our best foot forward, making new students feel welcome, and setting their anxious parents at ease, I found myself repeatedly speedwalking through the crowded halls with an open steaming pot of coffee in each hand, smiling reassuringly at newcomers, as though this was standard fare, an integral part of a truly Catholic education. While not one of our finest moments, it is certainly representative of what I live there, day in and day out- and why I love it so.

And lastly, New Year's 2010. Through a somewhat random processing of events, I found myself going to Florida for the New Year, after ten wonderful days at home in Michigan, during which I did very little besides eat, sleep, and shop. Truly- most days, I got up, ate a light brunch, read/watched tv/shopped, then cooked for the fam all afternoon, eating a heavy appetizer in late afternoon while doing a puzzle or playing a game, and dinner with wine in the evening. It's all a big blur of cream cheese and booze now.


I digress. My preferred Road Dawg Courtney and I decided we would make the drive from Michigan to Florida, in one day no less, and so we set out at 5 in the morning, arriving in St. Petersburg a mere eighteen and a half hours later. We joined two more friends there and spent the next few days cooking meals in our rented condo, trying to suntan, and going out on the town. Oh, and making tandem bike adventures around the islands. It was a really fun city, though I couldn't help thinking that we were driving around on a glorified sandbar and bound to sink at any moment. But we didn't, and I lived to tell the tale.

My, oh my, oh my. Hello there, blog. I remember you. I nearly didn't, and then I spent the past twenty minutes re-reading my life in 2009.

I haven't posted in more than a year, and since I'm guessing that my parents have long since stopped checking to see if I've updated, it's a safe bet that no one is even reading this, but I was thinking I should get back into the groove of blogging. It's nice to have a record of the things that go on in your life- especially the little memories. It's easy to remember flying home to surprise my mom two summers ago, but harder to remember reading the book Drunk aloud with friends at Borders on a Friday night.

It's almost comical how much has changed since I last posted, but it is the genesis for my absence. Last March, I was offered a job at a Catholic school here in town, a school I loved for a thousand reasons long before I even first set foot in it. From their mission to their staff to their curriculum, it's like a less homeschooled Hillsdale who pledges allegiance to the Pope. Not hard to see why I was sold.

I spent the week before I started there in Indianapolis, Chicago and Michigan, and while sitting in Patrick and Margaret's Lincoln Park apartment on a Tuesday night, I received an email informing me that I'd been accepted to Clemson's graduate program for school counseling. And so it began.

My seventh day of work at my new job, the headmaster called me into his office. The look of doom on his assistant's face should have tipped me off that not all was well, but like a chump, I assumed the big boss was just checking in to see how my first week went. And when he started out with "I'm not sure how to say this..." my naturally guilty mind immediately thought "oh no- they found out that I checked my personal email during work hours yesterday. It was just gmail, not like I was cruising the personal ads on Craigslist! But they must be really strict here..." So wrapped up in my Catholic guilt was I, that I nearly missed big boss telling me that my immediate boss had been let go the night before. The one I was hired to directly support. Ummm.

I didn't say much except for "okay" and nod my head repeatedly- a response that has gained me a certain amount of infamy in the time since. I guess you don't know what to expect when you give someone news like that, and you prepare for the worst, so the fact that I didn't run screaming from the room instantly gave me some street cred (or the Catholic school equivalent of it).

From that point on, things ramped up very quickly. Two days later, I threw my first event for 70 of our highest-level donors, feeling very much like I was inhabiting someone else's body the whole time. I was, to use the term loosely, promoted almost immediately, and my stress level consequently jumped about 9000 percent. While I loved everything about the school I worked for- the education we provided, the people I worked with, the perks (like half-days all summer long, and wicked awesome vacation time), in my first two months there, I began to experience headaches so bad that I finally went to a doctor and told him, through tears and sniffles, that I was certain I had a brain tumor, because I hurt every day, all the time. My doctor, to his credit, tried not to laugh, and instead ran tests, finally assuring me that I was neurologically sound and based on the events that had recently transpired in my life, my choices were a) anxiety medication, b) therapy or c) waiting it out. Guess which one this anti-drug introvert chose?

So that's the job. It's much calmer now, and the headaches are gone, for the most part, thanks largely to a newfound commitment to working out. I do love it, and everything else that has come in this new phase of life. Well, perhaps not everything- there are moments when I'm sitting in class, discussing Charlie Sheen's psychological issues, when I experience a bit of nostalgia for my calm life of a year ago, but those are stories for another post.

Zombied

Hey remember how I used to update this blog? Yeah, me neither.

Oh shoot, that was my opening line LAST time I posted... over two weeks ago. Unfortunately the brain farm is fresh out of creativity juice so it looks like I'll have to resort to recycling material.

Wow that was a terrible metaphor. But not even close to terrible enough for me to expend the energy required to come up with a replacement.

I'm tired, like really tired. Was the above paragraph at all an indication of that? My job is extremely busy right now, and my days are something like: go to work and run what feels like the clerical equivalent of a marathon, hit the gym and/or attend designated evening activity, come home and work until I go to bed. I realize that this is often the norm for other professions like teaching or law but in my defense, I don't get summers off nor do I pull down a six-figure salary.

But I'm not complaining, honestly- just wishing that it wasn't Lent so that I could unwind with a glass or six of wine at night. I'll be over the hump of a huge project in the next two weeks, and besides, I've discovered the secret to making it through the day in the office. Around mid-afternoon when I can feel my brain cells begin to melt out my ears, I turn my music down to 'soft white noise' level, cross my arms on my desk, and put my head down like I'm about to play a rousing game of 'Heads Up, Seven Up' with a classroom full of second-graders during indoor recess. Which is what I wish I did for a living. But ten minutes of that and I feel like a brand new person.

I know it might seem unprofessional to take a little 'rest' like that on the job, but if you want to talk unprofessional let's discuss what I've done the couple times I've been extremely sick at work or running on a couple hours sleep, which is to go downstairs into the production studio (essentially a cave), turn out all the lights, and lie down until my extremities regain feeling. That, my friends, is unprofessional. Though, I honestly don't think my boss would be fazed if he walked in and found me that way. Very little fazes him.

But, like I said, a couple more weeks and my professional life should return to its regular programming and by then, March will have kick-started into high gear with what I'm afraid is more goodness than I can handle. Next week is BRAD PAISLEY in concert, followed by a trip to Raleigh for work and a stop to see an old friend on the way, and then Holy week I say ASTA LA VISTA baby to the southland and head for greener (whiter?) pastures up north.

So forget the wine. I will relax with the promise of deep-dish Chicago pizza coming my way in just one month. I wish I were joking when I say that the cheesy deliciousness of a Giordano's masterpiece was a major part of the decision-making process when I chose my vacation destination...

Signs that I Might have been Lying about my College Degree

Remember how once upon a time I updated this blog? Yeah, me neither. Apparently I'm only capable of consistent blogging when the busyness of my life falls at some specific point in the spectrum between doing nothing but watching HGTV all day every day and being too busy to breathe.

Life right now is leaning toward the latter. Work is busy, play is busy, future planning is busy, and as a result, my brain frequently take vacations.

Last week I turned the wrong way down a one-way street. In downtown Greenville. During rush hour. I wasn't even talking on the phone or putting on make-up, the two activities which constitute roughly 85% of my drive time, so I have no idea what prompted such an indiotic traffic maneuver at an intersection I drive through/past/around several times a week. I can at least blame part of it on genetics- my dad once drove the wrong way down 5th Avenue in New York City. But the other part? Totally the fault of my absent brain cells. Luckily there's a parking garage right on the corner, which I immediately turned into. Of course, then I was lost, as parking garages are not my spiritual gift and for the life of me I cannot find my way around them.

I once spent thirty minutes looking for my car in a garage in Charlotte. I kept hitting the 'lock' button, and I could hear my car beeping above me, so I'd go up a floor, search, and hit the button again, only to hear the beep below me. And so it continued. The worst part was, there was a middle-aged woman in the same predicament, and we kept awkwardly crossing paths as we circled back and forth around the same three floors for the better part of an hour.

Was I saying something about my brain being scattered? As they say, the proof is in the pudding- or, in this case, the incessant babble about parking garages.

But, like I said, despite work being stressful, I've been playing hard, too. V held our first annual Dip-Off a few weekends ago, in honor of the Seinfeld episode where they discuss one of life's bigegst questions: Why can't dip be a meal? The answer, it turns out, was that party. I consumed my body weight in cream cheese-based spreadables and woke up the next morning with a dip hangover far worse than any caused by alcohol. That, boys and girls, is why dip can't be a meal.

Not only did I eat myself into a food coma that night, but in another stunning display of mental aptitude, I made a complete fool of myself during a rousing game of Catch Phrase, in which I threw out such guesses as "Scandanavia!" for the clues "Sweden, the Netherlands, Britain" and "Whigs! Torries!" for the clues "Red coats, traitors, communism". In my defense, I didn't hear the communism bit- and how does your mind not jump straight to the Revolutionary War when you hear "redcoats?"

The whole thing was reminiscent of the infamous Outburst game of sophomore year when Kristen and I were given the topic "Battle of the Bulge" and started listing off diet fads like South Beach and Atkins, not realizing they were talking about the historic war battle. Oops.

I topped the week off by trying to buy wine at the store on Saturday and realizing I didn't have my ID when the cashier asked for it. I'm pretty sure she thought I was trying to pull a fast one on her, especially since (as I realized later) my hair was in pigtails. Awesome. So I left wine-less and full of anxiety, as I had no clue where my license could be, until hours later, when I remembered that I had taken it out of my wallet and into my jeans pocket the previous Wednesday when Alycia and I went line dancing at the Blind Horse. I'm just glad I was discovered by the teenager at Aldi rather than a cop- probably pulling me over for driving the wrong way down a one-way street.

Next Time we try Ghiradelli Squares

I could write a post every Saturday morning and it would say essentially the same thing every single time: how wonderful Saturday mornings are, how especially lovely this particular one was, all the ways in which I loved that one of my roommates works on the weekends and the other has a penchant for sleeping until noon. Of all the things I enjoy about my roommates, those qualities are at the top of the list.

On this particular Saturday, I'm a bit sore after a killer workout yesterday. I say 'killer work-out' but all that really means is that I ventured beyond the elliptical machine in a rare but painful foray into the world of shoulder presses and bicep curls.

I joined my gym back in November and I love love love it. It's situated directly on my way home from work, which gives me little excuse not to stop by for at least a brief affair with the equipment there. I was originally lured in because my apartment complex pays for more than half of the monthly fee, meaning it only costs me 20 bucks a month to torture myself. They have a ladies only section, so that I can avoid embarrassing myself in front of sweaty guys with nice arms. Granted, it also means that unless I make some serious lifestyle changes, the romantic comedy of my life probably won't start at the gym.

I was glad I pushed myself, however, because last night my friend Stacey had a bonfire at her house and not only does she make a fantastic pizza dip, but she also provided all the fixins' for gourmet s'mores. This is not your typical campfire fare, my friend. We're talking Reese's cups, caramel and chocolate, oreos (or 'smoreos...).

I'm not humble enough to pretend like it wasn't my idea- one I had previously brought to fruition myself on a camping trip with my family several years ago- and I'm happy to say that the gospel of Gourmet S'mores was well received amongst my friends. My friend Kerry took a bite and said "Oh my gosh, I think my life just changed." Actually it came out more like "Ho mgusgh, fink mlufust ed" but I'm pretty sure that's what she was getting at.

I'm off to mediate a battle between self-disciple and sloth- to work out or to not work out and instead watch episodes of Chuck online while casually reading my Rachael Ray magazines, that is the question.

Mi Madre

This is my mom:


*Hi mom!* (She loves natural pictures like this)

Today is my mom's birthday. She's turning 37 or some other attractive young age like that.

I often hear people talk about how great their mom is, how she's the best cook in the world, etc etc. And look, I think that's really sweet- and I'm sure your mom is a lovely person. But, I'm sorry; there's such a thing as objective truth, and that means not all of our moms can claim the title of greatest. If everyone's special, nobody's special, right?

And my mom? Is the best. The B-E-S-T. Do you see what I did there? I SPELLED the word 'best', so you know I mean business.

When I was in third grade, the first year we got lockers at my school, I opened up my locker one day to find a brand new bookbag with a little note pinned on, wishing me a great day. It was one of those drawstring knapsacks, made entirely of denim, with a red plaid flap that buckled over the opening- clearly there's no accounting for my taste, but I loved that thing.

When I turned 20, she threw me a surprise birthday party, and when I turned 21, she made pina coladas for us in the blender. I can't tell you how many parties she helped me host in junior high and high school- surprise parties for friends, New Year's celebrations, swim team functions, going away parties. She suffered through exploded hot dogs in the microwave, water fights, pop spilled on the keyboard (that was probably more suffering on my dad's part), and the great Christmas Cookie Scottie Dog Expedition of Infamy.

Growing up, I did everything- tee ball, soccer, gymnastics, tap, cheer-leading, ice skating, band, horseback riding, choir, piano, school plays, basketball, swimming... I don't recall ever being told I couldn't try something. She sweated through 10 years of swim meets, which has got to be the most boring sport in the world, and even went so far as to interest herself in the whole thing, supporting me and my entire team- not to mention feeding us. She quizzed me for spelling bees, ran lines with me, drove me to morning practice at 5am, and she's the reason I was able to go to college.

She's my shopping buddy, my confidant, my number one fan and who I hope to be as a wife and mother. Quite simply put, she is the best with all capital letters and spelled out backward and forwards at least three times.


So happy 37th birthday, Mom! Thanks for being the B-E-S-T-T-S-E-B-B..... oh, you know what I mean.

Hello, Good-Bye

I figured now that we're a solid two weeks into 2010, it would be a good time to recap 2009.

At the beginning of last year, I sat down and made the most realistic list of goals I've ever done. And by the grace of God (and in certain cases, the federal government), I was able to accomplish a good portion of them.

Successes: I paid off my car (thank you, Obama), put a good amount of money in savings (thank you, Christmas bonus), became a more consistent blogger, read a good amount, learned to produce a live radio show, began teaching Religious Ed classes at church, worked out regularly, picked up a 'little' through the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, expanded my cooking horizons, and found a hairdresser I can tolerate reasonably well.

Fails: I didn't read a single book on my specific reading list, I still can't knit a scarf, I only watched a handful of the entire collection of Hugh Grant movies that I had committed to, and I never did run a 5K (though that one's up for debate).

Favorite book: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (say that three times fast... just say it three times, period. You'll be here until tomorrow)

Favorite movie: The Blind Side

Favorite new TV show: Glee

Favorite new food: black beans. Soup, hummus, chili, burritos... I'm obsessed

Best memory: Surprising my mom (and most of the rest of my family) on my birthday

Most embarrassing moment: While this category has so many contenders I feel like it deserves its own post, for the sake of my dignity, I'll highlight just one and choose the time I realized 15 minutes into Mass that my dress was unzipped halfway in the back. And that my boss and his entire family were sitting two rows behind me. Yay.

I rang in the year in Sterling Heights with Hannah and I rang it out (is that a thing?) in Orlando with Sarah and roughly 4,000 other Catholics. In between, I attended four beautiful weddings, moved into a new apartment with my lovely roommates, was visited by six wonderful friends, traveled to Minneapolis, Hillsdale, Monroe, Charleston, Savannah, Atlanta and Orlando. I was blessed with a whole passel of fabulous new friends, and welcomed my precious godson into the world. I got my first filling, but didn't break any bones.

So yay, 2009. 365 wonderful more days God blessed me with. Maybe in 2010 I'll finally legitimize that 5k.

It's Like Seven Steps to Kevin Bacon Except With Stress and Television Shows

Everybody reacts to stress differently. Some people get ulcers, others canker sores- I once knew a girl who dealt with crippling anxiety by ripping all her eyelashes out. I'll give you a minute here to thank God that's not your coping mechanism.

For me, it's my eyelids- they twitch. You can't see it unless you're close enough to count my pores, but it's pretty creepy-looking and feels even weirder. Not my favorite.

Due to all my exhausting vacation-ing recently (and perhaps a few other, actually stressful, factors), the twitch has been non-stop lately and after a marathon cleaning session on Friday night, all I've wanted to do all weekend is lie in the fetal position watching television online. It's not... the only... thing I've done, but I would say it has taken a certain precedence the past few days. Hey, I'm still recovering from four blissful days at a world-class resort in sunny Florida, okay? Don't judge.

I did venture out on Saturday for a brief post-Christmas shopping trip with V, where we ravaged the Borders going-out-of-business sale, and I picked up a shirt for the Brad Paisley concert in March, to go with my kickin' new cowboy boots. (One day, the words 'cowboy boots' there will link to a yet-to-be-written post, most likely in haiku form, about my favorite new Western possession)

I also hosted the shortest Christmas party ever, whose brevity was due in large part to my sick roommate. She's got the laryngitis, m'am, and because she's a teacher, she's doing everything possible to preserve her voice for the classroom. Which has made things kind of hilarious, mostly because I keep forgetting that I still have the power of speech. She'll write down on a notecard "what are you making for dinner?" and I'm sitting there thinking "hmm, how can I pantomime 'chili'?" And she's sitting there thinking "I can't believe my roommate is such an idiot". She doesn't say it, of course, but only because she can't.

Anyway, did I have a point here somewhere? Oh yes- fetal position, online television. I won't go on about my deep and undying love for Jimmy Fallon, his twelve days of Christmas sweaters, or the fact that he plays beer pong on late-night with his guests. I'll save you from excessive talk about how adorable he looks in a suit, like an eight-year-old dressed up for a wedding, or how he cutely referred to Taylor Swift as 'Swifty' for an entire segment. You won't find me blathering on about how endearing he was in his first episode, where Robert DeNiro made some of the most awkward late-night television known to man or beast. No siree, not here.

Sidenote: Future husband, if you're out there? Take me to see a Jimmy Fallon show someday. There is nothing I would love more. On second thought, maybe don't. That could spell trouble for our marriage. Might be better to go to the Stars on Ice route. Look, we'll talk about it later.

So INSTEAD of talking on and on about Jimmy, an endeavor in which I have clearly already failed, let me introduce you to Better Off Ted. While Glee won the spot for my new favorite show of 2009, it's a new year and with it comes a fresh comedic slate. Especially since Glee is on hold for American Idol until April. Damn you, Ryan Seacrest.

Better Off Ted has taken the lead for best sitcom by a long shot, and not just because we're only less than two weeks into 2010. It's a cross between The Office and Arrested Development, with a touch of Scrubs bromance via the partnership of the show's two scientists, Phil and Lem. I'm terrible at describing things, so I promise you your time is better spent checking out a few minutes on hulu. Consider it a belated Christmas gift, from me to you.

Sweet, Sweet Togetherness

Hello, Weekend.

How are you, old friend? I've missed you. How long has it been, anyway? Gosh, I don't think we've spent any quality time together since- my goodness, November? Mmmm how sweet this reunion will be.

Lest you feel sorry for me, the reason the past month or two have been void of 'weekends' for me is because I've been traveling and spending time with friends and family- rough life, I know. There was Thanksgiving with my family, an extended weekend in Savannah with my brothers and Meg, then home to Monroe for a pre-Christmas celebration, followed Christmas with the Jagos, and finally New Year's in sunny-but-stupid-cold Orlando.

Coming back to reality calls to mind the mornings when my dad would get me out of bed at 6 in the morning by pouring cold water on my face. That's right, feel free to call Child Protection Services. It's an outrage.

But seriously, working five days a week? What is this?

Despite this crazy 40-hour workweek thing, 2010 already holds some fantastically bright spots. For instance: They've made Little House on the Prairie into a musical. The crazy thing is, I had just been joking about the possibility with a friend a couple nights ago, in the context of "super awesome things that could happen to me". Not only does it exist, but it's playing in Raleigh the very weekend I'm going to be there for work. I'm taking that as a sign.

And I think in preparation, the weekend and I should pass the time by re-reading the entire Laura Ingalls Wilder series.

What It's Like Having Older Brothers

They're charming, really.

Adventues in Anxiety: Part 2

I can't imagine any words I wanted to hear less coming from the cockpit this morning than these: "Well, folks, we've got a bit of bad news for you. We've got an indicator that our left engine is going bad... now, we think it's just a faulty indicator, and that the engine is fine, but in the interest of safety, we're going to land in Knoxville to check it out!" This was of course followed by an assurance that everything was FINE and there was no reason to worry. Clearly.

These are the scenarios I make up in my head that cause the weeping and the drinking and the praying and the more drinking- and there it was, unfolding in front of me in real-life. All I could think of was officials reviewing the black box tapes later and the subsequent newspaper articles- "The first indication that something was wrong came around 11:42 am when Captian Mike Jones alerted passengers that there was some possible engine trouble, though there was no need for worry... he was so, so wrong."

But there were no tragedies for me today save the two teenagers making out in the seat next to me. They parked us at Knoxville for a couple of nail-biting hours, and the kind people at Northwest gave us all food vouchers to tide us over the lunch hour, apologizing profusely while handing them out- which, I get it, they're concerned about customer service, but in this kind of situation, it's not some scheduling error causing a delay, it's an effort to keep us from dying. And while I appreciate a free Quizno's sub, I am really really okay with the sitatuion at hand.

Note to any and all professionals who may ever provide me any type of service during my future here on earth: Don't ever, ever, EVER apologize for doing things that end in me being more or less alive as opposed to dead. I actually appreciate these efforts a great deal. I would rather spend 2 hours reading in the airport than bursting into flames somewhere over the Smoky Mountains.

So I made it to balmy 70 degrees Grenville (so THIS is why I moved to South Carolina), but not without a few gray hairs. The best part about flying out of Greenville is that the airport is lovely and small and approximately three planes a day fly out of there, meaning there is virtually no wait time for anything. But the worst part is that I always end up on these tiny planes that are barely bigger than my parents' old Grand Marquis, and you can feel every tiny bump riding in one of those flying Mini Coopers. There's none of the smooth, graceful takeoffs and landings like you get with the behemoth planes; instead it feels like you're bouncing down a gravel road on the side of a mountain with brakes that have just gone out. It is an experience that does not exactly instill one with confidence. Or happiness. Or the desire to ever patronize an airline company again.

On a much, much, MUCH happier note, here's my whole, wonderful family at our fake Christmas this past weekend:

And here is a pictorial testament to my brothers' nerdiness- their idea of a family portrait:

A little piece of my shoe-shopping self dies every time something like this happens. (And yes, there are five of us under there, and yes that is a John Deere book on the far left. Hey, like your family is normal??)

Near-death (in my mind, anyway) experiences and extreme nerdiness aside, it was one of the best Christmases in my memory, even if it was on the short side. The newfallen snow I spied on the front lawn upon waking "Christmas" morning was literally icing on the cake... if our earth was filled with German Chocolate and snow was butter cream frosting.