Don’t get me wrong, I have no qualms with acting a fool in front of strangers. I kind of thrive on those moments. In fact, in awkward situations with strangers, I tend to to start word vomiting up embarrassing and/or inappropriate stories about myself.

It’s a special talent really.

I figure if everyone is feeling as awkward as I am, I might as well make everyone feel a little bit better about themselves by letting them know that hey, at least they aren’t as big as a dumbass as I am. It tends to be a good ice-breaker. It also tends to give off a really awful first impression of myself.

That being said, I’ve realized in the last three weeks, that moving to a new city has really brought out the awkward in me.

I’m used to being the person that brings people together. In my old life, I had different groups of friends all over the metro-plex, who REALLY knew me. I was rarely in situations where I didn’t know anyone.

Here, I only know a few people, and most of those people are new friends and acquaintances, which I am very much  enjoying… but also lends itself for ample awkwardifying situations.

For example.

I recently started taking an improv workshop to brush up and get to know people. Last week, a guy in my class came in with a cast on his arm. I asked him what happened, and before he could reply I went into the story about how I recently fell asleep on my arm after a rough night at SXSW. When I woke up I had no movement in my hand. I did not regain movement in my hand for 2 months and had to undergo weeks of Physical therapy with a therapist that looked exactly like Jake Gyllenhall. Yes. I fell victim to a circumstance commonly known to old-man drunkards as “Saturday night Palsy.”

While a true story, this is not the kind of first impression I should be sharing with people whom I respect and would like to respect me. I have an opportunity here to exist in a world where this didn’t happen, but noooo.. I go and blab my shame-filled stories with could-be friends who will now be weary of sharing a drink with me.

Por Ejemplo numero 2.

Today, I was in a coffee shop chatting it up with a very David Grohl-esque barista. We shared the usual small talk. I’m new to town. He’s in a band. I’m all hopped up on the caffeine, pa and can’t seem to concentrate enough to write. He’s in 2 bands actually. I saw a band last night. What band was that?, he asked.

“Oh just one of my favorite bands in the entire world, Other Lives. It was a kick  ass show. Yeah, they play every instrument in the world. I think at one point they even pulled out a bazooka. I actually don’t know what a bazooka is… maybe it was a trumpet. And then this dude that made cool paintings started talking to me, and all his friends were really cute. I kind of wanted to make out with a guy in the band but that was stupid he was in the band and probably wouldn’t want to make out with me… I’m pretty sure he saw me pick a wedgie… so instead we went and hung out with these other guys. Yeah they were a Daddy’s with daughters meet up group.”

“Oh… hmm.. OK. Well nice meeting you.”

And then I hugged him goodbye.

I HUGGED him goodbye.

As if spewing a nonsensical, snoozefestivus version of my night wasn’t enough, I found it appropriate to two-arm hug a complete stranger.

And that’s not the first time I’ve found myself in the role of Uncle Creepster hug-girl in the last few weeks. No. It’s like I’ve completely lost my sense of barriers with strangers. I’ve found myself reaching out to hug a friend of friend’s mother after run-in at the mall. Rather than shaking hands at the end of an interview, I go in for a big embrace. “Hi homeless person, no I don’t have any money… But I will give you a giant sweaty hug to make you feel better for not having any alcohol. I feel ya bro.”

And every time I’ve been met with the same stiff armed pat on the back.

I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m loving being in a new city that makes me want to take every faux-relationship to the next level. Maybe I’ve just been feeling more insecure than usual and am asking the world accept me and love me for my awkward self. Either way, it’s very unlike me. In the past I’ve always had very strict rules about my personal space.

In fact, perhaps it’s time we review these rules and take note.

Hugging:  OK when greeting friends and family, saying goodbye to PEOPLE I KNOW, and meeting celebrities.

Not OK when greeting people I have not known more than five minutes, homeless people, gas station cashiers, sweaty people, or ex-boyfriends whom I dislike.

Shoulder massaging: OK anytime I’m the recipient or if there is a cute boy that I want to impress with my strong manly hands.

Not OK when I’m in the back seat of a cab and I mistakenly think that a massage will pass in lieu of actual payment.

Hand Holding: OK when crossing a busy street, playing Red Rover, on a first date at the movies, walking through a crowded music festival, or comforting an elderly person.

Not OK when I haven’t known you for more than five minutes or after I have had over three drinks under any circumstance.

Gently touching knees: Never appropriate. No. I don’t like it in a car. I don’t like it in a bar. If we’re sitting so close that our knees our lightly brushing against each other- back the eff off. It gives me the oogies.

Gently Tickling the inside of arms: I will never say no to this. Strangers, creepers, bums, hotties- BRING IT ON.

Tickling arm pits: I WILL PUNCH YOUR FACE!

Touching my butt: Only OK if you are boosting me up into a tree or over a fence.

So there.

I’m sure there are more but I will tell you if you’re over crossing any important boundaries. As for me, watch out, yo. My rule-breaking awkward ass is sure to hug you in the near future.

What the hell 2010? Where did you go? Last time I checked it was spring and I was getting ready for a long summer boat rides and camping trips…

Seriously though, I think I’m OK with the fact that my life has literally flown by before my eyes. At least October is over. October was a little bitch this year. Actually, looking back it was a bitch last year and the year before too. I think next year I’m just going to ignore October all together.

November though, now that’s a month I can deal with. There are so many things happening. So many things to take in. So many things I need to get done before the years over.

November, I hereby pronounce you my bitch. I’ll treat you well and in return you will keep me happy and busy and sane. OK? OK.

I really wanted to try to do that #NABLOHOMO thing, or whatever those letters are that you ambitious people  use to state that you are writing a novel in November. However, since October was an ungracious assholio that left me withering and crying on the floor begging to be hand-fed Cinnamon Toast Crunch, I’ve decided that I’m going to start with just trying to write a little something everyday. OK not EVERYday, but most days… either here or on the other place that I write. I’m also going to try to start reading blogs again. I know… this is all completely out of left field and seemingly drastic given my recent track record, but I’m going to at least try.

On top of trying to write and read like the scholarly person that I am, (HAHAHA) I’ve decided to set some other lofty goals for myself this November.

Movember: It’s a special time of year… A time that I love, not only because of the cause that’s behind the “mouvment,” but also because I really have an affinity for the mustache. Don’t get me wrong, they can be really creepy, but mostly they can be hot. Even when they do happen to be creepilicious, they give me something to laugh about, so basically the mustache is a win/win.

Creepy/Funny/Hopefully ironic mustache.

Good Mustache

(Huge thank you and a giant chest- bump to @Hipstercrite for reminding me that the above image of Burt exists, and so many other awesome things as well. I haven’t been able to comment much lately on anyone’s blog, but this lady’s blog has kept me very entertained the last few weeks.)

Anyway, I could go on about the mustache for days, and I probably will in an upcoming post, but this one is supposed to be about me.

As manly and handsome as they may be, I’ve got my own plans this Movember. Yes it’s true, I’ve decided that this month I will try my damndest NOT to grow a mustache. I know it will be hard, but it can be done. It’s no secret that I’ve been in a bit of a slump these last few months, but it’s time to pull myself together. It’s time I start brushing my hair, make a dentist appointment, and pull out my old friend Nair. It won’t be fun; it will be painful… but it CAN be achieved. If you want to donate money to me for every day that I maintain a womanly, un-ape-like appearance, I’ll gladly give a percentage of it to prostate cancer. Otherwise, I’ll just be doing it for the sake of woman-kind.

A Do-Run Run Run, A Do Run Run: My grandmommy always told me that “hate” is a strong word, so I reallydo  try to refrain from using it. However, I not only like to use the word “hate” when I’m talking about running, but I like to use it often, and usually in the sentence “I effing hate running.”  In fact, not only do I hate running, but I really detest it, and I’m pretty sure detest is a stronger synonym for the word “hate,” which makes the fact that I’ve decided to become a runner all the more Twilight Zone-ish.

I don’t actually know what has come over but I figure it’s time I set a fitness goal for myself. I keep saying that I want to get back to working out every day, but I can’t seem to find the ambition to do so. I figured that if I pick something completely ridiculous, like run a half marathon in three months, and announce that I’m doing it to the internet, that I will at least make an effort not to fail.

I started training for the run tonight. I’m afraid I didn’t get off to the best start.  I put on my running shoes, stuck my ear buds in, and took off down the block. I only got about fifteen yards before I realized I had forgotten to put on a sports bra, which you ladies know is a rookie mistake. I decided not to turn back, but instead turned up the volume on Paul Simon’s “Graceland,” and dance-walked my ass off. I swear, that Paul Simon makes my bootie shake somethin’ else.

So tomorrow I start running, for reals.

Not Drink:

…….

……….

*Crickets*

…….

Oh come on. Yeah right.

Well kinda.

Basically, I have decided to refrain from drinking during the week. It’s already been over a month.. woohoo! I made a little deal with myself. Rather than spend money on bottles of wine, I’ve decided that for every week that I go without drinking, I get to buy 3 (or 4) albums on itunes. For now, I’m sticking with the classic rock genre. I’ve decided that there are too many bands out there that I appreciate well enough, meaning I’ve collected all of their “Greatest Hits” and “Essentials,” but I’ve never really taken the time to delve into their albums.

This week (so far) I’ve been pleasuring my earballs with the aformentioned “Graceland,” and George Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass.” If you have any suggestions of “must-have” albums, please let me know.

Alright, I’m spent. Thinking about all these things I’m supposed to do this month has made me really tired.

I miss your faces and am excited about rejoining the land of the living. (I’m also excited about watching “The Walking Dead,” again next week because that show is badass!)

When I was a kid, those were my 3 favorite words in the world… but the rest of the sentence was really what was important. Whatever came out of my mouth following “Let’s pretend that…” would become my universe for the next three hours.

“Lets pretend that we’re mermaids. My mermaid name is Christina, what’s yours?… OK you’re Cynthia. Behind the barstools , that’s the lagoon where we live. The shark lives in the hot tub, so we only go in there when we have to. We have to meet Squish, the nice jellyfish, in 3 minutes for lunch. Come on!”

After that, the real world would cease to exist. I actually became Christina; I was her. It didn’t matter that I was once a 9 year old girl in a Tye-dyed one piece that kept riding up my left butt cheek. Once the three magic words were spoken, I became an 18 year old princess mermaid with perky boobs held up with a clam-shell bra. I would spend the afternoon fighting noodle-sharks and strangling pool-pump-eels. I made friends with thebubble-minnows that hung out near the drain. I lived by the law that if I stayed on land for more than five minutes, my fin would shrivel up and I would become a human for eternity. When the humans were on shore, they expected a show- so I would perform diving and flip shows where I would prove that I could do 15 or more somersaults without taking a breath.

It wasn’t always mermaids though. Sometimes I would pretend that I was a lion tamer who lived  in the jungle. I had a destiny to fulfill, and that was to ride the evil old Copper Spaniel lion that lived in the deepest depths of the trees. Other times I would be a mom who actually liked to cook.  Or if I was forced to clean, I would become a 19th century maid, mimicking the mannerisms of Cinderella. When I said I wanted to “draw,” what I actually wanted was to pretend I was a secretary. I would set up a nice little area with a stapler and a roll of tape, and I would imagine that I was completing highly important tasks. Every once in a while I would put down my number 2 pencil to answer an imaginary phone.

I continued playing pretend long after the other kids had given it up for spin the bottle and Girl Talk. Don’t get me wrong, I played those too… but when I was alone I would play out scenes with boys in front of the mirror.  I fantasized about being discovered and cast in Party of Five as the long lost Salinger sibling. I gave press talks and interviews about my rise to fame.

I know a lot of people have these sort of day dreams, but looking back, it feels like I took them to a ridiculous level. 

I realize now, that even when Idid finally grew out of 3-D fantasizing 24/7, I started to merge “pretending” into the real aspects of my life. In high school, I had several different groups of friends who were all very different. I had my dance friends, my theater friends, my cheerleader friends, and well… boys. It’s not that I was never myself around any of them, but I did learn how to pretend to be just the way they needed me to be. I don’t think this was really a bad thing though. I think I was just taking the idea of “fake it til ya make it”  and applying it to more practical aspects of my life.

For a while I thought that I was over pretending. After a college I went through a complete, life-changing transformation and for a long while I believed that I had finally found myself. I had taken up improv, which allowed me to fullfill the craving I had to “pretend;” and in my real life I was able to focus on who I really was.  I started finding music that I understood; I pursued interests that were mine, and mine alone; I lived alone and I ate what I enjoyed eating.

Somewhere over the last couple years I feel like I’ve let some of that “self discovery” disappear. I still know my passions, but I’ve found out that I’m still quite susceptible to slipping into pretend mode. I don’t do it on purpose, and Idont even realize I’m doing it, but I think I am.

Lately I find myself silently telling myself to “Let’s pretend that,” which is most often followed with “every-thing’s OK.” Whether it’s when I’m dealing with my family, my friends, or relationships- I feel like I’ve somehow trained myself  (as improvisers say) to “yes and” every situation that I’m in, until I establish what I’m dealing with. Once I know what role I’m supposed to play, I’m nice and ready  to take part in the newest “long form” improvised segment of my life.

I realize that everyone does this to an extent, after-all; we’re innately designed to adapt to our current situations. I just think that sometimes I need to completely remove myself from the stage so that I can reevaluate my real life.

I’ve found that over the last few years, I’ve started developing a habit of agreeing with peoplewhen I don’t really believe what they are saying to be true. Sometimes when I’m with certain people who expect me to be “on,” I put on a schtick because I know it will make them happy.

I still don’t think there is necessarily anything wrong with this. I’m a people pleaser. I’m a person of many faces. I enjoy being both ofthose things. The problem with my pretending is that at some point, if I ever want to keep moving forward in my starring role, I have to really establish my own character. I need to figure out the details of what makes me. I need to take note of what I love. Just as if I were performing in an improv scene, I have to ask myself these questions.

 If I’m going to go to the store to buy a bottle of wine, what wine would I  really want to drink ? If I’m going to spend $23.99 on an itunes audio book, what book would really make me happy? If I walk into a crowded coffee shop, where would I most likely sit, in a corner by myself, or would I sit down with a group of people?

Playing myself is a weird concept when I really start to think about it. I’ve started keeping a notebook with me again. This time, instead of jotting down ideas for sketches or blogs, I’ve just been writing down things that I like and things that I don’t like. I’ve already collected 20 pages that are now filled with phrases like “I could replace wine with grapes and be happy forever.”  Or “I really don’t like short shorts on men.” It’s been interesting really- recording facts about myself that I’ve never verbally admitted in the past.

I’m not sure what I’m planning on doing with my “Glossary of myself,” or my  ”Glossarme” as I’ve started to call it, but I guess I’m hoping that it will help me to move on. There are so many choices, so many options in this life- and I just have to gather up all the information I know about my character, and keep developing new scenes until I find myself in one organically progresses.

NOTE: *I’ve been in major self-reflection mode the last few weeks, so bare with me while I work some of this out on paper. I’ve decided that I’m not going to forwarn you or apologize anytime I feel inspired to go a bit sappy, it’s just where I am right now. And so is your face. So there.

Home. All by my lonesome. For eight entire days.

With the exception of course of the seemingly semi-friendly ghost and my roommate’s Basset Hound, I will have the entire house at my disposal, and I’m not sure that is a good thing.

I actually kind of feel like the young Kevin McAllister. My feelings of being alone lie somewhere in between being really excited about having some much needed “me” time, and being completely frightened about what might happen.

Growing up, my grandparent’s lived across the street from me so I was rarely left alone. I had a friend who’s mom frequently left us alone until our peanut butter and popcorn cooking experiment nearly left their house in ashes. She eventually trusted us to stay there alone again, but then we literally tried to reenact the Home Alone movie, so her trust was short lived. Then there was the one time in high school that my parent’s let me stay home overnight unattended. Of course that was the night I decided to watch Event Horizon and ended up sprinting across the street to my grandparent’s house at 3 in the morning, head down, pants nearly soiled, and had to ask if I could sleep in their spare room.

It’s not that I don’t like being alone, I actually quite enjoy it. It’s just been forever and a day since I’ve had more than a couple of nights without at least one roommate around, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. LA works from home so she usually takes care of most of the cooking, which means that I’ll be living off of a diet of beans and chips and salsa this week… which is exactly what I lived off of last week out of poordom, so it’s really nothing different.

I plan on spending my nights taking long leisurely baths, reading, watching movies, painting and writing a bit… so that’s really nothing new either. The one major difference is that I won’t have someone calling to get me to watch all the good parts of shows and I won’t have the background noise of LA crying during Grey’s Anatomy or Gossip Girl. But I do have the freedom of playing my music as loud as I want, as late as I want (and I’m totally NOT listening to the Bieb-meister)… which is pretty cool. Maybe it will drown out the sound of gunshots in my neighborhood, which I haven’t heard since last week and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the gangsters don’t know that I’m on to them.

I actually lived alone for an entire year before I moved in to my last house with my four roommates, a house which I now affectionately refer to as the “rainbow house.” Aside from being the most miserable and lonely year of my life, living alone wasn’t so bad. I typically stumbled home from happy hour, ate a huge bowl of ramen noodles, and drank wine whilst mowing my way through the entire Netflix library.

Oh and I almost burned down the apartment complex, twice.

The first time could have happened to anyone. Anyone with a gigantic gray cloud following them around, that is. Ever since the time I caught fire to the Thanksgiving table by half hazardly throwing a table napkin down on a candle, my grandmother has warned me that I’m not the sort of person who should keep candles around in the house. Of course candles are pretty much my favorite thing in the universe besides John Cusack movies and ketchup, so I never thought to heed her advice. The night in question was a particularly stormy night, so I naturally wanted to light every single one of my one-hundred candles to set the mood. I then opened the porch door so that I could hear the storm, and settled into a bubble bath with a glass of wine. I had no idea the storm was such a windy one, but luckily my head was above water to hear a ginormous gust knock over about ten of the candles. Luckily I was able to grab a towel and nakedly whip the fire out before they caused too much damage.

The second fire I almost caused also happened when I was in the bathtub. I cooked something that I can’t remember but I’m sure was of the pasta variety, and once again got into the bathtub, only to be rudely interrupted about ten minutes later when the building’s fire alarm started sounding. I knew the fire was coming from my kitchen before I even grabbed a towel. There was smoke everywhere and I went into full panic attack mode. When I got into the kitchen I found that I had left a stove burner on, and had accidentally thrown a dishtowel on top of it, which had caught on fire. Luckily, I’m a quick thinker and threw a pitcher of iced tea over it, and batted out the rest of the flames with my towel. I’ve occasionally wondered why I don’t have any towels, but I’m now realizing that I’ve used the majority of them to put out fires. After putting out the fire, I grabbed a blanket from my futon to cover myself with and ran into the hallway shouting that the fire was out and not to panic, which I was clearly still doing.

I also wondered why none of the neighbors wanted to be my friend, but thinking back it was probably because they knew me as the type of person who started fires ran around in nothing but a leopard print blanket.

And there was also the time I woke up in a fever with no power and knocked on every door on my hallway claiming the world had come to an end, but that’s an entirely different story.

Tonight I will be lighting no candles, and I’ve already checked 8 times to make sure the burners are off so I should be OK. But send me some good juju just in case.

Oh and also, I’d like to go ahead and let you know that I wrote this entire post while naked. Because I can.

(LA if you’re reading this… I am in your chair, but don’t worry…I’m sitting on a towel.)

When I was a little kid, I followed a strict nightly ritual.

My parent’s house used to belong to my great grandparents, so it was quite old, even when I was a child. My sister and I shared a pink tiled bathroom that didn’t have a shower so we always took baths. After a dinner of either cheese and crackers or chicken nuggets, I would spend an hour or so soaking in the tub, playing with My Little Pony’s or pretending that I was a mermaid named Christina.

After my bath, I was allowed to watch about an hour of television. I was never much into cartoons, so I usually chose to watch something on Nick At Night. I would sit through “My Three Sons” or “Leave it to Beaver” if I had to, but my favorites were the ones that had a magical quality to them like “Bewitched,” (the fact that there were TWO Darrens always confused me) “I Dream of Jeannie,” or my all time favorite, “Mork and Mindy.”

After pleading “tennn morrree minutesss” at least 3 times, I would finally sulk my way to my bedroom, where I would put on a long nightgown and a pair of socks, one of which I would inevitably lose at some point in the night. I then went around to each of the dolls and toys around my room, kissed them, told them I loved them, then made sure that their faces were turned away from my bed so that they wouldn’t be able to see that I had chosen a different toy to sleep that night. I always slept with a brown teddy bear that my Grandma had given me, along with one other doll, which was usually my Mork doll. What can I say? I guess I had a thing for funny weird guys, even at an early age.

At this point, one of my parents would either read or tell me a story, but my dad always had the honor of tucking me in. We would start with a prayer. If I remember correctly it went something like, “Dear Jesus, Thank you soooooooooooooo  much for everything. I love you soooooooo much. Please take care of my mommy, my daddy, my sister, my grandaddy, my grandmommy, my other grandma, my other grandpa, my cousin Andi, my cousin James… ect ect ect. Thank you sooooooo much for food, school, dance lessons, Mork and Mindy, Teddy Ruxpin, my daddy, my mommy, my sister, my grandaddy… ect ect ect.” At the time I was actually quite sincere with my praying, but I also have to admit that I may have been using my time with Jesus to evade sleep just a little bit longer.

In the telling, this part gets a little weird, even by my standards. Not creepy weird, but weird as in my nightly tuck-in ritual was more of a secret handshake between my father and I than your standard “hug and kiss” tuck in. There were a few times I can remember when my dad was out of town and my mom would attempt to fill-in but it was never the same.

Big hug,  little hug. Big kiss on the left cheek, Little kiss on the left cheek. Big kiss on the right cheek, little kiss on the right cheek. Leg hug. Butterfly kiss with each eye, and then lastly, Eskimo kiss.

He would then prop the door open with a large rock (my dad is a geologist so we have them lying around everywhere) and that’s when my real night would begin.

I would lie in bed, still as a corpse for at least ten minutes, or until I heard my parent’s shut their bedroom door. I had learned early on to keep a heavy stock of flashlights that I found in various drawers around the house hidden in my room. I would tip-toe across the room, grab one, then run-tip-toe back to my bed where I would either play pretend that I was camping in the wilderness, or I would read. Even before I really even knew how to read, I would make up stories to go with the pictures, partially because I knew that my parents (the cool kids) did in their bed.

After about 30 minutes or so, my dad would come in and check on me. Usually I was able to turn off the light and feign sleep quickly enough, but quite often he caught me in the middle of an intense Indian invasion and I would get a stern talking to, and be put back in bed.

Once I was caught or had grown tired of playing pretend, I turned off the light and genuinely tried to sleep, but even then it wasn’t easy for me. Life got about 3,000 times more tricky once the lights went off, because that’s when the monsters came out. Duh. I had to roll my self up in my comforter because I lived in constant fear that a monster would eat off my limbs if I left them out in the open. Whenever I went to the bathroom, I had to do jump as far out from my bed as I could get so that the monster under there wouldn’t grab me and pull me under. And then once I got to the toilet there was no time for wiping or flushing, because of course there was also the monster that lived in the toilet that would pull me in if I sat there for too long. Then I would retreat back to bed where I would eventually fall asleep, and dreamt mostly of cock roaches or the Jabberwalky.

As I grew older, I started losing bits and pieces of my nightly ritual. Five minute showers replaced hour long baths.  I started watching Beverly Hills 90210 instead of Nick at Night. My dad stopped tucking me in, and goodnight stories and shared prayers were replaced by a quick “goodnight.” All the toys and dolls were boxed up and stored in the attic.  Long, frilly, nightgowns were replaced with shorts and a t-shirt. Instead of staying up with hidden flashlights, I stayed up on hidden phones that I plugged in and talked on for hours on after my parent’s went to sleep. The monsters were still there, but in the form of worries about school, boys, and whether or not I would get a part in the community theater play.

In more recent years, the last remnants of my nightly ritual have all but disappeared. I’ve spent many nights playing board games, writing in journals and blogs, watching movie marathons,  and drinking until late in the night. I usually sleep in a t shirt and whatever dirty pants are in eye sight when I crawl into my bed. I don’t say goodnight to anyone, except occasionally my roommate or to the internet via twitter. I’ve spent most of my nights making sure that I’m too tired to have a thought, much less worries by the time I hit the hay.

The last few weeks I’ve been trying to get back into a ritual. I’ve gotten back into working out. I’ve started reading and taking baths again. I’ve refrained from drinking during the week. I’ve started painting and watching movies on a nightly basis. But still they’re there. Those damn monsters. My fears of life, money, decisions, and what the next day… the next year… the next decade will bring. I’m not sure how the normal people fight these thoughts, but I’ve made it my goal to conquer them once and for all.

So bear with me if I’m a little moody for the next few weeks, as I am likely to get much sleep until I figure out how. But for now, I’m going to get into bed and read the bedtime stories that my grandfather has written out for me. I’ll probably share a few of those too.

Goodnight world. And Let’s just hope tonight it’s a dream about my boyfriend John Cusack and not one about my current financial state.

And only slightly related, a scene from one of my most favoriteist movies of all time… The Science of Sleep…

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That being said, I’m really not looking forward to it, especially now that I no longer have a pool and my air conditioning in my car is about to go kaputz. That, and I can already see the thousands of Facebook and Twitter updates from my teacher friends who get to spend a few months doing nothing but reading and sitting by a pool. But for now, I’m trying not to think about summer and instead I’m attempting to focus on the fact that the last few weeks have been abso-fricking gorgeous around these parts. It’s been so glorious that I kind of want to take Mother Nature out behind the school yard and get her pregnant in order to create lots and lots of days just like this, incestual as that may be.

The last few days I’ve really been trying to get the most of this nice weather, because I know it’s fleeting and that in a week or two I won’t be able to move without breaking out into a sweat. As a result I am likely to spend the next few months smelling like a kid after recess, which if your wondering is the mixture of grass and Taco bell. Speaking of, I’ve never understood why parents wait so long to introduce their children to deodorant, but if I somehow end up with a child I swear on sharp cheddar cheese that I will make my kid start wearing deodorant at the age of 5.

Oh yeah, the weather. It makes me really wish I had a hammock. Or some trees in my backyard. Or green grass. Or at least grass that wasn’t covered in stickers and dog poo. This weather always makes me want to be in my grandparent’s front yard. If I were there right now I’d be sitting in one of their butterfly chairs under the giant oak tree, sipping iced tea garnished with home-grown mint leaves out of a bright turquoise glass. If you’ve never drank iced tea out of a turquoise glass, I suggest you go out and buy one stat, because it makes it taste a thousand times better.

I actually acquired a few of my own just a couple of weeks ago. I was having an emotional break-down and went over to my grandparent’s house (across the street from my parents) to let them cheer me up. My grandparents are the best people in the world for cheering people up. If you don’t have your own, I’ll let you borrow mine for an hour or two… but since their the best g-funk parents in the whole wide world I’m kind of afraid you won’t want to give them back. But I trust you… so, maybe.

Any-g-funk-era, a weeks ago I had a lot of drama in my life, and all of their usual tricks weren’t working. My grandmother rubbed my back; told me stories about her own hard times;  fed me graham crackers with marshmallows, a few prunes and a cut up orange; let me pick out a song to play on the Juke Box (Sweet Georgia Brown,) and finally in a moment of exasperation she started trying to give me things. As much as I have always loved her gifts, I really hate when she starts trying to give me stuff, especially when I think her motive is to make me feel better… I guess it makes me feel guilty. I went ahead and accepted a couple books, (one was an 1890′s Guide to Good Girl Ettiquete!!) and then she pulled out a set of turquoise glasses that, as many times as I said no, she insisted that I keep.

They aren’t really so much a set, but a bunch of different ones that she has collected from antique stores and such over the years. Each one is a little bit different, but they are all beautiful!

And let me tell you, I’m glad I finally accepted. I have been drinking out of them every day, and liquids have never tasted better. Even the liquids that aren’t tea.

So please, get yourself a turquoise glass or two and you won’t be sorry!

That show was made of awesomesauce.

OK so I have been so absent from the internets the last few weeks. I’ve been trying my best to read all of your blogs and I’ve done my best to keep up, but to be completely honest, it’s hard with a job where you actually have to work. Then add in the fact that I’m trying to have a social life (haha) and then I have the option of spending my night on the patio drinking beer and then to do amazing stuff like this!…

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I’ll be back next week!!

Per usual, here I am the night before the money is due, AND I STILL HAVE NO IDEA!!!!

I’m sure there are those of you who are going to tell me, “Sure Carissa, what do you have to lose? You’ll end up having a blast!” And you know what? I’m sure that when it is all said and done, that I WOULD have a blast, but we can’t discount the possibility that in order for that to happen I would have to be so balls- to- the- wall wasted that I wouldn’t remember it.

But I’m also fairly sure that there are some of you -who like me, are either on the fence about attending your own reunion, or decided not to go because you felt it wasn’t worth the effort or the money. I’m not even sure if this is how I feel. I don’t know how I feel anymore. I JUST CAN”T DECIDE! SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT TO DO!

Sorry for yelling. I’ve just been thinking long and hard (TWSS) about this one, and it’s a toughie. On the one hand, there are a lot of people that I would love to catch up with. I haven’t kept in good touch with most of my friends from high school and I think it would be real freaking awkward nice to see everyone again. Even more so, I feel like I’ve gotten to “know” a lot of the people who I wasn’t so close with by stalking their Facebook pages, and shizzles, it feels like I was missing out on some really awesome people back then. On top of all that, damn I look good and I want to show off! I kid… No but for real, while I’ve lost all this weight, most of the people I knew back then don’t even know I gained and lost a hundred pounds in the last 10 years, so I feel like that isn’t a good reason to go.

I guess my reservations are probably like a lot of peoples. I’ve heard that the 10 year reunion is kind of like a “show off” parade, where people talk about all of their accomplishments, show off pictures of their children, and talk about their career advancements. Don’t get me wrong great peoples of the nets, I’m proud of what I’ve done over the last ten years, and I have no shame at showing up single at an event like this. (although if John Cusack or Ketchup wanted to go with me, I’d be bout it bout it.)  I am aware that my goals are probably different from most people who I went to high school with, and that I’m not exactly on a “conventional” life path. I am perfectly fine with the fact that most people would probably raise their eyebrows at the amount of pride that I take in the fact that I have performed comedy, that I have been published, that some people actually read my blog, or that I am in fact, content being single. (At least 79% of the time.)

I feel that I have gone through so many changes since high school, and despite living in a world of complete (controlled) chaos, I like who I’ve become. I still have a long way to go, but for the most part (Yay) I’m a hell of a lot more comfortable with who I am today, and I’m a much over all “better” (despite my faults) person than I was back then.

Here’s my thing. I like who I am now. I like my life now. And while there are some things that I enjoyed about high school, I would much rather bring them to me, than take a roller coaster down memory lane back to that time of my life. I would like it better if I could magically just pick a few things that I liked about my high school life and apply them to my life now. Like the ability to wear overalls without people thinking I was a farmer. Or glitter. Or getting ready with a big group of girls before a dance, that was fun.

But you know what was WAYYY better than high school?????

Certainly not Junior High. That was even more awkward. I had like 30 pet mice,  wore nothing but vintage clothes, and really and truly believed that I could communicate with ghosts.  Which was cool, but back then I cared a lot about what people thought of me so I nixed out all of the awkward from my life as soon as I realized it wasn’t cool.

Let’s take it back a little further, shall we? Elementary School. That time of my life was made of awesome. I didn’t care what anyone thought of the fact that I wore Umbros and hand painted t-shirts everyday. Life was fun! I know it had it’s downsides, (like when I wasn’t invited to Brooke’s slumber party, or when some guy called me a one armed pirate because I had my arm in a body cast and an eyepatch on at the same time) but all in all, life was pretty care free. Again, I wouldn’t necessarily go back there- but I’ve been thinking about the 5 things from my personal Elementary experience that I would like to have in my adult life. So let’s do this.

TOP 5 THINGS FROM ELEMENTARY SCHOOL I WANT IN MY LIFE NOW!!!!!

My Tree-House: I had the best. tree-house. evah! While it wasn’t too big, it was perfectly adequate for my needs. (TWSS!!) But seriously, two of my favorite pastimes include making badass forts, and drinking on patios. Drinking in a treehouse would basically be the perfect cocktail of the two. Especially if I had cute boys next door that we could spy on. If that was the case, I would definitely remove the “NO BOYS ALOUD” (I was a poor speller) sign from the wall.

The School Cafeteria: I’ll admit it, while some of the best times happened there, so did some of the worst. I have a clear memory of walking through the cafeteria with my tray and crossing my fingers that someone at the “cool table” saved me a seat, but either way- fun times ensued. One of the worst times in my life was when my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Honzel, force- fed me green beans and made me drink her tea with red lipstick on the cup, to wash it down. But then I have to remember “The Game.” “The Game,” was almost as fun as the bug game. Everyone at my table would take an item of food from their own lunch, and contribute it to the community tray, then we would mix it up good, and each take turns trying to stomach it. I think it landed a few of us in the principals office… but TOTALLY WORTH IT! Maybe if I go to the reunion I will try to organize a rendition of this particular game… only maybe with drinks. IN ADDITION. Not that I’m as interested in these things these days, but do you remember that a Star Crunch cookie was only five cents?? Or that a NuttyBar was only 10 cents? Or that they served delicious square pizza??? #IWonderWhyIWasFat

Nap Time: Dude, this really needs no explanation. I used to hate it when my teachers forced us to take naps. I would do anything to resist the nap. I’m pretty sure I LITERALLY held my eyeballs open just to prove a point. But if my boss came to me now and told me “Carissa, you must force yourself to shut up and go to sleep for 45 minutes,” I would probably clip her toenails with my teeth. Seriously. Make me take a nap! PLEASE!

Recess: Another given. Fun and beneficial. Can you imagine if we got recess for thirty minutes every day? And I’m not talking about a cigarette break in the back of the office, but a recess where everyone was forced to go outside and “play?” I would be a thousand times more productive. Not only would I have the chance to hone up on my four square skills (because, yes, I was am-haze-ing) but I could also take out some much needed aggression on my co-workers in a friendly game of dodge-ball, or “tie your head up in a teather ball string.”

Talent Shows: I’ve talked a lot about this today, both on Facebook and on Twitter, and I was being quite serious. I’m sick of all these shows that showcase talent. You can take your “American Idols” and “So You Think You Can Dance” and shove em’. (Although I really do love SYTYCD) The real fun is where there isn’t any talent. I wish I had a way to post some of my early talent show videos for you… dancing to Debbie Gibson and Kris Kross… Singing to Night Fever… Lip Synching to New Kids on the Block. Wobbly Arms and no rhythm… THATS where the entertainments at. I would so spend hours making up a dance to Britney Spears, even today.

So basically what I’m saying is that we should have a talent show. What would you do? There’s no rules here.

And also, SHOULD I GO TO THE REUNION!?!?!?

2-The number of times that I’ve washed my sheets since I moved in, or any of my clothes for that matter.  (We don’t have a washer or dryer)

2-The number of times I thought my roommate LA used her secret powers to dissapear since I’ve moved in. (We have really weird accoustics in this house so I can never tell where her voice is coming from. It’s really scary when you think you have known someone for 9 years and you’re just now discovering she has the ability to dissapear.)

9-The number of times that our ghost has scared the living daylights out of me since I’ve moved in.

148-The number of pimples that I have on my face due to stress and poor diet.

2-The number of bottles of face wash that I’ve owned in my lifetime.

8- The number of boxes I have yet to unpack. Most of them have books in them, and it’s only when they are all packed up and available that I actually want to read them.

45- The number of times that I’ve cheated on my diet since moving in.

45- The number of times that I’ve said “Tomorrow I’m starting my diet again, for real.” psssha

123,433,123- The approximate number of Jelly Bellies that I’ve consumed in the last 2 months.

3- The number of times that I thought that our new coffee maker was broken and was spilling water. Turns out that I was just ambien-preparing the coffee late at night, then woke up and made it again in the morning not realizing I had already prepared it the night before. For those of you who are unaware, when you put double the water in the coffee tank, the water spills out a little hole in the back, causing crazy people to believe that the coffee maker is broken.

9- The number of days since I’ve been on Match.com.

3-The number of times that I’ve signed on to Match. That shit takes up a lot of time, that frankly I don’t want to spend answering emails from strangers. I have gone out with one guy a few times which has been really fun… I just don’t understand how people have the mental energy and time to put into dating multiple people…

48-The number of times that I’ve gotten out of my current shower and had morbid thoughts that I was probably going to slip and crack my head open because I don’t have a bath mat.

135- The number of times in my life that I’ve wondered if Paul Rudd is actually a vampire. (That guy never ages, seriously)

4-The number of times in the last month that I’ve had weird dreams that somehow involved the Mac guy from the “I’m a Mac” commercials. I have no explanation for this one.

50- (At Least) The number of wine bottles that have been consumed since moving into this house.

3-The number of weeks since I have last gotten paid. I’m going on no monies at this point.

4- The number of times I’ve said that giving out massages with happy-endings might not actually be that bad of a moonlighting gig.

3- The number of big gigantic ketchup bottles that I have finished in 2 months.

2- The number of boys that I was not actually dating that have broken up with me in the last week. One was documented here, which I still feel a little guilty posting about since I’m a really really nice person. The other happened shortly after. It was actually the first comment posted on that particular post…

I have copied and pasted it below for you lazy bones who don’t want to go and see it for yourself:

___________

Jake 1 week ago

_______

For those of you who don’t remember, Jake is my gay best friend/ex-roomie. He’s the one who used to blow dry my hair and make the “whheeee whheeee” sound when I wanted to overeat. He used to break in my high heels and would  cook me dinner every night. I miss him. We weren’t so much peas and carrots, but we were definitely something like ketchup and baked potatoes.

I miss the way he used to sing “la la la la, la la la la la, la la la la la la la la .. ooooooooeeeeeeooooooooooooo,ooooooo ahhhhhhahhhhhhahhhhh (Lovin You, as performed in National Lampoons Vegas Vacation) No one, I mean nobody can hit that high note like he can.

On the same subject, if we break up, who will sing “I will Always Love You” at my wedding???? That is assuming someone will marry me of course.

I admit it has been hard to keep up a long distance (30 miles apart) relationship going, but I’ve had a lot going on… plus this thing goes both ways. I don’t see Jake coming to see me every weekend, or calling me every night. Isn’t the boy supposed to call the girl? Ok, Ok.. maybe the same rules don’t apply in a gaylationship. But still… I’m hurt.

Against All Odds

I thought it was a joke at first, but in the last week I have been getting numerous texts and Facebook posts that have lead me to believe that he is serious about breaking up. It upset me a lot, but it wasn’t until what went down on Facebook last night that I realized I needed to take action.

I have no idea how to do that thing where you screen shot facebook, but this is  how the status updates went down…

Jake ____ would like to officially announce to the world that I’m ignoring Carissa____. It’s been a long time coming…ooooooover “it”…whatever “it” is, or was!

Although this isn’t the first time that Jake and I have argued, it IS the first time that I have realized just how much of a serious problem us breaking up could mean.  Not only am I missing out on good times with my favorite goy on the planet. (Goy is my word for gay boy, duh.) But I am also potentially setting myself up for a scandal. It hit me like a thousand cactus pricks in my ass (no pun intended) that not only does Jake own the domain name for “CarissaJaded,” but he also has the sole ability to keep me from ever becoming president. Let’s be honest, I may not be the most obvious gal for the job, but I’d like to keep my options open.

So my response?

I know you’ve missed me. Or not.. but I’ve missed you. I can’t believe my week of stay-cating and watching movies has come to an end. But I guess as they say, all good things must come to an end.

Really though? Why? Why must good things end? The world would be a thousand times better if we simply kept the good things going.

Do you know what that would mean? Since good= John Cusack, we could watch John Cusack movies all the live long day. Since good= sunflower seeds, I could eat them for every meal. Since good=It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, they wouldn’t take really long breaks in between seasons causing me to watch stupid shows instead. Since good = ketchup, people wouldn’t look at me so weird when I use 27 packets with my lunch.

“You can never have too much of a good thing.”

I like that one better…

Anyway, so yes. My good week of not having to go into an office has ended, but I’m actually quite excited to have something to occupy my brain, which has had quite a lot to deal with the past week.

I’ve had some family drama going on, which I’m not going to go into now… because quite frankly I’m tired of thinking about it.

I’ve had to get over seeing approximately 84 peni, which I’m guessing is the plural for “penis,” this week on chat roulette, which I guess is sort of my own fault. Actually though, LA and I found the perfect solution for these weirdos that think that everyone wants to watch them slap their salami. We go through the whole introduction and act like we’re into it… then I stand so that the camera focuses on my crotch, slowly unzip, and pull out a banana. It’s quite entertaining to get their reaction, but then again my entertainment level equates that of a 13 year old boy.

Oh and then last night I got broken up with via text message. By a guy I’m not even sure I was dating in the first place.

I usually don’t like to blog-bash people I know in real life who don’t have a blog that they can use to defend themselves… but I can’t let this one go by without saying anything. I mean a text message!? Really? You don’t even have the courtesy to tell me to my face? To give me just a little explanation?

Truth is, this one is probably my fault too. A few months ago we tried out this whole hanging out thing, and he blew me off without an explanation, so I really kind of expected this.. but still… A text message?

We had been hanging out again recently, and truth be told- I wasn’t really feeling it and it’s not like I thought we were going to get married or anything, but it was fun.. ya know? So I figured what the hell. Then I hadn’t heard from him in a few days and I’m sick of bullshit games so last night (after a full day of pub crawling and drinking) I decided to text and ask what was up.

I have since deleted him from my phone so I can’t say for sure what was said, but I’m thinking it was something along the lines of “Soooo I’m guesssingr itss ovverrr?

His reply? Something to the likes of “I didn’t really see it going anywhere, I’d like to still be friends .”

I think after that I sent him a string of drunken texts but I have no idea what I said so I think I’d like to get that response out there now, for closure and what not.

Dear  Douchecanoe,

Well, I guess I already knew the answer before I drunkenly texted you, so I can’t be too angry with you. At least you were honest. However, I did think that you need to know that telling someone via text that you’re not interested is unacceptable. Sure, it’s better than on a post-it note, or a billboard or something… but not by much. Were we even dating in the first place?  I don’t really think sitting over at your place getting drunk and watching music videos before hooking up counts as a date.

Also, I know that by me writing this, it actually sounds like I might care. This is definitely not the case. More than anything I just wanted a little bit of an explanation. I’m all about constructive criticism and was curious to know what I did that made me not even worthy of a phone call. Unless the reason is because I did something weird like fart in my sleep. Then just leave it be…

In addition, I wanted to express my annoyance with the fact that you got to end it first. Maybe that says something about my maturity level, and usually I wouldn’t care… but a text????

That’s all I wanted to say… hope we can still be friends.

cjaded

Peeee Esssss…

I lied. I do think your hats are stupid.

Also, today I joined match.com today even though part of me feels like I should bow out of this whole dating scene while I am clearly ahead.

I have missed you and hopefully tomorrow night I can catch up on reading some blogs… it’s been way too long but I just couldn’t sit in front of the computer any more than I had to!