50 Things About Me

1. I'm a heels-and-jeans type of girl, which means no matter the function, that's what I'm wearing. I find myself looking overdressed mostly, incredibly under-dressed frequently, and perfectly dressed rarely.

2. I find babies to be mundane. And slightly scary.

3. Two things I wish I could put on my resume, but don't: I'm fantastic at wasting time and phenomenal at bullshitting.

4. I think the term "Buried Alive" should be carved on the epitaph of my tombstone.

5. I'm freakishly good at misplacing things.

6. Oh, and cuddling puppies.. I'm freakishly good at that, too.

7. I gave Oregon State University almost seven years of my life and about $90,000; you're damn right I'm a Beaver (regardless of their sports teams' performances).

8. If you're acting like a douche, I'll tell you. It's that simple.

9. I'm bored of birds being on everything.

10. If I could sit down with my 15-year-old self, I would tell her: "Throw rocks at boys." "Your jeans are too low." "Keep wearing your retainer." "Oh hey, nice Doc Martens."


11. I have a strong sense of urgency to learn how to hustle at obscure talents, like being amazing at Skee ball or playing the triangle like Mozart.

12. I get my best ideas whilst sitting on top of the counter.

13. Using words like "whilst" makes me feel silly, not smart.

14. I don't like my feet dangling, so I will pout if I have to sit on bar stools.

15. I sit on the floor of the tub when I shower.

16. I once broke into an empty house on the market to use its restroom. 

17. And yes, it was number 2.

18. I text with both hands.

19. I drink canned beer through a straw if I'm at home.

20. I'm not nearly as tall as I think I am.

21. I don't like to get even, but I do like getting odd.

22. I think speed limits are always incorrect.

23. I give names to inanimate objects.

24. I give nicknames to people that have nothing to do with anything.

25. I tend to give things animal-like descriptions, so if you hear me describing something as a bear flu or referring to your hands as paws, don't mind me.

26. I can't drink ice water without a straw without spilling it down my face, neck and chest.

27. I like to bring up poop in general conversations just to make people feel uncomfortable.

28. I don't remember a thing I learned in D.A.R.E.

29. I never know what to do with my hands.

30. I swear more than your average broad.

31. Oh yeah, I'm somewhere between a chick and a broad.

32. Every day is a new opportunity for me to spill something on myself.

33. I crawl over the equipment at my job like they are part of a jungle gym.

34. My work-husband is cooler than your work-husband.

35. I've gotten my dog drunk before.

36. Talking on the phone makes my face turn numb.

37. I like kids cereal late at night and only late at night.

38. I really don't know how to work a microwave.

39.  I believe God has a sense of humor.

40. I've come to realize at the ripe age of 27, my thighs will probably always brush against one another when I run no matter how much I work out.

41. There may be few things in life that provoke more joy than mooning an unsuspecting person.

42. I survived rolling my car four times going 112 mph, so I know the death of me will be something ridiculous like choking on my gum or getting suffocated by a plantation of lady bugs.

43. I don't like sliced bread.

44. I don't shut the door when I use the restroom. And sometimes I forget even if I'm at someone else's home.

45. Most days I forget whether or not I've put on underwear.

46. If I have for one second a question as to how to pronounce your name or how to spell it, I will call you something else entirely.

47. I think if you're a man and can't drive a manual transmission, you may as well turn in one of your balls.

48. I can't say the word "wolf" without really concentrating.

49. I'm one of those people who isn't great at any one thing, but average at most things I try. It's actually quite annoying.

50.  I am really good, I mean, really good, at exasperating men. It doesn't matter who you are to me. I can run you around in circles, confuse the hell out of you, and mentally exhaust every ounce of your patience... if I want.

It's not just for communion, folks.

This morning, I woke up in my roommate's bed with last night's face smeared all over the pillow case. Somehow, when I woke, I knew instantly this wasn't the kind of smear like after a usual tender night of rest (I would like to pretend I get tender sleep, but mostly, I just like using really intimate words (like intimate) in general sentences to freak people out). It was the kind of smear that only comes from either A) a night of crying yourself to sleep or B) a night of sweating alcohol out of your pores while you dream of ambiguous things like clowns and beef jerky. As soon as I felt the crashing headache that only comes from wine-dehydration (you know the kind I'm talking about), I remembered. Rolling over and seeing my roommate in a fetal position, with the sheets and blankets scissored in between her legs like she was climbing a rope only confirmed my notion that I, in fact, had done some drinking last night.

After what felt like 10 minutes, but was actually more like two, I pieced together the night before. It's not like I had blacked out or anything, but the first five minutes of my mornings are generally a big confusion to begin with. Somehow, I always wonder how I ended up where I am (even though I'm 99.9 percent of the time in my own bed), and don't ever remember how I got there. Shrinks will be studying the subtleties of how that relates to my inability to commit for years to come, I'm sure. Remembering an evening of polishing off my own bottle of Chardonnay and forgetting to have dinner, I feared what was waiting for me in the rest of the apartment. I walked out to the main living area to see a counter full of empty wine bottles and a floor covered in about 60 percent of all the high heels I own (...the shit girls do while imbibing). There are grilled corn on the cob ears on a plate in the kitchen that have been only half gnawed on, and fresh homemade salsa in the fridge. All at once, I got disappointed that I wasted the corn on the cob by leaving it out over night, and yet hysterically excited about the salsa in the fridge. I wish this was all here because when I get drunk, I turn into the Iron Chef (quite the contrary actually; I usually get drunk and find it necessary to hit up a Taco Bell drive-thru), but alas, it was because our overly friendly neighbor, Raul, had made us salsa and grilled corn. I would just like to say, screw baked muffins or pies, you dice me up a bunch of fresh vegetables (finely diced, no less), and teach me how to use a lime for things other than chasing a shot of Tequila (he squeezed fresh lime over the corn), and you will go down in history as the best neighbor of all time. 

I should not neglect to mention the fact that Raul isn't bad to look at. It's too bad I have rules about dating men whose names I never know if I'm truly pronouncing correctly, as well as rules about shitting where I eat. But for now, I will happily accept his produce, so long as it continues to always be presented in the form of delicious authentic Mexican treats. Shit, if this guy starts frying ice cream though, all bets are off.

Needless to say, I spent the greater portion of today cleaning my room and kitchen. Who knew two girls could make such a mess of their lives within four hours. Our progress at making our apartment a home is still in the works. Our freezer has nothing but ice and mini liquor bottles in it, and we are still using plastic silverware. Before you feel sorry for us, you should know, we really have a weird obsession with plastic silverware. And, I also bought a set of silverware this afternoon, and yet I'm still using the plastic. I'm just saying... you can flick food across a table with a plastic utensil so much better than with a metal one. Try it if you don't believe me. We haven't hung any pictures on the walls yet, so they are doing a nice job of lining the ground propped up against the walls at which they will one day grace. I'm just waiting for the right person to come visit, who happens to be pretty lengthy in height, and good with a hammer and nail. So far, I don't think anyone has been over who is taller than 5'8", and quite frankly, they've all had pretty fumbley hands. Trust me, I am always watching people's hands. We really need more useful friends. I should look into this.

My roommate has one of those robotic vacuum cleaners that does his thing on his own. Let me tell you: This guy freaks me out. That fucker's always getting tripped up in our rugs, knocking over our photos from their soon-to-be-hung-on spots, and sometimes he gets lost in the kitchen. I mean, this is an apartment. It's not that big. How do you get lost in one of the smallest areas of the entire place? You're a robot, you should be smarter than this. And the little bastard keeps sneaking up behind me. I've already set the little infrared guard on my room so he knows he's not allowed in there. I can't handle a man who doesn't know where he's going, knocks over my shit, and isn't even sorry. He certainly isn't going to get in my bedroom after such behaviors. Oh, his name is Clarence by the way. Yeah, Clarence is a tool.

Other than that, I'm finding that living with another female is really quite fun. It's funny the things that are different without even having to put thought into it. I never have to utter words like, "Are you really going to just leave your underwear right there?" or "Would a courtesy flush kill you?" It's like this girl can read my mind. Oh hey, I don't like chonies lying haphazardly on the ground and I don't like when people act like their shit doesn't stink. It's nice I don't have to be an ass hole and say that out loud all the time. The one thing I'm still confused about, however, is how we happen to go through so much goddamn toilet paper. I mean, we are two very petite females. I only crap like once a week (yes, I just shared that; close your mouth and let's move passed it), and we are both gone from our house 10-14 hours per day, and sleeping 6-8 hours a day. Where is all the toilet paper going? The thing about chicks is that it has to be getting used like a freaking catcher's mitt or something. It goes without saying then, that I've been buying up toilet paper like we are newborns going through 20 diapers a day. 

Three bottles of Gatorade, 124 ounces of water, four cups of coffee, French toast, and a shit ton of salsa later, and I've managed to fully recover from last night's grape-infused diet. I also just put together part of the mystery as to why our toilet paper is disappearing so quickly...

I've clearly already done so well...

Listen, blogging is hard. Trying to recap the events of my day and put them into writing is proving to be a little more difficult when your blog is basically just for bullshitting.

So why do I blog? Well for one, people ask me to. I'm not exactly fantastic at keeping those outside of the few people I see/talk to on a daily basis in the loop of the whereabouts of my life. (Even with them, I'm horrible at truly letting them know what's going on, but don't tell them that; they think they're pretty informed. Let's keep it that way.) Some of this is by choice, and some of it is also just because frankly, I get tired of telling the same story over and over again to various persons. So, I would have to agree that writing it all out once for everyone else to read while they take their morning dump certainly satisfies two birds with one stone. I could update people on Facebook or Twitter, but Twitter only gives me 160 characters, and those of you who know me know that I can't be contained in a 160-character box. Then you have to worry about hashtagging and that just opens up a whole other can of worms. As for Facebook, I bid farewell to that account probably every three to four months. Mostly just because it irritates the hell out of people when I do.

I've finally moved into my apartment in the Beav, and today marks day #4 of my commute to Salem. I've been waking up at ungodly hours to try to beat rush hour traffic to and from work, which I would have to say is really not horrible. Now, I admit having to wake before 0500 three times a week, and before 0400 twice a week, isn't the funnest chore of my day: I mean, who else is up at that time? I literally don't speak words out loud until I come across a commuter who pisses me off to yell at. And even then, let's be honest, I'm just picking fights by this point just to make sure my voice still works. But in all honesty, it's a relatively peaceful drive and I do happen to have an excellent taste in car tunes.

The thing is, I've got this independent thing I'm still trying to accomplish. Recently singled (are we making it a verb now? Like it's something that just happens to you? I've been singled. I just singled that guy. I'll have to put some thought into this), I realized I basically went from my parents house to a husband -- which I'm pretty sure is where some people would now argue, "That's the way God intended it." To be honest, I thought that at one point too, til I learned a hard lesson that I am clueless on how to be out on my own. Now, I did the whole live-on-my-own thing after high school before I got hitched, however, I was engaged during this time, so I may as well have just lived with a man. I rarely was at my own establishment because I was traveling all over Oregon to plan a wedding and see the guy. I also had that phone call I could make at any time for help with the silliest things and the person on the other end of the phone was obligated to kindly walk me through whatever my conundrum was. Little tasks/projects could pile up awaiting his arrival to take care of them. This shouldn't take much more explaining, as most people can just admit, when you're in a relationship with someone, even if you're not living with them, it's just different living, period. 

So, now I have to either fix my own shit or just deal with it being at its current state. It doesn't matter that I'm currently typing on a laptop with a loose butt hole, or the fact that the other morning, my shower head sprang a leak and when I went to stand on the back of the toilet seat to dry off the ceiling, I slipped, fell and gave myself a concussion when the back of my head gave the side of the tub the equivalency of a violent fist bump. (This is why, if you're shorter than 5'8", you must find someone who is taller than you to marry. If you are the man and only 5'8", you should find a woman who is at least 6'0" to take care of ceiling issues for you. Work it out in the contract of your marriage that if the person shrinks or was deceptively tall to begin with, they owe you stilts.)

As this story unfolds, I'm finding out more and more about myself and all the things I certainly don't know how to do, nor ever had to pay any attention to before. The good news is, it keeps my life interesting. The bad news is, I probably won't see the age of 30.

What if I blogged and actually kept up with it for longer than two months?

Fun fact: I have started more than four different blogs at one time or another, and have never been successful at keeping any of them.

...this will probably be another one of those.