So we meet again

Fear not, faithful readers (all 2 of you), I have returned. I feel like I'm always posting how sorry I am for being a crappy blogger and that I want to do better, and it's true. I just get so bogged down with work! And until someone finally realizes I should be paid a hefty sum for just being me, that's the way it's going to be. So there you have it. Anyway, enough apologizing, let's get to the task at hand: massive life update!

I'm not typically one for resolutions, but I have been trying to clean up my filthy, filthy language. I'm doing an OK job so far. I'm not going cold turkey or anything (I mean, some situations just merit profanity). I actually started working on that before the New Year, so it's technically not a resolution. One major change is that I have finally conquered one of my lifelong irrational fears: going to a chiropractor. Shockingly, I have not mentioned this fear in any of my random information posts.

I've always been afraid of the chiropractor. I even had recurring nightmares where I would be chased by people with tables on wheels and they would knock me off me feet and crack my back. It's taken me a long time, but I was finally in enough pain to go. Naturally, I'm now a convert and fully intent on becoming addicted.

There you have it. That's the main new thing in my life: not having chronic back pain. Well, I think that's all for now--let's face it, these reruns of Law & Order: SVU aren't going to watch themselves.

Stop the Baby TMI!

I've blogged about babies before, but this post is different. It has become apparent that I am entering the phase of my life in which everyone I know is having babies. That's totally cool, I am 100% pro-baby. However, I'm not pro-baby overshare.

I'm sorry if this offends some of my friends, but I feel as though I must speak out. We, your friends and family, are super excited about the bun in your oven. That doesn't mean that you need to share every single little detail of the pregnancy with us. A lot of people seem to be starting pregnancy blogs, which seems like a good way to keep family members in the loop...but an email accomplishes the same thing. The reason I want to read your blog is so that I can find out your thoughts, not hear about how your ankles are swollen and you have to pee all the time. The good thing about a blog is that I don't have to read it. I guess if you insist on sharing all the details about your pregnancy with the world, that's the way to go.

This brings me to what I cannot tolerate. The Facebook overshare. The last thing I want to see in my News Feed is stuff about breast-feeding, labor & delivery, and questions about motherhood. I don't need to know what's going on with your lady parts nor can I recommend a good jogging stroller.

If you don't think that the baby overshare is one of the most serious issues our country has seen since annual return of the McRib, just head on over to STFU, Parents and see for yourself. This might be my new favorite site...although I can't unsee or unread some of what I've seen on that site.

And as long as we're talking about things that I can't unsee, I should mention public breast-feeding. I'll be honest with you, it really creeps me out. I know you've [hopefully] got a blanket or cloth or whatever covering the girls, but we all know what's going on. Before I get yelled at about how I don't understand how beautiful breastfeeding is because I'm not a mother, I should let you know that several of my friends with children agree with me. I love how the excuse is almost always, "But it's natural!" You know what? A lot of things are "natural". Pooping is natural, too (in fact, there's even a book on the subject). That doesn't make it OK for me to just forego the whole bathroom scene and just poop wherever I happen to be at the time. There's a time and place for pooping. And there's also a time and place for breastfeeding.

Where do you think we are? Myspace?

So, this morning I got out of bed when I heard Amy Jo saying, "What in the holy hell?" from our family room. Somehow, the dogs had been shredding toilet paper all morning. She'd already found them in the hall and thought that was the extent of the damage, but oh no. Our family room was covered with toilet paper. After we cleaned up, I entertained the notion of going back to sleep but quickly realized I was hungry. "Mmmm, scrambled eggs," I thought to myself, then I remembered that thanks to my new allergies that dish is off the menu. Then I remembered that I can't have egg sandwiches either. That's when I decided to see what the weekend specials were at Doodle's (I mean, as long as I was getting all depressed, I might as well go the distance).

So I grab my trusty iPhone and pull up Facebook. I went to the messages section and started looking under "other" because that's where the Doodle's messages used to be. Naturally, they're not there any more because Facebook changes layouts more than some people probably change their sheets. I'm still clueless as to their specials, because the first message in my list of "other" messages was from a gentleman caller. I had to click on the message and see what the what was going on.

I've marked through his full name and email address, but
I had to leave his picture for you to get the full effect.

 First of all, I don't know how on earth he saw my profile because I have it set on super-private. I'm sure all he could see was my picture. While we're on that subject, here is what my Facebook profile picture is:

Do I look remotely like an age-appropriate woman
(friend or girlfriend) for this guy? No. No I do not.

I've never had any serious relationship to speak of, and I do feel strongly that that is an aspect of my life due for some change [ASAP, as long as we're on the subject], but this isn't really what I had in mind.

First of all, I love grammar. If I'm going to seriously consider any man who "loves privacy with my woman" (my favorite part of the message), he better damn well know how to construct a moderately correct sentence. He should also know that the letter u has never made an appearance in the word "divorce". Speaking of the letter u, the only time it is acceptable to use it in place of the actual word is in a text message. I'm actually against it then as well, but not everyone has unlimited texting and/or long text messages don't appear as one message in their phones and it's frustrating to get a message that's split up (out of order).

At first, I kind of thought he was foreign based on his English. His Facebook profile makes no indication. His Wall does inform me that he has listed his language as English. Amy Jo and I both strongly questioned the "Dave knows English" post. I should also mention that Amy Jo wants me to message him back. She wants me to tell him that I'm only interested in people my own age, but I think it's better that I just do nothing (well, nothing besides blog about it).

Second of all, we're also fairly certain that Dave is either Amy Jo's age or older. I mean, look at his hair. First of all, much of it is gone. Second of all, the remaining hair is grey and white. And I don't think it's like how Steve Martin's hair went grey when he was very young. And it's certainly nothing like the hotness pulled off by Anderson Cooper's silvery 'do.

Another fun fact about my would-be suitor, is that all of his Facebook friends are women (shocking!) and several them are pictured in bikinis or have their Facebook name listed as something like "HotKatie". I know that Facebook has really gone downhill, but isn't that nonsense better left to MySpace?

I think the message for all of us to take away from this is that any interested parties better speak up. I clearly have romantic (or Romantic, as Dave might say) options. Tell your friends that they'd better hurry up and ask me out, before I run away with the next guy whose name appears in my "other" Facebook messages.

Sleep? What's That?

I've had the hardest time falling asleep lately. It's almost always because I can't turn my brain off. One day, Amy Jo came home and told me about some study she heard on NPR. They say that if you are the type who can't turn their brain off then you should write out a list before you go to bed. Write a list of everything you have to do the next day and then say to yourself, "OK, it's done."  I explained that this is all well and good but my problem is that my brain isn't always focusing on things I have to do. At least half the time, the most random things are running through my mind. I thought I'd come up with a few examples to share.

• There was one week where I couldn't sleep for several nights because all my brain could do was sing songs from The Lion King. Just Can't Wait to be King, Be Prepared, all the classics.
• Just 2 nights ago, I couldn't sleep because I started thinking about being a fruit. I thought that if I were a fruit, and someone decided to mix me up in a salad or cocktail I'd be super pissed if they put me in there with sucky fruits like cantelope and honeydew. I hate both of those. And when they're in a fruit salad they make all the fruit taste gross.
• I've also just finished reading The Hunger Games series (which is amazing!) so a lot of my dreams have been filled with post-apocalyptic fights to the death. What made one of them particularly weird and terrifying was that Miley Cyrus was also in the Games with me and she kept singing The Climb over and over.

I actually had a whole list going the other night and I debated grabbing my phone to jot them down. But I thought that might make it even harder to go to sleep and was certain I'd remember everything. Nope. Not so much.

Tattoo Saga

I got a new tattoo yesterday and my friend Maggie wanted me to blog about it. It's actually not an interesting story, but the story of my first tattoo is a bit comical so I'll write about that.

It was August 2003 and my friends and I would soon be departing for college. My friend LeighAnn discovered that her mom and stepdad would be out of town for about a week and she'd have the house to herself. She began thinking of things we could do (elegant dinner parties, book clubs, you know--kid stuff). Obviously we were going to have some small parties in their absence, but LeighAnn decided that this would be a perfect time to get our tattoos.

My parents knew that I wanted a tattoo. I was 18 and it was my decision. LeighAnn's parents did not know and she did not want them to know. We'd both been 18 for a few months--we're not those kids who ran out on their 18th birthday and just got any old thing because they could. She decided on a small daisy and I decided on a small star.

My favorite part of the story is what my dad said before I went, "Make sure that whatever you get doesn't have some other meaning or something. If I find out that whatever your tattoo is actually means something else, I'll turn the stove on and remove it myself." I told him I was fairly confident that a star was just a star but I'd double check at the tatoo parlor.

I asked Billy the Tattoo Artist if stars meant anything other than stars and he assured me that they did not. Sweet action. I had also discovered that the base price for tattoos was $40. That's not a lot of money, but it did seem like I should get a slightly bigger tattoo to get my money's worth. My original plan was a tattoo the size of maybe a 50 cent piece...what I got is probably about the size of a sand dollar. I say probably because it's on the back of my hip (*not a tramp stamp) so I don't see it all the time. I have been known to forget it's there, catch my reflection in the mirror before getting into the shower (an already unpleasant experience in my book) and find myself saying, "Ah! What's that?" It's a nautical star, despite my general fear of water. Amy Jo said it made her think that I was in the Navy. But let's face it, when you look at me the first thing you think of is the Navy--with or without seeing the tattoo.

Back to the actual process. I was sitting on a chair that was raised up so my hip was more eye level for Billy the Tattoo Artist (that is what I always call him when telling this story). The tattooing begins. Tattoos hurt. Anyone who says different is a dirty rotten liar whose pants are probably also on fire. It's a needling, jabbing you repeatedly at a very high speed. That's a recipe for discomfort. Mind you, I was not under the impression that this would be pain free. You sort of go a little numb to it after awhile; maybe it's the adrenaline or something I don't know (what am I, a doctor?).

Another guy who works at the tattoo parlor walks in front of me and says, "Uh-oh, Billy you might want to lower the chair because she's completely white." That's when I realized I hadn't really eaten anything that day, what with all the excitement about the tattoo. Soooo, I almost passed out a little bit. They went and got me a drink, root beer if memory serves and Billy the Tattoo Artist decided that he would not add the shading because he didn't want me to pass out.

Tattoos are fairly addictive, but I made sure to pace myself. I have no plans of becoming a highly inked individual. I knew I wanted something else, but I didn't know what. When I was visiting LeighAnn in Los Angeles for my 21st birthday, she suggested we get more tattoos. She got one and I was all ready to go, but their base price was $100 and I figured I could get a better deal back home.

When they put the bandage over it, I looked
a little suicidal. Laurel came back with the food
and I held up my arm and said, "I just missed
you so much!"

After I studied in Sevilla my senior year of college, I knew what I wanted. The motto of Sevilla looks kind of like this: NO8DO. There's a pretty cool story about it, but I don't feel like typing the whole thing (besides I need to eat dinner and get to the movies to watch Harry Potter). You can read the history of the symbol here. In English, the motto means "It [Sevilla] has not left me". I thought it was appropriate as my experience abroad was amazing and it's something that will never leave me.

I went to Sevilla in 2006 and yet I just got this tattoo now. I've been able to psych myself in and out of doing it for years. I was afraid that I'd forgotten how much it hurt and that I couldn't handle it. Then, my friend Amy made an appointment to get another tattoo. She wanted me to make an appointment too, but I knew I'd convince myself not to do it if I had an appointment (weird, I know). Instead, I just showed up to the place (fairly confident I would be getting the tattoo). Amy's tattoo was being sketched and Laurel had gone to get Chick-Fil-A so I just went ahead and got my tattoo. The end.

What to Eat

My search for foods that comply with my newfound allergies has begun. It's been magical. To give you an idea...here's the Facebook status I posted about it:

Pop Quiz! Which would be easier: finding restaurants with a wide variety of gluten/wheat/rye/egg-free foods or finding an eskimo mermaid who rides her pet water-breathing unicorn sidesaddle through the lost city of Atlantis?

Now, I'm not going to give away the answer...but I think you can figure it out.

Scratch That

This is just a silly little post...I've made amazing strides since my last post, those whole two days ago. I did some quasi-successful grocery shopping.

Not too long after I did the questionable shopping on Saturday, I got my food allergy results back. It turns out I'm highly allergic to a couple teeny tiny things...like gluten, wheat, rye and eggs. The bad news is that those items are in just about everything. The good news is that really limits my range of selection in the grocery store.

Look out, grocery store!