Waffle House

Waffle House! Raise your hand if you love Waffle House! If your hand isn't raised, you are lying. We as a society love waffle house. It may be dirty and greasy and run through you like a firecracker [probably the grossest thing I've ever said via blog], but you love it! The plastic menus with their pictures [thanks, I forgot what eggs and bacon looked like!]. The greasy floor that you could easily pull a Risky Business on. The 24 hours of operation, perfect for early morning coffees or late night meals that soak up whatever your consumed that evening. Aw that yellow glowing roof top is like a house of worship for college students, truck drivers, and any other lonely sole in need of a good meal... well, a meal at least. 


I worked at Waffle House. That's right, I wore the uniform, with the black shoes and visor, I ain't got no shame! mama gotta eat, which means mama gotta work. And during my junior year of college, I worked in a waffle house. It was an interesting experience. I got to wash dishes behind the counter, being hit on by truck drivers at 7 in the morning [oh yes, I have never been more attractive than when I'm in my waffle house uniform with a layer of grease covering my face]. It was great. One day, I was taken to the back to learn the joys of food prep. At first, I was a lowly dish washer slash girl who got to pour bleach down the drain in the bathroom when it started to stank. But that day, I was being promoted to food prepper. oh glorious day. 


Food prep was fairly easy. The Waffle House runs on efficiency, meaning that the ingredients for your delicious [ok mediocre] food are prepped in advanced. You can't take the time to slice up a tomato on the line. You need tomatoes that are pre sliced, mayonnaise that is already divided from the jelly packets, eggs in a specific bowl. That's where I came in.  An intricate part of the waffle house team.  


My trainer was a man named Rob. He was a good ole' boy with a thick country accent who was always nice to me. He generally told the creepy truck drivers that I was off limits, which I appreciated. My knight in waffle house apron. He took me to the back [the magical food prep area] to show me what needed to be prepped and where it went. During this riveting explanation process, I was shown how to prep cheese. You took the pre-sliced cheese and peeled it from the block. You then laid a piece like a square. On top of this one, you laid a slice like a diamond. Square. Diamond. Square. Diamond. You did this so there was always an accessible corner, easy to grab and through on some scattered and smothered hash browns. While teaching me this process, I stated that it was kind of monotonous. To this, Rob replied, "well, I don't know about that, but is it like doing the same thing over and over!"


Good point Rob. I think I'll go back to the square diamond pattern. Need to practice... 

Winter Olympics

I am not a fan of winter. I hate having to put on seven layers of clothes just to walk the garbage to the dumpster. I hate having my nose run for 3-4 months at a time. I hate the fact that my bones feel like icicles under my skin. I just hate it. 


I know some of you are thinking, but what about cute scarfs and peppermint mochas and christmas music and snowflakes? To that I say, scarfs make my face look fat, you can get peppermint mochas anytime [eat a mint and drink some coffee], there is only one christmas song I like [all I want for christmas is you by Mariah Carey] and the rest are obnoxious, and snowflakes? It's like cold spit on your face. Sorry winter lovers, I'm just not a fan. 


So, you will be surprised to know that once upon a time, I chose to go to Minnesota and spend a week there... in October. And October in Minnesota is the equivalent of dead middle of winter for everywhere else. It was crazy cold! But I went to visit a friend of mine who had recently moved there [oh, the things you will do for a bestie when you are in 8th grade]. And it was a fun trip. Until...


One day, my friend and her family decided we would go skiing. Now, I am uncoordinated walking in sneakers on solid ground. So, putting me on wooden sticks while sliding down the ice from the top of a mountain and you can imagine how that would go. But, you don't get good stories by making good decisions, so I hopped in the ice fortified van and went to the mountain. 


I arrived at the ski resort bundled up like a marshmallow and ready to rock and roll. Well at least roll... right on down the mountain. I was fitted with boots that strapped into the death planks [my new word for skis]. I took the beginners class where I was taught the basics of skiing. As if 15 minutes with Chip, the northface wearing ski instructor, would be enough to stop me from dying on this mountain. But apparently, that's all you got. 15 minutes of Chip wisdom and up you went. After an embarrassing attempt at getting on the ski lift [that thing is tricky!] I went up the mountain. I did a few of the small runs and did well. I thought I had mastered 'the pizza'. What's the pizza? It's how you stop yourself while skiing. There is no way I could pull off the cool swing the side and stop while sending a pile of snow on your friends [thanks for that, btw, I love having cold wet snow flung in my face. what's next, a wedgie?]. Basically, you point your skis inward, in the shape of a pizza, and pray that you stop. After a few runs, I was told by my Minnesota friends that I was ready for a bigger hill. Boy were they wrong. 


I headed up the ski lift... way up. At the top of the mountain, I hopped of the ski lift, landing directly on my rear end and unable to get up. But that wasn't the worst thing that happened. I then almost went down a snowboard half pipe [pipe? pike? who knows] thing before I was grabbed by a kind stranger, who informed me that I would have been killed that way. Still, not the worst thing that happened. 


I looked out over the ski run. I saw that the way down was a long long way. But hey, I had mastered the pizza. I was young, athletic [ish] and ready to go! So, I tilted my skis downward and away I went. I tried to zigzag across the hill, like ole Chip taught me, but I was not doing too well. Because I wasn't zigzagging, I began to pick up speed. Before I knew it, I was barreling down the hill, going unbelievably fast. I tried to pizza. No luck. I kept pizza-ing. I point my skis inward and prayed that this pizza position would slow me down. 


Nope. The pizza had failed me and I was realizing I was about to crash somewhere. As I got to the bottom of the hill, I looked both ways. To my left, a rack of ski stuff that would have impaled me and killed me if I had crashed into it. To my right, a bunch of school children, who I would have impaled and killed if I crashed into them. But straight ahead....


Straight ahead was the ski lodge. None of my options were great, but again I was going full speed so not a lot of time to think. I tried to just fall over before I hit the lodge, to lessen the impact. But considering every person inside drinking peppermint mochas jumped up from the impact of me slamming into a building, I don't think it helped much. 


As I lay on the ground, disoriented and cold, I heard a familiar voice. "ma'am, you ok?"
I look up to see my buddy Chip, standing over me. I gave a nod and laid my head back in the snow. To this he replied, "you really should take the beginner class, it'll help you learn to stop"
Really Chip? Really? You don't even remember me? I thought we had something... you taught me to pizza... men

Voicemail

I'm not great at leaving voicemails. There something awkward about leaving a message for a machine that's meant for a person. I stutter, I forget who I'm speaking with, my thoughts wander which lead to babbling sentences... so, I give you not one, but TWO examples of awkward voicemails....

1) The accidental 'I love you'
There are some people you can say I love you to. Your parents. Your bffs. Your significant other. The chinese restaurant if they say your order will only take 10 minutes to deliver.... but there are some people you should not say I love you to. It's even worse when you leave it on a voicemail.

Freshmen year of college. I had a guy friend named Dan. And, if I'm being honest, I was crushing on this kid a little bit. We hung out, had some laughs, all and all, we were good buds. And, he was cute. We were also preparing to go on a trip to France for two months [wasn't college great? You could go to other countries for months all in the name of education or humanitarian service? good times]. I left him a message about the trip, making arrangements for he and I to travel to a training together for the upcoming trip. The message when something together like, "blah blah blah, ok, talk to you later. Love you!"

Love you? LOVE YOU?! Did I just say I love you to a cute boy that I'm just friends with?!

Most people would just move past it, avoid the situation, not make it a big deal. I couldn't do that. An awkward person couldn't do it. So I called back and left the following message:

" Hey... I just left you a message and told you  I loved you... but I don't really love you. I mean, you're cool and we're friends and I love you like a friend, but I don't love you love you... you know what I mean? Ok, so I'll see you around... and I'm not in love with you..."

What the heck....

2) Ace of Base
There's no easy way to introduce this recent voicemaili fiasco, so I'll just go right into it...

I saw a for sale sign outside a cute house near my neighborhood. I'm not really looking to buy a house right now, but I thought I'd call anyway, just to see. I called the number and left a message that started out normal... "Hi, my name's Katie Adams and I saw the sign... "

Of course, Ace of Base popped in my head. A normal person would move past it. Let it go. But I couldn't. I literally could not stop thinking about "I saw the sign... and it opened up my eyes..." So the message went like this:

"Hi my name is Katie Adams and I saw the sign.... um...... [Can't stop thinking of ace of base!]...I saw the sign ... which is an ace of base song! And I was wondering how many bedrooms are in the house... call me at this number... bye"

What on earth?! Really, did I feel the need to cite my source or just give a shout out to a fantastic 90s band?

Nope, I'm just awkward and that's how I roll.

Michael Jackson strikes again!!

What is the matter with me?! Don't answer that, we could be here all day... but seriously, my love for the king of pop got me in trouble again! and it was a late night in the office [no, I did not get my hand stuck in the shred box again]. But I can't help it, Michael Jackson makes me do crazy things... here we go:


I was at the office late, again, by myself, again, trying to get some reports done. I was listening to some music and then, Michael Jackson came on my music shuffle. I instantly decided that one Michael Jackson song just wasn't enough. Is one Michael Jackson song ever enough? Can you ever hear 'Bad' and say, oh that was enough? No. You want to hear 'Beat it' and then 'The Way You Make me Feel'. Might as well pop in the HIStory album and jam.


Which is what I did. As I listened, I slowly turned the music up louder and louder. By the time I got to 'Man in the Mirror' the music was booming. And so was I. I was signing loudly, throwing my hands up in the air, and having a great time. I'm starting with the man in the mirror! If I wanna make the world a better place, got look at myself and make a change!! It starts with me! Oh yeah, I was inspired.... 


Then I looked up and saw one of our upper management folks walking through. And behind him, was a tour group of about thirty people. These thirty people witnessed me at my desk, singing loudly, dancing in my chair, with my hands in the air. heck, I may have been a little teary eyed [that song gets me!]


All I know is that I slumped down in my chair, quickly turned the music, and offered an awkward wave. You think this second incident would make me take a hiatus from Michael's music, but it won't. I love it too much...

Neighbors

Raise your hand if you are poor and have to live in a semi-jank apartment! Yup, that's me. I'm young, poor, and living in an apartment complex. It's not really gross, but it's also not the nicest place. But that's ok. I feel like being young and poor and living with crazy neighbors is part of life and will benefit sometime in the future... give me perspective... or at least encourage me to work hard so I can move out of here...

Anyway, I live around some pretty weird and awkward people so I thought I'd take a Sunday afternoon and write about. So, blog world, I give you a run-down of the complex crazies:

Complex crazy #1: Squirrel guy:

Many super heros have animal related personas. Batman, Quailman, Spiderman, Hawkman, Cheetara... and it's cool... if the person has a super power. But squirrel guy does not. He does not save the world from evil super villains, build cool weapons, or fight regular crime. What he does do is to buy bags of trail mix and sit on the sidewalk, feeding the squirrels. He has a big grin on his face, feeding the squirrels, sometimes stalking them to the bushes. And he does this almost every single day. That is some kind of devotion. 

Complex crazy #2: Apartment Band

They are like a garage band, but different... because they are stuck inside and all the sound comes right into my apartment. These guys are terrible. They attempt to play songs like 'Smoke on the Water' and 'Back in Black'. Except they miss about every third chord and the amps [cranked up to 11!] muffled by our walls cause their 'band' to sound like the teacher on Charlie Brown. Wa-wa-wa-wa... If you see me walking around with a pencil sticking out of my ear, it's because I just couldn't take it anymore. 

Complex crazy #3: Brain Injury man

The guy on the patio right across from me is quite a character. Our patios are about 10 feet from each other, so going outside meant having a conversation with this guy was inevitable. Every time I went outside, we had the same conversation. He would ask what I did for a living and I responded, I am a social worker. And every time, he told me that he a social worker too, because he had a brain injury. We literally had this conversation almost every time I saw him. One day, he said, I bet you think I'm stupid because of my brain injury. In my head, I thought, that's not why I think you're stupid. I think you're stupid because of comments like this:

1) The other night, I had 6 guys on my porch, each about 200 pound guys. That's like.... well, I don't know how much that is, but it's a lot!

2) When discussing global warming...? What a lot of people don't understand is that the sun directly influences the temperature of the earth. Good point...?

3) First day I met, he asked a guy walking by: Hey, do you need anymore weed?... Then he turned to me and asked, Wait, you're not a cop are you?

Complex Crazy #4: Regular Joe

How to describe this guy? He is about 40 years old, lives with his mom, has a beer belly, and a country accent so thick, you can barely understand him. One time, I was walking by his porch and I heard: 'Who's a pretty pretty? You're a pretty pretty. Yes you are! You're a pretty pretty!' I looked around, praying that he wasn't talking to me, when I noticed that he was sitting on his porch, no shirt, petting a cat. And the cat was pretty, but he was being a little weird about it. When he isn't petting his cat, he likes to stand with his arms above his head, leaning on his porch, rubbing his stomach... sometimes with a finger in his belly button. Just what I want to come home to everyday. 

So, those are a few of my neighbors. And i guess this is where I belong. An awkward girl in the complex of crazies. At least I'm funny awkward and not stick my finger in my belly button while watching people walk by awkward....

Back row Buffalo

As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have man hands... and large rear end. It doesn't take a scientist to realize that I am not a small girl. I am about 5'9" or 5' 10", depending on the gas station I'm standing in when I measure myself against the door. I inherited my mother's childbearing hips and thighs [yeah for biology!]
I have been a big girl from a small age. I was never petite. I used to wish I could be one of those girls that was about 5'2" and weighted a buck oh 5. But I'm not. I like to think of myself as an Amazon woman... but not as scary


In high school, I was in the show choir. I can box step to a show tune with bright lights in my face with the best of them... or at least with the mediocre of them... Imagine the show Glee without the slushies, sexual tension, glitter, drama, and stereotypical characters [really? a quarterback who sings, plays an instrument, AND is good looking? soooo refreshing!]. In choir, I stood in the back row for all four years. If I had stood in the front row, those adorable little girls may age who wore size zeros through high school and were cold in 90 degree weather because they have not body fat would have been hidden by my amazon frame. So, I stood in the back with the other big girls. We lovingly called ourselves the back row buffalos. And then cried in the bathroom... 


It was spirit week my freshmen year. Pajama day was monday and it was my favorite day of the week. What's not great about getting to wear pajama pants, comfy sweatshirt and slippers all day long?! Add a pillow and snuggie and you would have the best day of school ever. So there I was freshmen year. I was wearing my Horton Hears a Who pants with a sweatshirt, feeling as comfortable as ever. I went to choir and we began rehearsing. I was in the back, as always, jazz-handing to 'Fever!'. We did a step turn and that's when it happened. I step turned on the bottom of my pants and felt my Dr. Suess bottoms slip to my thighs. I tried to quickly jump off the back of the risers so I could fix my pants and avoid an embarrassing moment.  


But, the risers were pressed against a wall. I jump turned into a wall of mirrors and ricocheted back down the risers. The back row buffalo went charging down into the rows of peppy oompa-loompas.  I fell in front of these petite high schoolers with my pants around my knees. National geographic would play this scene in slow motion, demonstrating the power of natural selection. And whatever hope I had of being a tall, cool, Amazon woman were washed away with the laughter of my peers. Nothing like my large rear end covered in unflattering underwear to end a potential career as a cool kid. But maybe I kissed that hope goodbye when I wore Dr. Suess pants...

awkward caressing

Human contact. It can break the ice, freak us out, make us happy, tell someone they are awesome [high-five!], and in general, human contact helps us communicate how we feel. People write songs about human contact, people crave human contact, people use it inappropriately at times. I am the latter. 

Freshmen year of college. If you think I'm awkward now, 3-4 years post college, you should have seen me freshmen year. Trying to make new friends, learning to live on my own, doing laundry by myself, learning that suggesting "Jersey Girl" for movie night is not well received, drinking wine through a Twizzler straw.... oh, just some of the mine fields I had to navigate through my freshmen year.

So, early in the semester, I was sitting in a meeting. I zoned out from whatever we were talking about and starting people watching around the room. I noticed the guy in front of me had really pretty hair. This isn't one of those, 'he was so handsome, I couldn't take my eyes off him....'. I just legitimately thought he had really pretty hair. It was about shoulder length, chestnut-auburn colored, and really shiny. Not 'hasn't showered in a month', but 'I use nice shampoo and probably conditioner'. Sitting in the meeting, I was just thinking about how soft his hair must be, wondering what shampoo he used, noticing that the lights made his hair sparkle a little. 

Gentle viewers, you may think that I'm being a bit creepy but two things: 1) yeah, I am a bit creepy and 2) this meeting was really boring and I tend to zone out a lot during meetings like this. So, cut me some slack and don't judge. 

Finally the meeting ending. I stood up at the same time as shiny hair boy in front of me. He semi turned around the grab his things and his hair look so bouncy and shiny...

And that's when it happened. My hand became a separate entity from my body, reached out in front of me and ran it's fingers through a strangers hair. Time stopped, he looked up, I stared at my hand and then at him.  

Side note: What the heck do you say when something that awkward happens? How do you respond? Are there any words that can help one recover?

No. But here's what I said:

"Hi, you have really nice hair... I'm Katie, nice to meet you?"

Is it? Is it nice to meet me? Probably not... 

Beer Pants

Beer. It's like liquid bread... or liquid gold. It makes pizza better, football games bearable, people more attractive, and bellies tubbier. Beer is the subject of my story.

The other night, I went to a college football game with some co-workers. We tailgated before the game and were having a really good time. Let me take a time-out on the field to explain that it was about 97 degrees outside. And you have never felt humidity like we have in the Ohio Valley. Seriously, walking outside is like jumping in a lake... a lake full of sweat and stickiness. Grossed out? You should be, the humidity up here is nasty.

Anyway, we were outside in the hot weather, generally having a good time. We then walked to the stadium, walked up the 8 flights of steps to our seats [not joking] and watched the game. The sun was beating on us and I was sweating like [to use the proper term] a 'mo-fo'.

During the game, my friend Dot laughed and spilt some of her beer in my lap. No biggie though. It just looked like I peed my pants. But, I figured it was so hot anyway and I already smelled disgusting because I was so hot that I didn't care. The beer would eventually dry and I would live. I went about the night, my team lost the game, but other than that, I had a really good time :)

The next morning, I stumbled out of bed and threw on some pants. Now, let me stop you right now before you start judging. How many people wear pants multiple times before they wash them. Show of hands.... that's right, EVERYBODY wears pants a few times before you wash them. It's a basic instinct we pick up in college when we realize that drying pants takes way more quarters, so wash them sparingly.

So, I put on some pants from the floor of my room and went to my internship. At my internship, I helped set up for a festival downtown and had to lug boxes from the parking garage to my booth. Again, the humidity of the Ohio Valley was intense and I was sweating.... again. I then went to my real job and worked at the computer.

Once I sat down for a bit, typing up some case notes, I realized that I smelled funny. I secretly did the 'pit check'.... nope, not my pits, I definitely put on deodorant and do not stank.

But I kept smelling it. It was like sweat and....

beer. It was sweaty pants with dried beer. I wore my nasty beer pants for an entire day in a professional setting. I was officially disgusting....

Moral of the story: Beer is not always your friend. Sure, it seems like you and beer will always have a good time, but then it stays around for too long. It hangs out on the crotch of your pants, making you feel  gross and sad. That's what beer will do to you, children.

Having lady problems

Note to men reading this: The title is 'lady problems', but don't worry. I'm not going to be terribly graphic or gross. I know that issues of the feminine sort can make men uncomfortable, so I'll be as gentle as possible. On with the story. 


When ladies get to know each other, they tend to swap stories. It's a bonding moment and can sound like a gaggle of geese to the outside observer. So when I went to college, I spent many moments having these giggly conversations with girls. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. We talk about men, we talk about school, we talk about our clothes, we talk about food, we talk about anything. One topic that usually comes up is our lady problems.


I was hanging out at good ole Murray State University [go racers] at the Baptist Campus Ministries building. I was getting to know some young ladies and we were having the above said conversations. We went on to discuss our lady problems and were swapping horror stories. 


If you haven't noticed, I like to tell stories. I like to make people laugh and have no problem talking about my embarrassing, awkward, sometimes inappropriate moments in my life. So, that's what I was doing. I was telling these ladies all sorts of embarrassing moments, including the time a accidently threw a tampon down a hallway at school and the time I had a gyno visit and 'strawberry wine' was playing in the background of the dimly lit office. Awkward. I was bearing my soul to a group of young ladies and was making people laugh [which is my favorite thing to do]. I'd been talking for quiet some time [I have a lot of stories] when I hear something to my right. 


And in walks a young man from behind a corner. Around this corner was a sitting area in the same room, where he had been for who knows how long. He gives a wave, says 'hello ladies', and went to bathroom. 


I have never heard a group of college aged women so quiet. A silence fell over the group that was haunting and reverent and creepy. All the girls looked at me and I stared at the bathroom door wondering, 'how long has that guy been over there? How much did he hear? How graphic was I? Should I just bolt from the building, stick my head in a hole like an ostrich and wait this thing out?'


The young man came out and I had to ask... 'so how long you been over there?'


'Oh, about 20 minutes... I heard you all talking, but didn't want to freak you out, so I thought I'd wait till you left, but I had to pee.... so....'


Great. I decided the only thing to do was to introduce myself. 


"Well, I'm Katie, nice to meet you... now that you know lots of things about me... Ok, see you later"


That's the price I pay for thinking I'm soooo funny and feeling the need to divulge all my awkward stories. 


Something to note: me and that guy became friends. I feel like there are easier ways to make friends, but I haven't figured that out :)

Telling someone how you feel

L-O-V-E. Love. We all want it. We all work for it. We've all done stupid things in the name of it. 

Putting yourself on the line and telling someone how you feel is awkward. You are completely exposed, waiting for them to respond, hoping they say more than 'thanks... I like you as a friend?' Oh man, I can hear the dreams crushing. 

And if this circumstance isn't awkward enough, add the grueling and traumatic years of middle school. As if acne and hormones are challenging enough, throw in some interactions with the opposite sex and you have a recipe for disaster. 

Let me take you back to 1999. Come with me now, gentle viewers, to a time when boys bands were all the rage, Fight Club was introduced to our lives, and I was in seventh grade. It was also the year I got my first boyfriend. And let me tell you, I was not a good girlfriend. I didn't really do anything 'bad', it's just that I was... awkward. I know, shock face, me, awkward. But it's true. The relationship didn't last. We broke up because he said I didn't act like I was interested in him. Which was true, but really, I was just shy and unsure how to act in a relationship... if you can even call it that. So, my first relationship went down in flames. Boo-hoo. 

Then, I went on a church trip and my ex was there. It was cool, we were still friends [somehow, we healed from the wounds of the past] and he asked me why I couldn't just be myself while we were 'dating'. Why I went from cool, confident, friend to awkward, unsure girlfriend. Honestly, I didn't know how to express myself. I didn't know how to tell him I was just shy. 

But I knew someone who could express my feelings better than me. Her name was Britney Spears and she had just released her 'Baby One More Time' album. On this jewel of a record was a song titled "Sometimes". This was the song I used to express me feelings. 

The day after my conversation with ex-lover boy, I gave him a CD and said 'Listen to song 3... it explains how I feel better than I can'

Wow, I want to punch myself in the face just for ever saying that. For those of you struggling to remember the powerful lyrics of "Sometimes", here is a little refresher:

You tell me you're in love with me
Like you can't take your pretty eyes away from me
It's not that I don't want to stay
But every time you come too close I move away

I wanna believe in everything you say
'Cause it sounds so good
But if you really want me, move slow
There's things about me you just have to know

[CHORUS:]
Sometimes I run
Sometimes I hide
Sometimes I'm scared of you
But all I really want is to hold you tight
Treat you right, be with you day and night
Baby all I need is time

Yup. I gave him a CD and said that these lyrics... THESE lyrics were an accurate representation of emotions. Wow. Just wow. What happened, you ask, after this revealing moment of my middle school days?

We got back together, got married, and lived happily ever after... Just kidding! He gave me the CD back the next day and said... nothing. He just handed the CD back and walked away. And in that moment, I learned that if you can't say it yourself, do not let Britney Spears say it for you. Because it will backfire and it will backfire hard. 

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson. He was loved, despised, judged, idolized... he was awesome. Judge all you want, but most of us get our groove on during billy jean, have attempted the thriller dance, and can moon walk IF we are wearing socks in a slippery kitchen. Thanks to a cool lady named Julie, I can do the dance to Beat It... and yeah, I'm kind of awesome at it. 

This blog is not a way for me to give my opinions on the death of Michael Jackson or pass judgement on the way he lived his life. In fact, he's not really the center of this blog. True to my fashion, this blog is about me... and another awkward, silly, stupid thing I did. 

In high school, I went through a Michael Jackson phase. I loved Dirty Diana and was obsessed with learning the dance to Beat It [thanks again Julie!] I know this obsession came really late, considering I was in high school in the early 2000s,  but come on. A good obsession of the King of Pop is always welcome. 

I was in my bathroom one day, bee-boppin to some MJ. Then Thriller came on. and OMG you KNOW that every time you hear that song you at least attempt the dance. You may do the 13 going on 30 version [which is so not the right version, but at least you kids are trying] or some of you might just do the classic right to left zombie move. But you at least try. So what did I do, as I was making my self pretty in the bathroom? I started doing the Thriller dance. I'm grooving along in my bathroom and really getting into the dance. 

Then it happened. There's a move in the Thriller dance in which MJ goes up on his toes and then bends over quickly. He then moves into a shimmy, but I never got to that part. 

Like I said, I was really into the dance, so I went up on my toes, bent over quickly and WAP!!!

I banged my head on the bathroom sink. I hit it so hard that I fell backward and knocked myself out. 

I woke up a little later [billy jean, playing in the background...] and realized what happened. With a splitting headache and little more caution, I went about the rest of my day.

What can I say, obsessions can be dangerous. 

Having man hands

Lady fingers. A delicate cookie for delicate ladies. Unfortunately, I have large hands for a lady. Heck, I have large hands for a man. Most people's rings can fit on my pinkie finger. My hands get cold in the winter because gloves are too tight. I've never been able to play a stringed instrument because my fingers hit all 17 strings at the same time 
[I know there are marching band nerds everywhere, pushing up their glasses, saying something like, only the harp has 17 strings!! duh!!. To that I say, go back to your D&D game and cut me some slack. 
Remember that scene in the nutty professor where he inflates to giant size and his hands expand? My hands are like that ALL the time. I just have fat hands!! I feel like men look at my hands and think DANG GIRL, how much testosterone do you have coursing through those veins?!


Great question... I don't know! I am a tall girl and if I had little hands they would look weird... I mean, my hands are proportionate to my body. Yeah, I have pride in my man hands!! 
That'a a lie. I hate them. In fact, they get me into sticky situations. Like tonight...


I had to stay late at the office to finish some paperwork. There was literally no one else in he building as I began to wrap things. I went to send one last fax. I walked past our shredder box [we have a large locked box with a slit for papers that need to be shredded. At a later dates, this box is emptied into an actual shredder] and noticed that some papers were sticking out of the box. My oh so professional mind went: Potential HIPAA VIOLATION!! so I decided to fix it. Look at me, being helpful and not neglecting problems in the work place. That's right, I deserve a medal! Our employee of the month! forget that, I'll take a raise! 


But I digress... 


So, I went into fix the problem. I stuck my hand into the slot and shoved the papers out of sight. Tada! Problem solved. Until. 


I went to pull my hand out and realized I was stuck. Like, super stuck. I pulled my hand as much as I could. I relaxed my hand, like 'they' say to do when your hand is stuck in a pickle jar... no luck. 


I felt my pulse quicken. I looked around to remind myself, yes, there is no one in the building. Whew, that would have been embarrassing!! Thanks goodness I'm alone. I am alone.... wait, I'm alone!! And stuck in the shred box! Yelling for help would be pointless. I looked for a phone. My cell phone was 30 feet away at my desk. I tried to lift the shred box, the being to maybe carry the box attached to my arm out into the street and... I don't know what the plan was from there... It didn't matter, the box weighed like 78,000 pounds [approximately]. I thought about tumping [technical term] the box over and rolling it down the hall, onto the elevator and again, out to the street. Again, no plan once I got to the street with the box attached to my arm. But as I considered the quantum physics, geometry, kinetic forces and other sceiency things I realized that the box could potentially snap my wrist in half. If I tumped it too quickly. And remember this box weighs a billion pounds, no way I could control that thing to the ground. 


I considered the alternative of staying attached to this box for the next twelve hours. I imagined my co-workers walking in on me in the morning, huddled on top of the shred box, probably having peed my pants, tear stained face, delirious from hunger [again, I'm a big girl, we gotta eat like every two hours]. This was not an option. I would not be remembered like this! I had to get out. 


What happened next was straight from a comic book. Or an episode of Touched by an Angel. I steadied my mind. I channeled positive thoughts to my hand and the shred box. And pulled. And pulled. And pulled.  


My hand emerged from the shred box, beat red, and [if you can imagine] more swollen than before. I went home to immediately begin my regimen of hand exercises to have more tone, fit hands, so that I can avoid this debacle in the future. 

Public bathrooms

I work in the community and travel to various homes in the area. This forces me to use public restrooms more than I care to. Why do I not enjoy public restrooms? 

Because public bathrooms are weird. There are weird marks on the toilet seats, the automatic paper towel dispensers never work- causing you to you flail about like a seizure victim waiting for 2 inches of brown paper, the water heats up too quickly leaving you with red hot hands... it just never goes well. 

Another bad thing about public bathrooms is the public. You are using the restroom with strangers and, therefore, have to encounter them. And this story comes from one encounter I recently had with a woman in a Bardstown, KY gas station bathroom. 

It was a hot summer day as I drove around the Bardstown area. I could not find the house I was supposed to go to and was getting increasingly frustrated with the Bardstown area. I pulled into a gas station to ask for directions [ain't too proud to beg] and decided to use the restroom because who knew when I would get through my visit and back to the office. I walked into the bathroom and what did I see?

A woman sitting on the toilet. This was not a 'one-seater' bathroom. This bathroom had 2 stalls. And no, I did not kick down the door Sparta style. This woman just did not close the door. Did not close the door at all. 

What do I do, as I enter the bathroom... do I leave? Do I dart to the other side of the bathroom and pray that the other stall is empty, offering a safe haven from... well, a grown woman sitting on the toilet? Do I scream and run in circles?

I opted to sprint to the other side of the restroom and act like I didn't see anything. Unfortunately, someone was occupying that stall, leaving me stranded. I couldn't leave, because I'd be faced with Misses squatty potty and I couldn't turn around because I'd see her in the mirror. So, I stood, facing the wall of the bathroom, like a child on punishment. I was being punished for using a public bathroom and standing in the corner was my time-out. 

I finally got to go into the stall and decided to stay into the bathroom as long as I could possibly stand to, just to avoid leaving the bathroom and seeing Misses No Shame. 

I thought the bathroom was clear, but I was wrong. There she was, Misses 'who closes doors anymore?'. I go to wash my hands, eyes glued to the intricate patterns on the floor when she starts talking to me.  

She explained, I just had to go the bathroom so badly, I didn't have time to close the door. I had to pee so badly, I even peed on myself a little. 

At this point in time, she shows me the pee stain on her paints. What was I supposed to do? Agree, that yes there are times that you don't have to shut the door because you have to pee so badly? Because no, I don't agree with that. I think you can always take the .25 seconds to close the door. Always. And, if you do pee on yourself, please don't tell me. and for god's sake don't point it out to me. 

This public restroom mess is enough to make any sane person where Depends, just to avoid these encounters.

having a big butt

Having a large rear-end can be really awkward, from day to day activities to picking a wardrobe. Forget rocking a pair of skinny jeans with a butt this big. It just ain't happening. it looks like someone stuck a 2 pears on a toothpick and wrapped them in denim. 


Even walking can be difficult. I try to maneuver around a cabinet or desk and end up ramming my booty into furniture. People are like, 'are you ok? didn't you see the desk?'


Yeah, I saw it, but my butt did not. My butt has a mind of it's own and swings in a wider radius than I can account for. NASA needs to plan my routes to make sure I can get through the office. 


My booty got me into an awkward situation one time in college. This story will require a couple back stories or background information, so let's get that out of the way. 


1) I do not like getting hit on. My big booty tends to draw attention from the male crowd, which should be flattering, but makes me uncomfortable. It's always, 'hey, nice butt' and I would prefer, 'you seem to have a great personality and I would like to get to know you... respectfully'. but alas, I get the weirdos, seemingly obsessed with butts... 


2) My sister is very fashionable. Wait, it all connects. She always looks nice and knows what's in fashion and likes to pass this advice on to me. And when she isn't telling me that I 'dress like a homeless person' she tells me that I wear my clothes too loosely. Which may be true. I like a little wiggle room in my clothes, I like to be able to breathe, and I like to keep my business private. But one day while shopping, she convinced me to buy a pair of capris which were 'fitted'. In the fashion world, that means tight. But she told me I looked good, I should get them, be confident, all that stuff. So, I bought the pants. And these pants are the star of my story:


Freshmen year of college, I was walking to class. It was a lovely fall day, so collegiate it was picturesque. I had just been shopping with my sister that weekend and bought a pair of cute capris, fashionable capris [hint hint, these are the tight pants]. As I walk down the main walk in Murray over the bridge, I notice a man look at me and smile. I smile back, thinking, 'what a friendly place this campus is... I love college, smily face!' 


I then pass the student center and another man looks at me and says, 'hello'... except it was like 'he-looooo'. I put on my simpleton, from the country smile, and say, hello! again, what a great, friendly college!!


Then I get to the library and it happens. A third man looks at me and smiles. 
Except he added: DAMN GIRL, LOOKING GOOD IN THEM PANTS!!


That's capitalized because he yelled it at me. All of a sudden, I realize that all those 'nice men' that had been looking me up and down were thinking the same thing. They were thinking about my tight, some say fashionable pants, and thinking about my large and in charge rear end. I was so embarrassed! I walked with my butt facing buildings, sometimes walking sideways, so that no one else would notice. 


Needless to say, those pants never came out of the closet. And perfectly good pair of pants to waste... damn. 

saying things under your breath...

that everyone ends up hearing. That is the worst!! You are talking in a loud restaurant and as soon as you say something inappropriate, the whole place gets quiet. Everyone looks at you [or at least it feels that way] and takes your comment out of context... or they just get to hear you say something off color. 


This happened to me at a family gathering a few years ago. Thanksgiving to be exact. Now, my family is a large, loud, southern baptist family. So, imagine lots of cousin, more mashed potatoes than you can shake a stick at [what the heck does that phrase mean? In what circumstance would I be shaking sticks at things to measure how much there is? don't make no sense....], and lots and lots of talking. 


Now, I am single gal and my family is always discussing this wonderful fact. They ask questions like 'why don't you settle down' as if I am a kid who ate a tub of cool whip and is now running laps around the building. Or they ask, 'why are you single?' as if multiple men come up to me daily, offering me their hands and I just turn them down for some unknown reason. My issue with singleness came up at Thanksgiving again...


Everyone wondering why I'm still single, why I'm not married, will I ever find a man.... I like to think it's because they think I'm so awesome, it's just astonishing to think that I'm single. It boggles their minds. This is why we keep discussing it. So when my nana [my word for grandmother] asked me when I would just get married, I answered, 'oh, when I find a man good enough for me'


and then I turned to my sister and said, 'or when they make gay marriage legal, hee hee'


This joke that I meant for just my sister was heard by everyone. and I mean everyone. aunts, uncles, cousins, mom, dad, papa, and nana. 


As stated earlier, my family is southern baptist. And this joke, did not go over well. Dead silence filled the once loud house and all eyes turned to me... 


Later that night, my mom said, 'we do not joke like that in front of nana'
You're right, no lesbian jokes in front of nana. 

Being hit on

This story is one that has been told over and over. It has some how become infamous among my group of friends. I'm a little nervous 'telling' this story via blog, but I'm gonna go for it anyway. So, here is the story:


I was a new employee at my place of employment and got suckered into working a festival downtown. I got to the festival early, but did not want to look like the new kid who comes to work early because I'm a suck-up.... so I decided to walk around the festival for a bit. After seeing every booth and still having time to kill, I decided to walk a block past the festival and then go back. Downtown, the sun was going down and there was no one on the block past the festival. As I walked, I heard a man yelling at me from a red dodge ram truck:


"hey girl, you looking good!"


Now, I was the only person on the block, so I knew this creepy McCreeperson was talking to me, but I decided to ignore him. I literally did not turn my head, twitch, or acknowledge his existence. Just look straight ahead and walk. 


"Hey girl, I'm talking to you! I said you are looking good!!"


Continue to ignore and walk with a purpose


"Hey girl.... girl!... car door slam"


He didn't say 'car door slam'. He got out of the truck. He got out of the truck while yelling at me. He came up behind me, grabbed my shoulder, and turned me around. 


I had three options. If I wanted to avoid being molested, or kidnapped, or assaulted, I could:
a) run for my life. But considering I run like a wooly mammoth with asthma, that option wasn't a good one. 
b) fight. But, the only fight I've ever been in was with my BFF [shout out betsy!] at bible camp... Not prepared. 
c) I could pretend to be deaf. 


That's right. I went with option c. 


He turned me around and I said, "I'm deaf"... while impersonating a deaf person. Since that moment, I've been able to identify the person that inspired the deaf voice. Here is a clip from the movie 'the other sister'. Listen to the girl's voice:


Deaf voice

I know!! When I get to those pearly gates, St. Peter will be playing this moment on the big screen, shaking his head, and saying 'really?!?!'


But you know what? It worked. He immediately apologized and started motioning with his hands. I replied, 'it's ok' [while doing the deaf voice] and he left. 


I walked away feeling victorious and ashamed at the same. But I had lived. I survived. 

Being a jerk

CAUTION: This post contains a curse word [just one, don't freak]. So for all you children out there cruising the internet, don't read this.


I get myself into trouble because... well.... I'm a jerk. I tend to make fun of people because I think I'm so hilarious. Sometimes these things just fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I don't make fun of people to their face, I don't point and laugh, but I do say things under my breath to the people around me. I know, I'm terrible. Do I think I'm so perfect that I can pass judgement on people? No, I'm sure people make fun of me on a regular basis... and yet, I continue to make my little comments.


This flaw of mine got me into trouble not to long ago at a Taco Bell drive thru. Point of interest: I was by myself. So yes, I was making jokes and making fun of someone BY MYSELF. I give you full permission to make fun of me for that...


Back to the story: One night as I got off work around 1am, I realized I was really hungry. Taco Bell is about the only thing open around 1am that doesn't require me to get out of the car. Plus, taco bell is awesome, I don't care how low a rating the meat is...


I pull up to the ordering box [what the heck is that called anyway?] and the man says 'welcome to taco bell, what can I get you tonight?'


Except his voice... audience participation: scrinch up your nose, tighten your throat, and speak through your nose. and speak out of the side of your mouth a little bit. This is the voice that came through the ordering box. I choked back a laugh and gave him my order. I laughed to myself all the way around to the window. He told me my total and took my money. As he walked away, I mocked him. Out loud. To my self. I scrinched up my nose, tightened my throat, spoke through my nose and out the side of my mouth a little. Your total is 5.13, hee hee hee, his voice is funny! What am I, a six year old?


What I forgot was that my window was down. What I didn't realize was that the drive thru window was open. What I failed to see was the Taco Bell employee standing there with my bag of food and receipt.


I froze. I realized that I was a big fat jerk. Do I apologize for making fun of him, further pointing out that he had a ridiculous voice? Oh I didn't need to:


He handed me my food and receipt and said "here's your food, have a good night... bitch"


I just nodded my head and drove off. To eat my taco bell alone and think about what I'd done.

Kristen Stewart and Rob Pattinson

I am not a diehard twilight fan in either direction. I'm not a crazy 'bite-me-rob' t-shirt wearing kind of gal. Nor do I think that Twilight is the most useless piece of crap ever-- there are so many other books, particularly in the self help section, that beat this triology+one other book. 


But geez oh pete, what is the deal with Kristen and Rob awkwardness? I feel like they are probably both good people. I like them both as actors, outside of Twilight considering you can't consider that movie for it's talented acting....sorry. But outside of Twilight they have had decent roles in decent films and again, are probably decent people. 


But geez oh pete they make my skin crawl! They are so awkward. In public. In interviews. On magazine covers. On award shows. I just want to shout: YOU ARE BOTH TALENTED, GOOD LOOKING, SUCCESSFUL PEOPLE!! WHY ARE YOU SO AWKWARD?!?!
I mean, I am awkward for many reasons, but I feel that if I were super good looking and successful and made lots of money, I would have a little more self confidence. 
{at this point, my nana would say that it doesn't matter how successful we are or how we look on the inside. She would say that our confidence and self worth comes from the inside. I would say an obligatory 'yes ma'am' but would secretly be thinking that if I were super good looking, I would be oh so full of myself and confident.}


If you are not grasping just how terribly awkward this couple is, I have included a clip of the 'kristen rob' at the MTV movie awards. 
Enjoy:


accepting 'best kiss' award

First day of school

The first day of school is always awkward. Figuring out where your classes are, who you are going to eat lunch with, what to wear... the whole process is a breeding ground for mishaps and sad lunches eaten in a bathroom stall because your friends' lunch period is earlier than yours... 


My awkward story comes from my first day of graduate school, a setting in which I should be able to function as a grown up. I'm in graduate school for crying out loud!! This story also features a character I have lovingly named : Winky McGunslinger


My first day of grad school was a crazy one. I had to go to work super early in order to accommodate the 5pm friday night class. It was also ridiculously hot as I drugged around downtown louisville. My day was full of social working adventures [that's what I do for a living] and had been hectic all day. I helped a kid move into college. I put a deposit on a new apartment. I also ordered the wrong drink at Starbucks and stood in the store for 20 minutes while they said, "tall caramel macchiato" and me standing there thinking 'whoever ordered that drink needs to step up'.... oh wait, that was me.  


This hectic day led me having to run to class. And if you know me at all you know that I am not a... how to put this... 'delicate girl'. I'm not the girl who says ooo, it's a little warm, i'm glistening a little bit. No way. I sweat. My hair gets dripping wet and my face is so shiny it looks like saran wrap has been out over it. It also made me about 10 minutes late to the first. 


In come, running to class, breathing heavily and sweating like a drug mule at the airport. I sat down quickly and began writing down my introductory information on a note card, as the professor requested. As I wrote, drops of sweat fell off my face onto to my notecard. My professor then turns to me:


We are playing a get to know you game [inner monolouge: really? grad school get to know you game? great...] called two truths and a lie. You have to say three things about yourself, two of which are true and one of which is false. We as a class will try to guess which is false. You can go first.




I wiped the new forming sweat from my face and tried to think quickly. With no preparation, the best I could come up with is....
1) I had to run to class [hoping that people would understand the sweatiness this way and not think I was just really gross... I was regular gross]
2) Bacon is my favorite food [officially really gross]
3) I love public speaking. 


People instantly guessed number three and hallelujah, the spotlight was off me. I zoned out for a bit as I tried to get my breathing and my body temperature back to normal. Once I felt under control, I mentally rejoined the game. 


At this time, I noticed there were three men in my class. One was old, one was attractive but married and the third... well the third was young looking, cute, had tattoos, and no ring. Well well, class just got interesting. He went on to say his two truths and a lie, one of which was 'I've lived in Kentucky my whole life'. People in the class began debating this fact, thinking it was the lie. But from my angle, I could see that he had a tattoo of the state seal on his arm. I pointed this out to the class and he responded, 'nice observation.'


A normal, well adjusted, not psychotic adult would respond, 'thanks'. I did this part but I also added a wink.... while shooting him with my finger. 


I held up my finger in the shape of a gun, winked, and said 'thanks.'


Thus, Winky McGunslinger was born. And I left my mark as 'that weird girl' in my graduate class. Fantastic.

Being from the country

I did not grow up in Lousville. Though I claim this city as my own, I am proud to say that I grew up in a small-ish town called Pewee Valley. I've ridden a horse, picked ta-maters [yes, pronounce it that way], and know everyone's business about everyone. Those are some of the joys of being from a small town. 
One of the fall backs: No, it isn't the lack of Starbucks, good restaurants, or grammar skills. 

It's the waving at random people. 


Drive out in the country or any small town and you will see what I mean. People wave at everyone. Even driving by, people at least do the two-fingers-from-the-steering-wheel wave. It's more than just the upward nod of acknowledgement we do in the city. It draws attention. It says, "hello! I know you are here and I am glad you are alive and kicking!"


How could this whimsical small town gesture be awkward? Well, when you are a relatively small town girl uprooted to the relatively big city, this waving at strangers doesn't always translate. In fact, it can cause problems. Now it's time for STORY FROM MY DAY!!


I left work around 5:30. I walked through the parking lot through the drizzling rain when I saw the TARC 3 cruising through the parking lot. For those unfamiliar with the TARC 3, it is public transportation for disabled person's in the city. It is a short bus [I'm really not trying to make a pun here....] and doesn't follow a regular route. It can be anywhere at anytime. 


So, I walk along and I make eye contact with the driver. Then it happened. It was like a reflex. A small town, Mayberry loving, don't wear shoes reflex from Hades. I waved at the driver. Big smile and generous wave at a strange man driving a bus. And what does this city driver do?


He pulls over. Like a taxi cab in Manhattan, he pulls over. I am thinking that he's dropping someone off until he yells, 'excuse me miss?" I started to go back, but then he started to drive. So I started walking the other way. About that time he saw that I was stopping for him, so he stops again. This back and forth 'me? him? me? him? confusion continues for several minutes. We finally stop at the same time and he asks 'were you trying to wave me down?' I apologized,


 'sorry no... I was just waving....?'


Really? Just waving? As if this was a reasonable response. Oh, don't mind me, I'm just a wavin' at strangers. Creating a better world, a more peaceful world, a world where we know our strangers... one wave at a time. 

Awkward Wave

Hello Public!! I am starting a blog. No, it is not about politics, or what I cooked for dinner and which organic foods I used to do so. It's about the awkwardness that I experience on a daily basis. This blog will contain true stories of things that have happened to me or situations that we all encounter that leave us going 'whoa, that was awkward.' So, here is my awkward introductory post. Hope you guys enjoy or at least get a good laugh out it.
See you in a bit...