I think it’s probably obvious by now that I’m a little ADD.  ADHD.  ABCDEFG.  Whatever.

For example, I meant to start writing this post an hour ago, but instead I got sidetracked by looking up furniture painting tutorials so I could paint my hand-built office desk, which made me realize that the office desk really shouldn’t be a priority when I still have to decide on a menu and make a bunch of decorations for this Saturday’s baby shower party, which led me to searching through recipes online while concocting a partial shopping list, which made me realize I hadn’t uploaded some food photos I took the other day, which made me remember I wanted to print some photos to send to some friends, which somehow led me to downloading free Photoshop actions off the internet and trying them out on the aforementioned photos.

And now I’m hungry.

And I forgot why I started writing this post.

Oh, yes.  My inability (or flat-out refusal?) to focus on any one topic for very long pretty much guarantees the completely random, fickle assortment of writing topics you find on this lil’ blog.  One day I might be lamenting about how I can’t find a job and nobody loves me, and the next I’m passing out recipes for hummus or posting pictures of my knife-wielding neighbor at her 2-year-old’s birthday party.

It’s crazy in here.

What it’s like inside my head during an office meeting.

And usually, once I post about something that’s been plaguing me, it gets moved into the digital archives of this blog and removed completely from my mind.  My little mind elves don’t have a file system — once an idea is made reality, they crumple up the evidence, throw it in a trash bin, light a match, and toss it in.  Then they dump the ashes out through my ear.  So usually, the only way I can remember what I was thinking about yesterday is to look at the blog.

But there is one thing recently that has stuck around in my mind, for one reason or another.  It’s my post from the other day about how I’ve grown more socially awkward as I age because I worry that people won’t like my real personality.  It generated some intriguing comments of agreement, and one in particular (thanks, Greg!) that hit a nerve, stating that children have the admirable quality of not really caring what adults or peers think about their personality — it just is.  So, why does it matter when we’re older?

Etiquette?  Politeness?

Sure, I guess.  Everyone should be nice to everyone, and blah, blah, blah.  But beyond that?  What factors stipulate how we should behave in polite society?  Why can’t I laugh — loudly — at a restaurant if someone says something deliberately funny?  Why does the sound of adult laughter so commonly generate irritated looks from people nearby?  (Obviously, I wouldn’t do this every 2 seconds and interrupt other people’s conversations, but once?  What’s the problem?)

It’s times like these when I’m glad I’m not single.  Single people have it rough out there right now.  In a society where you’re only expected to act a certain way so as to “not give off the wrong impression,” how is anyone supposed to make any sort of impression at all?

Enter my friend Maria, and her obviously charming and hilarious brother.  (I don’t remember her brother’s name, nor have I ever met him, but I’m sure he’s charming and hilarious.)

Maria is incredibly articulate and intelligent (just check out her blog, which she hasn’t updated in way too long), laid-back, a world-traveler, and stunningly gorgeous.  Yet.  She had a difficult time filling out her online dating profile to reflect any of her uniqueness beyond the whole, polite, standard online profile clichés.

(I hope she doesn’t get mad at me for posting this photo, but I had to get my point across — the girl shouldn’t need help filling out a profile.  By the way, she’s not Indian, but this photo was taken of her this year while she was in India studying yoga.)

So her brother took it upon himself to write one a little less… stuffy:

About Me:

If you’re looking for someone with the brain of a supermodel and the body of a scientist, look no further! Here I am.

My name is Maria, and I am a Japanese/Mexican exotic gourmet blend. Born of human parents, it would stand to reason that I, too, am human. But am I really? I don’t know. I might just be a cookie monster.

An exhaustive account of all the facets of my awesomeness would be impractical—nay, impossible—so here are the wave tops. I’ve spent a lot of time in South Africa rehabilitating orphaned baboons. Whoa! Did you just fall out of your seat because you are so amazed? Calm down, partner. I’m just getting warmed up here. So let’s see… I was once featured on the Animal Planet TV channel, so yes, I do consider myself a celebrity (very famous). I studied yoga in India. (Shout out to all my mad-smart Subcontinent homies!) I graduated from Chico State with a degree in something. I think it was anthropology or animals or multiplication or something weird like that. I once woke up while working in the Costa Rican jungle with a tarantula in my bed, and I didn’t even care. That’s right. I didn’t even care. I said “Hey, buddy.” It’s because I’m a world-class badass, and I knew that the tarantula would get the hell out of there once he recognized my face (very famous). Once when I was a teenager and I worked at a movie theater, Kevin Mitchell—the 1989 National League MVP (duh!), came up to buy some popcorn from me. I was like, “Hey, you were my favorite player when I was a kid.” He came back like he was all offended and said, “Were?” So I was like, “That’ll be $107, please.” I also know how to properly use a semicolon. If you are one of those unfortunate souls that didn’t already know that a semicolon is used to join two closely related independent clauses, then you disgust me and you deserve to be trapped in a forest for days on end with no one but a Bob Dylan-obsessed fan who insists on singing his entire anthology in an all-too-accurate impersonation. And not the funny kind of impersonation. The kind that makes your marrow ache. THAT kind.

What’s that you say? For the love of God, tell you more? Very well, I shall. You should know that I love cats. Baked, boiled, fried… it doesn’t matter to me. In fact, I have two cats, and they’re looking more and more delicious every day. Now you might think from what you’ve read so far that I’m an animal lover. Well don’t jump to conclusions, Hoppy Hopperson. I draw the line at hippopotamuses. They’re fat, surly, filthy creatures, and they have no business interfering with my happiness. If you happen to have a pet hippopotamus, I will not consider dating you. Also, you’re in violation of several city ordinances.

For Fun:

I teach yoga & do massage, so clearly I love violent movies & video games. I also love riding bicycles. I ride normal bikes, but eventually I’d like to purchase one of those bikes w the enormous front wheel and the tiny back wheel, a la 1882.

Favorite Hot Spots:

Locally I like Bidwell Park, T.Bar, and my backyard (and not just because of the underground dungeon, which is admittedly charming).

……….

Well?  Okay, so this is admittedly a little over-the-top, and Maria intends to take it down a notch to better reflect her slightly more reserved personality.  But you get the point, right?  Most people would be too afraid to post something like this because it might make them stand out.  It might turn people off.

But if this is who you are, and you’re trying to attract people to you, whether romantically or just friends in life, why would you want anyone who doesn’t like you?

I know this is way too long, and I apologize.  I meant to be finished with this 4 hours ago.  I guess my point is that I wish more people would just be real.  No more masks.  No more judging.  Just us.

And don’t worry — tomorrow will probably be a post about awesome little party appetizers or home office decor and I’ll have no clue why people are emailing me about the new Remove the Mask movement and how I can get involved, because my mind elves will have already dumped these ashes and moved on to tartlets and parsons desks.

My mind is exhausting.

Is it just me, or do all people get more socially awkward as they age?

I’m pretty sure it’s just me.

It’s unfortunate, because it almost feels as though I’m rolling backwards through developmental stages.  I’m the mental — though certainly not physical — Benjamin Button.  It’s like I was born to mingle and network as a kid, when my mom would let me crash her social gatherings because I was such an adorable little adult, holding my own in conversations and, more often than not, hogging the spotlight with the only thing I really had going for me — my ability to talk.

And talk, I did.

But with time, it’s been brought to my attention on more than one occasion that chattiness becomes much less adorable as we get older.  Friends’ parents were always saying, “Katie, you’re too loud,” and people started worrying — justifiably — that I might say something inappropriate at a formal social gathering.  The very thing on which I’d learned to rely so heavily as a kid had turned into a liability.

Conversely, there are other times I’m told people want me present in certain situations to stimulate conversation.  When two different groups of people are brought together for an event — like a good friend’s parents and her soon-to-be in-laws, I’m brought in as the “ringer” whose sole purpose is to entertain via unrehearsed speech.  I suppose it’s because I’m not afraid to embarrass myself.  Or I understand that people are just people, and most of them have something they like to talk about.  I just have to find it and ensure them I won’t judge.

So sometimes I’m expected to talk, and other times I’m expected to shut up.  And these conflicting expectations have often been presented by the same people.

I’m still pretty confused about the whole thing.

As a result, I’ve started to feel all discombobulated when I’m thrown into a room with strangers.

Then yesterday happened.

Yesterday, I was not a great blogger.

Not just because I didn’t post anything, but because I didn’t take any pictures of the day’s events. Aside from the Annual 4th of July Parade, which is happening today, my neighborhood decided most of the night-time celebrations would happen last night, since most normal people — aside from those of us still somehow managing to leach off our marriage partners — have to go to work on Tuesday morning.

Except my husband.  Seriously.  If you want the type of job where you have the most days off ever, join the military.  Of course, the trade-off is that you don’t get to choose where you live and the government can send you into countries that tend to hate us whenever it wants, but vacation time is vacation time, amIright?

But back to the holiday festivities.  Justin and I decided to join my old manager from the bar and her son — Hey Danielle and Travis! — for some fun at our largest neighborhood lake.  We had a blast, but it did make me realize 2 things: Sun and beer don’t mix very well with me, and we really need to make friends with someone who owns a boat.  Boat friends are the best friends.

Then we headed back home so I could make some food to take to a party.  I did take pictures of the food, and it’s one of my absolute favorite party appetizer recipes in the history of ever, and I will be sharing it with you soon.

I was nervous about this party.  I’d been taking one of my dogs on our morning walk on Saturday, when I ran into some distant neighbors with whom we used to socialize a couple of years ago.  They live about a mile away, and we’d lost touch over time, not making the effort to walk further than “just down the street” to say hello.

They’re fantastic people.  They live right on the lake, and they have a boat.

Not that I would use them for their boat.

I don’t think.

They remembered my name, they said, because I’m the chatty one, but they couldn’t remember Justin’s.  I wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment.  But then they invited us to their party, which was going to have food, drinks, and live music.

Twist. My. Arm.

So we headed over last night, Justin toting our cooler of beverages and me armed with my favorite party appetizer ever.  I wasn’t sure how to behave since I knew virtually no one, so I figured I’d test the waters before committing to a personality.  We greeted our hosts, put our offerings on the food table, and plopped down on some lawn chairs to listen to the band.

When they finished the song they’d been playing when we arrived, I immediately started clapping and cheering.  Loudly.

I was the only one.

It became clear that they’d been playing for a bit with virtually zero audience appreciation when the lead singer gave me a big thumbs-up, an audible “thank-you” through the mic, and the base player mic-whispered, “tough crowd.”

They played another.  I clapped enthusiastically again, enticing a bit of accompaniment by some people nearby, and shouted, “You guys rock!”  A little fireball of a Mexican woman whom I later learned was named Carmen looked at me appreciatively and shouted, “Yeah they do!” before walking over to introduce herself.

Before long, people were approaching me asking if I’d made those delicious little appetizers.  And they weren’t afraid to talk to me because clearly, I wasn’t shy.  And I even decided to do a little professional networking while I was there, since the online job search has been getting me exactly nowhere, and it’s possible I have a lead or two there as well.

It wasn’t easy to put my fully outgoing persona back on for an evening after years of trying to suppress it into tolerable, toned-down submission.

But you know what I realized?  I think, for the most part, people like and appreciate the chatty Katie.  I know the band did.  The people who walked away with the promise of an appetizer recipe did.  And anyone who didn’t is probably a little too stuffy for my taste, anyway.  I’m friendly to everyone, and anyone can be my friend.

Is that really such a terrible thing?

I don’t like feeling socially awkward because I’m afraid to be myself.

It turns out in the end, a stranger at a party not liking me is far better than me not liking me.

You know?

For someone who doesn’t technically have a job right now, I sure do feel busy.

It’s almost like looking for a job is a full-time job.

Except it’s not, at least for me, because I’m also up to my fake twitching eyeball in other projects.  For the blog alone, I owe you probably about 64 updates about what’s going on with our home changes, I’ve got some really fantastic recipes to share, and the consumption of the Spanish bottles of wine we brought home have inspired some really deep thoughts, like why was the Bachelorette so hung up on that Bentley guy (I mean his name is Bentley, for crying out loud), and I wonder how long I can get away with not removing the toenail polish I applied before leaving for Spain.

Apparently the answer is at least 5 weeks, because I only have about 40% coverage left per toe and I still haven’t fixed it.

So aside from all the blog posts gurgling around in my head, I have projects galore.  The office is still a work-in-progress, and hopefully I’ll have updates soon.  I’m applying for jobs.  I’m working on writing projects.  I’m one of the first few people getting to read my friend’s yet-unpublished novel.  And on top of all that, Alaina’s baby shower is in a mere week-and-a-half.

What’s that?  You didn’t know I was throwing a baby shower?

Let’s see… we all know I’m awkward around children, I’d probably make a terrible parent, and until recently I assumed a boppy was something teenagers took recreationally at raves.  So me throwing a baby shower makes perfect sense, right?

Lucky for me, Alaina doesn’t want just a baby shower.  She wants a baby party — complete with alcohol, drinking games, and… wait for it… boys.  See, just because she can’t drink, she doesn’t feel the need to punish everyone else.  Especially me.  And I’m also fortunate that a couple of her other dear friends are helping me out.

So this is pretty much what my world looks like right now:

(This last one actually has nothing to do with the baby shower.  It’s for a different project entirely, but I couldn’t resist.  You know I like to keep you guessing.)

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m pretty excited for this baby shower to happen.  Not to give anything away, but it’s probably going to involve a relay race with strollers and the chugging of White Russians from baby bottles.  The drink — not the people.

How twisted do you think I am?

Okay, don’t get mad at me.  I promise I fully intend to share some interesting stories from Spain and answer a few questions I’m sure some of you have.  But, like I mentioned yesterday, I had an unexpected house guest arrive late last night.

Well, mostly unexpected — she did give me 12 hours notice, which is approximately the time it takes, going roughly 10 miles per hour over the speed limit with 2 rest stops, to drive from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, to Sanford, North Carolina.  My little sister arrived in a whirlwind of fast food wrappers, dirty laundry, 2 mangy mutts (that’s right — there are currently four dogs staying in my house), and early-20’s angst.

I love her dearly.

Needless to say, my plans for the rest of the week have been a bit thrown, meaning I’m about to take 4 dogs down to a lake instead of writing pitches and sending my resume in for part-time gigs.  I also don’t have the time to write a proper post for today.

So, in case you missed it, I’m posting the piece I wrote for Simply Solo the week before I went to Spain.  If you did pop over there to read it, I’m sorry for the repeat so soon after the original.

But I have to work with what I got, ya know?

Don’t Worry – Cinderella was as Jaded as the Rest of Us

Ah, Solo.

I remember that brief yet exciting time in my life when I was sans relationship.  The world was full of possibilities.  I could travel wherever I wanted, sleep with whomever I wanted, and the only person I really worried about disappointing was me.

The good days, right?

But no matter how happy I was, how free I felt, there was always that pesky bruise on an otherwise perfect fruit:  I wanted love.  I wanted to feel love, and I wanted to give it.  I wanted to know how it felt to have someone waiting for me when I came home, to ask about my day, and to tickle my back with his fingertips when we settled into the sofa to watch the latest romantic comedy that he thoughtfully picked up from the video store on his way home from buying me flowers.

Because that happens, right?

The good news is that at the start of any decent relationship, it can and does happen.  For a few moments in time, we find out what it’s like to live inside a movie – to become the center of someone’s world and put another person’s happiness above our own.

But then… then we get comfortable.  The new car smell is replaced by McDonald’s takeout and sweaty gym socks.  The charming way he always lets us choose the movie or the restaurant or the weekend getaway location is now just plain annoying.  Why can’t he have an opinion?  The conversations become stale.  The sex becomes predictable.

This, my friends, is true intimacy – when our prince – *gasp* – becomes a real-life person.

And while he still asks about our day and tickles our back during movies, it’s also true that sometimes he wishes we might stay at work just a little later so he can put his feet on the coffee table, fart without leaving the room, and finish that Star Wars movie without judgment or ridicule.

We find ourselves wondering, why do we even care about these things, anyway?  We never used to.  Or if we did, we let them slide because we’d finally found that elusive love.  That love we’d thought we’d wanted so much.

Is it simply because the longer we know each other, the more difficult it becomes to maintain niceties and politeness?  Is it because we no longer have the excitement of peeling back layers to get to the golden nuggety center of another person’s history, values, and beliefs?  Or is it – and I almost hate to say this – because we, as humans (or is it just us women?), just can’t find it within ourselves to be content with being content?

Think about it.  We are trained from an early age to look for drama in our relationships.  Aspiring writers are taught that we can’t have a story without an antagonist.  We can’t create intrigue without obstacles in the plot.  And a story without intrigue is never worth reading.

So why would a story without intrigue ever be worth living?

Maybe that’s why we create these problems within our own, otherwise placid plotlines – why we become our own antagonist and throw rocks at the glassy surface by nagging him about his dirty laundry, complaining to mutual friends about our arguments, making a joke at his expense, or letting ourselves think he came home late because he was out trolling for other women, because there’s no way he could possibly still love us after all. these. rocks.

The movies teach us we need ripples to be happy.

They don’t tell us how Cinderella could never quite get those ashes out from underneath her fingernails.  How she hated cleaning Prince Charming’s whiskers out of the bathroom sink.  How sometimes – sometimes—she still reminisced about the days when the forest animals adoringly assisted with her morning chores as she sang about longing for her prince to come – when her prince was still a perfect image in her mind of the man who would magically solve all of her issues and finally make her life complete.

But that’s the problem – all we see is that our fairy tale lovers had to fight evil stepmothers, magic mirrors, and fire-breathing dragons to complete their ceremonious commitment to one another.  And since there’s no room for such things in modern times, we make ripples of our own.  We throw rocks to create intrigue and prove that the love that survives at the end – assuming it survives at all – was worth fighting for.

However, I’m going to share a secret for singles or those who perpetually find themselves in unhappy relationships – a secret that will either solve all of your problems, or crush your world in one fell swoop:  What they never tell us about our own story line – about the intricate, ever-changing world we create for ourselves from second to second in search of a happy ending – is that while the existence of dragons is possible but not proven, there is no such thing as complete.

So.  What I find myself learning, now that I’ve found that intimacy I wanted so badly when I was single, is that no relationship – not even a marriage – will ever really complete me.  I will always be someone who strives to learn, to evolve, to make myself a better person.

And in the interim that most of us refer to as life, I will consider it a bonus that, whether I’m crying through a chick flick or snickering through Star Wars, I’ve found a willing hand to tickle my back.

It has recently occurred to me that I’m not really a “roll with the punches” sort of person.

Nope.

Nor am I a take-that-full-blown-fist-to-the-face-then-just-shake-it-off type of person.

Both are admirable qualities, each of which — whether it be laid-back option A or stubborn as hell option B — I’ve been known to show from time-to-time, but rarely with any consistency.

So what type of person am I?

Turns out I pretty much like to avoid punches all together.

Yep.  You read that correctly.

It’s ironic, because until this moment of clarity, I (and probably everyone else who’s close to me) have viewed myself as pretty damn confrontational.  I mean, if you over charge me for fixing my vehicle or call my cell phone to solicit money, I will voice my displeasure.  If you ask me to analyze your relationship or evaluate whether those pants are too tight or tell you whether you acted like an ass last night because you had far too much to drink, I will most likely tell you the truth.

My friends know this.

I’m the girl they go to when they simply just need to hear the truth.  (Or at least the truth as I see it.)

I will even confront my own issues, whether it’s mentally, through friends, or via this blog, but I realized something today:  When it comes to actually acting on said issues — when I have to make a decision and choose a move — I’m all about the tuck-and-roll.

I avoid that punch like a Connecticut prep school boy avoids hippy chicks from NoCal — it might be dangerously exciting to dabble on occasion, but any type of serious commitment is pretty much out of the question.

Otherwise I won’t get my trust fund.

Except I don’t have a trust fund.

Which is kind of another bummer in itself.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.  What I realized today, especially after my whiny little self-pity session from yesterday, is that it’s easy for me to analyze and discuss and churn possibilities and outcomes through my head, but the sad little truth is that nothing will actually start happening unless I commit to a move.

Which I pretty much never do.

At least not long-term.

So while I can declare that I’m about to make a change, like I have many times on this blog, I’m quickly learning that saying and doing are two completely different things.

One thing I’ve learned from my husband’s unhealthy affinity for all things Star Wars, is that the Yoda character — if you can mentally move beyond the strange way he mixes up sentence structure — is a wise, wise man.

Elf?

Midget with weird raptor feet?

Whatever he is, he dispenses this little face-slap of eloquent truth:

“Do or do not.  There is no try.”

It’s hard to argue with that.

The problem is I have all kinds of excuses:  Trip to Costa Rica, finishing house projects, trip to Spain, planning a baby shower party, making a gift for our Spain hosts, writing the blog, figuring out what to make for dinner, doing favors for friends, getting the house ready for a visitor who will be arriving in approximately 5 hours whose imminent arrival I learned about 6 hours ago, etc.

And there will always be excuses.  The trick is going to be learning the self-discipline it takes to move beyond them.

My friend (and family member) Anna gave me some fantastic advice in the comments yesterday (among other peoples’ fantastic comments) that she learned from a writer’s workshop:

1. Get out of your own way.

2. Begin Anywhere (John Cage)

So these things I intend to do.

Pitches, here I come!

(As soon as I finish making dinner tonight and finish my resume for a “filler” job and clean the sheets in the guest bedroom and make the decorations for the baby party and vacuum and clean the guest bathroom and finish 2 handmade gifts for 2 different people and give myself a pedicure.)