Archive for January, 2009

Sweet nothings

Every now and then, Lance will say something that gives me pause.  He often says he knows me better than I know myself, and I’m always thinking, yeah right, no one knows all the convoluted workings of my mind.  But I sometimes think maybe he does.

The other day, I had the pleasure of going to lunch with him and just him.  We don’t have this opportunity too often, since we both have full time jobs.  And when we’re not working, there’s always the problem of finding a babysitter.  Being a grown up is sometimes dang hard.

So anyways, Lance pulls up at my work in the car to get me, I hop in and exchange a few pleasantries with him and he just busted out with a sweet nothing.  And it meant the world to me.  It was just what I needed to hear.  Would you like to know what it was?  (To you few who are rolling your eyes – go away, your negative vibes are killing my romantic buzz.)

He said, “You’re so capable.”

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking…dude.  That’s it?  No “you’re so beautiful, you make my jaw drop” or “you’re a bad girl, you make me hot” or “I’m the luckiest man on the face of the earth”?

It was just what I needed to hear because I am perpetually plagued with doubt and guilt.  Was I a good mom today?  Was I an exemplary employee?  Did I work out on our Wii Fit long enough to burn off the calories from the cake I ate yesterday?  Did I blog enough/read enough/do laundry enough/clean enough/be friendly enough/pray enough/carpe diem enough, etc?

It’s exhausting. 

So when he just quietly told me that I was “capable”, it was the soothing balm of “you’re doing just fine” that my ragged soul needed to hear.

Thank you, Lance.  I love you.

How to say my name without making me go crazy

When my mother selected “Kearsie” as my name, I think she was on crack. 

Just kidding, but dang.  Can’t a girl catch a break?

I have one of those names that no one can pronounce.  Or spell.  Or find on a mug or a key chain or a magnet.  Nope.  My name is one of those bizarre unique names that make Southerners and children pause in puzzlement.  Also old people. 

My name is Kearsie.  It’s like kah -EAR-see.  Kearsie.  See?  Not too hard. 

As you can plainly see, there is no “T”.  It is not “Kearstie”.  This is not to be confused with names such as Kirstie Alley or Kirsten Dunst.  Similar, yes, but as similar as bologna and roast beef.  Meaning, not really similar at all. 

This morning, a woman came in to drop by some documents for me to work on.  She addressed me as “Kearstie”.  I politely corrected her, “It’s Kearsie.”  She nodded, called me Kearstie again and went on with what she was saying.  It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t said my name like 47 times.  The first 45 I could handle, even though I was getting a twitch.  But by #47, I was ready to stab her with my blue pen. 

Yes, just wee bit of a violent reaction.  I realize this. 

Sigh.

I have been called many many things growing up. 

Kerosene.

Queersie.

Kersty.

Christy.

Karissa

Hey, you.

Yeah, you with the name I can’t pronounce.

I have complained before about my name.  Immediately friends or whoever I’m ranting to will say, Oh no!  I love your name!  But I have also noticed that nary a one has considered “Kearsie” for their children’s names.  Interesting, no?

 

Ok, so this is really nothing more than a mindless rant to fill my blog update quota of the week.  But aren’t you proud I didn’t say “vaginal” once? 

Oops.

The PMS fog

Or the post better known as “Blog titles to make men run away”.

I’m not picky.

Or perhaps you menfolk are curious and are thinking to yourselves, hmm, this may be the post that clears up a few questions I have about my mom/sister/second cousin twice removed/girlfriend/wife/sister-in-law/co-worker/weird neighbor lady.

Well then stick around, menfolk, and I shall school you on PMS.

So, we ladies are just going through our month, waking up, eating, sleeping, doing dishes and laundry, taking care of pets/kids/life and then WHAM. 

Something hits us. 

It’s a fog.  It clouds our sight.  It messes with our mind. It makes us say a bunch of foolishness and meanness.  Sometimes we weep.  Sometimes we yell.  Sometimes we have to take naps, just so we don’t kill anyone.  Most times we need chocolate to make it through the day.

What is this debilitating fog? 

It’s PMS.

I really think that the person who penned that song “Nobody Likes Me, Every Body Hates Me, Guess I’ll Eat Some Worms” was a woman going through The Fog.  Because that is exactly how I feel during those few days where The Fog surrounds me.  I feel almost paranoid. 

Like EVERYONE is out to get me. 

EVERYONE avoids me.

EVERYONE is secretly thinking I’m horrible/ugly/not funny/fat/unlikable/weird. 

Here’s the thing. We know this isn’t reality, but it feels that way.  It’s like for 2-3 days we take off our glasses that we normally wear and put on another set of glasses that skew the way the world looks.  And if you’re super mental like me, you are thinking those 2-3 days, is this the way life REALLY is or is it just my PMS?  And you’re almost too scared to find the answer.

Lance is pretty good with my, erm, afflictions.  The other night, after listening to me huff and puff about something menial like postage stamps and why they have to taste so bad and how that offends me he just looked at me for a few moments and said real quiet-like, “Erm, is your period coming?”

There were two different answers that were having a war in my mind.  One was “EXCUSE ME?  LET ME TAKE THIS PEN AND STAB YOU IN YOUR EYEBALL!”  The second was “Thank you SO MUCH for understanding that I am not a psychopathic person in need of stabilizing medications”. 

I opted for the second.  In fact, it was actually kind of helpful.  I had hoped I could continue in my tirade of all the things I felt were wrong in the world that I could complain about.  After awhile, though, Lance clammed up and stared at the TV.

I feel bad for men.  I mean, I feel bad for us more, because dude.  Having a uterus and a plethora of raging hormones is no picnic.  Not to mention puberty and the need for supportive clothing items and shopping in the embarrassing parts of Walmart and labor and delivery and all.  But I feel bad for menfolk because they honestly don’t know what to do with us.  Pretty much it’s a given that no matter what they say, they’re in the wrong.  Unless they come home with their pockets filled with chocolate, a sappy DVD in their hands along with the promise that we can say whatever we want because they’re metaphorically wearing Kevlar, they’re pretty much going to be hating life.

Perhaps this will serve as a help for you menfolk, to understand that we don’t want this, we didn’t ask for it, and we don’t enjoy it anymore than you. 

And for us women, tell me how you get through The Fog.  Seriously, I need something other than 47 Reese’s Cups and The Notebook

Also, I promise to write something next that doesn’t include embarrassing body terms or female maladies.  Maybe.

Deep breaths

I am having a panic attack.

Well, I don’t know if I’m actually having a panic attack, because I’ve never had a real panic attack so I have nothing to compare this to.

I just submitted three of my posts to a humor contest. I have this girl to blame. She made me do it. Well…not really. Actually she just sent me the link to the contest and said she was going to enter too. So really it was like peer pressure. Well…not really, but I was interested and comforted she was entering too.

Geez, I’m blathering.

(Editor’s note: blather is such a fun word. Also a fun word: frock. We should totally make this a retro word and bring it back.)

I went to lunch with my husband yesterday and confessed to him that I felt weird about entering the contest.

ME: I feel so weird! Like I just bared my breasts to the judges and now I’m just waiting for them to look at me and say, meh.

LANCE: You have nice breasts.

Sigh. He doesn’t get it. I’m slightly afraid you sweet readers won’t get it either. And I really hope no really godly people read this post and feel like they have to cleanse their eyes because I said breasts. It’s way better than vaginal.

I need to stop now.

**My pal, Jenny, is hosting a giveaway featuring her awesome and beautiful handmade jewelry. Visit her at Jenny Bunny Creations or Jenny Bunny on Etsy and pick your favorite item. Then copy and paste the link to that item and your email address on this post. The winner will be chosen on January 31, 2009 at noon. You can email her here if you want to leave her a love note. Enjoy!

I am in deep smit

Ode to my wet-to-dry flat iron:

Oh, how I love thee.

Your black enamel casing quietly hides your power.

When I unlock your locking mechanism.

I am transported to a whole new world of heat therapy.

With your three settings, high being my favorite,

Your level of heat transforms my wet locks to dry tresses.

It’s not your fault I haven’t had a haircut in 6 months

and my ends are all jagged.

I shan’t even mention it.

Except I just did mention it.

Let me instead dote on your steam vents

that release …erm, steam of course

that sometimes burns my hand

or scalp

or fingers

or anything flesh related.

It’s my fault for not paying attention

and my children’s fault for dripping toothpaste on me.

But I digress, sweet flat iron.

Where was I?  Oh yes.

Your tiny foldable frame fits so nicely in my palm.

Although, I do get a small cramp when I have to squeeze the tong thingies for humongously long periods of time

and I think I said a small cuss word in your presence when I gave myself a crimp.

Forgive me, sweet iron.

It’s not your fault I am so inept

and chose to grow long hair

or even the fact that I have staticky hair later.

That’s not your fault, either.

Is staticky a real word?

I don’t know.

But love is a word, so are joy and devotion.

All are words I use in tandem with thee, sweet flat iron.

Please don’t break on me, I shall cry real tears.

Thank you for the one good hair day I’ve had in 3 years.

Oh how I love me some good awards

Joan of The Retirement Chronicles has awarded me this awesomely awesome Honest Scrap Award:

honest_scrap

 

The directions are: 

A) first list 10 honest things about yourself – and make it interesting, even if you have to dig deep!

B) pass the award on to 7 bloggers that you feel embody the spirit of the Honest Scrap.

Thank you, Joan, because I was running dry on blog posts ideas and so far had only written “I dusted yesterday.  If you count wiping a 1/4″ layer of dust off the TV screen so I could watch The Fifth Element dusting.”  You have just spared all my good readers.

10 Honest Things About Me:

1.  I have bunions and am scared of summer and flip flop season.  I am convinced that everyone who sees me will look immediately at my bunions and label me as gross and ugly.  Even the word “bunion” sounds ugly.  Also an ugly word:  discharge.  Let’s move along before I feel the need to wash my hands and eyes.

2.  I seriously, honestly, no-lie promise that I haven’t one clue as to how to do my hair.  I go to the salon, sit down, explain that I am cosmetically challenged, hairdresser fixes me all pretty, I leave the salon, go home, wash my hair and I look exactly the same as I did the day before just with shorter hair.  I am frustrated with this malady.

3.  I have so many cosmetically challenged moments I am thinking of writing them all down and calling them “Memoirs of a Cosmetically Challenged Woman”. 

4.  Most days, I feel like a total loser of a parent.  What’s worse, my kids remember EVERY BAD THING I’VE EVER DONE.  It’s like I gave birth to elephants.  I keep hoping this will get better.

5.  I am a Christian, and I am a writer (so to speak) but I do not want to be labeled as a “Christian writer”.  I feel guilty saying this, but this is honest.  I think it’s because I want to be able to type words like “crap” and “I read Harry Potter and loved it” without getting responses like “I am praying for your repentance.  Shame on you.”  Dude, I can’t handle that pressure.

6.  I feel The Guilt often.  It’s a little bit like dragging 10 gallon trash bags around with me.  I keep hoping one day I’ll have an epiphany and just stop feeling The Guilt.  Alas, it sits around with me everyday. 

7.  I just learned how to knit from a pattern, like a real honest-to-goodness knitter.  I used this pattern.  I am so proud of my accomplishments that I have shown pictures of my project and made my coworkers ooh and aah.  So far, no one seems all that impressed.  It’s a big letdown.

8.  I was going to write a post on vaginal skin tags once, but I chickened out.  My sister keeps begging me to post it, but I am scared of the repercussions.  Plus, I just made your eyes bleed a little, didn’t I?  “Vaginal skin tag” is a wee bit telling.

9.  I am supposed to go and speak at  a women’s retreat in May.  I am 60 excited/40 terrified. 

10.  Somewhere along the way I became a “crier”.  I am not a sappy person, per se, nor am I overly emotional except during certain times of the whole lunar cycle thing, ahem.  But dude, if I see you bawling, I am so going to be bawling too.  My husband hates watching The Biggest Loser with me, because I will be sitting there knitting and weeping.  It’s so dumb.  But, that’s who I am now.  A knitting crier.

 

So, there’s my list of 10 honest facts about me. 

I shall award these amazing people:

Nikki, of A Thin and Shallow Light

Vanessa, of Much More Than Mommy

Winn, of WendiWinn (She Likes Stuff) even though she will scoff and completely ignore this

Kim, of A Parent’s Life to Behold Through the Eyes of Insanity and Bliss

Katrina, of The Funny Sister

Megan, of Undressingmind’s Blog

and lastly, but not leastly, my new buddy Shauna, of Inside Shauna’s Head.

 

These are all stellar women who I admire and laugh at.  I mean, their words and stuff, not them directly. 

Enjoy and Happy Friday!

My Awful Discovery

Ya’ll, I found something.  It’s not pretty.  It’s extremely traumatic.  It’s worse than an ingrown toenail.  Worse than finding a pimple in a bizarre place.  Worse than a bad hair day or life.

I.have.sideburns.

I was putting on makeup the other day, when I happened to do that tilt-face-side-to-side thing.  (I have no idea why I was doing this, I’ve seen other girls do it and figure it’s part of the makeup process.)  And there it was, er- they were…erm, just how do you refer to multiple hairs growing in a group-like formation on your cheek?

Chops.  Sideburns.  Facial hair.

What to do?  I have enough trouble figuring out what to do with peekaboo nostril hair (peekaboo, you know, it sort of sticks out sneakily, saying “Haha!  I’m here!  Do something with me or you’re gross!”) and normal girly stuff.  But facial hair?

I had this eerie image of me and Lance, side by side at the bathroom sink, sharing shaving cream and exchanging witty banter while shaving our faces.  Ick.  *shudder* Blech. 

Please, please, someone out there tell me that disgusting facial hair is a sign of beauty in Uganda or somewhere exotic.