I've mentioned before that I have a strong sense of order. Some, like me, might find that to be a good thing, but others, like Eric, apparently don't. When our company was on another floor, I had a multi-month silent battle with an unknown floormate with a contradictory, but equally strong, sense of coffee counter order. Cups should go in two neat stacks, Sweet 'n Low is not the same thing as Splenda, and there is no need to take things out of their line up longer than when you're using them. My parents tell me that I'm clearly the abnormal one, since no one else they've encountered feels compelled to line up french fries on a McDonald's tray or restaurant plate before eating them (horizontally not vertically, because that would be crazy).
I'd like to say that I've grown to be a more precise person as I've matured, but that's not quite true. In second grade, I had the mega stand-up display of 72 Crayolas that was my pride and joy. It was awesome - it had a portable case, a built-in sharpener, and did I mention SEVENTY-TWO COLORS? For those who are from a different time, that was the Holy Grail of crayon collections. That was the biggest one, and my mom, obviously knowing what's up, got it for me at the beginning of the school year knowing that it would be the envy of Mrs. Wright's class. I loved and cherished these crayons, keeping them sharp, but most of all, keeping them in the "correct" order.
Everyone knows that Burnt Sienna is the ugliest color in the Crayola family. It had its place in the corner, next to the florescents (known as Ultra Pink, Ultra Blue, and so on rather than "florescents" back then). Despite being the second grade queen of the fluorescent short and tee sets, when it came to the fluorescent crayons, as my grandma would say, I just couldn't go it. They were garish, too...well, too, and they just weren't, you know, Carnation Pink. Also in the banished corner were White (useless unless you have black construction paper, and the school only gave us manilla), Maize, and Orange-Red. These undesirables were not to be mingled with the remaining 60 colors, but they couldn't be thrown away because that would have thrown off the balance of the Crayola ecosystem since some colors have to be undesirables. It's a fact of life.
I've never been much of a sharer, especially good stuff like the Crayola 72er. But, if someone asks nicely to use my stuff, that's cool. What was decidedly not cool was when an unnamed classmate used one of my crayons and then peeled down the wrapper without permission, which she never would have gotten anyway. I don't care if that's how some people think you should do shading on a picture. That is not how I do it. It's not so much the non-regulation shading or the act of peeling my crayon wrapper, but more that the crayon now would not match its brothers. I went all kinds of Linda Blair on this kid, going from quiet to head spinning crayon police.
Sensing my need for order and school and office supplies, my dad gave me something even better than the crayons: a Dymo label maker. Now, this wasn't one of those new-fangled ones that is electronic and will smoothly print out a flat label - this one squished each letter into the rubbery tape in a satisfying way. *Shiver* It was the best. I labeled everything in my room. In fact, I wish I had one now so I could label my things that Eric isn't allowed to touch. I should probably do that now while he's away at a conference, right? Off to eBay.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Halloweeping
For the first time in the history of Kelly, I'm putting on my big girl pants and skipping Halloween. This is monumental. Halloween is my Christmas - I look forward to it all year long, I plan ahead for the perfect costume, and I would have a mix tape of spooky sounds like chains, howling wolves, and maniacal laughs on repeat if I knew where to find one of those (besides 1985). After soul searching and gnashing of teeth, I've made the mature decision not to go out and mingle with the ghouls and slutty pirates/Care Bears/cats/etc. but to stay at home and prepare for the oral defense portion of my exams.
But what if something happens between now and next year, and I'm suddenly too mature to go out for Halloween? What if I'm overcome with adulthood and can't manage to put on my costume and party face to celebrate? That would be like finding out that Santa isn't real all over again. Then all I'd have to hope for is being the mom (or creepy childless lady on the street) who peels grapes to pass off as eyeballs.
Back in the day, I used to be ready at 4:00 on Halloween in my yellow crayon suit, eyeliner cat whiskers, or Olympic ice skater outfit just waiting to go out with the hundreds of other kids in the neighborhood to be the first to hit the house where the guy who owned the Shell station gave out king-size candy bars. His contribution was balanced out on the parent scale because the orthodontist a few houses down always gave out toothbrushes and those tablets that turned the gunk on your teeth pink. Then, after a long night of trekking around our neighborhood, my favorite part of Halloween happened - candy sorting. I've always been one who appreciates a sense of order. Making micro piles of candy brands, then macro piles of types, then super macro piles for "yuck" and "yum" entertained me until bedtime. I had a childlike sense of benevolence too, since I would gather up the yuck pile of Charleston Chews, Mary Janes, and Peanut Clusters and be all, "Here, Daddy, I saved these just for you because I love you."
More recently, I exercised my Halloween spirit by forcing my best friend in college to go out for Halloween with me dressed as Playboy Bunnies without any irony, despite it being Parents' Weekend. That turned out unfortunately, because for some reason, all Halloween parties were put on hold for that weekend and we didn't get the memo. So, there we were, inappropriately bunnied, Elle Woods style, walking around in the freezing cold. Even that didn't break my Hallo-will to party in costume.
I feel like I should be proud of myself for making a mature decision this year, but it's hard. This will be yet another year where Eric and I can't be a monkey and organ grinder pair. Though, logistically speaking, an adult would say that being a monkey on roller skates while drinking would be a bad idea anyway. Speaking of viewing Halloween through adult eyes, today Eric ruined my fond memories of the king-size candy house by realistically stating that the guy gave those out because he bought them in bulk for the gas station and got a deal. So, he wasn't that cool after all. Engineer logic ruins all of my good memories.
So what should I do this year when I'm at home by myself studying, with Eric at a trade show and all of my friends being normal people and going out? I'm thinking of sharing my bitterness with all of the little children and only giving out Charleston Chews, Peanut Clusters, and Mary Janes. I would obviously reserve some of these for Dad because I love him. Or, maybe I'll just turn out all the lights and tell kids to get off my lawn.
But what if something happens between now and next year, and I'm suddenly too mature to go out for Halloween? What if I'm overcome with adulthood and can't manage to put on my costume and party face to celebrate? That would be like finding out that Santa isn't real all over again. Then all I'd have to hope for is being the mom (or creepy childless lady on the street) who peels grapes to pass off as eyeballs.
Back in the day, I used to be ready at 4:00 on Halloween in my yellow crayon suit, eyeliner cat whiskers, or Olympic ice skater outfit just waiting to go out with the hundreds of other kids in the neighborhood to be the first to hit the house where the guy who owned the Shell station gave out king-size candy bars. His contribution was balanced out on the parent scale because the orthodontist a few houses down always gave out toothbrushes and those tablets that turned the gunk on your teeth pink. Then, after a long night of trekking around our neighborhood, my favorite part of Halloween happened - candy sorting. I've always been one who appreciates a sense of order. Making micro piles of candy brands, then macro piles of types, then super macro piles for "yuck" and "yum" entertained me until bedtime. I had a childlike sense of benevolence too, since I would gather up the yuck pile of Charleston Chews, Mary Janes, and Peanut Clusters and be all, "Here, Daddy, I saved these just for you because I love you."
More recently, I exercised my Halloween spirit by forcing my best friend in college to go out for Halloween with me dressed as Playboy Bunnies without any irony, despite it being Parents' Weekend. That turned out unfortunately, because for some reason, all Halloween parties were put on hold for that weekend and we didn't get the memo. So, there we were, inappropriately bunnied, Elle Woods style, walking around in the freezing cold. Even that didn't break my Hallo-will to party in costume.
I feel like I should be proud of myself for making a mature decision this year, but it's hard. This will be yet another year where Eric and I can't be a monkey and organ grinder pair. Though, logistically speaking, an adult would say that being a monkey on roller skates while drinking would be a bad idea anyway. Speaking of viewing Halloween through adult eyes, today Eric ruined my fond memories of the king-size candy house by realistically stating that the guy gave those out because he bought them in bulk for the gas station and got a deal. So, he wasn't that cool after all. Engineer logic ruins all of my good memories.
So what should I do this year when I'm at home by myself studying, with Eric at a trade show and all of my friends being normal people and going out? I'm thinking of sharing my bitterness with all of the little children and only giving out Charleston Chews, Peanut Clusters, and Mary Janes. I would obviously reserve some of these for Dad because I love him. Or, maybe I'll just turn out all the lights and tell kids to get off my lawn.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Team Butter
Food is not only an expression of culture, but also of upbringing. I'm pretty self-centered, so I had no idea that there was any debate on food preferences or names of dishes (see the Great Tortilla and Cheese vs. Quesadilla Debate of 2006) until Eric and I got serious enough to cook anything together or combine grocery lists. Let's just say that's pretty serious with me.
Not only does Eric favor cheesefoods, such as the orange power found in Kraft Mac & Cheese, but he eats margarine. Like, he'd choose margarine if given a choice. Now, my mother taught me that "margarine is for poor people" and the "no one actually eats Kraft Mac & Cheese, it's just for the church food bank bin," so imagine my surprise when long after Eric and I got married he bought both margarine and a box of Kraft. He then dropped more bombshells, like he craves SpaghettiOs and he has been known to kill a bag of beef jerky in one sitting. So, bottom line, he could do all of his shopping at the gas station if need be. Okay, Eric's low maintenance, cool. Gross, but at least he's practical.
To be fair, misguided food naming and preferences are not limited to Eric. I have a habit of calling all members of the soda universe "Cokes" and I think MoonPies are a legitimate food group. As much as I stick my nose up at Eric's Mac & Cheese made with margarine, he doesn't even begin to appreciate the world of ersatz flavoring quite like I do. "Banana" Twinkie? Yes, please!
That said, I'm a health food kind of girl most of the time, and I like to think I prefer real food - like butter, produce, whole grains - to gas station food. I also think that meat is yucky and we should eat a balanced vegetarian diet. But let's be honest here, a least a portion of the produce I buy is guaranteed to go bad every time, but I've never let a Peep even try to expire. Further, my soy nuggets have at least as much processed goodness as a Tyson's chicken nuggets.
Perhaps Eric and I have more in common than I give us credit for - our diets follow the "better living through chemistry" method and we're darn happy (and potentially diseased) because of it.
Not only does Eric favor cheesefoods, such as the orange power found in Kraft Mac & Cheese, but he eats margarine. Like, he'd choose margarine if given a choice. Now, my mother taught me that "margarine is for poor people" and the "no one actually eats Kraft Mac & Cheese, it's just for the church food bank bin," so imagine my surprise when long after Eric and I got married he bought both margarine and a box of Kraft. He then dropped more bombshells, like he craves SpaghettiOs and he has been known to kill a bag of beef jerky in one sitting. So, bottom line, he could do all of his shopping at the gas station if need be. Okay, Eric's low maintenance, cool. Gross, but at least he's practical.
To be fair, misguided food naming and preferences are not limited to Eric. I have a habit of calling all members of the soda universe "Cokes" and I think MoonPies are a legitimate food group. As much as I stick my nose up at Eric's Mac & Cheese made with margarine, he doesn't even begin to appreciate the world of ersatz flavoring quite like I do. "Banana" Twinkie? Yes, please!
That said, I'm a health food kind of girl most of the time, and I like to think I prefer real food - like butter, produce, whole grains - to gas station food. I also think that meat is yucky and we should eat a balanced vegetarian diet. But let's be honest here, a least a portion of the produce I buy is guaranteed to go bad every time, but I've never let a Peep even try to expire. Further, my soy nuggets have at least as much processed goodness as a Tyson's chicken nuggets.
Perhaps Eric and I have more in common than I give us credit for - our diets follow the "better living through chemistry" method and we're darn happy (and potentially diseased) because of it.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
The Seven Year [Sw]itch
I began this blog as a grad school project about seven years ago, and within the first few weeks, I wrote a post lamenting over being 23 and entering into total crisis mode because of my advanced age. I turned 30 two weeks ago, and it would have been more traumatic if I hadn't been completely distracted by the closed-book comprehensive exams I scheduled for my birthday. Genius? Masochistic? Mature? Actually, it was a combination of all three, because now I'm so old and boring that it meant more to me to advance to Ph.D. candidacy quickly than it did to go drinking and smear birthday cake all over my face like I would any other year. There's always 31.
Bless my little heart, back in 2005 when I wrote about my so-called Quarter Life Crisis, I was adamant about not having marriage in my five-year plan. Would you believe that mere months after writing that, I met my future husband at a party and then ended up married two years before any five-year plan set back then would have expired? I think what was most important to me back then was that doing life my own way was far more important than following some socially-imposed time line. I'm still the hard-headed sass bucket that I was back in 2005, but now the subject is fighting everyone's expectation of me producing chil'ens to carry on my chihuahua-like personality and pointy elbows.
I've made a lot of progress since 23. I'm capable of stopping at a gas station before running out of gas about 90% of the time (up from 40%), I can open a can using a manual can opener, I've successfully used a power drill, and I've made progress on kicking my (Diet) Coke habit. So I haven't learned to parallel park, get things from the top shelf, or squish my own bugs. I have to leave something to accomplish before 40.
By far, the biggest change since 23 has been learning how to share my life and space with my husband, Eric. He's a kind, patient, and tall man who manages to do and reach the things I can't (or won't). Back when I started this blog, my primary directive was complaining about the many men I met and dated. Okay, "men" is a strong word. Guys. I'm now glad that I was so judgmental and analytical, despite the angst it caused me all of those years of dating. Without holding out for what I actually wanted and needed, I would have ended up stiffed and perpetually annoyed with whoever that poor guy would be.
I'd like to say that the old adage of meeting the right person when you least expect it is true, but it's really not quite like that. I met Eric after step two of the Three Bears Process. The guy I dated at the beginning of the year before Eric was cheap and more rugged than my taste. The one after him was extravagant and prettier than I was comfortable with. Eric was just right - no weird money habits and traditionally handsome. But it didn't end there. I quickly understood what it meant to find the right person, because everything was natural. I won't deceive you and say it was easy, but it wasn't hard to have a relationship. Perhaps I wasn't ready for that before meeting Eric, because it was a lot of fun to tell crazy dating stories with my friends and strangers in the blogosphere.
Though a lot has changed since starting this blog, and I'm being a sentimental old lady now, some things haven't changed. I feel like I've just evolved and taken in a wealth of experience. I'm almost secure in my age, even though the best I'll ever get is, "Yeah, Kelly's not bad for 30 [40, 50...]" or the dreaded, "I bet Kelly was pretty hot back in her day." Maybe it's alright to have had my day. It's not like I wasted my youth sitting at home and eating Peppermint Patties in front of Teen Nick...every night. I took lots of pictures and am still friends with the same people, so at least we can enjoy the good old days together. Someday I'll long for the new version of the good old days of when I was 30, so now it's all about making the most of whatever stage of life I'm in so that older me can reminisce effectively.
Bless my little heart, back in 2005 when I wrote about my so-called Quarter Life Crisis, I was adamant about not having marriage in my five-year plan. Would you believe that mere months after writing that, I met my future husband at a party and then ended up married two years before any five-year plan set back then would have expired? I think what was most important to me back then was that doing life my own way was far more important than following some socially-imposed time line. I'm still the hard-headed sass bucket that I was back in 2005, but now the subject is fighting everyone's expectation of me producing chil'ens to carry on my chihuahua-like personality and pointy elbows.
I've made a lot of progress since 23. I'm capable of stopping at a gas station before running out of gas about 90% of the time (up from 40%), I can open a can using a manual can opener, I've successfully used a power drill, and I've made progress on kicking my (Diet) Coke habit. So I haven't learned to parallel park, get things from the top shelf, or squish my own bugs. I have to leave something to accomplish before 40.
By far, the biggest change since 23 has been learning how to share my life and space with my husband, Eric. He's a kind, patient, and tall man who manages to do and reach the things I can't (or won't). Back when I started this blog, my primary directive was complaining about the many men I met and dated. Okay, "men" is a strong word. Guys. I'm now glad that I was so judgmental and analytical, despite the angst it caused me all of those years of dating. Without holding out for what I actually wanted and needed, I would have ended up stiffed and perpetually annoyed with whoever that poor guy would be.
I'd like to say that the old adage of meeting the right person when you least expect it is true, but it's really not quite like that. I met Eric after step two of the Three Bears Process. The guy I dated at the beginning of the year before Eric was cheap and more rugged than my taste. The one after him was extravagant and prettier than I was comfortable with. Eric was just right - no weird money habits and traditionally handsome. But it didn't end there. I quickly understood what it meant to find the right person, because everything was natural. I won't deceive you and say it was easy, but it wasn't hard to have a relationship. Perhaps I wasn't ready for that before meeting Eric, because it was a lot of fun to tell crazy dating stories with my friends and strangers in the blogosphere.
Though a lot has changed since starting this blog, and I'm being a sentimental old lady now, some things haven't changed. I feel like I've just evolved and taken in a wealth of experience. I'm almost secure in my age, even though the best I'll ever get is, "Yeah, Kelly's not bad for 30 [40, 50...]" or the dreaded, "I bet Kelly was pretty hot back in her day." Maybe it's alright to have had my day. It's not like I wasted my youth sitting at home and eating Peppermint Patties in front of Teen Nick...every night. I took lots of pictures and am still friends with the same people, so at least we can enjoy the good old days together. Someday I'll long for the new version of the good old days of when I was 30, so now it's all about making the most of whatever stage of life I'm in so that older me can reminisce effectively.
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