So I was going to write a post all about how Katherine is an evil vlogging genius and why one day I was going to finally record a vlog post. Also possibly I was going to talk about how all the vloggers I “know” have really great hair (see: Katherine, Ashley, Nicole, Nico, etc.). But instead of all of that, I decided I would follow everyone’s advice and just record a vlog post since I’d been considering it since some of my favorite bloggers did VEDA in August. So, here goes nothing…
I know this is the time where I’m supposed to be looking back on my year and learning lessons, making plans for next year and spouting out inspirational quotes and whatnot. But instead of doing all that, I’m going to be lazy and make a list of my favorite things from this year. No need to dwell on all the crap that it seems we all have been through over the last 365 days. So here are the best things from my 2011.
- As much as I think weddings can be over the top and ridiculous, my first bridesmaid experience was awesome and I’m so glad I got to see two of my favorite people get hitched (plus there was SEERSUCKER!)
- My second successfully planned and executed commuter train pub crawl (complete with dead rapper buttons). Plus nobody puked in anyone else’s hand AND I didn’t wake up with a mysterious giant bruise this time
- Weekend at Bernie’s 3: The Roadtrip. Just when you thought the San Diego Zoo couldn’t get any better, you realized they sell beer.
- My third trip to NYC, in which I packed an actual suitcase, went to Citi Field, hung out on a roof, ran on the Westside Highway and drank at a place where they actually just “put a bird on it”
- 4th of July weekend, where we learned that all it takes to mobilize a large group of guys is finding out that Round Table’s buffet is available on the weekend.
- Making my way through the Warrior Dash – 5k, 10 obstacles, 1 slightly undignified slide down the front of a climbing wall, 1 visit to the first aid tent and lots of mud and fun
- Being a good big sister and helping my sisters outfit their first apartment
- Developing my cooking and baking skills. Big ups to Nicole on that one.
- My ridiculous dating stories. Favorites because they make good party tales.
- All of the awesome things and people on the internet. I’ve connected with some amazing new tweeps/bloggers this year and y’all are the best (and share the best cat videos)
- Starting a new game where I don’t send email to my brother without at least one link to a cat doing something weird on the interwebs
- Falling in love with my Roku Player (and embracing my geek girl status). It has brought me so many amazing things, including Doctor Who and an even deeper love for Parks and Rec. And yes, I believe this confirms I will die alone. At least I’ll have streaming video on my TV.
Happy New Year!
PS – Be safe y’all! There is absolutely no excuse for driving drunk or even tipsy. Especially not when AAA is offering Tipsy Tow in a lot of areas. And if friends won’t listen and hand over their keys, tell them about Britain, who we barely met just weeks ago but made a lasting impression and was killed by a drunk driver. Sleeping in your own bed isn’t worth the risk.
There’s no time quite like the holidays to cause people to sit around reminiscing on Christmases, Hanukkahs and New Year’s Eves past. For some reason, each year we make it through the holidays marks another milestone and another “this time five years ago” moment to remember.
But I’m not going to sit around here telling you depressing stories about how old the holidays should make you feel or about all the things I didn’t do in the last year that I should have done. Instead, I’ve been thinking about kids and Santa and the hilarity that can ensue when the two meet.
Last week I was watching old episodes of the Graham Norton Show and he had a segment featuring awkward photos of kids with Santa. The annual trip to the mall or visit from Santa at school for some reason is a polarizing event. Kids are either pee-their-pants ecstatic or utterly terrified of jolly old St. Nick.
As it so happens, you can stick me in the “utterly terrified” category. Despite the fact that I, like any kid who believes in Santa, was beyond excited to let the guy break & enter and eat cookies in exchange for gifts, meeting him in person became quite the ordeal for three-year-old Kelly.
Although I appeared to be just a quiet, average kid (and clearly helpful and outdoorsy), my meeting with Santa in preschool revealed my utter awkwardness and possibly a slight dramatic streak at a very early age. Upon Santa’s arrival in our classroom, we were all excited, if a little bit nervous because we were all well aware of STRANGER DANGER (and he probably smelled of beef and cheese). However, after finding out that we would each sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what we wanted for Christmas, my anxiety grew.
As my turn to visit with Santa drew closer, I began to panic while my parents got the video camera ready. Finally, my turn was here and the panic and anxiety broke through my three-year-old cool, calm and collected exterior in the form of sheer terror and tears. Not just tears, but uncontrollable sobbing with plenty of snot and slurping. There may have also been screaming as my teachers and parents tried to coax me into being lifted onto this stranger’s lap to share my desire for a mouse stuffed animal that smelled like grape (completely serious, does anyone else remember these? mine smelled like dimetapp aka heaven).
With all the hysterics of my fit, the adults in the room quickly realized there was no way they were getting me to sit with the big guy alone. Thanks to some creative thinking and complete openness to humiliation, one of my teachers hatched a plan that would allow me to share my Christmas wish AND avoid getting to close to the scary man in the red suit. In a thankless act of complete dedication to children and the spirit of Christmas, my teacher plopped herself down on Santa’s lap before allowing me to be placed on her lap to ensure delivery of the Christmas gift without having any physical or eye contact with the scary stranger.
Eventually, I got over my fear of old men in red suits, probably just in time to realize his hand writing looked A LOT like my parents’ and grandparents’. Regardless, this Christmas instead of worrying about how many Christmases have passed, how many presents I’ve given or whether things will be different next year at this time, I’m going to think about my preschool teacher (who even allowed herself to be filmed during the ordeal) and that three-year-old version of me giving everyone a preschool holiday party to remember. I am her and she is me. We share the same mind – inquiring and skeptical, yet full of joy – and the same ability to bring a little laughter to everyone’s day, even if it’s unintentional.
So, if anyone needs me this Christmas, I’ll be re-channeling that three-year-old (minus the hysterics). And snuggling with a stuffed animal that smells like artificial grape, of course.
Happy Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa!
Some people are afraid of change. Change makes them nervous. They’re not comfortable not knowing what will come next.
I relish in the idea of change. Not knowing what the future holds is thrilling. Moving to new places, meeting new people and trying new things are things that I thrive on.
And now, I’m restless. I’ve been working and living in the same place, doing the same things for almost 2.5 years. It’s not really a long time to most people. In fact, I work with people who have been at it for 15 times as long. But, I know that this job and this place and these things aren’t what I want for the rest of my life, or even the rest of my 20s.
Or at least, I have that itch. The one that other people might scratch and relieve by getting a new haircut, changing their wardrobe or having a
mid quarter-life crisis. For me, the itch is in that spot that’s hard to reach and caused by something that doesn’t just subside with time. With my itch, getting a haircut is like putting on the 1% hydrocortisone when what you really need is the prescription strength stuff. (Is this analogy getting weird? Struggles of an eczema sufferer.)
The last time I got restless, I moved 2,500 miles away sight unseen (unless you count facebook photos of a dog, a big screen TV and a box of cheez-its). And again, I can tell it’s starting. I look at job listings for places on the other side of the country and how much it would cost to live in those places. I calculate how long I could live traveling before I had to move back in at home. I wonder if I have the skills and tenacity to become a freelancer or an entrepreneur. I check out where I could go to volunteer abroad. And I say things that make my friends and family worry that I’m either going to abandon them and move thousands of miles away again, or, that I’m teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown (both of which may be true).
All because there’s something eating at me. Telling me that I’m settling. Whispering that there’s something better out there for me. Sure, it might be a case of “the seaweed is always greener in somebody else’s lake,” but I have a feeling there are adventures yet to be had in places yet to be visited with people yet to be introduced.
I’m restless. And I’m not the type to settle with a back scratcher, when what I need is calamine lotion. So now that it’s out there, everyone here should prepare for a change and everyone else should probably put some beers in the fridge and answer when I come knocking on the door.
Lately, I’ve been having a lot of rage. I’m not going to go into the possible triggers because, well, rage blackouts are just so passé. This rage is often manifested in angry rants, fist
pumping pounding, yelling and heavy sighs.
Despite the relief these actions bring me, my friends are getting concerned about my well-being, as well as that of my furniture, walls and those around me. You only have to tell somebody once that you think stabbing someone in the jugular with a ballpoint pen would be very satisfying (because of the “pop”) to cause some serious concern.
Although most people might simply tell me get therapy and abandon me, my friends decided to get proactive in my rage problem. Nothing says true friend like getting your hands dirty when your someone is full of rage.
So my friends set out to re-direct my rage and started with my birthday gifts. Did they get me a pass to a yoga studio? Or a spa day? No, they know me better than that.
My first new rage-reducer: a hand mixer, which will bring me peace through cooking and baking. I’m starting to find the serenity contained within the kitchen and having a hand mixer can only help increase that serenity.
My second rage-reducer: this lovely punching bag kit. What better way to get rid of your aggression than to punch it out on something that can’t call the cops or press charges?
My third rage-reducer: movies and TV on DVD. If nothing else, sitting me on the couch and letting me pretend I actually am on ‘Psych’ or that Hogwarts is real can at least make me forget whatever it was that got me all worked up in the first place.
And this is why my friends are awesome. Seeing me full of rage would scare others off for fear of stabbing or a black eye, but here they are, letting me punch, bake and couch potato it out. They’re in it for the long haul, even if that’s just to reap the benefits of the baking.
Will it work? Unclear. But at least they know me well enough to know, if all else fails, there’s always booze (possibly in the form of beer pong or a tall boy in my purse).
Today, I turn 27.
You know what happens when you turn 27? I don’t. I think I’m supposed to get all introspective and set life goals and talk about how this isn’t where I pictured myself being when I turned 27. But I can’t do that. When you are younger, you don’t picture yourself as a 27-year-old. Or at least I didn’t. Sure, you might make plans for when you turn 21 (wasty-face), 25 (RENT THAT CAR!) or 30 (figure my life out). But anyone who says, “gah I’m just not where I thought I’d be at 27” is probably a liar.
So instead of bemoaning the fact that I’m not nearly as adult as my parents probably hoped I’d be by now (“oh you don’t hang out with him anymore? I guess you won’t be MARRYING him then”), I’ve decided to get back into writing (see: this blog), get back in the pool, get into the kitchen, have some adventures and maybe make something of myself while my parents can still remember it.
I can’t really blame all this on turning 27. I’m naturally restless and I’m into my third year of living in the same place and being in the same job. Since I graduated college, I haven’t lived anywhere for more than two years. This is beginning to make me long for a new place, new faces, new things to eat and drink and new adventures. As a result, I’m not sure where I’ll be in two months, six months or a year but this time I’m planning on taking you along the way with me and I think we’ll have a good time.
If you’re wondering more about me, come along for the ride. It’ll be fun. In the words of Tracy Jordan, “DAMN STRAIGHT! I’m delightful!”