That Totes Awks Moment When...

....you accidentally stumble upon the blog you thought you lost forever from two years ago when you were an awkward little eighth grader/freshman. Yikes.

Now, this isn't to say that in two years when I accidentally find this blog after completely ignoring it, I won't be completely devastated with embarrassment. But finding that little web page is kind of like finding a modern day time capsule. I was writing about the boy I had a HUGE crush on in eighth grade, and my subsequent struggles with that, and oddly enough, a lot about the weather. And really, a lot of the things  I posted were entirely pointless little snippets about my day. (Like I said earlier, it's not like this blog isn't the exact same thing.) As Aubin just put it, "I kind of can't believe you wrote that on the Internet..." Oh lord.

Well, let it serve as a reminder that we do change, even in a short amount of time. Believe it or not, I remember being that 14 year old girl who had a major crush and was pretty spunky and definitely a little bit awkward. But it's something we all can relate to, and if we all had a blog from two years ago, or four, or whenever, we would all be in for a delightful (and hilariously uncomfortable) surprise.

I keep a journal, and its something I have tried to do consistently. But of course, it usually ends up being incredibly sporadic. But that isn't my point. My  point is, it goes back two or three years, and I sometimes go back just for shits and giggles. And even better, I still have my little girl diary that I got in second grade. SECOND GRADE. It details all of my crushes, and arguments with Jack, and everything in between. Also, it goes through most of the awkward middle school years that my current journal leaves out, so I have a fairly decent record of my life.

So really, all I'm driving at, is that yes. It is a horrifically awkward blog, much like every single writing in my diary and journal. But, that's ok, because that's just how life works.

Winter Break Ramblings

Well, its finally here. We made it through finals week, and have been rewarded with two and a half weeks of glorious freedom. So, what to do with all of this new found freedom? Blog, of course. But in addition to that, I have several activities planned out to make it more enjoyable.

1. Knit. Duh.
2. Write a little bit.
3. Maybe dabble in the arts, see whats what.
4. Carol. (Well, this wasn't my idea, but still.)
5. CHRISTMAS. Yeah, its here.

Before I really get going in this post, I just wanna say that all of a sudden, I can't operate and keep typing hear instead of here. Fuck me. I'll try and catch myself, but no guarantees  I always find typos when I reread this shit because I'm too lazy to proofread. But heck, its a blog post, and like 1.32 of you actually reads this and cares. Anyway, I digress.

I guess lately I just haven't really been feeling the Christmas spirit. Maybe it was the weather, that had been nearly 60 degrees all month. It hardly felt like December at all.  Perhaps, (and I think this is more than likely) its due to the fact that by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I was already tired of Christmas thanks to overwhelming ads. I was honestly a little bit angry at the world leading up to Thanksgiving, and once the time came to actually start celebrating, I just couldn't do it. It could be thanks to my increasingly cynical outlook on life, but I just could not find the spirit like I used to when I was younger.


And apparently, nobody else in my family could either. In the early weeks of December, my mother was usually busy decorating, wrapping, shopping, and shipping, and playing Christmas music on the radio. But this year, she came down with some acute bronchitis and was bed ridden for a long time. She was understandably depressed with her lack of Christmas spirit, but thanks to this, she would only pester my brother and I to make up for her lack of spirit. Our Christmas tree sat bare in our living room for several days, and sat for a few more with only lights. We decorated only a few days ago, and even that somehow felt forced. Not wonderful or joyous. Later, my mother chastised my lack of effort, after putting none of her own into it, and insisted that I kept decorating after I had simply lost interest.

It was shaping up to be a dismal season. Dad had started his new job, Mom was sick, and Jack and I were drowning in a sea of school work and stress.

But on Tuesday night, I felt a rekindling of the old Christmas spirit. I felt the childlike wonder and joy that once filled me to the brim when I was a little girl, and for the first time all year, I was genuinely excited for Christmas. I was downtown, ice skating for the first time in my life. Below the festive clock tower, and surrounded by friends and sparkling lights, I was reminded of Christmas past, when it was the most wonderful time of the year.

I guess that this really got me thinking about growing up. This is one of the first years that I honestly felt like an adult when it comes to Christmas. I was not eagerly awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus, and the mere idea of  decorating exhausted me. Christmas was just another thing to add to my already hectic schedule, and I was having trouble finding room to squeeze it in.

But while I was out stumbling on the ice, laughing with friends while the cold air nipped at my nose, I was reminded that really, I am still a kid. The world may be telling me otherwise, but deep down, I'm just a kid at heart. I need to enjoy myself while I still can, because one day, I really will be an adult, and I'll wish I was 16 again.

So those are my little ramblings on winter break, and I'm sure I'll have more once the new year arrives!

And I would also like to mention, that we didn't die today.

Procrastination: The Root of All Evils

Alright, so maybe its not the root of all evils. But honestly, procrastination has to be one of the worst things.

This post right here is actually nothing more than me feeling obligated to post something to the 1.5 people who read this, and trying to put off studying for finals. Shit.

Procrastination is honestly a mental health issue, in my opinion. Its self-destructive behavior, although its far different from actual pain that you inflict on yourself. But I really do think that procrastination is a sickness, and the more you procrastinate, the worse for you it gets. Then all you do is procrastinate.

Maybe its because I'm in high school, and I have 8 classes that I'm trying to balance, or maybe its simply in my nature to procrastinate. Who really knows why we do it? We know that its a terrible thing to do. The night before finals, you know you shouldn't be procrastinating. The night before your huge paper is due, you know that you should have done some work on it. Why can't we stop ourselves?

Like I said, this is my pathetic excuse at not studying right now. So I really shouldn't be talking about procrastination right now. Because all of those open-ended questions I just asked? I'm asking myself those questions right now. I am being self-destructive, and I know that, and I accept that. But what will it take to change these thinking patterns? What has to happen for all of us to STOP procrastinating and start taking action?

Now honest to god, I'm going to go do something to get ready for finals tomorrow. Fuck. My. Life.

That's Right Bitches, I Can PAINT

Just when you all thought I had run out of talents to showcase. Yeah, bitches, be jealous. I can paint. 

As usual, I feel like I should give you all a little back story:

There is a real cute little studio near my house in a pretty hip part of Lo-Do. For all of you "cultured non-phonies" out there, I highly recommend you spend some time in Lo-Do, because that is where the real shit happens. I digress. This little studio happens to be called: "Sipping and Painting". 

And what, you must be asking, is sipping and painting? Well friends, sipping and painting is what all the "cultured non-phonies" are doing now-a-days. There is an instructor and a set painting for the evening, although you are of course free to paint what and how you wish. For the evening you are also given a drink token, so that those over the age of 21 can indulge in the finer spirits, while younger folk like myself can partake in the virgin drinks, such as Coke. 

Now on the the story part of my back story: My mom had signed up for a class one night, simply as a fun thing to do. Before she left, and I had inquired as to her whereabouts for the evening, she suggested that I come with her. And having nothing better to do, I agreed, thinking that it would be a lovely "mother-daughter bonding experience". 

The evening's painting was called "Three Bottles", and as you can see, I did stick with the theme. HOWEVER. It is very important to note that the original color scheme was especially hideous, so I changed mine to be more earthy, "wine-y" colors. I also took the liberty of creating the very unique background you see. In the beginning, I was fairly apprehensive, because I had the notion that I was not a good artist, nor was I a good painter. But as the paint filled the canvas, the strokes came more easily, and I fell into an easy rhythm, and was off to the races. 

There was a group of young women sitting behind us who were particularly impressed with my work and my mom's work. As they were talking incredibly loud, I happened to glean that they were all accountants, which was their excuse for why their painting were not very good. But, that was also how I heard them talk about my work. I believe it went something like: "Wow, look at that girl's behind us!" "Wow, we're getting shown up by a teenager." "It looks like a kindergarten painted this." "That's because you're an accountant, dear." "Have more wine," 

So here is the progression, start to finish. I think it turned out very well, considering the fact that almost every other painting of mine has been crap. Perhaps it was the competitive juices flowing out of me, inspired by painting in front of others, especially young, blonde accountants who I felt were below me. (That's bitchy.) Whatever the reason, I hope you enjoy the end result. 

Captcha Strugglefest...

Wikipedia defines a CAPTCHA as: "A CAPTCHA is a type of challenge-response test used in computing as an attempt to ensure that the response is generated by a human being." Which brings me to my question:

Am I a robot? 

Have you ever received a CAPTCHA so god damn challenging that you legitimately have no recognition of any legible characters? And then you realize that CAPTCHA are preventing automated access. And then you start freaking out because you can't even comprehend the CAPTCHA, and you end up typing random letters and hoping to god that you're right. 

Or is that just me?

This is actually something that I've wanted to talk about for a while. A few days ago, I ran into a relatively difficult one, but thought "Nah, what a lame idea."And then I remembered my post about having  nothing profound to say. And then I encountered the hardest fucking CAPTCHA I have seen in my entire god damn life. I knew that it was a sign that I had to finally write this blog. 

It was honest to God just a glorified scribble, I should have screen shot it. (Stupid, stupid girl!) But holy SHIT I was at a loss, and the entire time I was thinking to myself, "Holy shit, looks like you really are a god damn robot! Ah hell!" Thankfully, I was able to stare at it for a few rather long (longer than I would like to admit) minutes. So I proved to myself one of two things:

1. I'm just a real damn smart robot with some damn good programming, OR
2. I'm just a fucking moron. 

Love of My Life

Jackson, my fat, sassy, clumsy, stubborn Quarter Horse gelding. These are some of his glam shots. 

I also love him dearly. 

"My Day With Jose"

These are some pictures I took a long time ago. (Well not a super long time ago, but long enough.) Here's the back story:

While hanging out with my brother, best friend, and sort of pretend uncle, we were getting out school pictures taken. After adventuring (its a word now. deal with it.) around town and several parks, we just so happened to be at a playground near a lake. And while playing on said playground, what should my wandering eyes find but this lovely little skeleton. 

I named him Jose. 

We all thought Jose was just a delightful little creature. He was full of charm and wit, and appeared wise beyond his years. Certainly, he would be an excellent subject for a photo shoot. But the real question was, who would get to keep him? And obviously, as the old recess law states: "Finders keepers, losers weepers." So little Jose, the dashing chap, came to live at my humble abode. 

It was a casual afternoon when I had taken Jose out and about. I first had to wire his hips together so that he would actually sit, something he is adamant about not doing. But once that was taken care of, we ventured off into the day together, looking for adventure and a good picture. 

The school playground by my house was the obvious choice of venue, after all, wasn't there some sort of beautiful irony to be found in a skeleton playing on a playground? I certainly thought so at the time. So being the gracious model he is, he indulged me, and Jose and I were off and running. 

So here friends, is a small sampling of the album I titled, "My Day With Jose".

Restless Hand Syndrome

I know what you're all thinking.

"Oh lord, here goes Katie on one of her webMD rants, thinking she has some strange, made up disease, which is actually another kind of mental disorder." (I believe this condition is known as hypochondria, for you budding psychologists out there.)

But you know what? Restless Hand Syndrome is just as real as Restless Leg Syndrome or ADD or things of that nature, which a lot of people think are a load of crap. (I'm not saying I do or don't, I'm just stating facts here.) And by golly, I have Restless Hand Syndrome, even if you don't believe me.

If any of you know me well, you may or may not have noticed that I almost always have something in my hands to keep them busy. And according to my brother, my hands are busy even when I don't have something in my hands. (Apparently while I walk, my fingers do strange things.) But seriously, I always have to be doing something with my hands, even if its just fiddling with my fingers or something of that nature. I also talk with my hands, which is something I'm sure almost all of you have seen me do. (People must think I'm Italian)

I have no idea why I always have to keep my hands so busy, but I just do. This hyperactivity of my hands might explain why I love several things:

-Knitting. Really. I just learned how a few weeks ago and it is so glorious. It keeps my hands busy busy, and  its very relaxing. Ask Aubin, she'll tell you.
-Typing. Ah, yes, the satisfying sounds of keys click clacking and also the satisfaction of typing real fast and feeling smart and important. It also helps that I sometimes pretend to be a writer. (Jack says I'm real aggressive with the keyboard. Well, you would be too if you had Restless Hand Syndrome.)
-Twiddling Pens. Do I have to explain this?
-Woodshop. Except for the fact that I could easily lose one of my very busy little finger, woodshop is an excellent way to keep my little digits busy.
-Hemp. (No, not weed you loser) All that clever braiding like stuff is good fun indeed.

I could go on, but who cares, really? I'm sure everyone reading this is rolling their eyes at how completely pointless this whole entire post is. (But remember what I said last time? Remember? I don't always need something profound to say, so screw you.) In addition, the title of this blog is Rambling on and on, and I certainly know how to do that.