Charisma coming out of my ass.
This is what was said to me today. A group of my co-workers and I were headed to a lunch event, and as only 5 girls in a car can do, we were talking.
A lot.
After one set of commentary from me, one of my co-workers laughed and said "Kelly, you have charmisa coming out of your ass."
This amuses me to no end, because the truth is that I am painfully shy. It takes me forever and a day to be comfortable enough around people to let my true personality shine through... of course, since I more than make up for the initial lack of personality, they may wish that I remained painfully shy forever.
Whatever.
I think that perhaps the best compliment you can give me is to tell me that I have enough personality for two people. I spent a large part of my life being the quiet one in the background.
Well, I still tend to hang out in the background, and only contribute when a) I feel like it, b) I'm drunk, c) someone is being a dumbass and needs to be called on it, or d) the moon is in line with Saturn and there's a high tide.
Right.
One thing that all females, regardless of how un-female they may act most of the time, will do is talk about other females.
None of us can get past this. The best part is when you're discussing another female that you already don't like for something that is entirely out of her control. Case in point: during the lunch event today, we were lounging around a table, glasses of wine in hand (yes, at 11:30 AM. Screw you all). In walked a group from a rival agency... one that I inherently do not like because a) they made me interview with 6 people and then take a 500 question personality test (fucking come on), and b) they are elitist pricks who think they are better than everyone else.
Oooh, guess what guys--you suck.
At any rate, this group walks in. I'm sure they were all very nice, but they already had one strike against them. The choice of outfit knocked one member completely out of the ballpark.
People, you do not pair stripes with stripes. If you are female, and you do this, and other females see you, they will laugh and subtley point at you, and then they will laugh more, and they will bring it up at 4:30 PM when everyone is back at the office and in a sleepy wine-induced stupor.
You see, females cannot resist commenting on other females. The truth is that a girl is far more likely to notice my flaw of the moment than any guy. Well, any straight guy. Women spend so much time worrying about their appearance for the sake of guys, when the truth is that the guy is going to miss 98% of what she thinks is wrong with the way she looks.
However, her female counterparts will notice, file what they've noticed in their memories, and then pit your flaws against theirs to make themselves feel better. I'm not entirely sure why this happens--are we that desperate?
I'm not entirely sure.
But come on--friends don't let friends pair stripes with stripes.
Oh, and platform sandals went out after you turned 18. Which was at least 15 years ago.
Easy street.
I'm terrified that I took the easy way out.
I can justify my choices regarding employment after graduation all day long. I loved the people that I interviewed with, I loved everyone from the department, I loved the agency, the account, the opportunity, the fact that they loved me.
I'm getting wonderful experience. I learn something new every day. I become better at things I already knew how to do every day. I am proficient. I have skills that I will use for the rest of my career. My co-workers are wonderful. I have great perks.
I may live in Dallas, but I'm near some very close friends, from both high school and college. I'm near family. I like my life. I enjoy each day.
And up until today, I thought that I was glad I went this route. That I stayed in Texas. That I came to Dallas instead of taking a chance and moving to Chicago sans job. That Chicago would be there in a year. That I wouldn't regret spending time in Dallas.
And today, I heard news about an old friend. An old friend who moved to Chicago recently to pursue her dream of being an art director.
She did what I wanted to do. What I thought I wanted to do. What, when it comes down to it, I'm terrified that I didn't do for all of the wrong reasons.
I told myself that I didn't go because of everything I said in the beginning of this entry. The job. The people. The experience.
Now I'm afraid that I didn't go because I was scared.
I had a place to live--for free.
I had contacts.
I had people that wanted to hire me.
I had ambition. I fell in love with the city. I wanted to go.
So why didn't I? Why am I sitting in Dallas, painfully sad that I'm not the one in Chicago talking about how much I love it and doing what I really wanted to do?
I'm not one for regrets, but this is coming very close.
I just hope that in a year, I do it. I leave Texas, and I go somewhere new, and I take a chance. Because it's time to be brave, and it's time to be scared, and it's time to go through with it.
Coming out of my cage
and I'm doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
because I want it all.
Holy Reproduction, Batman!!!
Presently, I am sporting several band-aids covering scrapes on my leg.
I own a couch, a mismatched chair, a set of tables from wal-mart, a secondhand entertainment center, a collection of mismatched bookshelves, a bed, a secondhand dresser, and a desk.
My pantry is stocked with such gourmet items as macaroni and cheese, Lipton noodles, pasta, and Pop-tarts.
On a good day, I remember to check the mail, rinse off my toothbrush, take my vitamins, and take out the trash.
On a bad day, I leave the apartment with clothes strewn throughout every room, empty Wendy's cups on the table, lights on, and dirty dishes.
My idea of long-term commitment is signing a 12-month lease.
And yet, friends of mine are having children.
I think we may have reached a point where I can't really related to them anymore. Marriage? Sure, I can see why you'd want to do that.
But you want to suck the snot out of another human being's nose because they can't do it themselves, at the age of 22?
Yeah, I don't get that.
On fake flowers and scraped-up ankles
I'm growing up.
No, stop laughing now--please. I may look like I'm 19, but as I approach birthday #23, I'm slowly moving towards being a fully functioning adult.
Last weekend, I bought a couch.
This weekend, I bought an entertainment center. It may be secondhand, but it wasn't free, and it matches the furniture I already own. Since making this purchase today, I've begun contemplating how I might make my living room look fully adult. I've finally settled on the idea of decorating the top of the entertainment center--I'm thinking a bouquet of fake flowers (sunflowers, preferably) and some framed pictures.
I'm also considering shifting around some bookshelves and attempting to balance out the room.
Next up is purchasing a slipcover for my armchair, so that it will match my curtains and my couch.
But let me tell you about the entertainment center. It's really not all that exciting, but the layers of skin on my ankle that were sacrificed to move this thing into my apartment are lying outside, loudly complaining that they deserve recognition and a breakdown of their final moments attached to my leg.
Ew, I know.
You see, this thing was already put together (duh--it was secondhand). And because I am 5'4" and rather small, I was at the top of the entertainment center, while my much taller friend was bearing the brunt of the weight on the bottom.
The only problem with this scenario? It's really difficult to walk backwards up a flight of stairs whilst hauling a rather heavy, bulky piece of furniture with you.
Especially when the friend helping you carry it is moving faster than you are, which means that every time you go up a step, your right ankle ends up slamming into a concrete stair in the back, and then having a large entertainment center slam into the front, edge-first.
I am now missing multiple layers of skin on that ankle. All that sacrifice just so that my apartment could look less college-like and more adult-like. I salute you, top layer of skin.
I think that I amuse my co-workers (the closest one in age to me is still 7 years older) because I am unabashadly 22. I realize that I am 22. I do not claim to be older and wiser than my 22 years would suggest. I fully admit to the fact that I have no idea exactly who I am or where I want to be in 5 years, that purchasing a watermelon-pink couch as been my most adult decision thus far, and that I cannot relate to their lives AT ALL. And I think they find this hilarious, because apparently most 22 year olds refuse to admit ANY of that.
I do enjoy being the exception rather than the rule.
I also enjoy the fact that I'm expected to come into work on Monday with stories of hangovers and wild parties and late nights, because they re-live their early 20s glory days through me. And Internet, I try not to disappoint.
For instance, it is Sunday night, and while those two margaritas may not have been enough to knock me out, there were definitely enough to get me buzzed.
So very, very true...
eXpressive: 4/10
Practical: 3/10
Physical: 1/10
Giver: 4/10
You are a RSIT--Reserved Sentimental Intellectual Taker.
This makes you a Archetypal Older Child.
You are a hard nut to crack. You have a wicked sense of humor. Despite your reserved nature, you are more comfortable (and successful) in the meeting and courting mode than you are in a long term relationship.
You feel misunderstood, and usually you are. When you're in a good mood, you're funny, fascinating and a sexy firecracker, but when you're in a bad mood you are moody, broody and impatient. In courtship mode, you don't have to let anyone see your moody side. If you had your way, even in a long term relationship you would have enough time apart to deal with your bad moods yourself; unfortunately, it rarely works that way.
You stifle *a lot* of anger and frustration -- from all areas of your life -- so when it comes out it comes out nasty. More than any other type, your conflicts tend to turn on one tiny thing -- the dishes, the laundry -- that's really a scapegoat for your larger dissatisfactions with your relationship. You're baffled that your partner just can't do the dishes -- your partner is baffled that it's such a big deal.
The only way around it is to let the dishes go entirely and try to get at the real root of what's bothering you.
I'm making you sound like a bear, but the fact is that you're so warm and charming most of the time that it effectively offsets the times you're unhappy.
You will make a weirdly good parent.
Don't pair up with someone who'll make sexual demands of you. That's just not going to fly at all.
Of the 220482 people who have taken this quiz, 5.3 % are this type.
Who am I?
Wackiness: 66/100
Rationality: 34/100
Constructiveness: 72/100
Leadership: 96/100
You are a WECL--Wacky Emotional Constructive Leader. This makes you a People`s Advocate.
You are passionate about your causes, with a good heart and good endeavors. Your personal fire is contagious, and others wish they could be as dedicated to their beliefs as you are.
Your dedication may cause you to miss the boat on life's more slight and trivial activities. You will feel no loss when skipping some inane mixer, but it can be frustrating to others to whom such things are important. While you find it difficult to see other points of view, it may be useful to act as if you do, and play along once in a while.
In any event, you have buckets of charisma and a natural skill for making people open up. Your greatest asset is an ability to make progress while keeping the peace.
Of the 115844 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 6.1 % are this type.
Junior-high Redux.
I have a group of friends that I've known since high school.
For some reason, the more juvenile the entertainment, the better it is when it comes to us.
Case in point--the high school years:
In speaking with my college friends about their high school years, it seems that the "normal" thing to do on the weekends was get drunk at someone's house.
The only times I really drank in high school were when I was in New Orleans to visit friends. But then, if your first experience with alcohol was chugging Natty Light, I doubt you'd have cared much for the concept, either.
At any rate, we didn't do that in high school.
Instead, we spent all of our money on gas and toilet paper, picked the house with the most lenient parents presiding to stay at that night, and then went apeshit destroying each other's yards.
Criminal mischief highlights:
- hearing the trombone section of the high school band playing "Charge" outside of your window at 4 AM
- watching the police chase the trombone section down the street at 4 AM
- waking up to a cop knocking on the door and asking if you'd like to press charges for the 50-odd yard signs now located in your front yard
- Sean jumping into his car backwards through the window
- walking out to my car on Christmas Eve after working to find my windshield covered in honey and cottonballs
At any rate, when we got to college, we moved past the criminal mischief activities when we were back in A-town for breaks.
We moved on to things that were elementary school level.
A dream weekend of entertainment included the following:
- trekking to Veterans Park at midnight, through the woods (and God knows how many crack addicts and snakes we nearly stumbled upon when we went off the trail), to a rope swing someone had rigged up. the rope swung out over a small gorge, then you'd climb back up the rocks to go again. keep in mind that none of us have ever seen this rope in daylight, so we swung with no idea of what shape it was in, or if we'd be dying that night.
- playing frisbee. on top of the parking garage at the mall. after hours. and amazingly, we never got busted by security
- frisbee golf. i am terrible at this game, and always make it halfway through before i quit throwing and just watch everyone else. want to know how terrible? i lost my disc in knee-high grass once, and spent ten minutes looking for it. after ten minutes, Sean decided to help me. after thirty seconds, he found a $100 bill, and i found the disc.
- Risk. sure, it's nerdy, but we had a thing for board games.
- No Frills Grill. This one is actually age-appropriate, but it still has to be mentioned.
Sadly, 3 of the members of this little collective are now married. 1 is in Idaho. The remaining two (myself and Sean) were reminiscing the other night. We've now decided that we'll just have to have a reenactment one of these days.
Grocery Store, Here I Come
I am going grocery shopping for the first time since... well, I don't remember. I guess the same school of thought applies to grocery shopping as does to changing your sheets--when you can no longer remember the last time you did this task, it's time to do it.
However, this time I have A List. And I am sticking to the List. I swear to God--if I come home with anything that is not one of the items listed below, I am in Big Trouble. Or something.
Lettuce
Tomatoes
Potatos
Bread
Pepperoni
Eggs
Light Sour Cream
Shredded Cheese
Cottage Cheese
Milk
Mozzerella
American Cheese
Margarine
Light Ranch
Lipton Noodles
Crackers
Cake Mix
Icing
Cupcake Cups
Cokes
Ben & Jerry's Marsha Marsha Marsmallow ice cream
It's hard to tell that I'm lactose intolerant from that list, isn't it? But in my defense, the cheeses listed serve very distinct differences: the American is for grilled cheese, the mozerella is for crackers & pepperoni (my favorite no-cooking dinner/lunch), the shredded is for omlettes and baked potatos, and the cottage is because I love it.
And now, I am off, and I am totally going to float a check to pay for all of this, because I have $46 in my bank account and I am too lazy to buy a few things now and the bulk of it tomorrow when I get paid--I despise going to the store, and once is enough for me.
a Plan.
I have a Plan.
It is a grand plan, a plan that makes me feel settled and content, and a plan that presents little to no opportunity for regret.
This is my Plan.
1) move uptown in August.
2) Continue to work in Dallas until summer 2006
3) Move in summer 2006
I have no freakin' clue where I'm going to move to--that's the beauty of it. It won't be in Texas--that's one thing I do know. Current possibilities include Portland, Seattle, LA, and Chicago.
And of course, I'm sure you all know which one is the frontrunner.
Chicago. Duh.
Maybe I've never told you about my visit to Chicago in November to interview for jobs and get a feel for the city.
It was amazing. Fucking amazing. I can't even begin to explain why, because it wasn't really a tangible thing that made it so great. It was everything--the people, the food, the atmosphere, the culture, the attitude, the feeling, the buildings, the lake.
I walked down the street and it just fit. More than Austin ever did--and my God, did I fit with Austin.
I'm going to go balls to the wall and do something completely scary. I'm going to move to a city where I know exactly one person, where I've spent a total of 4 days in my life, and I'll probably be doing it alone. I'm going to do it because I'm 22, almost 23, and this is the time when I can just pack up and move anywhere--both in terms of my life, and in terms of my job.
And maybe I'll go, and I'll live there for a few years and decide "OK, enough." and I'll move on. But maybe I'll stay, and never stop loving it, and never want to leave.
But damn, I'm excited about finding out.
I'm sick of following my dreams. I'm just going to ask them where they're going and hook up with them later.
Sleep-deprived is not a good look for me.
Seriously.
It's not that I can't function fairly well on small amounts of sleep--while the first few days are generally rough, I get used to it, and my body is OK with 4-5 hours a night on a routine basis. However, the adjustment period sucks motherfucking ass. My eyes hurt from keeping them open. I yawn every 10.2 seconds.
I look like ass.
I feel squinty and lethargic and cumbersome. I cannot think quickly, I cannot type quickly, I cannot do anything quickly.
Well, I can fall into bed and crash quickly, but they tend to frown on that while I'm at work and they're paying me to be here. I'm sure they'd be OK with me staying after hours to nap, but... well, yeah.
It is days like this when I thank my lucky stars that I can show up to work in jeans, flip flops and with my hair in a ponytail with no one batting an eye. Because, people, there is no way in hell I could navigate this day in heels. I can't navigate in heels on a day when I'm coming off of 10 hours of sleep, a killer shower, and an excellent hair day--there is a reason that I own stock in several flip-flop companies.
