But I don't drive a Subaru

Karen and I went downtown to the Farmers' Market a few weeks ago and, while there, I mentioned I never really feel "granola enough" to be there.

"But you're way more granola than me!" she exclaimed.

"Me? In what way do I qualify as granola?" I asked, incredulously.

"Well," she said, "You actually, ya know, care about . . . stuff."

This would be a good time to bring back the word "grody."

This is what I look like normally:

This is abnormal:

Let's review . . .

Normal:

Abnormal (also, gross):

I keep forgetting about being all conjunctivy and then I look in the mirror and I'm all, "HOLY CRAP, WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FACE?!"

(Also, can you believe I just posted such unattractive, i.e. nasty, pictures of my swollen face on the World Wide Web? Neither can I. Seriously, it's like I'm trying to repel men or something.)

I wouldn't even know how to take LSD

Hey remember when I was all like, "Ahh! My head!" and you guys were all, "Just go to the freakin' doctor, already!"? Well, I went to the freakin' doctor. (And thus we see that Kim will do whatsoever the Internet tells her. This can be a very valuable tool for you folks at home.)

So I say to the doctor, "I have these frequent, excruciating headaches that come and go in intervals and I don't know what causes them or how to stop them." So Doc runs some tests and makes me keep a "headache diary" which is a fancy phrase for "write down everything you eat and do and every headache you have and then promptly lose the paper and when the doctor asks about it you tell him, 'I misunderstood the assignment.'" He even did an MRI on the ol' cranium and input all the information in the Very Fancy Brain Computer and finally came back with a diagnosis: "You have what is called 'cluster headaches' which are frequent excruciating headaches in intervals and we don't know what causes them or how to treat them," to which I said, "Yeah but remember how I kind of already had all that information and also could I have my $300 back please?"

Apparently, the University Hospital had a very strict no-returns policy.

Doc told me cluster headaches are called Resistant to Treatment. I told him that news is called Unhelpful, Thank You Very Much. It seems, though, I have a fairly mild case; while it is uncomfortable to feel like I'm being stabbed in the left temple several times a day, some people have it chronically, meaning all the time, yo. In reading up on treatment options, I found out some patients find relief in LSD and psychedelic mushrooms. If that's not the awesomest thing you've ever heard, you are clearly not me.

Unfortunately, I won't get to try out these methods as I'm still Mormon and they still have that no-getting-high-on-'shrooms policy.

Just wondering

In high school, I had a tiny little bit of a crush on this guy named Rob. He was--there's no other word for it--cool. Oh man, was he cool.

Not the "I'm very popular and wear v-neck t-shirts from Abercrombie & Fitch" type cool.

But the "I am above the pettiness of high school and I honestly don't care what people here think of me and I kind of have a 'don't mess with me' attitude but I'm actually a very nice person plus I have mysterious eyes that look deep into your soul and when I walk down the halls at school I have the faintest smile pulling at my mouth which makes it look like I know a secret about life and love and beauty and honor which I'm not sharing with the shallow masses that surround me and also I'm kind of adorable and you will always wonder what I was like outside of Physics class won't you?" type cool.



Looking back, I sort of wonder if he was a vampire.

Today

Today is . . . weird.


Today is . . . surreal.

Today . . . today . . . today . . .

Today marks five years. Five. Five years of living in Utah.

What? No, that doesn't sound right. I just moved here. I'm not a long-term resident. I'm not a Utahn. This place was just a quickie. Just a pit stop on the way of chasing my dreams and changing the world and all the other altruistic notions I had back then. You know, back before I got so cynical.

But, yes, it's true. Five years ago, this very day, I landed at the Salt Lake International Airport armed with two suitcases and nary a friend for miles. And look at me now! I have a houseful of stuff and--now I don't want to intimidate anyone--like six friends.

So happy anniversary to us, Utah. Sorry I have such mixed feelings about you.

Let's make a cake.

Firstly, let me tell you that prolly the funniest thing in the whole world was when Jermaine was doing the talking stove bit and says (while opening and closing the oven door like a mouth) "Cheer up, Brett. Things will work out. Ahhh, let's make a cake." (Actually, I just realized it's not funny unless you're seeing it. So go here and then you'll all know why I'm forever laughing uproariously to myself and why when someone in real life says, "Let's make a cake," I completely lose it.)

Okay, now that that's out of the way, let's talk cake. I love the show Ace of Cakes. And I also love Cake Boss. And those cake competition shows--love. And Amazing Wedding Cakes--double-love. Basically, if your great aunt video-taped herself decorating a batch of cupcakes, I'd watch it. I'm a big fan of the cake shows.

I'm going to visit my parents out in Maryland soon and last night I asked my mom if, while I'm there, we can drive into "the city" and find Charm City Cakes (from Ace of Cakes). And then I found out that Carlo's Bake Shop (from Cake Boss) is only like 30 minutes from my great-grandpa's house so maybe I'll be like, "Ooh, I so want to go see Grandpa Roy," and then be like, "Well, as long as we're up here . . ." So, if all goes according to plan, my trip home will turn into "Tour of East Coast Bakeries" which I think is a grand idea.

Sadly, I will only get to savor aromas and sights of said places as I am on a Very Special Diet which is code for I Cain't Eat Nuttin' Good. But possibly also for When I Get On a Plane Next Month I Might Actually Be Able To Cram My Giant Ass Into That Seat.

That's what I'm banking on anyway.



Need more cake? Here ya go.

They both make me happy.

I like my pillows like I like my tofu:


extra firm.

The only thing missing was the tiara.

The ladies were sitting in Karen's room Thursday night during one of our mid-week chat sessions. I wish I could give you an idea of the convoluted train of conversation that found Karen rushing to her closet for her prom dress, but I'm truly at a loss.

After the dress was procured and admired, Karen (at my insistence) tried the thing on to "see if it fits after ten years!" Karen, of course, obliged and proved "it still fits after ten years!"

We continued our conversation, Karen still in the dress, when I mentioned I really wanted to soak my achy feet. Karen offered up her vinyl blow-up foot bath and even prepared it for me by blowing up the contraption.

And that's where we got this:



I'm gonna give you a minute to soak that in.

Karen




in a prom dress




blowing up a vinyl foot bath.

I begged her for permission to document the experience and she acquiesced as long as I mentioned that the dress "still fit after ten years!" (No, she didn't exclaim that multiple times. Why would you ask?)


After she plopped the tub at my feet she said, "Happy birthday, Kim. You get a foot bath from a freakin' prom queen."


And that, folks, is why I love my life.

Happy birthday to me.

Thank you in advance for the lovely gifts.

TMI Tuesday

From this week's late-night girl talk session:

Me: "So what do you guys think about being tied up? I don't know--I think I'd be into it."

Karen: "You know, Kim, I'm not even surprised."





Older TMI Tuesdays here and here.

yawn

So I've gone off caffeine again. I know, I know. I've tried going off before and about 48 hours later I've got an IV of Diet Dr Pepper running as I lay on the ground weeping, promising to never ever make that mistake again and apologizing to the man I just clobbered with my spike heel because he was blocking the drink dispenser at the Top Stop.

But this time is different. I know, I know. I've said that before. I'm all,

"I promise to never again jump onto the hood of a moving vehicle because I spotted a Diet Coke in the cup holder,"

and then,

"I'm so sorry I promised to have your husband's babies if he would let me finish off his Big Gulp,"

and to the roommates,

"I will never fill the bathtub with Diet Pepsi to soak in so that it reaches my bloodstream faster."

I am serious this time. I'm off for good.

Also, I'm so tired!! Is this what feeling normal is like?

How. do. you. people. function?

www.nataliedee.com

In which I reference an embarrassing amount of pop music.

After I laid out a self-deprecating zinger the other night, my buddy seriously questioned my level of self-esteem. I laughed it off because, hey, I babble incoherently on the internets all about me, me, me and—and this is the kicker—I actually think people will be interested in what I have to say. I have deluded myself into thinking you’re all out there in web-land hanging onto my every word.

Me? Self-esteem issues? Don’t be ridiculous.

But as much as I claim to be happy with myself, I have sometimes wondered, "Am I really good enough? Do I truly measure up?" And, folks, up until a couple days ago I probably couldn’t give you a straight answer. (Mostly because I really dislike talking about my feelings so if you’d asked me, I would’ve dodged the question and cracked a joke. ‘Cause that’s how I roll.) But Tuesday morning was my epiphany.

There I was jumping on my bed before work, singing Kelly Clarkson, and I finally got it. Finally understood. My grand realization:

I AM FABULOUS

Seriously. At the risk of sounding horribly arrogant I just have to say, guys, I am awesome. I think I have a really great attitude and I'm fun and I'm smart and I'm a little bit pretty and I'm generally a nice person and, dang it, I'm just fabulous!*

And you know what else? The people who've hurt me don't matter. Ya heard that? YOU DON'T MATTER TO ME ANYMORE. You can never make me feel worthless ever again. You can never hurt me again. Because I don't deserve that. I deserve something better than what you were offering me. I deserve better than you. So suck. on. that.

So that's why, in the throws of self-actualization, I was standing on my bed in the middle of last night in boxers and a tank top making this out of my bedroom wall . . .

. . . and listening to this song.

I'm telling ya, you've got to get on the Empowerment Train. It's a helluva ride.

*Also, I have cellulite. And I'm flighty and irresponsible. And often quite snarky. But I'm still fabulous.

Two-for-One Special on the Guilt Trip Express!

Recent conversation with my mother:

"Your father called me a few days ago to tell me to call you," she began. "Apparently you told him your life was falling apart . . ."

"It was, actually," I replied, the pain apparent in my voice. "I was having a perfectly wretched week and I tried calling you but you weren't home and you weren't answering your cell so I had to call Dad instead." (big, heavy, pathetic, martyr-like sigh)

She responded, woundedly, "Well, I tried calling back but you didn't answer and you didn't respond to my message." (bigger, heavier, patheticker, more martyr-like sigh)





Heaven and earth, I love that woman.