Strange Little Collecting Project

I was at a craft store the other day looking for yarn so I could get a head start on all the baby blankets I get to knit next year (yay for babies that I can play with and then hand back to mommy or daddy when they poop or pee or cry or spit up or do anything else that isn’t cute). I was at one end of an aisle of yarn and I could hear people on the other end of the aisle talking about what colors would look better together, white and mint green or white and hunter green. I noticed that the woman’s companion didn’t seem to care either way because he or she (probably a he…no offense) was not participating in the conversation at all! I finally felt so bad for this woman who was just looking for someone to share in her excitement and turmoil of buying the perfect yarn that I decided to chime in. “I would go with the mint green,” I called to her as I looked down to see what kind of a jerk this woman was dealing with. I mean, even if her friend didn't knit, they could at least preten

I’ve never been one for Black Friday shopping. A mild case of agoraphobia is just another one of my many “quirks” that make me a complete joy to be around (while having absolutely no influence on my relationship status). If I wanted to participate in Black Friday deals, I would need to first drink about 30 glasses of egg-nog chased by a vat of peach schnapps. (And even that wouldn’t be effective because then I would end up getting sentimental with my fellow shoppers which would make me feel vulnerable and therefore I would eventually become belligerent when they didn’t reciprocate or emote with me. This is almost always followed by a tearful, melodramatic, and often physical apology to my victims). So, in short, if I was to go Black Friday shopping, there is a good chance I would end up on the news or in the emergency room. If I had a bucket-list (and I don’t, yet) Black Friday Shopping wouldn’t be on it, so, I simply don’t go. But today, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, as I wa

I know it seems like half of my blog-posts come from experiences I’ve had at the coffee shop, grading papers. I think it’s because when I am at the coffee shop grading papers, all of the other things that I want to think about come into my mind and try to distract me from the fact that my students are still writing “through the author’s use of diction” or are still spelling the word doesn’t as dosen’t. Either way, I realized another level of my neurosis today. I get really frustrated with how many questions the baristas are able to ask me just so I can get a drink. When I applied for a credit card, I was asked fewer questions than when I ordered a grande iced coffee with soy milk. (And suddenly our current economic situation makes so much sense). Take today for example. After 36 hours of self-contained infirmary, I was experiencing some major cabin fever. And if I had to watch Willow on TV one more time, I was highly susceptible to offing myself in some theatrical way. Since I wasn’t d

Tonight at the coffee shop, I was digging through my purse trying to find my Burt’s Bees lip-stuff because my lips aren’t very fond of this seasonally appropriate weather. My sense of nostalgia and my love of snuggling are, but my lips, not so much. I was waiting for the sweetest and oldest lady in a fifteen mile radius to count out two dollars in what appeared to be a mixture of nickels and buttons, her cataracts apparently making them look identical. I started to get a little panicky because my Burt’s Bees was no where to be found and my lips had reached that level of chapped where they felt like they were a completely separate entity from the rest of my body. It was a do or die situation and when my hands closed around the familiar shape of my chapstick, I could feel my heart-rate decrease and my body temperature restore itself to normal. I couldn’t wait to feel the tingly relief of Burt’s Bees. It was so close, I could almost taste it… Only, the lid wouldn’t come off. When I looked