Sit Sleeping at the Movies and Other Ridiculous Things Ā 

Nope. I just have to lay down for 5 minutes to read, and I’m out.

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I come from a long line of sit sleepers. What exactly are “sit sleepers”, you ask? Well, imma tell you. When you’re a sit sleeper, there’s a 98% chance that you will fall asleep within ten minutes of sitting down. The likelihood increases when you’re in a comfy armchair, it’s warm and cozy, and you’ve had any alcohol whatsoever. If you’re laying down, forget it-you’ve missed the entire episode of Orange is the New Black. 

I noticed I came from a family of sit sleepers early on with my grandmother. When I was kid, we got to spend the entire summer at the cabin on Coeur d’ Alene Lake in Northern Idaho. The best part of this wasn’t the long summer days filled with swimming, boating, and lounging in the sun. No, the best part was that I got to sleep in my grandma’s bed. It was the best sleep spot in the cabin. The other room was the “boys’ dorm”, filled with bunk beds and farts. It was gross. 

Without fail, the moment my grandma got settled in, covers just right, and with her current book, she was snoring. Except, it wasn’t just snoring. It was something entirely different. See, my beautiful grandmother took her teeth out at night. I still remember those weird, waxy looking chompers floating in a glass on her nightstand. Because her teeth weren’t in when she fell asleep, book opened on her face, it sounded like the subtle flapping of a flag in the wind. 

It was always really entertaining to bet on how many minutes, seconds it’d be until I’d hear the flapping. 

The entire time we had the light on to read, I’d slightly nudge her and she’d sputter awake and continue reading right where she left off. I remember really being concerned that she’d never get through her book. Somehow she did. The marvels of this world are endless. 

The best part of this whole nighttime ritual was that sometimes I’d tell her she was sleeping. Every time, she’d swear up and down that she hadn’t been sleeping. 

I’d say, “Grandma, your book was on your face!”

She’d say, “That’s how I read best.” 

Oh, how I miss the nights I’d nudge my grandmother to say, “Grandma! Your lips are flapping again!” 

Of course, my mother was gifted with sit sleeping. One of my fondest memories is of our nighttime reading. No matter how late, how tired, how stressed, my mom read to us from infacy. As we got older, my brother and I read to her. Each stage had a different level of narcolepsy-like sleeping spells.

Some nights, my mom would be in the middle of a sentence and suddenly, the book and her head would fall, and she would be quietly snoring. 

“Mom!” 

“I’m awake!”

Then, she’d pick up right where she left off. 

When we grew into voracious readers ourselves, we started to read to Mom. That was hilarious, because with no book to hold, and nothing to do other than lay and listen, she was usually snoring before we could even get through a page. 

If we ever have my mom watch Harry Potter, she’d likely say, “Why is this vaguely familiar to me?” 

We’d answer with, “Well, mom, we only read the entire series!” 

A fun little aside about my mom and falling asleep in inopportune situations:

Not only has my mom fallen asleep during reading and during every.single.movie. she’s ever watched, she’s also been known to fall asleep while eating. Yup. You read that right. I wasn’t going to mention that it was likely due to some medication she was taking for her back, but either way, she fell asleep while eating a burrito. Except that’s only what she thought she was eating. She said she was eating her lunch and the damn tortilla would just not cut. She said she hacked and hacked away with her plastic fork, but no luck. Eventually, she decided to just gnaw at it with her teeth. At this point, she woke up/came to and realized she was eating her paper plate. I ask her to tell this story at least a couple times a year, because it’s just too good. 

I always thought falling asleep the second one sits was an old person thing. Well, at 33 years old, I can tell you it’s not!

Guys, I have become a sit sleeper something fierce! 

I’ve seen two movies over break, and during both of them I’ve fallen asleep. 

Like, fell asleep and woke myself up snoring. 

Yesterday, we went to see Rogue One at the luxury theater. I am fully convinced that those damn reclining seats have led to my demise. 

I was all settled in-candy opened and ready to be demolished, napkins draped across my chest like an adult baby, and my contraband drink nestled safely between my ass and the seat. 

I felt I had enough food to keep me awake. If I’m eating, I can’t be sleeping. It’s usually a foolproof plan.

Except, it wasn’t. 

I finished my theater food too soon. 

All of a sudden, I hear the crinkling of wrappers. It sounds like it is coming from inside my head. 

It stops. 

I go back to drooling all over my napkins as I try to keep at least one eye on the screen. 

Suddenly, the sound again. 

What the actual eff? 

I suddenly realize it’s the girl next to me. She’s been crumpling her candy wrappers like inside my ear. 

I’m aghast. I’m shocked. 

How could someone be so rude? 

Then. I realize.

She was crumpling her wrappers next to my head, because I was snoring. 

My head was leaned to her side, my mouth was gaping, and I was snoring in her face.

Who is this person I’ve become?

At this rate, I’ll be ten times as bad as both my grandmother and mother combined. 

HELP!!

This is too good!! šŸ˜‚šŸ˜‚

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5 Reasons Why I’m Failing at Adulting


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1.When my students do or say something turdly, really, just once, want to say, “I know you are, but what am I?” I know… but it would be so awesome to give them a little dose of the ridiculous excuses/responses/attitudes they give me every.single.day.


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2. Every year when I renew my car registration, I don’t put the new sticker on my license plate until I get pulled over. It’s like tradition. It is just so hard and takes too much effort to wipe the dust and grime off of my license plate and place the new sticker over the 10 that are already there, about to fall off. Pure unadulterated laziness.


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3. Every month, since I was 11 (why, God?) Aunt Flo has visited. One would think that after three decades of this ridiculousness, I would know to be prepared. Yet, every month, I ruin a pair of panties and I have to waddle into the store, with an entire roll of toilet paper wrapped around the crotch of my underwear.


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4. I love to wait until the bitter end before a credit card payment is due. That way, the extra money I was planning on using to pay down some of the debt can be used to buy new shoes or way too many Salted Caramel Mocha Frappuccinos far before I have to make the payment. Winning.


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5. I buy bananas for one sole purpose: I like to watch things slowly wither and die. For what other purpose do bananas serve? I sure as hell never eat them.


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FrankĀ 

It’s funny how the littlest thing can trigger vivid, and super random memories.  Obviously, this leads to the desire to write, because all writers must take advantage of inspiration wherever they can find it. We are resourceful like that. 

Socks. Socks are what made me remember a really ridiculous incident in my past, involving my first boyfriend’s dad, a pair of knee high socks, and Frank. 

We were sitting in a meeting, in a fellow teacher’s room, and I noticed she had old men’s socks on all the desks. What a super ingenious idea for white board erasers! I just hope they didn’t happen to be my dad’s old socks that found their way to the thrift stores. Now that he’s older, his feet have a certain funk about them. Subjecting children to his old socks would, quite possibly, be considered child abuse *shudders*.

I digress. Let me get back to my random story about socks, my ex’s dad, and Frank. 

So, before I can even get into the interesting part, I have to let you know that my brother would steal all of our dad’s socks, because taking from Dad’s neat and tidy drawer was a lot easier than searching through the abyss that was my brother’s disgusting pit of a room. 

Obviously, my dad grew very tired of never having socks to wear because his teenage son had decided that he’d help himself. So, my mom bought two big bags of socks, one for my dad and one for my brother. To eliminate the possibility of my brother stealing Dad’s socks, my mom wrote his name on them. All of them. In big, bold, capital letters. She got bored during the branding of my father’s socks, because she started writing random names, like, “Bob”, “Herb”, or…”Frank”. 

She thought she was a genius, and quite hilarious too. My brother wouldn’t be caught dead at school with named socks, so all was calm in the world of Hanes for awhile (I’m not sure how my dad felt about wearing socks that said, “Herbert” on them, but it had to be better than having none at all!)

But, what they didn’t know, was that there was another sock thief in the house. I loved my dad’s socks, because it was all the rage to wear long white socks up to your knees. God knows why this was considered fashionable. At one time mullets had their day in the sun, so weird things do occur in the world of fashion. 

The best part about this whole sock fiasco was that no one suspected me. No one. That was until I almost, single-handedly, caused the divorce of my boyfriend’s parents. Oops. 

I spent a lot of time at my boyfriend’s house. His parents had a surprise, later in life, in the form of a bright-eyed baby girl, named Emma*. I loved her so much. I loved to feed her. Dress her. Smell her sweet curls. She was like the baby sister I never got. I’m fairly certain I didn’t date Joe Blow** for him, but so I could see his sister. I’m totally not sorry.

Well, because I practically lived at his house, I would frequently leave items or articles of clothing at his house. No, I wasn’t some ho bag, his sister loved to spit up on me. We were basically teen parents. 

One afternoon, after hanging out in my boyfriend’s room, watching TV (really, we were), I decided to get some Pepsi. I bee bopped into the living room, and there was his big, scary dad sitting on the couch. I often did everything in my power to avoid this man. He looked almost exactly like Fred Flinstone, only he had the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his heyday. He was scary. 

As I passed him, with my head down, eyes averted, I happened to notice, from the corner of my eye, his socks. They were long, white, and almost went over his knees. They also said, “Frank”. 

OMFG. He was wearing my socks. I was in full-on panic mode. He obviously didn’t notice he was wearing socks that named another man. Well, not yet. 

As I passed him again, to get back to the room, I did everything in my power to not look at the socks. But, like a trainwreck, I couldn’t not look. I was gawking, staring, mouth gaped, as I walked by. He took notice of me, looked at me like I was mentally challenged, and then turned back to the TV. 

Once safely back in the bedroom, my heart was pounding, but something was rising from deep inside. The sight of that bull-moose-of-a-man wearing my dad’s socks, named, “Frank” was too much. Also, my immature sense of humor starting getting the best of me. He doesn’t know. He’s sitting there, like a tool, with “Frank” on his foot. What a noob. 

I lost it. I could not stop laughing. Obviously, he heard me, and put together my gawking, like 2 + 2, and all I hear is, “Wilma!!!!!!” 

How does one explain to an incredibly irate man how his socks came to have another man’s name on them? Obviously, I had to jump in and explain the whole ridiculous story. I think, after that, he considered me mentally deranged, and that’s why he never uttered another syllable to me, unless forced. 

At least he wasn’t into wearing women’s underwear. It could always be worse. That would have been so much worse. 

*Not really her name 

**Obviously, not his name 

  
15 year-old glamour model. These are the actual socks from the story. Well, maybe they are. They could be, and that’s what makes this picture so amazing. That, and my eyebrows on fleek #didntowntweezers

SisterĀ 

It was just a usual Sunday evening, you know the kind…homemade spaghetti, repetitive arguments, and loving banter. Every Sunday evening, without fail, I would join my parents and brother for a family meal. It was tradition, and a necessity (I always had tons of laundry to do). 

On this ordinary Sunday, 7 years ago, the phone rang. I was lounging on the couch, not wanting to move, for fear I would explode from the copious amounts of carbs consumed. My brother was sneaking a cigarette on the back porch. My parents were having their after dinner guilt cigarette in the garage. The call went to the machine. Out of nowhere, a voice. 

Dad, pick up. I know you’re there. Dad…

I sat up stick straight. Surely it was a mistake, a wrong number? But, something felt familiar about that voice. It was my voice. How many times had I called my parents and left the same exact message? 

My brother came around the corner from the living room, and just stared at me. I stared back. 

In a trance, we walked together to the garage. We just stared at our parents. They knew. They knew we knew. 

Well, here we go, they said. 

Here we go. 

From then on, my life was drastically altered. On that lazy, regular, nothing-special-Sunday, I found out that I had two sisters. Sisters. 

I don’t want to get into the why’s and how’s of the happenstance that one who had yearned for the connection of a sister all her life, in fact, had sisters all along, yet didn’t find out until the ripe old age of 25. I will say that my dad was married before my mother and he had two daughters. The divorce from his first wife was not pretty and thus, you have two seperate families, existing a continent apart from each other. 

How can a mother tell her daughter that she has sisters, sisters she will likely never meet due to the circumstances surrounding their father’s estrangement? Especially when that daughter really wanted a sister named Summer and she cried as if the world were ending when she found out her new sibling was a brother, named Jarrett (does that make me a bad person?)

I never connected with the sister who called looking for our dad, but through her, I found Tracy. 

How can I express how I felt during the hours, days, months after first speaking to the sister I always wanted, until that humid day in Philadephia when I first laid eyes on her? I don’t think I have the literary ability, or its impossible to articulate into words the emotion felt when you finally find your kindred spirit. 

We spoke every day. Our conversations were filled with questions, so many questions. 

What is your favorite food? What kind of music do you like? What is your favorite color? Who are you? Who have you been all these years I didn’t know you? 

Despite never being raised together, Tracy and I share likenesses that are uncanny. Despite the fact she’s 16 years older than me, we are like long-lost twins. I could go into every way we are the same, but it may not mean the same to you as it does to us.

I was sweating profusely and didn’t sleep a wink during the entire red eye to Philadelphia. Meeting someone for the first time is always scary, but to meet your sister for the first time? Maddeningly nerve-wracking. Doubts plagued my thoughts. 

What if we don’t get along? What if it’s awkward? What if…

The second I laid eyes on her, a sense of knowing crept though my veins.

Why of course, there you are. 

I knew her. She was my sister. Never having met her, yet she was always there, being my sister. Through every lost tooth, knee scrape, broken heart, she’s always been there. 

  

Simply, Thank You

I was hoping to reblog the postĀ When bloggers go MIAĀ by Aunty Cath, but she must not have the “reblog” setting. I will share a screen shot of her post instead:

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I am extremely humbled and honored that I’m being recognized in other writer’s blogs. After doing this blogging thing for precisely 58 days (WordPress counts in days, I guess), I never would have thought I’d have the amount of followers and attention I have presently.

I am not entirely new to blogging. As many of my Facebook friends know, I started blogging when I moved to BFE, AKA Elko, way back in 2007. Saying it was hard for me to leave my friends, family, and favorite Cold Stone, is putting it mildly. I decided to write about the foibles of a “city girl” living in a cow town. It was met with loads of support from my loved ones, but I had not one “outside” follower. I didn’t really understand how to put myself “out there” or network at all. I wrote as a therapeutic way to handle my new life of falling into cattle guards and being held up on the main road by slow-as-molasses ranchers. It was a way to express myself, yes, but more so a way to remain sane. I miss that small, comfortable, infuriating town more than I can express (that’s a totally different story, though).

As mentioned, I had loyal followers who were close family and friends. Secretly, I wondered if they were so supportive merely because they loved me, not based on my literary merit. Sure, my mom laughed so hard she cried upon reading my posts, and my best friend said she “peed a little” while reading my writing, but was it really because I was good? I want to emphasize, that I, in no way, am discrediting the opinions and comments of loved ones, just sharing a little of my innate insecurity. One of my longtime loyal followers is a writer herself, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel too insecure.

I guess I always believed I wouldn’t be a “real writer” until I began garnering support from strangers. More importantly, from other writers. Most humbly, I have gotten an immense amount of support from the blog world. It was terrifying to put myself out there, in such a naked and real way, which was why I played like I didn’t care how many followers I got. So, in the case that I would totally fall on my face, I could brush it off like I wasn’t doing it for the attention. Now I sound like I really am doing it for the attention *back peddling*.

Let me be real, there is a delicious spark of electricity that runs up my spine, that creates a euphoric high as I start reeling in the “likes” and followers after posting. It’s addictive and probably as good as a cocaine high (notice how I said, “probably”?). I have been trying not to let myself get so wrapped up in the “likes” and the amount of followers. Yet, how does one get their writing seen without readers? Skating the fine line between blogging for the enjoyment versus the attention is treacherous, and I’m still learning how to keep my balance.

With all this said, I’m eternally grateful to my loyal, longtime followers, those who have been reading my work since Elko. I am also so excited for the connections I’m making in the blogging world. I get to read posts from people all the way from India to Australia. I am also very lucky that such a diverse group of people relate to the crazy topics I write about.

I have been told that I am not a real writer until I get a book published, and my ex couldn’t stand my humor, but you can’t win them all. I’m simply going to cherish the people who support me, and continue to write, and create. It’s all I can do. It’s all I must do.

Front Butt Thighs

   
I frequently wonder how it would feel to have decent looking inner thighs. I hate my inner thighs with the passion of the gods. I hide them behind long layering tanks and Grandma bathing suit skirts. I’m pretty sure my own boyfriend has not seen them in the light of day. If I want to pretend I’m sexy, I tuck them between my thighs and clamp my legs shut. I now understand what transvestites go through. I feel your “tuck and pray” pain, guys. 

I check out other women’s crotchal-area with envy, like a total perv. Instead of salivating over another woman’s handbag or cute haircut, I totally crave their smooth thighs. I am envious of women who can wear skinny jeans without all of the layering tanks and spanks required to make me not look like a bean bag with a head. 

I feel like my saggy thighs are totally my mom’s fault, along with my prematurely graying hair and manly calves. I’m basically a carbon-copy of my mom, right down to the swaying thigh skin. If my mom wasn’t the most amazing woman to walk this Earth, I would have a real bone to pick with her. Instead, we just complain together as we make brownies and homemade fudge sauce. 

This past Friday, I hosted an It Works party. If you don’t recognize the name, you will know what I’m talking about when I say miracle body wraps. Yup, I got wrapped, along with some friends. It was part hilarious-fun-female-bonding, and part I-hate-my-body-don’t-look-at-me-why-was-I-born. 

Let me explain. 

Before the wrap is the essential, “before picture”. It’s mandatory. I recruited a long-time friend who’s seen me in my birthday suit and at my absolute worst. Who cares if she sees my frog skin crotch? So, she snapped quite a few pictures from multiple angles and really got down in there. I was terrified to see her work. 

And rightfully fucking so. 

When I say it was disgusting, you really have no idea. Some of you may wonder how it could be possible one is not aware of what they look like naked. Well, it’s possible when you avoid the mirror like the plague, while naked, that’s fucking how. 

One picture she took confused me. It was an ass. It was a really saggy ass with dimples and pimples, the whole smorgasbord. MY INNER THIGHS LOOK LIKE AN ASS. 

I have front butt thighs and…

I can’t. I can’t even. What else can I say? There’s nothing more to say. I HAVE A BUTT. ON MY THIGHS. 

After some time to accept this disgusting realization, I’ve decided my front butt has got to go. I’m now even more glad that I spent $150 on body wraps, fat inhibitors, and tightening gel from It Works. I’m also going to be kicking my yoga practice into high gear. Perhaps, I’ll dust off my beach cruiser and take it for a spin. Anything, anything to get rid of my second butt. Anything. 

  
I have a picture of a before and after of my thighs, but the thought of sharing it with all the world is more terrifying than those arriving-at-school-naked-on-the-first-day-of-school dreams. No. Just, no. So, here is proof I wrapped my nasty thighs. You’re welcome. 

  
Thank you, Pinterest, for your endless array of memes and ecards to make me feel better about myself. Laughing through the pain, yo. 

Thought Overload

Am I the only one whose mind wanders during yoga? Please tell me I’m not the only person incapable of thinking solely of their rounded and backward breathing (I didn’t even know there were other types of breathing. Am I the only one who simply breathes in and out??) I just worry I’m crazy, or I will never learn the art of not thinking, constantly, obsessively. 

This morning, I got up early and attended Yin Yoga. Let me repeat that: I got up early. To do fitness. I really felt a tiara, or a certificate of achievement was deserved, but no one seemed impressed my happy ass was there bright and early, with my unwashed hair.

I had never heard of Yin Yoga, but that’s really not surprising, as I know really nothing about any kind of yoga. All I cared to ask the instructor was, “Will this likely kill a newbie?” She laughed and said, “Get a blanket, two blocks, and a bolster. You will be fine. Oh, and we will be positioned in a circle”. 

Ugh. 

I am not fond of facing others during fitness, because it means they will look at me. They will have front row seats to my ineptness. Why a circle? I wanted to ask, “Can I just sit outside the classroom? It’ll be fine. I’ll hear your instructions and I’ll peek in a few times”. I knew it wouldn’t go over well, so I just placed my mat as far away as possible, while still being somewhat a part of the circle of shame. 

Let me make it clear that I am 100% open to having a yoga mind. I want to be able to focus on my third eye (especially when my third eye isn’t being referred to as an especially nasty zit, which is what I thought a third eye was). I want to be able to connect to my breath, but it’s HARD. 

My brain does not shut off. Ever. I’m usually thinking/worrying/planning several different things at the same time. I have incredibly vivid dreams. I have been known to “sleep plan” lessons. Obviously, I’m an over-thinker. The mental exercise of yoga is far harder than the physical element. I’m mentally weak. I’m struggling, friends. For your reading pleasure, I would like to share actual thoughts I had during yoga today. I’m weird. Beware. 

I should have blown my nose before class.

OMG. I legit almost blew a booger out of my nostril. Mouth breathing it is. 

She wants me to put my left leg behind my ass and then lay down? Is she seeing my body?

I wonder if the guy with the speedo on could breathe any louder. He’s brag breathing. 

Why is it that the men are always almost naked and the women are practically wearing their entire closet. Why is that? 

Thank GOD I’m the fattest one in here. Said no one ever.

Wow. I had no idea my heel would ever meet my belly button. I should introduce them to each other. Katie, you’re fucking mental. 

When was the last time they washed the cover to this bolster? What if someone had their poorly-wiped ass on it right before this class? I’m laying my face on this thing. I’ll get pink eye! I might get E. coli! I might die! 

Further, do they mop this floor? What if they don’t? What if? Should I ask? 

Am I the only one who sneaks looks at the other people when our eyes are supposed to be closed? 

That girl has a hole in the crotch of her pants. How embarrassing. Wait, so do I!! OMG, who saw??

EVERYONE. Because we’re in a CIRCLE.

Could I get away with a small toot? Probably not.

Obviously I need help. HELP. 



BeginningĀ 

I’m sitting here, looking at the pictures my boyfriend just took of me doing two very basic yoga moves, and I’m contemplating two possible responses: 

1. Wash a red velvet cupcake down with a s’mores Frapp, while crying all over my floral-print Muu Muu.

Or

2. Never eat again, subsisting on only air, while living the life of a hermit, relying on Amazon Prime to deliver anything I’ll ever need so as to never see the outside world until I don’t look like that in a picture. Ever. Again. 

I felt saying, “drive off a cliff” was too morbid. 

Actually, what I’m going to do is get a sugar-free Frapp and then scroll through Pinterest, looking for healthy food recipes, because THIS GIRL ain’t giving up. As mentioned in my previous post, I am beginning a journey to find my hidden, possibly natural, flexibility. I used to be lithe and fit (when I was 8). I think I can find that body again (I mean, I don’t want to look 8, just fit). I want to be able to contort myself in all sorts of amazing yoga positions. I think I can do this. No, I know I can do this. Furthermore, since posting the following super embarrassing photos of myself, and claiming I’ll be successful, it would be far too embarrassing to fail. I can’t fail. 

So, without further adieu, here are my level Negative 0 moves. Please don’t critique at this point. If I’m not doing something right, it’s because I can’t, or I simply don’t know how. I will learn. I will continue to post my progression via pictures and experiences as I learn more about yoga and my body. Wish me luck. 

Ugh, here we go. 

   
 

I thought I had a butt, but I guess I don’t. Also, I need to work on my concentration face, yikes.