warts of worry

I re-read what I wrote the other day and cringed. I cringed so hard.

I was embarrassed that 9 people read it on Facebook. I'm worried they think it's stupid.

What I do know is that I worry. I worry so much. I'm worried that I talk about myself too much. I worry that I'm being selfish. I'm worried that I am being mean. I'm worried that I've offended someone or people. 

... and in an act mimicking Ouroboros, I worry about worrying too much. Ouroboros or the "eternal return" is depicted as a snake eating it's own tail. I recently discovered that snakes actually do this when they are severely stressed out.

When I was a little kid, my mom bought me these things called Worry Dolls. They were from Guatemala, teeny-tiny, and super colorful. I loved them, and I'm sure you can still find them at your local educational toy store between the rock tumbler and the wooden puzzles. I would put them under my pillow so they could absorb all the worry of the day. I think this might have started my tradition of squirreling away things under my pillow. Just yesterday I found two pairs of earrings and a headband. Anyway, I was pretty convinced that these things were able to relieve me from the stresses of the day. Things like, why no one would trade snacks for my peanut butter crackers, why was I so terrible at tether ball, and if I completed my homework assignment correct. You guys, do me a favor...try not to cry for my difficult childhood. 

Sooner or later, I discovered that Santa wasn't real, neither was the Easter Bunny, and Worry Dolls were just fun teeny-tiny trinkets floating around in my bed. It was less about talismans and just personal characteristics. 

Some people do not get stressed out... or at least they somehow manage to appear like they don't give two shits when someone so much as frowns at a possible misstep. I guess it can be learned... or like old time-y Hollywood people like to say "Fake it, till you make it, doll." I've tried and I suppose I'm still trying, but there is a thin line between being self confident and being an asshat, which of course I'm worried that I'm toeing that line constantly. 

So I'll just expect the eternal return of worry to keep creeping in, but at least it's keeping me a semi decent person.

Two Years Later

Lately, I've been feeling the urge to write.

Unlike many of my wonderful friends who write, I battle writer's block. Awful, painful, writer's block. It prevents me from finishing stories from fear of being cliche. It stops me from starting an essay because of the possibility of it being bad. It looms over me, whispering deadly phrases like "don't you wish you could... but you can't," and "why can't you?"

I used to say, "I will be a 'writer' when I get paid for my writing." I now have been twice, yet I refrain from calling myself a writer or an artist. I hold back, fearing something that is both inside me and floats around me.

I read my work and I feel ashamed. A word spelled wrong, reminds me of my third grade teacher, who said I couldn't spell... but more so I remember the story my mother repeated for years.
I want to be heard, yet simultaneously am afraid of the repercussions of people hearing what I have to say.

So today I am starting from scratch, I will just write, I will express myself without hiding the parts that might cause ripple.

Being behaved will get you an A but it will not get you noticed.

Jewels for Lobes

About a month ago, I thought it would be a great idea to buy Andrew some plugs for his earlobes.

LOBE

Noun:

A roundish and flattish part of something, typically each of two or more such parts divided by a fissure, and often projecting or hanging.

I digress... So you have three options when you want to purchase plugs:

1. Go to a tattoo piercing place

2. Go online

3. Go to a hippy open air bazaar 

I went to UC Santa Cruz and owned a pair of linen pants with an Om Symbol printed at the bottom. I was wearing these pants when I tripped on a Nalgene water bottle while playing hacky sack in a field. I'm not lying and I'm not a hippy anymore... so option number 3 was out. 

I bought Andrew some plugs that I found online previously, but sadly after a month of use the "authentic abalone shell" fell out... revealing a sad dark hole of plastic and glue. Even after some legitimate suggestions from friends, I decided that my best bet was to actually hold and examine the plug before purchase. Which left me with the dreaded ...option number 1.

Question: What is loud, extremely judgmental, incredibly image conscious, can make you feel like shit for not fitting in, and not to mention loves little dogs?

Teenage Girls and Tattoo Artists. 

Yes, I'm casting a broad stroke... but if you don't look a certain way and happen to walk into the wrong tattoo shop... good luck, buddy. I'm not an ugly lady, but I sure as hell am goofy. I tend to think my nose stud is edgy, but it's so small most people don't know that I have it. I know how I look... I got that parent approved fresh scrubbed look. Which equals a big ole eye roll when I lumber in looking for stuff for my boooyfriend. Knowing all this, I wanted to lessen the blow of judgement by going to tattoo shops that were say... down to earth. 

Against the snooty San Francisco belief, Oaklanders tend to be the most low key people in the Bay Area (I would know... I am one) so I figured all the Oakland people who professionally stick ink and needles into bodies would be mellow as well. Guess what...

They were! Sean at Old Crow and the two dudes playing pool at Ink Well were the nicest guys I've ever met in the tattoo game! But no one had plugs to sell. The name that kept coming up was Industrial. 

Industrial Tattoo is in Berkeley. Which is like mecca for the college kid in need of some quickie edge. Hell, even I got my nose stud in Berkeley. Thousands of drunk college kids wanting eyebrow rings and fairy tattoos probably get old... which makes the already grumpy tattoo artist more impatience and judge-y. Yet, I had to go, because they have an large collection of plugs and I didn't want to cross the bridge. I dragged my friend Tamar, and marched into the packed shop. A very tall man with huge lobe holes that were weighed down by giant metal rings that grazed his shoulders greeted us sternly. I was trying to take everything in, as he marched through the show room. It was all very intense and confusing. Finally, Tamar asked why weren't all the plug sizes together instead of (what seemed like) randomly placed in fancy glass cases. 

This set our guide off...

He began ranting and raving about Taste. When met with out blank stares he alluded that maybe we didn't have it. He thought for a minute, then said he came up with an analogy that we ladies might understand: you wouldn't put Prada next to something from Target. This shitty speech was exactly what I was hoping to avoid. Thanks dude, just because I don't have a spiral tattooed on my forehead and a feather adorned rat tail dreadlock doesn't mean I shop at Prada.  At this point, I started to zone out. As he continued to belittle Tamar's comment, I noticed how much his ears looked like vaginas. The heavy weights caused them to sway from side to side with every frothy word that spat from his red bearded mouth. After letting him loose steam, I decided to pick a pair and go. It must be exhausting to be a douche to everyone you meet. 

Once I left the store, I realized that this time I didn't feel like a looser... even with the harsh schooling about classy earlobe jewelry. The swinging vaginas flashed through my head again, and it dawned on me that I was probably just as judgmental as he was, but I choose to keep it in my head (and on this blog). Maybe we all have some teenage girl (otherwise known as insecurities) lurking in each of our personalities. I'm cool with who I am... and the more comfortable I get the smaller that teen becomes.

Double Strength Double Size

Every week or so, I treat myself to a Rockstar energy drink. I sip on the neon fizzy sauce until I'm so rev'd up I can hear my eyelids blink. When I pee- it comes out neon and fizzy, too. This makes me laugh because when I'm that jacked up, everything is awesome. 

I drink Rockstar, because it's the meat head older brother equivalent to Redbull. Its manufactured in Las Vegas for crying out loud. The can is so black and gold it looks like there should be a Jager shot included. When I sip on this drink, I get to indulge in my hidden yearning to be a douche, which is key, since by outward appearances I am a lazy Blipster Librarian.

Here are some more reasons why I drink Rockstar:

1. It taste so gross that I like to imagine I'm drinking booze, steroids, with a splash of cocaine.

2. I get so crazy- air punching is normal.

3. Everything I do at work seems like a Master Class with Sensei Nnekay

4. I like to imagine that it turns my insides BRIGHT GREEN- which it probably does... along with destroy the lining of my intestines.

5. Tea drinkers equate it to meth, and I like to freak out Tea Drinkers.

6. Their tag line: Double Strength/Double Size... is redundant and stupid- but when you add Double Fist, it makes it the best. 

7. Sometimes I like to drink it while I make eye contact with kids who are making a scene. It scares them more.

8. After finishing a can, I like to kick doors open instead of using the knob. 

Last but not least, I end up looking like this:

How Did I Get Here?

Once upon a time, my mother used to tell me that teaching would be a wonderful career choice to look into. I, then did the very mature thing of miming projectile vomit from both my mouth and eyeballs. Little did I know- seven short years later I would find myself knee deep in teenage sludge yelling at the top of my lungs about respect. I'm not a teacher, so I don't get those little "Stand and Deliver" moments... just constant yelling...

Luckily, I have been able to get some droplets of awesome from some interactions with kids and being a chaperon on a few trips... but mainly when I'm not balancing the budgets, creating schedules, attending meetings, ordering books, making displays, teaching orientations, fixing the printer, moderating clubs, sending out late notices, and managing the websites... I'm shushing kids. Telling people to be quiet is the worst. You don't think so... alright, next time you are on the bus, try walking to the back of the bus and tell those teens to be quiet. I don't blame the kids for giving me lip, if someone told ME to be quiet, I would most definitely roll my eyes. Then,again I am sassy and roll my eyes to just about anything... maybe it's a tick.

Being a High School Librarian involves a lot more than wearing hot glasses, when I was an Academic Librarian- I would do what most University Faculty do... look down on the peons in lower academia.

What a snob I was. This job takes tough skin and heart... and I've been lucky enough to score a job in a private high school- where job security is little more prevalent than in the public school arena. I think it's time we start to prioritize our state budgets and move some hard earned tax payer money into the school... because without great high school librarians... you get a bunch of dumbass kids.

Five bucks Chris Brown never went into the library when he was in school.

Chris Brown Is the Wooooooorst

Hey remember when Chris Brown was the next Michael Jackson? When he was a sweet little thing that had amaze-ball dance moves that made the boring creaky VMA worth watching again? This of course was pre- Kanye actn' a fool and making live TV the best thing ever. Here I'll remind you:




What a little turd shit he turned out to be.

In fact, "little turd shit" is too light for him. He is beyond words. Of course we all know why he is such a horrible person. There was the beating, then the parade of non apologies, then complaining of so called "haters", the unapologetic name of album F.A.M.E (forgiving. all. my. enemies- shut the hell up with that insane bullcrap), the cheating on his current girlfriend with an ex he beat up (LEAVE RIHANNA ALONE), the lyrics that objectify women, all his homophobic tweets, the accolades from the imbeciles who think he's still a good guy.

THE LIST CAN GO ON and ON.

But really the buck stops here:

His newest tattoo. 

I'm not even going to post the face of post beating Rihanna... ya'll can look that up- all you need to know is that woman's face looks just like it. 

Let that sink in. 

Also let me remind you that this is permanently on his neck. 

So, a lot of people are protesting that this is a "dia de los muertos face" or " it doesn't look like her at all" to all of that I say:

BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH

No matter how you spin it... it's an altered woman's face. Chris Brown physically altered a woman's face. 

Case Closed, He Sucks. 

I know, he has good jams: here's a tip he didn't make the beats, a producer did.

Sure, he has a great voice: there are so many male song birds out there to wipe this jackass from memory. Yes, he's a good dancer: watch So You Think You Can Dance. 

His craziness is entertaining: go the way of Kanye... he's twice the crazy and doesn't beat up women. 

Can we please say "Good Bye" to Christopher "I beat women and don't say sorry" Brown?!

He is a festering stain on the fabric of our Youth and Culture. As long as we celebrate him and keep giving him awards... he will keep doing WILDLY INAPPROPRIATE THINGS... which will tell our kids that it is not only OK to do these WILDLY INAPPROPRIATE THINGS, but you will get paid millions of dollars for doing so. 

Ghost Blocker

We recently got cable at the Homestead.

I've been living with Andrew for close to a year, meaning I've been living without cable for just as long. This is insane, because before I moved in I was pretty certain I would shrivel up into a wafer of sadness without ye ole boob tube.

To my surprise, I got used to not having it, but lets be honest- I was still watching Hulu and Netflix. It's not like I was looming a tapestry by candle light... come on now. So when we finally decided to jump back into the game, I sat blinking at the THOUSANDS of channels in the menu for me to surf. I felt like a WW1 POW driven insane by rapid flashed on the motion picture box. Meanwhile Andrew tucked into a variety of shows- mostly ghost related:

Paranormal Witness- Ghost Stories with Re-enactments

Haunted Antiques- Spooky Old Things

Ghost Adventures- Douches Yelling at Spirits

I would put the proper times and channels on here, but I'm not a TV Reviewer, plus I barely know what's going on with that box anymore.

29 = Confused Old Lady

Anywho- all this ghost watching has reminded me of my inability to connect with the beyond... beyooond. Believe me, I've tried. They just think I'm bootsy or something and stay the eff away. In other news- I've been having trouble with WiFi, both at work and at home.

This leads me to the only conclusion that something in my big head blocks frequencies... which both WiFi and ghosts communicate through.

I'm a Ghost Blocker.

Pile up

Have you ever had a day when your desk was a mess, you have a stack or work looking at you, you remembered that there is something important due in two days, you have a meeting with your boss in 20 minutes, your direct reports keep nagging you about their work you assigned them, and you have to pee?

Yet, despite it all you eat chips and check facebook.

Expletive!

I didn't realize how salty my sailor mouth was until I surrounded myself with underage folks and statues of sad face jesus' (jesuses, jesui, saviors o' plenty?). Ahhh Catholic School... I'm pretty good at controlling my vulgar in normal day to day talk, being an overachieving only child I was skilled in the language switcheroo. The main problem is when I bang my head/foot or drop something. This would be fine if I muttered a mild mannered "crap" or "damn" no... I go full on "MOTHER F**KER". I picked up this lovely verbiage from my father, my mom still whispers the word damn and will occasionally thrown in a "h-e-double hockey sticks" for good measure.

Nothing like having this staring at you when you drop a MF Bomb:

I'm so sorry Sad Face Jesus. 

Tis the Season

Jesus in a manger it's busy this year.

What in the devil's eggnog was i thinking, when i decided to take on a new job, move into a house, re-decorate said house, all promptly around the holiday season?! I do know one thing, next year this time will be a lot more quiet. Unless you know, the Mayans and Hippies were right, and the world will end. Then I'm thinking this time next year will be a little stressful.

day dreaming and I'm thinking of you

I have some incredibly creative friends.

No, seriously. They are fucking creative. Like painting/drawing/acting/musical/vocal/sewing/knitting/crocheting creative. Many of them perform on the regular and get compensation for their crafts.

You understand now? I'm friends with artists which is pretty amazing. Even my boyfriend, who wouldn't classify himself as an artist per se, can build a computer out of thin air. Can you do that? I for hell can't.

So what am I getting at... well, I'm proud. Very proud, and feel that I am in a very unique circumstance of surrounding myself with people who are doing quality things for themselves. I just wish I could emulate this creativity. Now that I'm settled in my job, I feel more comfortable sneaking in a little bloggie-bloggie every now and again. So hopefully this will stir the juices. I'm crocheting again... which is nice. I think it just takes practice and major dedication to make sure your craft is fulfilled. Also, to be inspired by the ones that surround me instead of jealous. Jealousy does nothing but create wrinkles.

As much as I like being a librarian, I do have a dream... that one day I'll be interviewed by some one famous (like oprah or conan) and one of the wacky facts about me will be that I was once a high school librarian.

:-/

When "big" and "black" evoke the image of scary, you begin to wonder what people think of you as a tall African American Woman.

sigh.

If I had a goddamn tumbr would that make me cool or passe. Or does it even matter any more. The Cool Meta factor has gotten out of control.

yo.

What? No write for month? Damn.

Will write more. Thanks. Good. Bye.

PS- I totally bought a slut wear costume this year for Halloween... I know right, I normally would go as something witty and inanimate, like Bea Arthur's sensible hand clutch... oh that's a good one. Yet this year, teenagers, boyfriend, and the deathly crawl towards 30 has lead me in to the boob hugging petty coat land of ridiculous that defines being sexy. Here's the real sad part... I found my costume in the Teen section.

God Bless America.

and good night.

Dear World

I have been sucked into the realm of new jobs and teenagers. Currently I think my brain is leaking from my ears. Someday I will write again. Someday...

Meanwhile- I did complete a short story. Which I reread shortly after completion and decided it was the worst thing ever. I might revisit that junk later in life... but yea- at least I finished it.

Go me.

Why I Never Did Acid

There are various reasons why I never did hallucinogenics, but recently it dawned on me the trippy crap that was thrown in my face by various seemingly innocent films. So, I'm just going to take the easy way out and blame them. Below are my top 4 scary montages of freakiness for children:

4. All In The Golden Afternoon- Alice in Wonderland (1951)



Let's be honest, this is actually the tamest of the tame... mostly because the whole damn movie is freaky, but not as spectacularly freaky as the original book(jabberwocky, anyone?)... or frankly, Lewis Carroll. The fact that corporate Disney decided to adapt this book in the gee-golly 1950's is a feat in itself. Yet, there is something slightly disturbing about kissing feline flowers, toast butterflies, and roses that HAD to be the inspiration for Audrey 2.


3) Willy Wonka and the Wonderous Boat Ride- 1971



Scary, dark, spoiled brats, and Gene Wilder's hair! That damn chant he sings, not to mention I swear they cut the head off of a chicken in one of those crazy-ass background clips. I loved this movie, but even to this day I fast forward through this and that lame "Cheer Up Charlie" song that goes on 35 minutes too long.

2) Pink Elephants on Parade- Dumbo- 1941


Now we're getting into horror territory... there is no denying this freak show is scary biz. I don't even know where to start. That song. Mr. I'm made up of entirely angry elephant heads. The two elephants passing by each other only to be connect by their butts. Why were they showing kids this movie during WWII in the first place?! By the by this is definitely the scariest of the bunch, but Dumbo is such a sad movie, this terrifying night tremor is practically a release.

1) Heffalumps and Woozles- Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day- 1968


Let's be honest, did you really expect this out of Winnie the Pooh? I sure as hell didn't! The story is mild, Pooh bear is sweet, and their adventures are nowhere near this drug induced psychobabble. Right when the silly old bear goes floating into the ether, you know some freaky sights about to be had. More marching hyper color elephants?! WHY?! When those jump roping elephant and rat toys stop and stare at you... I damn near peed my pants.

Laughing Jack-in-the boxes... THE. WORST.

Nnekay vs. Daggers of Death: Pt. Two Electric Boogaloo

It was a face melting hot day.

Well not hot in the sense that New Orleans was an ever bucket of sweaty goop, but more in a weenie California- can't handle anything over 75 degrees- way.

Just look at Kail up there... all deflated and sprawled out. Her, me, and my boyfriend, Andrew were sweating it out.

Yet for some reason, I had this tiny little inkling of energy. Which I decided to use towards THROWING KNIVES!

So I went back to my slab of wood Andrew set up for me originally, and began tossing away, in the tomahawk sort of fashion a fine young chap on youtube taught me.

After completely scaring the ducks into a corner of the yard, I finally started making it close to my target:
But as you can see... not that close.

I started getting angry and wildly flailing my arms in the direction of the board:


The results angered me more, causing a wilder-beast to emerge from the deep dark sections of my being. I began lunging the knifes at the board:

Which, with increasing intensity started to land around the yard.

It was at that point, my brave boyfriend called, "Baby..." mind you this was from inside the house, "maybe you should move the board... looks like you might get it lost in the bushes." I replied, with a little bit of crazy in the eye,

"Nooooo, I know what I'm doing!" and continued throwing daggers around his backyard.

This one scared the crap out of me, but when throwing knives a little fear is good... so I considered it a win.

I threw one last knife, thinking this would be my ending shot filled with awesome- it promptly landed in the bushes.

A black hole of bushes if you will.

Feeling very badass from my knife throwing high, I dove head first into the depths. The further and darker I pushed through, a strong nervous tingle began to trickle down my spine.

Would if... there is a wild rat in here?

Would if... that rat is dead?

Would if... I find a dead bird?

Would if... I find a dead bird being eaten by a rat?!?!

While such thoughts were ran rampant through my mind, I stumbled upon something hard and scratchy. I flipped. Stumbling backwards to fall into the safety of the house.

To show how insane my imagination is, this is my boyfriend's cute and nowhere near rat infested garden (he built that fence himself!):
Later on, I watched the real badassness happen as he stoically chopped away ("I didn't like this bush anyway") with a giant hoe, to help find my knife.

Turns out, I was afraid of a small tree stump.

Nnekay Vs. The Dirty South

FYI- I'm a librarian. Shocking I know... and recently all the magical book wizards of the nation gathered for their annual Libros Fiesta. This year it was located in Fiesta Central New Orleans... NOLA... 'nawlins... you get the point.

Being the extra special book wizard that I am, I managed to get a grant to the gathering. So I packed my bags, grabbed my roommate, Heather... and scooted on down to the nether regions of our great country.

Since, Stephanie the blogger, mommy, feminist, and friend extraordinaire was just as excited about this trip as I was, she suggest various challenges for me to complete, to which I said, "BRING IT ONNNNNN!!!"

Challenge 1: Dance to zydeco in the street

Okay... so I thought this would be an awesome idea to document, because I have wildly skinny noodle arms that kinda waggle around when I try to "dance". Zydeco music sorta lends itself to herky jerky feet scootn' movements... Wut? Ya don't know zydeco, baaaby?



Okay, now that's been establish... I didn't do it. I know, you're super bummed that there isn't footage of me do si do-ing with some swamp man. I'm sorry, but I'm lazy... annnnnd I didn't want to gather more attention from the already leery eyeballs of old southern "gentlemen".

Strike one Nnekay.

Challenge 2: Have a beignet for breakfast, po boy for lunch, and a Pimm's cup at dinner

Bam Sucka! Did this 'ish!

For the beignet, I went to the legendary Cafe Du Monde. Which. Was. Pack. Good lord that place was packed. I've never seen so many people lining up for some doughnuts and coffee with cream... wait, wait... sorry a beignet and cafe au lait. That said- it was GOOD. I love me some fried food, and I love me some sugar. This was if Sugar and Fried had a baby, then gave it steroids. Fried food is basically the official food of the south, and I can't quite grasp how people aren't collapsing left and right from the heat/ grease combo!

Here are some pigeons enjoying the local fare:

Speaking of fried....

I didn't have a po boy... I wanted one, but for some reason all the spots we went to eat didn't offer them. Which is kinda insane, but instead I will use up this space to talk about something I did eat, and is often times the content of a po boy: A Fried Oyster. In short, it tasted like a fried piece of sea jell-o.

Oh Mr. Pimm and your Pimm's Cup. This is a drink that taste so old time-y that after your first sip, you feel like slapping on a curled mustache and tossing around a medicine ball.
I wasn't too pleased at first, but like weird Swedish black licorice candy, it was super addicting... I sucked that puppy down. Yet, it didn't taste like a drink, more like a fancy soda pop. Could also be due to the fact that I was drinking this electric nonsense the night before:

Challenge 3: Eat Gator

Gator was the very first food at the very first restaurant in New Orleans. Why I didn't take a picture of it, and why I have so many pictures of me drinking is a mystery I will never solve. The way it looked was nothing to shout home about. Small nuggets of bouncy ambiga-meats served in a dish. I have to say it was super mild in flavor, chewy, and actually very delightful. Until I ate an extremely fishy bit and remembered what I was consuming was neither, fish, nor poultry, nor hooved meat... but rather something that was like a giant jumbled piled of all of it.

Challenge 4: Go to a Voodoo Shop

I walked passed one. It was sooooo touristy, that I refused to go in. Ladies with faces painted as skulls shaking things at drunk dudes. So instead, I will talk about the time I entered a Voodoo store here in the Bay. Mariposa Botanica may not be exactly "voodoo" but in my little hokey-doke opinion a New Orleans voodoo shop would probably have the same amount of stuffs. Candles... dried fish things, a cranky old lady, a black cat, and a weird bird just chilln'. There were little vials of potions and such, some were even labeled "dragon's blood"-- (which is totally not voodoo) When I went to go sniff at some potions the woman screamed at me to not get so close... so I hustled out the store scared that the tip of my nose might spring a boob or something.

So there you are, A challenge lazily completed. I could write many a posts on librarian wear (teva and hoop skirts), the racial tension of the south (you can cut it with a knife), and the weather (I felt like a glazed ham the whole time there), but instead I will leave this post with the most important parts of New Orleans:

The Food


The Music


and The Beauty

Nnekay Vs. Daggers of Death

I like knives.

I know it's kinda crazy, but I do. My mom is probably looking at this post right now and going, "What the hell?!Who is this carnival kid I raised?!"

Yes, Mom... I like knives.

Now, I've never indulged in the act of getting anything really that dangerous, because I'm a weenie. I've dabbled in a fake Swiss Army knife in college, during my hippie phase. While other kids danced to Sublime and tossed a crocheted hacky sac around a quilt, I perched myself by a tree, loosened up my overalls, and tried my hand at whittling.

I kid you not.

This mostly just resulted in a smaller twig than the one I started with, but the activity was fun for the short amount of time before I decided to pick up the harmonica.

My tiny foray into the wild world of dull blade twig cutting did not calm my knife fascination. I've always been scared of the freaky giant jagged doom daggers, but the ability to stick a knife into a counter and demand service has always been a hidden passion of mine.

I wont ever do it, because I'm a sane person.

Yet, I do linger when walking past the weapon counter at a sporting good store.

With my new blog activity challenge in place- My awesome ass boyfriend suggested that I learn to throw knives. Which sounded mysterious and dangerous at the same time. Being the lazy person that I am, I said, "THAT'S COOL!" Then promptly made a lazy plan to get throwing knives in the indeterminate future of laziness.

Then last night, he surprised me with my very own pair of jet black ninja style throwing knives. To which I said "GAME ON!"

I ran out to the backyard, with the look of crazy in my eyes... my poor boyfriend now realizing the insanity he ignited carefully looked at me with caution as he set up a wooden board for me to try my hand at. As soon as he managed to get slightly out of the way.... WHAP! WHAP! I threw the knives at the board. They collided with a heavy thud against the wood and lay lifeless on the soft dirt. I hustled up to the board grabbed the knives and started again. WHAP! WHAP!

This continued for 45 minutes. I lost the knives a couple times in the bushes... where my fear of a hidden dead animal took over my knife created badassness... and had to solicit the help from my now concerned for my sanity bf. I continued lunging the knives at the board until...

WHAP!

One actually stuck to the board! TRIUMPH! I jumped and pumped my hands in the air, then went to go drag my bf out to check out the damage like a deranged 5 year old.

Now, this oddsey is faaaar from over and I plan to continue to document the process of me learning the ins and outs of knife throwing, so I will try to do some smaller challenges in between this one. Hopefully, I will end up a Jedi master of throwing sharp things at wooden non-alive objects.

Defensive Shyness

If you know me-(and I bet you do since you are reading this and I'm not like some insanely cool hip blogger about town... yet) then you know that I'm kinda the opposite of shy.

But that's fake! Fake I tell you, 'cause in actuality I'm super shy but can do a bang up job trying to pretend that I'm not. Here are three tricks I've learned to hide my shyness:

1. Keep an open happy face- so when non shy people spot me they get fooled that I am from their tribe- so they come to converse. This unfortunately has a backlash known as the Crazy Quadrant. Crazies spot happy faces and are attracted to them like moths to a flaming death. Due to my happy open face, crazies tend to think that I'm the bees knees. Usually, I can escape a crazy, by immediately shutting down my face into a stone cold angry woman- but sometimes I get fooled into a 45 minute conversation about Fern Emotions with someone who seemed normal. Sigh...

2. I try to think of things to continue a conversation. People might mistake this as actual conversation, but if I don't know you... I'm basically just trying to stay one step ahead of you.

3. I nod and say 'yes' a lot- people like it when you agree with them. Unless it's nazi propaganda or some other wackness- but I usually don't have to deal with racist folks- me being black tends to weed them from the bunch.

Those are my three tips... they work as long as I don't say anything weird, and as a result people tend to place me in the extrovert box.

The only time my shyness completely overwhelms me is at mixers, specifically work mixers. I have no idea why, but I can't seem to work up enough nerve to march up to some and be like, "hey what's up, yo!"

Maybe because my money is on the line. Hmmmm.

Anywho- yesterday I was at one... with wine. The booze factor always ups the shy, because, I don't want to get drunk and booze = fancy. So, as I gripped my wine glass I watched the others mingle. As they slowly revolved around each other- sniffing and feeling each other out as we humans do, I found myself slowly drifting to the cheese table smiling along the way. I dropped the knife and smiled as people eyed me. I tried standing by a clump of people- just outside of the circle- smiling and listening... no room to jump in. So I smiled and slowed melted my way back to a table. Where I stood, gobbled cheese, and guzzled wine. Smiling all the time as the service staff flashed nervous glances in my direction. Eventually, I busted my way into a couple conversations, but man did I hate that initial feel of being a weirdo as I stood there nervously watching people getting to know each other.

Later that night over dinner, my boyfriend casually mentioned an article detailing certain personality traits which helped survival in olden times.

"shyness."

"really?!"

"yea... cause if you look in the eyes of a wolf you might get attacked."

I smiled to myself this time, because I felt a little bit less like a weirdo.