24 Random (and Entertaining) Facts About Me

I know, I know. I've been so bad about posting this month. But in my defense, February is not only the shortest month, it is the most ridiculous month of celebrations for me. Between my sister's birthday, Valentine's Day, President's Day/Washington's Birthday/whatever it is, AND the most glorious day of all (my birthday, duh), I've been busy. And absent-minded. And a hot mess. Plus I got all these cool, new games for my date of birth, and I've been binge playing like a 12-year-old boy. (Did I mention that I love Harvest Moon?) But enough with the excuses.

I plan on writing an entire post dedicated to what I've been doing with my life this month, but it involves pictures...and I'm just not in the mood to do that right now. HOWEVER, I was born a little over 24 years ago, and I thought I'd do a fun facts post, a la Mental Floss. So here goes.

24 Fun(ish) Facts About Me:

1.  While in elementary school, I had a slew of imaginary friends. The most vivid memory I have of said imaginary friends is when I hung out with the entire cartoon cast of Scooby Doo. Daphne was my best friend, and I had a crush on Fred (but really, who didn't?). They went on car rides to the grocery store with my mother and me, and I imagined that they slept over on imaginary clouds in my room. Who's got two thumbs and a vivid imagination?

2. I had alopecia areata as a kid. One day, my mom noticed I had a bald patch on my head while we were walking back from the bus stop. I really never thought anything of it until I got older. I legitimately thought that all parents put goop onto their kids' bald patches every night and complained when it stained the towels. Clearly, my hair grew back, but it took years. And it made me terrified of getting a haircut.

3. Speaking of haircuts, my beautician (is that what they're called? I usually just called her "my haircut lady") once only cut half of my hair. The other side wasn't even touched. I was about 10 or 11, and I noticed as soon as I got home. I cried and cried and my parents ended up taking me back to her house around 9 p.m. to get it fixed. We all laughed about it afterward...but I've been paranoid about my hair ever since.

4. Until college, I had no clue "Polack" was a derogatory term for a Polish person. Whenever my clothes didn't match, which happened quite often during my childhood years, my mom (sorry mom) would call med a Polack. So naturally I thought it meant a person who couldn't dress themselves well. Then college happened, and I found out the truth.

5. I also didn't know what marijuana smelled like until college. I was walking to lunch with friends, and I commented about the skunk nearby. All of them looked at me like I was an idiot. None of you reading this are surprised by this, but I'm sure my dad is proud. You're welcome, dad.

6. I was convinced around age 8 that I was an Animorph. Go ahead. Laugh. It gets better.

7. My favorite Animorph was Tobias, and he could morph into a red-tailed hawk. So began my obsession with hawks and birds of prey.

8. Because of 6 and 7, I wrote a book where Tobias and I fell in love, saved the world, got married, and had babies. I also took up the nickname Hawk, which my sister and all of her friends still giggle about. AND I had an imaginary red-tailed hawk named Cryptic.

9. Cryptic usually sat on my green mountain bike, which I thought was a horse. A black stallion named Lightning. Shut up.

10. Until a few days ago, I thought I started keeping track of my life via journal around 6-years-old. My mom ended up sending me my birthday gifts and some stuff of mine she found at home. One of those things was a journal from when I was...four? Five? It's hard to tell, or even read. I need an anthropologist.

11. Speaking of writing, here is my first book. I called it "Frozen in Time" after a David Blaine stunt that I watched with my dad. It basically pulls (and by "pulls" I mean "totally steals") from the Digimon TV series and melds it with all the guys I thought were cute in 5th grade. What could be better? Double fun fact: My fifth grade teacher read it to the class. I remember being elated, feeling famous, and getting compliments from classmates afterward. It definitely fueled my writing for the next few years, for sure.

12. Other majors I considered before settling on journalism/English: psychology, Spanish, theater/performing, linguistics arts and communication. In high school, I realized aspiring to be an author was not a lucrative career. Surprise, journalism isn't either! But I realized what I liked writing about was real people doing extraordinary things, so that was my driving force into the world of journalism. Then I realized I liked rules and grammar more than the act of interviewing, so I fell into copy editing and design.

13. I stopped swim classes at level 8 because I was awful at treading water.

14. If I were a Sim, my lifetime aspiration would be to own and operate an animal sanctuary/shelter AND be a falconer. Come on, lottery. *blows on dice*

15. I think I would love gardening, but I hate weeding more than any chore in this world. My parents used to make me weed in the summer, and it sucked. What sucked more was being told that my sister was always doing a better job at it than me. Ugh. The worst.

16. I once kissed a boy in the backseat of the bus in kindergarten. My friend told on me. My parents found out. I was not pleased.

17. If I had to eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be cheese. Mounds and mounds of cheese, please.

18. I am notorious for failing at stepping stones. I have, on more than one occasion, fallen into the stepping stone water at Brookfield Zoo's children's zoo. My mom had to buy me a new outfit once, and socks another time.

19. I never hit snooze until after college, when I worked at a job I didn't like very much. Snooze became a wonderful option then.

20. I'm so bad at birthdays. So bad. Jason gave me stink eye once after he surprised asked me when his birthday was. I was a day off, so sue me. Anyway, this is the reason that I am so grateful and will respond to each person individually when he/she writes a happy birthday note on my wall. Because I will forget, and I'll end up texting you at 11 p.m. with my well wishes or just avoid the topic altogether. I am the worst.

21. I used to keep track of all the boys I dated with a gel pen on the back page of my cat journal. Looks like 12, but I scratched some out, so who knows.

22. My dream is to be a contestant (or castaway) on Survivor. I've written numerous poems and books on the idea, I named the family dog after a woman on the second season (Amber) and I changed the spelling of my nickname to that of a different woman on that same season (Kimmi). Yes, I still use that as my nickname.

23. Jason will not let me hyphenate my last name...if he ever chooses to put a ring on it. So I suggested a combined name: Yateski, mostly because Skates wouldn't work too well.

24. Oh man...this one has to be good...uhhhh...this kid, in first grade, used to call me "four-eyes," which I never thought was a thing. I mean, he was totally right. I had huge, circular John Lennon-esque glasses that were a speckled pink and purple deal. I hated wearing them. So this kid makes fun of me, and I chase him around the school for a week or so. Then, this kid has the gall to tell on me to his teacher, who comes in my first grade classroom and asks me why I keep chasing him around the school. I don't say anything (because I hate being in trouble) and she chides me and tells me never to do it again. I should be pissed that this kid got away with making fun of my glasses, but I'm not. He's done jail time for drug-related offenses, so in the grand scheme of things, my four eyes won. BAM!

Ophelia Bedelia (or Ophie Minestophie)

Fun fact: I love animals.

Friends who have known me for any longer than a week know that my life goal is to own an animal shelter/sanctuary, save all the strays, and let them know they're all loved. (Even though some of them probably don't care. But whatever. I can save them and give them food and water.) Friends who know me better know that animals and I have a ... unique connection.

Examples:

1. I grew up with two golden retrievers (Brandy and Misty). I liked to crawl under their furry bellies (Misty was not a fan. Brandy gave zero shits.), hug them WAY too hard, eat their food and step in their water dish. So, of course, my first words were "woof woof." My mother was not pleased.

2. There is a photo of me kissing a dead fish. That probably was payback for my first words...

3. Animals that have injured me in some way: Dog (bite, no blood), cat (so many bites and scratches), bunny (bite), guinea pig (bite), hamster (bite), horse (requested a dismount by falling over and nearly rolling on my dad and me. Gave dad two black eyes), ram (knocked over, aka "rammed"), goose (goosed), giraffe (see #4), ostrich (bite)...that may be it.

4. I once went on a family trip the circus. I couldn't have been older than 6 or 7 because I was wearing my hot pink pineapple shirt.

It looked like this, but with sleeves. The pineapple was cooler, too.

So anyway, we went to the circus. Afterward, there was a petting zoo area where families could walk through and see some of the animals that were in the show. I assume there was somewhere you could feed them, but my parents tried to avoid those areas at all costs; they KNEW I would spend an hour there rationing balls of grain to llamas and goats. It was my thing. (Surprisingly, it still is my thing, but I'm much better at reading the signs of boredom in others' faces these days.)

I remember staring at the giraffes. I was so close to them! I only saw them in zoos! They were so cool, so awkwardly graceful. And then my family vanished. They weren't next to me like they were two (or was it 15?) minutes ago, and I got nervous. I spun around, scanning the area for Mom, when I felt a yank at my shirt. At the same time, I heard my mom shout, "KIMMIE!!!" and run toward me. I thought she was so happy to see me again and maybe she was going in for a hug.

Wrong.

She ran behind me and started whacking at my shirt. I tried to turn around, and got a quick glimpse of the sad and hurt giraffe as her long neck retreated back into the cage.

Side note: Hands down, my favorite memory of my mother.

5. I once let a goat out of the pen at Brookfield Zoo.

6. I once left my stroller to "play with the elephants" at Brookfield Zoo.

7. I once shoved my hand into a cage to "pet the kitty" (bobcat) at Brookfield Zoo.

8. I have kissed so many frogs and toads. Still no prince.

9. I cry when any animals die in movies, and I refuse to watch movies in which animals are killed.

The point is, I love all creatures great and small, even if they don't love me. I don't mean to sound like a sap, but that love has been multiplied by a billion since the day I met Ophelia.

She's such a prima donna.

Disclaimer: People think I'm a crazy cat lady because I have three cats. For the record, two of the cats came as a package deal with the boyfriend, and although we are on good terms, they are not my cats. Proof? They're on Jason's schedule. If it's not dinner and Jason's at work, they're sleeping on his bed. When he gets home, all hell breaks loose and they're super playful. And when he wants to go to bed? Fuji sleeps behind his legs and Dakota sleeps on his old pants. They did not choose me, and they make sure I know it.

That said, I freaking love my cat.

I promised myself two things during college: 1. I would live alone my senior year, and 2. I would get a pet. I wanted a dog, I really did, but I wasn't willing to pay a nonrefundable deposit, and I knew my work at the Star would keep me from devoting the time and attention my hypothetical dog needed. Dogs cost a crapton of money; the family dog -- Amber T. -- goes through $60ish dollars of dog food a month. That's a lot of food...and poop. Plus, I wanted to agility train my future dog, and there wasn't much room anywhere. At the time, I knew a cat was the best for me.

I had rules for the cat, too.

1. No kittens. I needed an adult cat. Like a puppy, a kitty would take too much time, and I spent a lot of time at the office. Plus, rates were better for adult cats older than six months. I was on a budget, yo.

2. Younger, agile adult wanted. Like a young cat, a senior cat likely would have more medical expenses and need more attention. I'm in no way against adopting older animals; I would love to do that some day. But one needs to have a little extra cash for vet visits. Mainly I wanted to be this kitty's entire life, like every forever home should be.

3. She needed to perch. I once knew a cat who would hop onto my back and climb onto my shoulder. It was the coolest thing ever. I wanted one of those.

4. No aloof cats. You know what I'm talking about. The ones that hide in the corner or stare at you from the top of the kitty condo. Eff those cats. Come love me.

5. NO LONG HAIR CATS. I was set on this. I could not deal with an obscene amount of hair. Many of my friends were allergic to cats, and I found out via live experiments that my parents and sister were, too. The shorter hair, the better. Naked cats were not an option, either, in case you were wondering.

I was 4 for 5. I call that a win.

One day in late July 2011, my nearest and dearest friend Nora and I took a trip to TAILS Humane Society. She is terribly allergic to cats, but she suffered in silence so I could pick out my new best friend. (I promise I asked her about 10 times if she was sure she wanted to come. I didn't just make her do it. Geez. What kind of person do you think I am?) We visited three cat rooms with no luck. I didn't have that bond with any of them, and Nora's face was really red and watery.

Downtrodden (and at Nora's urging), we visited the last cat room. I sat down in the plastic lawn chair and waited. Out of nowhere, this tiny, furry, calico mess trotted over and hopped into my lap. She plopped down, looked up at me, and I knew I was her's.

Two sassy peas in a pod.

I returned a week later with her new, green carrying case (which she hates), signed the paperwork and took her home. She hid behind the toilet for an hour, but other than that, she was fine. She deemed my bed as her bed, sat on my lap whenever I ate, and indulged me with her antics. Ugh. I JUST LOVE HER SO MUCH.

I learned she was least part Maine Coon when she insisted on drinking water out of the bathroom faucet. Until then, I just thought she liked talking to me. And birds. And squirrels. And other people. And bugs...all of the bugs.

She's actually yawning here, but you get my point. Also, WTF picture?

I taught her to perch. I'm sure I have scars to prove it was a difficult journey. I think it took at least a year. But look how cute she is once she learned:

This is still touch and go. Sometimes she's good at it, sometimes she claws my bare skin.

I'm pretty sure I dote on her like a mother dotes on her human children. I take waaaayyyy to many pictures of her. I think every time she fetches a hair tie is funny. I'm her catnip dealer, and I cannot get over how silly she is when she's nipping out. I've chased her around the room with a squirt bottle in the middle of the night because she wouldn't stop playing with that goddamn tweeting toy. I've apologized profusely when I scream at her for hurting me because I know she didn't mean it, and I probably shouldn't have pet her on her back leg anyway. I'm certain she understands my feelings and knows when it's a good time to nap with me.

Best picture ever.

She's special. I'm sure everyone says that about their pets, but whatever. She's the most special. She filled a hole my heart never knew it had, and when she inevitably goes to the great kitty condo in the sky, it'll crush me in 20 different ways. But I don't think about it too much. Right now, I just worry about which one of Jason's cats she's going to tear apart first. Today, it's Fuji.

One of her letting me kiss her. She fell asleep on me like this for a solid half hour.

And one of us holding hands. Because we're best furry friends.

Hindsight is 20/20

There's a home video, somewhere, of the first day I got to see my sister after she was born. My dad was behind the camera, narrating and cooing at the bundle of "joy" as she was crying like...well, a baby. Then the camera pans to nearly 4-year-old me. I'm sitting at a desk, feet dangling above the ground, staring straight at the camera. Pissed.

I don't know why I was so sullen. Maybe it was because Caroline was squawking for God knows what reason. Maybe it was because I felt like I had been lied to -- this was not the sister I was looking for. I didn't want a red, floppy, crying baby thing. I wanted someone to play with. That was the promise my parents made, and they certainly hadn't delivered.

But the irritation didn't stop there. I was upset enough over this cruel trick, but then my father thought it was the perfect time for a pop quiz.

Dad: There's big sister Kimmie!

Me: *glares*

Dad: What's your new sister's name?

Me: *more glaring*

Dad: What's the name of your sister, Kimmie?

Me: *turns to look at very interesting white wall*

Dad: Can you say the name of your sister?

Me: *smacks head into desk*

He didn't get past the first question.

*  *  *

Growing up with Caroline was pretty awesome. I mean, I had a blast. I knocked out her front tooth a few days before Easter, swung a stick into her eye on Christmas Eve and gave her a pretty bad gash on her ankle from playing on the stationary bike. Don't worry; she retaliated. She popped the head off of my favorite Barbie (after burning off a chunk of her hair with a light bulb), forced her smelly sneakers onto my muzzle, even killed a baby toad I had caught. We hit, kicked, screamed, slammed doors, called each other names and avoided eye contact for days.

But it wasn't all bad. She was built-in entertainment on a boring day. She liked to explore the creek with me and didn't mind treks to the local horse barn. We once combined our Beanie Babies to make a big zoo. And we played a lot of games (that I seemed to always win). She talked more than the dogs, and her first word was "Kiki," so that was pretty cool.

*  *  *

I don't think I truly realized how much I enjoyed my sister's company until I went off to college. I had a lot of fun testing the adult world, but whenever I drove home, I got excited to spend hours in my sister's room, talking about her friends and boys and school, but those weekends went by so fast. And then the months went by so fast and I turned around and another year was gone. I cried every time I had to drive back to school because I slowly realized how much time I spent ignoring and avoiding her during my childhood, and it was for no good reason.

I planned on having a "last hurrah" the summer before her freshman year in college. I wanted to take her to a bunch of places and spend a ridiculous amount of time tanning and relaxing, like an extended version of our family vacations to the Ozarks. That didn't work out; I got a job before I graduated and had to do my time. She went to school and I moved to McHenry, then Crystal Lake, then Little Rock. So really I'm not very good at moving closer to wherever she is at all.

I know, I'm rambling, but here's my point: When she was born, I thought I was going to hate her (probably. I can't remember, but I was pretty vain then, so), but it turns out that I actually kind of really love her. She puts up with my long diatribes about my cats, and I continually try to sort out her life goals and career choices. If I had to do it all again, I would've dropped all of my friends and boyfriends and hung out with her until she screamed at me to get lost, and then I probably would've followed her around for 10 more minutes just to see if she really meant it. If she needs me, she knows I'm a phone call away, and if she really REALLY needs me, she knows I will hop in my car and drive for 8 hours straight to help her.

I can't explain why; I just would. Because she's my sister. And I only have one.

My Bookshelf Challenge

I enjoy reading. I really do. But since I started working in the copy editing/design world (where reading literally is my job), I've been slacking. It's hard to read for pleasure when you have to read, comprehend, and make changes to someone else's (usually boring, mediocre, and lifeless) work for 8ish hours a day. Not to mention that the goal of my job was to ensure errors were caught before the pages went to print, so we wouldn't get a million emails and calls for accidentally running, say, the "annual poopy sale."

Yes, that really happened.

Anyway, while I'm on the hunt for a sweet new gig, I plan on keeping my mind sharp and indulging in three of my favorite things: reading, writing, and crosswords.

I still have to motivate myself to read, especially when there's a brand new episode of The Bachelor or some awful ABC family teen dramady calling to me from my TiVo. So I invented a game. Without further ado, here is by bookshelf challenge:

My challenge is the middle shelf. The bottom shelf is every book Jason owns. I know. We're working on it, okay?

I'm really good at collecting books. So good, in fact, that I probably have 50 books (at least) that I haven't read yet. My goal is to fill up one of these shelves with books I a) haven't read yet or b) haven't read since high school (so anything that I've read pre-2008 is up for grabs). Each month, I'll take a picture of my progress and write a little ditty on each selection. What's my reward for filling up a shelf, you ask? A book shopping spree on Amazon. I really couldn't have planned it any better. *pats self on back*

I only read a few books this month, but they're all goodies.


1-3. Part of the "Among the Hidden" series

"Among the Hidden," "Among the Imposters," and "Among the Betrayed" by Margaret Peterson Haddix

I read the first two of these bad boys sometime in fifth grade. I loved the idea of these kids who were my age hiding and changing their identities in order to survive. I remembered them from time to time, but it wasn't until I saw a blog post from my fifth grade teacher showing off his classroom library that I needed to read them again. Plus, I needed something that I could easily put down to tend to Jason while he was in and out of the hospital. The second time around, the books are just as good, but for a different reason. Get ready for some seriously dated internet jargon, and a lot of jumping to conclusions by an 11-year-old. I would not recommend these to my literary pals, but if you're a teacher or have kids in the 8- to 12-year-old range, check them out. So much fun.

4.  Whimsically religious book about Mormons

"The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance" by Elna Baker

I picked this book up at least a year ago because it was in the "cheap books bin" at B&N. I'm a sucker for memoirs. I'm a sucker for humor and whimsy. I lover the underdog, especially if the underdog is an oddball with a moral dilemma. And, I have to admit, my favorite memoirs tackle the idea of religion in such a human way that I cannot help but empathize with them (insert shout out to Beryl Singleton Bissell's "The Scent of God" here). I do not consider myself a religious or faith-filled person, and I'm okay with that. But I like to think and question and learn, and this book allowed me to examine Mormonism (and how, for some, it's not just a "crazy" religion that involves "magic" underwear") in a new way. And I can honestly say that two weeks after finishing it, I still think about it. So there's that.

5. Harry Potter. Need I say more?

Do I even need to caption this? Probably not. That's our cat, Fuji, by the way.

I started reading the Harry Potter series when I was 10ish, maybe 11. I got the first three books for Christmas and plowed through them. And I plowed through each new book when it hit the shelves. I would have races with my other Harry Potter reading friend to see who would get done first...so I'm not sure how much I actually comprehended. I bought book seven, but I never got around to reading it...probably because my boyfriend at the time was too cool for Harry Potter. Or the Beatles. Or drinking. But whatever -- I've seen recent pictures. I know he's balding.

I don't need to go over this with you. We all know what Harry Potter did to our age group. We all had a crush on/dated/kissed/married a scrawny kid with glasses and brown hair in a constant state of disarray. We identified with these characters, pretended our broomsticks were enchanted, and recited Latin phrases hoping to turn our siblings into toads. The magic is still there after 12 years of separation from this book, and I cannot wait to finish the rest of the series...this time with a sense of wonderment, knowledge, and understanding of what J.K. Rowling and The Boy Who Lived did for a generation of people -- from casual readers to bookworms.


Now if you'll excuse me, my heat's out again and I need to check into a hotel.

Three "Fun" Facts About Little Rock

1. The way they handle ice/wintry mix/snow is appalling.

We all saw what happened in Atlanta earlier in the week, and although I find it hilarious, the truth is that even with my northern sensibilities, I refuse to drive in slick conditions down here because NO ONE ELSE CAN DRIVE in them, either. Allow me to explain:

In Chicago/the suburbs/northern Illinois, people are aware of snow and ice. And although it isn't pleasant (and y'all sure have been getting dumped on with that stuff), northerners manage to get to and fro with few troubles. Add to that a knowledge of shoveling and God's greatest gift to Earth -- salt -- and it sucks, but it's not TOO bad. Go slow, anticipate sliding, and you're fine.

The problem with Little Rock is that it rarely gets below freezing, and when it does, it's for, like, a day. This winter has brought the "worst ice storms ever," but that's mostly because they're woefully unprepared. And why would you be, with 50- to 60-degree temperatures throughout January? *Facepalm* Let me break it down in a simple equation:

Few plows + sand (which is "better" than salt) + hills + disregarding common traffic laws = one helluva mess

Now imagine the slowest driver you ever encountered. Reduce the speed that car was driving by...10-15 mph, and you have 90 percent of Arkansan winter drivers. Example: Jason and I passed a cop going 30ish on a highway that was nearly clear of snow and ice. We were going about 50. At first I was concerned about passing the guy, but then I thought: Hey, even if he wants to pull us over, he probably can't catch us. I was right.

The other 10 percent of drivers pretend the snow doesn't exist, and those are the cars you see in the ditch. I can't imagine their drifting skills are that high.

The only prepping Arkansans actually do for awful weather is clear the shelves at Kroger/Walmart to stock up on food and shut EVERYTHING down. Nevermind that a ton of them live on hills and need to throw down some salt (if it even exists down here); they just hang out in their houses until it melts. And these hills are steep. I should know; we live at the top of a hill and have a 40 degree incline to get into our garage. When it sleets, we park in the cul-de-sac. When Jason and I went to see this place before we moved in, we had to CRAWL up the slushy yard because the driveway was too icy to walk up. There was a lot of scooting on my tush that day. So, yeah, basically it's a hot mess.

And just in case you cared, winter weather tools aren't a priority here, either. I watched a woman use a wooden pole to beat the crap out of the ice chunks on her driveway...to no avail. Salt, people, salt!!

2. Heaters in the south are not like heaters in the north.

Northerners rely on gas or electric heat for the winter; in the south, it's all about the heat pumps. Again, because it doesn't get too cold too often down here, no one really cares about (what I like to call) properly heating their homes. They have a heat pump, which basically works as a heater/air conditioner hybrid. Now I'm all for energy efficiency/green technology, but I'm also about having a warm house when the cold days blow in. The heat pump pulls in the outside air, warms it, and pumps it through the vents...but it isn't that good at making really really cold air warm, which means my heat maxes out at 64 (if I'm lucky) on days like today. Plus, cold days make the heat pump run continuously, so it's oftentimes better to turn it off and retain the warmish air for a while.

Needless to say, I'm wearing multiple layers, a hat, and fleece blankets until Tuesday. If I don't get frostbite and die.

3. Turn signals? Optional.

When Jason and I first started dating, I criticized his driving. A lot. (He'll tell you that it's never stopped, but I like to think I've eased up a little.) His worst habit was (and is when I'm not in the car with him...I may have followed him a few times) his absolute refusal to use a turn signal. It's like the thought of, "Huh, maybe I should tell the person behind me where I'm going," never occurred to him. Need to turn right? Just slow down. Want to lane change? Turn your wheel and hope for the best.

Jason's excuse for this was, "But that's what they do where I'm from/the south." My retort was, "No, that's what idiot drivers do before they get killed. Now stop being an unlawful piece of work and use your goddamn turn signal." (Maybe I didn't use all of these words in that exact order, but you get my point.)

But, and I hate saying it, he was right. Turn signals are optional. It's a freaking free-for-all, and I am extra paranoid that if the hills don't get me, some dude slamming on his breaks to make a left will. Whenever I leave Target, I count the cars with a blinky back light. Usually it's just me. And I don't get it. Is it that hard? Does it require that much more thought? Mind. Freaking. Boggling.


I don't know why I felt like writing this. It pretty much drained the effort I set aside for today. Oh well; I'll just clean the bathroom tomorrow.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to curl up on the couch with a couple of kitties and stuff my face while rooting for the "wrong" team for a few hours. Go tweet tweets!