Today I faced one of my biggest fears and got a haircut. I know. It doesn’t seem like a monumental occasion, and you’re probably thinking I’m bat-shit crazy or that I’m really a 5-year-old masquerading as the classy woman I am. But, I assure you, I am not five nor classy.
It seems like a ridiculous thing to be scared of, but when you’re socially awkward… it’s a fear that runs deep. Forced conversations with a stranger with nowhere to run? There are very few things that are as terrifying as this.
Hairdresser: Hi Blair, how are you doing today?
Me: Hi! My name is Blair.
Hairdresser: Ooookay… What can I do for you today?
Me: I need like six inches off with some long whispy bangs. Not too short with the bangs though. My husband thinks they are ugly. He would never tell me what to do with my hair but I don’t want him to think I’m ugly. I rely on him for things, you know. I can either get bangs from you now, or get my bang from him later.
(looks up and realizes the hairdresser has bangs)
Me: You can be the exception to the rule because yours look good. I’m sure my husband wouldn’t think you were ugly. I don’t think he’d want to bang you though. If he did I’d probably kill him. I hope you don’t take that personally.
Me: I’m sorry. I’m nervous. I’m just going to sit here quietly and listen to Dr. Phil until it’s time for me to give you a generous tip.
I think I deserve a cookie for getting my haircut for the first time in a year, or at least, a high-five. On top of that, I went to the doctor for the first time yesterday in six years. Imagine how awkward I am when I have to take my clothes off and have the doctor’s icy hands of death touch me.
Small victories, guys. Small victories.
I recently stumbled upon a blogger who was reviewing a local restaurant right down the road from me. It made me pretty excited, so I posted a comment and tried to connect with her. I really had no intention of meeting this person, I just wanted to tell her how much I agreed with her good review and next time she should get the Bacon & Pimento Cheeseburger because it will give her a mouthgasm. (If you don’t know what Pimento cheese is, you’re not living life.)
Well… she never responded to me. I figured I might come across a bit crazy in my writing, so I thought reaching out to her in an email would clear my name and make her feel more at ease:
I commented on your post recently and I’m worried I came across weird and freaked you out. Don’t be scared. I didn’t want to meet up with you or anything like that. I know I come across a little crazy on my blog… but I assure you I’m more of a “I made my 8-year-old niece try a dog treat crazy” rather than a “I’m going to find your house and harvest your organs crazy.” Speaking of your house, the one on your Bio page is so cute. So is your dog. If you want to be friends, I’m just down the road.
Pretty sure I made it worse. You win some, you lose some right?
Lesson of the Day : If you want to make new friends off the internet, don’t mention living down the road from them and harvesting their organs in the same paragraph.
PS – I promise… I’m really not crazy! Well, not serial killer crazy at least.
(Photo Credit goes to sal0)
Last week, I was asked by a friend to go to mass with her on Ash Wednesday. I’m not sure if she felt like I was in need of some holy intervention or she was just being friendly but, after much hesitation I figured, ‘why the fuck not?’ What’s the worst that could happen? The communion will give me diarrhea and I’ll have to step over everyone while they’re kneeling in the pew? I’ll trip and my boobs will accidentally fall out of my shirt in front of the poor virgin priest and his ragtag band of alter boys? I could survive those, right? No problem.
Well… I made it about twenty minutes in before I was convinced I was dying.
Me: Do you think it’s hot in here? I’ve got some swamp ass brewing.
Friend: No… I’m actually kind of chilly. Are you okay?
Me: Well… this is it. I’m dying. I’ve crossed into God’s house, and he’s striking me down and it’s only a matter of time until I burst into flames. This was bound to happen. I’m a terrible person. Yesterday I stole an extra cracker from the sweet old lady handing out samples at Publix. It wasn’t even good but I couldn’t help myself. Who does shit like that? WHO?
Random Guy Next To Me: Everyone. Everyone does that.
Me: Oh. Really? That makes me feel better. Do you also try to secretly grope your spouse in public when you think no one is watching? God could be pissed at me for that. I’m pretty handsy. Do you do that, too? It would make me feel a lot more relieved if you did. You seem like a regular here and God hasn’t smited you yet.
Guy: Uh… can you stop talking to me? You’re making me uncomfortable.
I don’t think I’m welcome there anymore.
Do churches give you anxiety? I grew up in a religious family and I’m pretty familiar with them. Yet… they still scare the shit out of me. What the hell?
Everyone stay safe out there. There’s some bad weather brewing.
When I was living in New York, one of my biggest complaints were the people. Sure, there were some good ones around, but it seemed like the majority were complete assholes. If they didn’t ignore you, they went out of their way to be a straight prick. New Yorkers…right? It’s the opposite here in the south. Some days, like today, you get to meet a really odd stranger while picking out some produce.
Random Guy: Okay, I have to ask. Why are you buying so many jalapenos? What are you making that’s so spicy?
Me: Just jalapeno poppers for the Super Bowl. Nothing crazy.
RG: Oh. Are you sharing them with other people? If not, you are going to be shitting fire for a week straight.
Me: *holds up bag of 35 jalapenos* Yeah. Definitely sharing all of these. No ass-fire for me.
RG: I did it once. On a dare. I ate 10 whole ones. I felt like there was a zombie baby stuck in my colon and eating me from the inside. I was pretty sure my intestines were going to blow up and I was going to die. What a weird way to die, right? That would be a weird obituary. Death by ass-plosion. But at the same time, I’d love to make my parents have to deal with that added embarrassment when I’m gone.
Me: … you’re pretty fucking weird.
RG: Yeah, I’m sorry. That was pretty inappropriate to say to a stranger.
Me: No… I’m trying to ask you to be my friend. I love weird. Anyone who has the balls to say ‘ass-plosion’ to a stranger is okay by me.
Ah… gotta love the south.
GO PANTHERS. WOO!
Before Alex and I got married, we spent a fair chunk of time in a long distance relationship. We had no other choice but to master the art of dirty texting. Or ‘sexting’ as the cool people call it. (I really don’t know if that’s true. I’ve never been cool… but I’m going with it anyway.) We did it all day, every day… until the time I hit ‘send’ on a text and it went to the wrong person. My brother.
“I’ve been really bad. I wish you were here to bend me over and spank me” (It was something close to that. Thankfully, this happened six years ago.)
I’m pretty sure if there was a God, he would have followed my wishes and struck me down right then and there. Because, holy shit… I was begging him to. Anybody but my brother. Why him? Why, God, WHY? It’s one of the more horrifying moments in memory for me.
His response, which came a slow and agonizing hour later: “Yeah, uh… I’m going to pass on that…” It took quite awhile for my embarrassment over the situation to fade.
Have you ever sent a text to the wrong person before? Were you as embarrassed as me? Or were you too busy laughing your ass off to be worried about it?
For some reason this made me die of laughter.
Dear random woman in the movie theater last night,
It took every ounce of my being to refrain from getting up, bitch slapping you, and dumping my blue raspberry slushie on your head. You know how they ask you to ‘please silence your cell phones?’ The same goes with your trap. For the love of God – keep it shut. If you can’t keep yourself from the incessant gossiping and talking about how shitty your love life is for three hours, a movie theater isn’t the place for you. Next time you should try going to your friend’s house or going out to dinner. Anywhere but a place that 98% of the people there have the expectation of silence and enjoyment. Thanks for making the most terrible movie I’ve ever seen worse. Do you ever stop?! Ahhhhhh…
PS – You owe my husband an apology because I crushed his hand while holding myself back from saying something to you.
From: Blair (and I’m sure everyone else in the theater. They only turned and looked at you 50 times but you never got the hint.)
(Have any of you seen The Revenant? Seriously…. don’t. And yes, I still enjoy a blue slushie. You only live once, right?)
Visiting my parents is always interesting – mainly because they are tiptoeing the fine line of descent into crazy-town. Their responses to things have always been questionable… like the time my sister was brought home by the police because she was caught drunk, underage, and hanging her bare ass out of a moving vehicle. Or the time my brother tried to unsuccessfully grow weed in a dark corner of his room. But, we were polite and got good grades. That was all that mattered back then.
Alex and I saw them in NYC a few months ago, and this particular conversation happened in the middle of a crowded restaurant. (The people sitting next to us were not amused.)
Dad: I’m ready to leave the city and retire. Too much weirdness here. And people are proud of it. What the hell happened to keeping things private? Too much Facebook and crap. Even the guys in the building across from ours leave the curtains wide open when they have visitors. Jesus. What’s the world coming to?
Me: Oh, God…
Dad: Yep. These kids have no shame. There’s new women over every night. And they have the hoochiest clothes on. It’s like the red light district. You can see everything. People holding their legs open, kneeling, heads bobbing. It’s hummer city over there.
Me: Oh, gross. Do we have to talk about this here?
Dad: Blair… don’t be rude. Hookers need love, too.
(Dad – you are inappropriate, graphic, a little bit ridiculous, and a lot of crazy. Thanks for being awesome.)
Anyone else have an unhealthy relationship with Target? I’m a bit obsessed. I could spend hours walking up and down the aisles, sipping my overpriced Starbucks, and staring at all the bathroom decorations and trying to decide if it’s a good time to redecorate or not. The other day, Alex called me to make sure I was still alive and wondering if he should send a search party because I had been MIA for too long. It’s hard not to get consumed in there. I love it. I really do… but the employees hate me.
Target Cashier: Hi, how are you today? Did you find everything alright?
Me: I’m good, thanks. I found everything I needed. I’m just trying to convince myself to not get a Snickers. Sometimes it takes a lot of effort. I definitely don’t need one. You know what I’m saying?
Target Cashier: *awkward smile* Do you want to sign up for our RedCard today?
Me: No, thanks….. You know, I’m going for the it. Why not? I worked out today. Ate a salad for lunch. Plus… it’s Christmas. I wouldn’t be an American if I didn’t gain weight over the holidays. So, I’m doing it. The decision is made. I’m about to kill this almond one. It’s only $1 anyways, right? That’s nothing. It’s totally worth it. Ring her up, kind lady.
Target Cashier: Okay. Do you want to donate $1 to end local child hunger?
Target Cashier: ….
Me: Why’d you have to make this awkward, Julie?
You know those assholes that are already decorating for Christmas even though Thanksgiving hasn’t even rolled around yet? What the hell, right? Can’t we take one holiday at a time? Stop trying to shove Christmas down our throats with your pretty lights, touching TV ads and joyful music. Enough is enough already.
Well… I am one of those assholes. I love all things Christmas. The earlier the better, I always say.
My love for the holidays took a horrific turn last night, though. When a 2 inch long roach crawled out of one of the decoration boxes that we had brought in from the garage. I almost had a heart palpitation. This bitch was so big I could literally hear him crawling on the floor from 5 feet away. I panicked. Fight or flight? What do I do? Am I actually able to approach and kill this thing without gagging and throwing up everywhere? If I don’t kill it, it will for sure eat my eyelids in my sleep.
Then, a 6 pound hero emerged. She raced over and chomped the roach right in half and stood guard on the box until Alex got home to take over. She just may have saved my eyelids from being eaten last night. Go adopt a homeless cat. Save your eyelids, people!
(the panic was real)
(Okay, I know she doesn’t give a crap about guarding a box for me and just wanted a tasty snack. But still — go adopt a homeless cat, anyway)
You know how parents are ultra embarrassing when you’re growing up? Maybe it’s their undying love of Birkenstocks, or when they try to say trendy things like “that’s cray” and “chillax” or even how they clip their toenails onto their plate after they finish eating. Well, at the ripe age of 28, I’ve come to the realization that this embarrassment never ends. It just evolves into something different.
(picture taken in Palm Springs, CA this past summer)
Mom: Blair, did you see this sign? Maybe you shouldn’t swim today.
Me: Uh… I’m fine, mom. No diarrhea here.
Mom: But, I saw you rush to the bathroom when I was getting water in the middle of the night. I just assumed it was urgent. Is everything working okay down there? Have you seen a doctor lately? Diarrhea can make you dehydrated. Make sure you drink more water today.
Me: Thanks, mom. I’m good. Just a routine visit in the night.
Mom: Do you remember that time you pooped in the bath tub when you were with your sister? I can think of a couple times you went in the water when you were little. I don’t know what it was… but, you liked to let loose once you hit water. I think it relaxed you. It was so weird.
What’s more humiliating: my mom deciding to loudly discuss my issues in public, or the woman who was frantically pulling her kids out of the water while they were crying, thinking there was actually a possibility I would crap in there? Thanks for the vote of confidence, lady. I’m almost 30.