It was my birthday yesterday. I didn’t post here, because I wanted to separate my regular, old blogfriends from the people who would track me down and thrust their friendship upon me on Facebook in order to be able to wish me a happy birthday there.
Just kidding. I was just lazy.
Kamran said this was a prime birthday and therefore didn’t count for much, so he only took me to Dylan’s Candy Bar for a diabetes feast, proved once again that he’s the driving force behind Ettible Photography by buying me the lens I wanted, and let me do whatever I felt like in general.
I picked him up from work, we took the bus home, we ordered gyro platters from The Famous Chicken Place (ridiculous name, awesome food), we watched season 2 of “Big Brother”, we ate candy until we were too sick to continue. He offered to stand a birthday candle in a pile of Skittles for me to blow out, but I was too busy munching to care.
Boy, I’ve been such a bad blogger lately. It seems like there’s more to write about than ever, but I never have the time to write it, and for a few weeks now, I’ve been wondering why. At first, I thought it might be because I’ve been chatting with Cassie nearly every day, all day. Then I thought it might be because I’ve been taking so many pictures and have really been loving the editing process. But then I realized that no, it’s just because I’m a freak who can’t be trusted with the Internet.
It hit me today, when I was trying to pick out matching earrings for my BFF, Tracey, and me. I’m going home for the Circleville Pumpkin Show next month and wanted to make a tradition of bringing pumpkin earrings for Tracey and me to wear on the maaaaany days we’ll go to eat carnival food. So I went to Etsy. And an hour and forty-five minutes later, I emerged with links to about twenty pairs that I like.
(The picture of last’s years earrings is incredibly creepy and 80s, don’t you think?)
And it’s the same with anything Internet-related I do. My cousin’s wife announced recently that she’s selling Scentsy products now, and upon hearing this, I spent an entire day Googling what Scentsy is, whether they’re electric or candle-powered, and what the different kinds of wax tarts are. Then, when I actually decided to buy one, I looked at 90% of the Internet to make sure there wasn’t a non-Scentsy warmer I liked better. Then I checked Etsy to see what kinds of homemade tarts crafters are selling. And then I ultimately bought a Scentsy warmer and tarts, just like I should have done eight hours earlier.
When Clinique recently discontinued the T-Zone Shine Control gel-to-powder stuff I use to keep my nose not-shiny throughout the day, I swear I spent a week Googling replacements and asking for help from Kinard. I ended up at Sephora, where I got samples that didn’t work at all. And then I Googled some more and ended up putting Monistat Chafing Relief Powder-Gel on my face against all of my better sensibilities, but that didn’t work, either. And so I Googled some more and probably joined every makeup review site on the Internet in the process. I still didn’t find what I’m looking for at any of those, so you know I’m going to end up trying bull semen or frog urine or something as I reach farther and farther into the depths of the Internet for suggestions.
I started being a little hardcore in the gym a few weeks ago. “Hardcore” for me, of course, is a relative term, and you’ll note that my hardcoreness conveniently coincided with packing for the Jersey shore and realizing–oh, crap, a whole week in a bathing suit. I’ve been going to the gym off and on for the last few years thanks to Kamran’s prodding and the lingering guilt that comes with living in an apartment building that has a gym right inside, but I’ve mostly done as little as possible: using the stationary bike so I can sit, ramping up the resistance on the elliptical just enough that I have an excuse to go slow, anything else that’ll keep me from sweating. Because eww, sweat.
But then I got on the stairclimber the other day because all of the ellipticals were taken by those stupid girls who wear sports bras without shirts and then hold on to the handrails so they can move just their legs a hundred miles a minute. I have no idea what would compel someone to think that’s any kind of workout, but hey, it’s probably better than sitting quietly on the stationary bike and hoping no one notices that my legs aren’t moving at all, so instead of kicking one of them off of the elliptical, I just took the stairclimber. And then I sweated and sweated and sweated, because that shit is hard. And I. Felt. Awesome.
Now (meaning for the past few days), I totally scorn everyone in the gym who doesn’t appear to be working as hard as I am. 80-year-old lady only doing eight reps on the chest press? I SEE YOU. Superfat dude on the spinning bike going negative miles per hour? I SEE YOU. Oh, you’ve already lost 63 pounds doing that? I STILL JUDGE YOU.
I’m also really excited about eating “well” right now. I’m reading Gary Taubes Why We Get Fat, and I haven’t even gotten to the part where he tells me to stop eating refined grains and processed crap, but I still spent most of Sunday afternoon prepping vegetables and fruits and multigrain crackers and lean meats to take in the teeny-tiny totally-not-enough-food-to-feed-a-real-human bento box that I bought years ago and then never used when I got excited about Adventures in Bentomaking for a very, very short time.
I’m also really excited about saving money right now. I make myself a yearly budget, and I generally stick to it so I don’t end up out on the streets, but I’m never very precise. Well, I sat down the other day and really figured out exactly how much cash I have to spend every week, and then I went and took this week’s allowance out of the bank. And when I bought my stepmom’s birthday present online today, I went and put the equivalent amount of cash back in the bank. I thought about buying a pair of jeans when I got home, but then I stopped myself and actually had superiority feelings about my self-control.
I know myself, though, and I know how short-lived all of this is. I’ll get bored of the gym and will go back to spending half my time there cleaning my weight machines and filling up my itsy-bitsy water cooler cup over and over. I’ll really want some chicken fingers and then some pizza and then some ice cream and then a whole week of burgers and fries. I’ll scrimp and save for months and then one day explode into a fireball of Forever 21 leggings and BareMinerals lipstick and Nikon macro lenses, all bought on credit. It’s like I’m only good so I can later be so, so bad.
The only thing to do when you’re a wannabe photographer with a nosebleed? Whip out the camera and try to forget about the drips hitting your white t-shirt.
I’m going to get so many presents, eat so many of those sugar cookies with the Hershey’s Kisses pressed into the tops of them, and do so many gay things with my best friend.
I'm Katie, a farmgirl originally from Ohio who moved to NYC in 2005 for no apparent reason. I like vintage-looking things that are actually new, filagree everything, people who don't make me feel awkward, meaning it when I say "no sleep till Brooklyn", and not trying too hard.
