I’m What You’d Call “Indoorsy”

My whole life I’ve always been searching for a hobby. After spending my entire adolescence screeching about having nothing to do, my mom’s response was always, “Find a hobby!” To which my response would be some variation of teenage angst, normally ending with me slamming my bedroom door and crying to country  lyrics. Well, now that I’ve grown up and made the adult choice to accept that my mom is always right, I’ve decided to search for this so-called hobby.

I’ve searched through my childhood years for an inkling of what I would be good at. The first thing that came to mind was some kind of group project. But then I remembered Girl Scouts. All I remember about Girl Scouts, other than hiding four boxes of cookies behind my dressers and mowing them down each night in secrecy, was going on a weekend getaway to Green Bay. And all I remember about that trip was all of us crying about having chlorine bleached eyes and finding out someone’s mom had a drinking problem.

Scratch that.

The next thing I thought of was a workout class. Then I remembered gymnastics. All I could remember about that was pretending to be sick each day so I didn’t have to attempt to do backbends because they made me feel like I was going to puke on the blue mats. I also remember discovering the ability to gossip and sitting cross-legged with my best friend picking on girls with stirrup leggings and having to have a sit-down session with the counselor on sticks and stones.

Scratch that.

Then I thought, maybe I should do something outside. Then I remembered the one time in my life that I actually tried to be the next outdoorsy member of the Babysitter’s Club. I was a camp counselor for sixth graders when I was a junior in high school. And in the two week span I was there, there was one hike. Only one. And you’d think that, being the princess that I am, I could get through it without have future material for a psychiatrist. But no. It ended with me getting lost in the woods with an adult counselor on my way to the port-a-potty and having to take an emergency pit stop at a tree so I could relieve myself…in front of her…and it wasn’t a number one.

So after three rounds of a torturous trip down memory lane. I decided that maybe trying new things Isn’t my best suit. Maybe I should stick with things I know, like writing. I mean, the odds of me feigning sickness, nearly crapping my pants or needing an intervention are slim to none while sitting at my keyboard and watching reality television.

Is it so wrong that I don’t have something cool to put on my life-resume like: hiker, Boys and Girls Club, yoga, etc? I like to think my proneness to injury or embarrassment means I will make one hell of an interesting writer. Or at least I’ll just keep myself busy in the meantime.

I’m What You’d Call "Indoorsy"

My whole life I’ve always been searching for a hobby. After spending my entire adolescence screeching about having nothing to do, my mom’s response was always, “Find a hobby!” To which my response would be some variation of teenage angst, normally ending with me slamming my bedroom door and crying to country  lyrics. Well, now that I’ve grown up and made the adult choice to accept that my mom is always right, I’ve decided to search for this so-called hobby.

I’ve searched through my childhood years for an inkling of what I would be good at. The first thing that came to mind was some kind of group project. But then I remembered Girl Scouts. All I remember about Girl Scouts, other than hiding four boxes of cookies behind my dressers and mowing them down each night in secrecy, was going on a weekend getaway to Green Bay. And all I remember about that trip was all of us crying about having chlorine bleached eyes and finding out someone’s mom had a drinking problem.

Scratch that.

The next thing I thought of was a workout class. Then I remembered gymnastics. All I could remember about that was pretending to be sick each day so I didn’t have to attempt to do backbends because they made me feel like I was going to puke on the blue mats. I also remember discovering the ability to gossip and sitting cross-legged with my best friend picking on girls with stirrup leggings and having to have a sit-down session with the counselor on sticks and stones.

Scratch that.

Then I thought, maybe I should do something outside. Then I remembered the one time in my life that I actually tried to be the next outdoorsy member of the Babysitter’s Club. I was a camp counselor for sixth graders when I was a junior in high school. And in the two week span I was there, there was one hike. Only one. And you’d think that, being the princess that I am, I could get through it without have future material for a psychiatrist. But no. It ended with me getting lost in the woods with an adult counselor on my way to the port-a-potty and having to take an emergency pit stop at a tree so I could relieve myself…in front of her…and it wasn’t a number one.

So after three rounds of a torturous trip down memory lane. I decided that maybe trying new things Isn’t my best suit. Maybe I should stick with things I know, like writing. I mean, the odds of me feigning sickness, nearly crapping my pants or needing an intervention are slim to none while sitting at my keyboard and watching reality television.

Is it so wrong that I don’t have something cool to put on my life-resume like: hiker, Boys and Girls Club, yoga, etc? I like to think my proneness to injury or embarrassment means I will make one hell of an interesting writer. Or at least I’ll just keep myself busy in the meantime.

Single White Female Looking for LTR

It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Surprisingly enough, I’m not licking my wounds today. Granted, it was hard not to notice V-Day looming on my Marilyn Monroe calendar since February 15th, 2009, but I made it out alive. I actually made it out without crying. Which, for me, is blog-worthy. I mean, it isn’t like I didn’t piss and moan about the up-coming puke-fest for weeks (or months) prior. I even made last-ditch efforts to scrounge up some kind of man on Craigslist. Now, a few weeks and several stomach-heaving interactions with online social outcasts later, I’ve regained my senses.

For me, I feel like Valentine’s Day is like giving every single girl a scarlet letter. If you don’t have tulips, Seroogy’s or diamonds there’s something wrong with you. It even crossed my mind (for a little more than a millisecond) to send flowers to myself. But, then, I daydreamed about how that could turn into a trainwreck I might never recover from. It would be just my luck that, after I sit at work scouring for the 1-800-FLOWERS van all day, they finally arrive and mistakenly the card is signed “from Ashley Berken” instead of “Brett Favre” or even “Mr. Obama.” I just don’t think the few shreds of dignity I have would be left after that shitshow.

But, this year it was a little different. I did end up at a bar at the end of the day (I mean, I’m not completely cured), but instead of taking shots and making out with 40-year-old Indian florists (mostly for the free flowers) I just went home after a couple drinks. I even made it through the last half of Time Traveler’s Wife without tying a noose, or at least reaching for a Kleenex.

Could it be that after 23 years scrambling for men I actually don’t give two church farts about my relationship status? Well, I seem to care one church fart since I’m blogging about it, but I digress…