I am not what you might call a “relaxed” individual.  On the long, long resume of all my wonderful skillz, if you see “resting” on there you will also probably see “lying” shortly thereafter.  “Lying” as in “fibbing”, of course, and not “lying down.”

My mom thinks it has something to do with my caffeine intake.



Whatever, Mom.

Last year Santa got me a massage for Christmas.  I needed a massage because I was having trouble putting my arms down and turning my head.


It’s a long story, but the situation (namely, school) that led to that unfortunate condition has tended to repeat itself ever since, which is why I asked for a massage again this year.

And I think that is why Santa got me a


for a massage.


It turns out that a massage and a Groupon for a massage are not exactly the same thing.

Last year I had quite the boring time getting a massage at this old white Victorian house just up the road from my parents’ house.  The whole thing was really uneventful, as you might suspect a massage to be.  It looked something like this:


This year was…um…different.


Yes.  Yes that is a gun store.  The epitome of relaxation and peace of mind.

Somehow the thought of walking into this place and, you know, voluntarily removing my clothing wasn’t really the most comforting thought I’d had in a while.  But I’d driven an hour to get there, and that’s a loooong way to drive without turning your head.

So I went in.


My therapist actually turned out to be a very sweet lady, and I’m glad to say that I am once again quite the ambiturner.  But I still wouldn’t consider the experience a relaxing one.  Not only was I vaguely concerned with what I convinced myself was just a car backfiring in the parking lot, but I am also extremely ticklish.


It wasn’t too big a problem when my face was all smushed up in that little padded toilet seat they make you smush your face into.  But just because the therapist couldn’t see my face of silent torture does not mean my body spasms went unnoticed.  I can’t even tell you how many hiccups I faked.  And hiccups are most decidedly not relaxing.

But giggles (and anxiety over tipping etiquette…separate story) aside, I left the office like spaghetti sliding out of a colander.


If you think turning your head is important for safe driving, you should try operating a vehicle when your oiled-up noodle arms keep sliding off the steering wheel.


As it was, however, I decided to take advantage of my delusional crazycloud and got three vaccinations and another piercing.



I was nine the first time I realized my sense of humor wasn’t always considered…appropriate.

I was at a friend’s birthday party, and, as I have done for probably every friend’s birthday since I learned how to work a computer mouse, I had made her an extra-special birthday card.

I’d heard a pretty funny joke shortly before said party, and thought I was pretty much the smartest person ever when I figured out how to turn it into a birthday note.

It’s festive because of the clown; it’s funny because of the cannibals (right?).  I was so excited when she peeled the card off the top of her gift, but…something was off as she started reading my joke.  Was she…confused? a slow reader? disgusted?

And then the reality of what I’d done began to sink in.

Panic started seeping in as she flipped open the card.

I was momentarily relieved!  My joke wasn’t a flop, my friend was just dumber than I’d thought.  Phew!

But then.  But then she handed the note to her mom.

And she got the joke.

And she didn’t think my joke was “age-appropriate.”


Now I only tell that joke to ten-year-olds.

When I was a kid, they called me “Baby Katie.”

When I was a kid, I liked to play with Barbies.

When I was a kid, sometimes we went to church.

When I was a kid, I got to bring one Barbie with me when we went to church to keep me quiet.

Like that worked.

But sometimes Barbie did admittedly get a little rambunctious.

A little too “girls gone wild”, if you know what I mean.

And at church, no less!

And sometimes I just felt like swinging my naked Barbie around my head by her hair.

Aaaaaand that’s how I found out my real name.

PS:  This blog has more than a thousand followers.  Like, WAY more than a thousand followers.  Thanks, guys :)

I’ve mentioned previously that my love affair with caffeine may have reached an unhealthy level.  I’m pretty okay with this, though, and rarely question my infatuation with this most miraculous of beverages.

I like having a plan.  Do you?  I like knowing that if Thing A happens, Things B, C, and D are probably going to follow.  I like lists.  And things that meet at right angles.  Oooh and graphs and calendars and sticky notes.  I’m an incredibly disorganized human being, but I very much love the semblance of order.  My caffeine intake is pretty erratic, so I decided to compile my behavior in this category of my life (yes, it is its own category) in an easy-to-follow flowchart.  You know, just in case I someday forget how to make important decisions like this one.

So…you can pretty much distill this whole procedure down to a still simpler sequence:

Am I right?

According to my mom, our parents learned very early that my sister could handle rational discussions.  She was very mature that way.  If something big was coming up in her life, our parents would give her plenty of warning, and she would go off on her own to mentally prepare herself for the event.

So it makes since that, having a wonderfully sweet and intelligent first child (and she still is that way…love you, sis!), our parents would use the same tactics on their second.

My whirlwind of hysteria was enough to pick up a heifer and take it for a ride, a la “Twister.”  So you can imagine how it fared against the good intentions of my parents.

Which is why I found myself with increasing frequency in the backseat of our minivan for inexplicably long periods of time.

I knew that tone.

I’ve come so far.