Celebrities and a Classy Lady

I am about to share with you all the times I thought I saw celebrities.

I don't know what it is, but my hometown is apparently just CRAWLING with them. They must be drawn in by the smell of our sugar beat factory or the confusing streets...

I know for a fact that I would not be good at talking to a celebrity in real life because I once almost fainted at a midnight release of the book "Mockingjay" when a cart of brand new books was rolled past me. Books can't even talk. Get me in front of a walking, talking celebrity and I'm likely to pull my face out through my bellybutton. This is why it's better for me to just observe from afar while tweeting of their supreme presence. None of these posts are even delusional AT ALL.

9.7.11 - Ryan Gosling is in the car next to me but don't worry, I'm handling like a real lady.

9.28.11 - Heath Ledger has been lying to us all along. He's very much alive. That, or I just saw the best-looking hobo of my life.

10.7.11 - Justin Bieber has come into the library twice. Each time wearing the same purple American Apparel hoodie and texting all his celeb BFF's. Probably that Gomez chick.

11.10.11

- So I just worked out a mere 10 feet away from a bandana-wearing George Clooney. News flash: the man has chicken legs.

12.6.11 - Richard Dreyfuss texting all up in this joint with his ear flaps.

Spiders and a Classy Lady

I had a moment of personal growth this morning.

I work in a library where my job is primarily to put books away. (Let me tell you, I know the alphabet like mad-hot BEAST now. And I'm more familiar with the dewey decimal system than I am with my grandparents. I can basically hold a million books at once. No joke.

(Me as a mad-hot, book-bearing beast.)

This morning I had a cart full of adult-nonfiction books that I was alphabetizing before putting on the shelves. I was in an isolated corner of the library hidden behind tall shelves where nobody ventures so I had the place to myself. Or so I thought.

I looked up from my row of books. There he was. Watching me as I was watching him. A mere 12 inches from my face was the furziest, puffiest, largest jumping spider I had ever seen.

I was frozen. He was frozen. I moved. He moved. We starred deeply into each other's eyes. (It took me a longer time to stare deeply because he had more eyes to stare deeply INTO.) It's like we were in sync. Instead of the deafening dread I normally feel when seeing an arachnid, I felt , dare I say, curious? Peaceful? Empathetic? Just as he was the fluffiest spider I had ever seen, perhaps I was the fluffiest human he had ever seen.

I slowly sank to my knees and hid behind my cart of books. Yes, I had felt a connection to that sucker, but he was still a spider. And yes, while I have more height than him, he has more legs than me and there it just no getting around that.

Periodically, I would shove a row of books apart to sneak a peak at the overly-appendedged guy just to find him watching me right back. (I suppose it would pretty hard not to see me, I mean, when you have 8 eyes, you may as well use at least one of them to keep tabs on the bumbling 5' 7'' beast in front of you.)

(Of course this is what I look like to arachnids.)

Eventually he crept across a couple books and hid behind the shelf against the wall. Because I know the general public has a burning hatred or at least a discomfort for arachnids, I'll advise you not to choose a book written by an author with the last name of "Swierczynski" in the library where I work.

All that aside, I felt as though I made a special connection with the little guy. I returned to that corner periodically throughout the day for various reasons, but every time, looked out for him. I don't know where he went, but I wish him well.

And then I went home to find a nasty spider chillin' in my tub. So I drowned the life outta him with scalding hot water. Things with more than 2 arms/legs ought not be hanging out where I do not wear clothes.

Several of you know this, but my sister does nearly all the drawings for my blog. In preparation for this entry, she and I were chatting over Facebook about what she should draw. She wanted to know what one of my book carts looks like. Since I couldn't explain it to her well, I drew it out in Paint and then sent it her way; and this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I do not illustrate my own blogs.

Personally, I see no difference...

Patriotism and a Classy Lady

I love having the house alone to myself, and this is strictly because I have the house ALONE to MYSELF. I'm not one to throw huge parties when my parents leave, although they wish I did. An actual conversation we had recently:

Mom: "Ok, we're going! Tell all of your secret friends it's party time!"

Me: "Oh yeah, I've got tons of friends hiding in closets throughout the house just waiting for my cue. After you leave, they'll pop out and we'll have a big phat party fest."

Dad: "Oh, how I wish you were telling the truth."

My parents have a better social life than me.

Anyway, the point is that I like having the house all to myself. Know why? 'Cause I can sing as loudly as I stinkin' want to! And this is exactly what I do. I wander aimlessly around the house, busting out classics like To Love Somebody by the Bee Gees and I Heard it Through the Grapevine by Marvin Gaye.

There was one particular evening that I had the place to myself and was in the kitchen (great acoustics) singing the "National Anthem" at the tippy top of my lungs. I hit the high note in "for the la-and of the freeeEEEEEE!!!" and then broke out laughing hysterically because my voice sounded like the noise an ironing board makes every time you open it.

It was then that I turned away from the kitchen sink to the open window facing the front door. There was a BOY at the DOOR.

Our doorbell is broken, but we don't bother putting up a sign that says so, so people come to our front door and try to ring it regardless. We just definitely don't answer the door though. This is because we don't know they're there. As was the story at this particular moment. Clearly, the boy had rung the doorbell who knows how long ago and had been waiting patiently, a mere 12 feet away from me and my warbling wind pipes.

I squealed and ducked under the kitchen counter. I couldn't answer the door! But there was no way he didn't know I was indeed in the house. It would take a deaf person that lived in a different country not to hear me singing in the kitchen. It was at this moment that I had to come up with a plan that would involve me answering the door and not being humiliated by the attractive boy on the porch.

I crawled from the counter to the front door, not wanting him to possibly see me through the window. (Luckily, there was no evidence that he had been watching me, but the window was open and he had to have heard me.)

I stood up in front of the door and yelled, "Freaking Chanel! Stop with the singing already! Our great nation knows of your undying patriotism!" I then opened the door and did my best impression of a girl slightly exasperated with her sister. "Ha, sisters!" I said to the boy, as if it was the kind of problem he dealt with everyday--sisters that sing too loudly about America.

Nothing really happened after that. The boy was there to see my dad and since dad was gone, there was nothing left between the him and me. He left and I shut the door and then squealed really loudly and shook my hands because that's the only thing I can do to get pent up energy OUT of me.

Since then, I've watched my back before opening my mouth.

Pumpkins and a Classy Lady

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

A few nights ago I went to a jack 'o lantern-carving contest. It was just a small, non consequential activity with about 20 people that I know.

Since pumpkins were limited, some of us were encouraged to buddy up and share. Several partnerships formed and since I was feeling unusually territorial, I zeroed in on a lone pumpkin.

The only carving device I had was a butcher knife so I maliciously went to town on that pumpkin, stabbing sporadically around it's stem. (I had already come to peace with the possibility that I might return home with less fingers than I'd begun with, but this miraculously did not happen.) It was at this point that I noticed somebody watching me. *John.

John was slowly inching towards me from across the room.

He kept lurking and lurking until suddenly his hand was in my pumpkin. I was definitely not interested in having a partner and wanted all the creative license to this pumpkin to myself, but I didn't mind having someone help me pull the guts out. (If being a maniac serial killer is anything like gutting a pumpkin, I'm out.)

After gutting the beast, I looked down and realized that my shirt was inside-out. How I managed to go an entire day without noticing that blessed mistake is beyond me. In that moment of distraction, John took a knife and pressed it to the shell. (This all happened in slow motion, I'm pretty sure.) Remember how I said I was feeling strangely territorial? This bubbled forth as I grabbed the wrist of his knife-clinging hand and held it over my head.

I swear I'm not normally psycho like this. Apparently when it comes to cutting through the flesh of vegetables, I get art-rage.

"WHAT are you DOING?!" I proclaimed. My eyes were probably blood-red and bulging out and I wouldn't be surprised if my hair stood on end.

John kind of gurgled and laughed, "I'm carving it!"

It turns out that John was going to stab out the initials of his favorite university, but I was a controlling goblin and ended up carving a mustache instead. School pride? Nahhhh… I choose facial hair!

Happy Halloween, guys.

Turning Signals and a Classy Lady

Update: I wrote this several months ago and have since gotten extensive driving experience. I even had a dream where I stole a car so I think it's pretty safe to say that I am now a goddess of driving.

There are certain things in my life that never fail to bring unrest to my heart. For example, every single time somebody on a bike or skateboard is sharing the sidewalk with me, I will almost die.

You know when you accidentally run into someone in the hallway face to face and when you try to go around them, they go in the same direction?

(I like to call this the hallway tango.)

So you try turning the other way and sure enough, they do too. You both have a jolly-good laugh about it and then brief a sigh of relief once you've successfully passed each other. Well here's the thing: doing that when the other person is on wheels is a completely different experience wrought with terror and dread. This undoubtedly happens to me every time a biker comes along.

It's like my brain shuts off and isn't able to tell my feet to go in the opposite direction of the biker. No, no, no. When my feet are left with no master, they do exactly what they're not supposed to do. (Which, in this circumstance, is to walk right in front of the biker's path and then stop and stand awkwardly until the biker either crashes or hits you.) Luckily, I'm normally walking with somebody when this happens, and they have the brains to pull me out of the way. Anyway, that wasn't the point.

Along with bikers, getting touched on the neck, and the thought that I could someday accidentally bite my tongue completely off, driving fills me with utmost dread.

I'm a good driver, I really am. I'm just not good at following directions or rules or street signs. I got my driver's license late in life and only weeks before leaving for school without a car. Since my mom is a nervous driver, she almost always refused to let me drive her anywhere. As a result, I got practically no practice. I got my license, and then moved away from home for almost a solid year and a half. Most of that time was spent without a car.

I was asked to pick up something for my mom at the store. This meant I had to take the car. I had to drive, alone. (It's actually best that I drive alone because I narrate the entire ride aloud to myself to calm down.)

Once I got past our bumper-eating driveway of death, I had to actually deal with the big road and other drivers. You know those drivers you hate because they're in front of you and they refuse to turn right when they have time to? I'm that driver.

So I was already nervous and trying to remember the difference between turning left and right and which pedal means "GO GO GO FASSSST NOWWWW" and which one means "STOP FOREVER STOP STOP NOW." (When I get flustered, I forget which one is which. That oughta strike some confidence into your hearts.)

I approach a big 'ol traffic light with lots of cars and movement. I was being very cautious and attempting to look confident, but when I tried to turn my right blinker on, I turned on the windshield wiper instead. Instant panic ensued. When I panic, I laugh hysterically, and that is exactly what I did while trying to figure out how to turn off the wipers and on the blinker. I got things lined up just in time for the light to turn green. Crisis averted.

Long story short, I laughed hysterically for the rest of the drive and then bought apples and garbage bags for my mom. Moral of the story? A classy lady, like myself, always knows how to keep her composure in times of dismay.

Classy Thoughts from the Shower

I wouldn't say I'm a morning person, but I don't have a hard time waking up, getting up, and I'm pleasant. (Does that classify as me as a morning person?) Admittedly, I'd rather be sleeping.

Last week I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to start getting ready for work. I was the only one awake in the house and I woke up in an exceptionally good mood. Within seconds of lifting my head from the pillow, I was talking to myself. (Oh yes, there's another thing. I talk to myself in the morning.)

Minutes after waking up, I was in the shower and had a full-blown conversation going on. Here are a few of the highlights that I jotted down later:

Thoughts from the shower:

"I think my entire DNA has changed since Saturday."

"Is it morally wrong that I'm singing "because your kiss, your kiss, is on my lips" to the cat?"

"Nobody knows what's best for me. Only I know what's best for me. And what's best for me would be finding my nail clippers."

"I think all the weight I lost in pee I gained back in pants."

"I can tell this is gonna be a day where I regret not being a camel."

"If I put my mascara on in the shower I would save so much time. I would also look horrible and probably end up blind."

"Rapping would probably actually be a pretty simple thing for me to master because I like to end every word in the English language with "cat." Just this morning, I've said "Buttercat" like three times."

That last thought about rapping and cats inspired me to make a video blog. (I am a vlogger and have been since 2006.)

Feel free to visit my YouTube channel for more vlogs! You can click the crud out of this link! www.YouTube.com/iArielle

Standing and a Classy Lady

I hate when I'm sitting and both of my legs miraculously fall asleep, but I'm apparently in a BIG hurry to be in a different location, so instead of shaking them awake, I just stand up and my knees buckle and then I fall flat on my face.

"Do NOT Touch" and a Classy Lady

I don't know whether it's "Do not touch" signs or my curiosity with the idea that one piece of glass can feel totally different than all the other pieces of glass I've touched in my life, but I have this inordinate desire to TOUCH EVERYTHING IN SIGHT ALL THE TIME EVERDAY.

I walk into a shop filled with porcelain dolls *shudder* and suddenly everything in sight is a new world of textures and temperatures that I don't understand and will never understand until I undoubtedly lay a finger on every single thing on display.

I walk through the bulk spices section of Winco or Costco and suddenly I have to know what every type of grain or powder feels like and I just want to jam my hands into those plastic bins and mash everything around.

There's just some kind of craze that takes over my mind and I go from being a civil, germ-conscious, contributing member of society to a crazy-eyed toddler on a foreign planet full of things that need to be petted and stroked. (The same feeling overcomes me when I see "Fragile" signs.) This side of me flared up when I visited the county fair in August.

I love fairs. My dad invited me to go to the fair with him to look at all the 4H displays and photographs and barn animals. This was an overload for my senses.

First, you stick me in a big warehouse room full of rednecks and booths and my mind starts racing and my fingers start twitching. SO. MUCH. TO. BE. TOUCHED. We passed dozens of quilts and photo albums and mini dioramas of vegetation and flower arrangements and frosted cakes. These were all surrounded by "Do NOT touch" signs. "Do not touch" signs translate into "Touch more sneakily after looking over your shoulder to make sure nobody is watching" signs to Arielle and that is exactly what I did.

I couldn't control myself. How was I ever going to know if the blue denim quilt felt anything like the bleach denim quilt? How would I ever have known that rose petals and daisy petals feel remarkably similar? And for goodness sakes, how would I ever know what old, stale, hard cake frosting feels like?! (I actually feel really bad for touching food items, but I knew they weren't going to be eaten, some were growing mold.)

Let it be known that I made it out of the fair on my own without having to be kicked out. I even went and looked at all the cows and sheep and chickens and I kind of glanced at the pigs but didn't take the time to go look at them because they sort of freak me out. They're so pink and, well, naked. It's like I'm looking at weird naked alien people. (This is the same reason I don't like leather couches. They're like big, squishy, naked people that you sit on.)

Here are the conclusions I've come to:

a. I can't look at animals without imitating the sounds they make.

b. I can't look at animals without imitating the movements they make. (Chickens, for example.)

c. Every single chicken in the fair can make me laugh hysterically. Chickens are FUNNY.

d. Goats and sheep are sneaky little hungry devils that will trick you into standing near them so they can reach their heads through the bars and start eating your pants. And to think that I thought that sheep was just nuzzling!

Is it love? Or just my pants?

Lyrics and a Classy Lady

(Yes, I honestly used to make CD's like this with only one song over and over.)

Let it be known that Gotta Get Thru This by Daniel Bedingfield was the theme song of my 12th year of life. I listened to it for a solid 365 days. You'd think I'd bother to learn the actual lyrics over the course of a year, but I definitely didn't do that at all. Listen to this 8-second portion of the song:

Actual lyrics:

"Gimme 'til tomorrow and I'll be ok."

Arielle lyrics:

"Gimme just a model and a piece of cake."

In my defense, I can think of few situations that couldn't be bettered by a model and a piece of cake.

Disasters and a Classy Lady

Being a film major, everyone I come in contact with expects me to have this wildly, eccentric and obscure taste in movies. Like, I'm supposed to only be interested in foreign films and sniff my nose in disgust at anything made post-60's. But the truth is that the only reason I watched Casablanca for the first time was because I was being graded on it. (I loved it immensely, along with Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Rear Window, and High Noon. Citizen Kane? Not so much.)

I. LOVE. DISASTER. MOVIES.

I'm not even very picky as to the quality of the disaster. All I really require are structures being destroyed, mass hysteria, and lots of "how will they ever make it?!" moments. Unfortunately, I am prone to paranoia.

Perhaps I like disaster movies because I believe they are possible to some extent and I find this thrilling. I get some sort of satisfaction from being scared out of my brains.

Do I use the plots behind these movies to prepare myself if I am ever in a similar situation? NO. Instead, I sit in front of the screen and rot. I nervously jiggle my leg and chew on my lip and jump and squeal and cover my eyes. I guess I'm counting on all the apocalyptic scenes I see on the screen not happening in real life, but the truth is that if anything comes along, I'll be useless.

I can only hope that if I'm ever in a movie-type disaster in real life, I will take after the stereotyped "comedic relief" character. You know, the guy that always has something funny to say and never dies? Whenever he comes on the screen, you feel temporarily safe because the directors wouldn't dare kill off someone so carefree and goofy.

That's me.

When the end of the world comes, I'll be the one cracking jokes.