Introversion reversion

I've been having a tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle lately. While my kind of planet isn't quite getting blown up, it is definitely going through some changes. I daresay I'm living through the weirdest experience of my 36 years of existence. I speak of none but the coronavirus.

But we'll come back to that (and dispense with the gratuitous use of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy references). Surprisingly, the actual difficulty I've been having with my lifestyle is not the global disaster unfolding around me, but rather something much more mundane. It's that I've been having an identity crisis, about one very specific personality trait of mine: Am I really an introvert after all?

For most of my adult life, I was fairly confident in my extreme introversion. From the Myers-Briggs test I took in 10th grade, on which I scored 99% introverted; to the "Party Like an Introvert" kit I designed in grad school; to the book (The Introvert Advantage) I purchased in 2012—you don't know what a statement that is, from a person who never ever pays for reading material!—I solidly identified as an introvert.

But around the same time I purchased that book, something happened. I started drinking alcohol. What a miracle drug that substance is! All of a sudden, parties went from anxiety-inducing horror shows to something I could actually describe as fun! I was fortunate enough to start dating a certified extrovert shortly thereafter, which made meeting new people a regular, and totally tolerable, occurrence in my life.

After a few years of nonstop fun, my boyfriend lost interest in the social circuit, and the friends that I'd developed in that time started to disappear into their own private lives. Everyone I knew was getting tired out and ready to quit, while I felt like I was just getting warmed up! When my relationship ended last March, I threw myself wholeheartedly into building a new social network, seeking out activities and gatherings with abandon and partying like it was my job.

It was around this time that I began to question whether I really qualified as an introvert any more. While being extroverted seems like it would be an asset, the thought of it actually made me very uncomfortable. My whole identity was built on being introverted. If I was acting more like an extrovert than everyone I knew who actually claimed to be an extrovert, what did that make me? Well, I can now say with the wisdom that comes from a year of ruminating, it was "desperate."

After an early adulthood living like a shut-in old woman, I had finally discovered the joys of being young. After a lifetime of being mostly isolated, I had found a sense of belonging. All humans want to belong—even introverts—and so, I embraced every opportunity to have a social life, and when my tenuous connections began to unravel, I doubled down! On the surface, my actions seemed to be textbook extroversion (even to myself!), but I now believe it was actually me compensating for the handicaps of being a true introvert – and, oddly enough, the thing that made me realize it was the coronavirus.

I hesitate to make light of such a serious situation, but apparently every pandemic has a silver lining...and for me, it was once again feeling secure about my antisocial side. I spent much of the last year desperately seeking human contact. I started trying to organize get-togethers among my friends; I joined Bumble BFF; I considered each person I met a potential pal; I said yes to every invitation. To be honest, though, it was all getting exhausting.

All the anxiety about reaching out, the inevitable rejections, the struggle to keep connections current, the frequent hangovers (yes, what a miracle drug and a mistake that alcohol is!)—my efforts to maintain a social life were more cost than benefit. But I had to keep doing it—I had to! Or else I'd find myself depressed and lonely, just like I was all those years ago.

Then COVID-19 arrived. When I started reading about how our best bet to keep the spread of the virus under control was to practice "extreme social distancing," I was all in. If I could finally give up the frantic cultivation of a network and just coast along for a while, how wonderful would that be? If my being alone could be, not something forced upon me by my failure to form connections, but a personal choice that actually serves a public good, why should I not embrace solitude? On Wednesday, I vowed to do my part and cut all my in-person interactions to a bare minimum, until such a time as I feel the crisis is over. And I felt relieved by my decision.

That was when I knew I was still a member of the introvert club. While I wasn't exactly looking forward to weeks of self-imposed isolation, neither did I feel particularly bad about all the activities I knew I was about to miss. I have lots of things to keep me busy alone, and I knew I could handle it. For some reason, being alone by choice is not nearly as depressing as being alone by accident of fate.

Ironically, no sooner had I made that decision, than I was contacted out of the blue by 2 separate friends I hadn't heard from in an age, wanting to know if we could meet up sometime. What is it about a virulent illness that makes people want to come together? I don't know, but I declined one invitation and had the other one conveniently negated by the cancellation of all public gatherings. I got into a somewhat contentious exchange with the organizer of one of the Meetup groups I belong to, who insisted that I should come out to small group Meetups because they were not gatherings of 500 or more people, but I held my ground (or rather, I just stopped responding to her texts, as any true blue recluse would!).

I'm so glad I got back in touch with my introverted side, because it's not only making me feel like I have a better handle on my identity, but it's also making me feel like I have some control in a scary world that's getting crazier by the minute.

We, the citizens of the earth, are in an unprecedented situation right now, yet we have the power to do something about it. Introverts, unite! (Or rather, disband immediately!) Solitude will make us stronger.

Less is More: On having short hair

In December, I lopped off my long, luscious locks in favor of a layered bob.

How I looked before my last major cut

How I looked shortly after it.

Now this is certainly not the first time I've gone for a dramatic chop—it's actually the fifth, which means I've been following an extended grow-cut cycle for pretty much my entire life, and I've got it down to a science. But strangers don't know that, which might explain why everyone in the salon watched in shock and awe as my lengthy tendrils hit the floor, and the stylist asked me if I was sure what I was doing. And this was actually the shortest my hair has ever been before a major cut! I remember the last time I did this, I also got major backlash from those who preferred my hair long.

People seem to take great stock in long hair, as though its loss is an affront not just to its owner but to the entire world. As though you're a traitor to womanhood if you don't have a waterfall of keratin cascading down your shoulders at all times.

There seems to be a downright stigma against short hair. Sure, there is something to be said about the labor of love that is long hair. A person who spends hours a week caring for her tresses is a person who cares about her appearance. A person whose hairstyle is by nature low-maintenance could be interpreted to be a person who's just lazy.

But the ironic thing is that I think I look prettier with short hair. It has natural body and bounce, which it lacks when I wear it long. With my short hair, I wash it (don't even bother to use conditioner), towel it dry, brush it, and then ignore it while it air dries. Periodically I might fluff it with my fingers if I think about it. I spend all of five minutes a day on my short hair, but it generates compliments like it was created by an entire team of stylists for a Vogue photo shoot! I never heard a peep about my hair back when I was blow-drying it for 30 minutes a day. No one ever had anything nice to say about the elaborate updos that are the one thing I miss about having long hair. There was a time in my life when ridiculously long hair was a source of immense personal pride. But those days are long past, and short hair apparently suits me.

How my hair basically looks now.

Once the dust settles from my big move and I'm ready to focus on my style again, I plan to try out an even shorter hairdo. And then after that ... ? Will I ever grow my hair out again? Do I have anything to gain by dangling a foot or more of easily-tangled tresses from my cranium? Would I be better off sticking with the style that not only requires almost no work to maintain, but also seems to meet with the most critical acclaim?

My last dramatic chop was my fifth, but could it be my last? [Insert stirring music here.] Only time will tell.

The perils of being indecisive

In Monty Python and the Holy Grail, there is a scene in which the heroes must, as the gnarly old bridgekeeper puts it, "Answer me these questions three," before they may be permitted to cross a certain gorge.

The questions are, for the most part, absurdly easy: "What is your name?" "What is your quest?" and "What is your favorite color?" Which is why it's funny when one of the heroes changes his mind about his favorite color mid-answer, and consequently gets tossed unceremoniously into the abyss by an invisible hand.

Funny to anyone but me. Were I to be the one crossing the misty chasm in that film, and assuming I were not asked a question about the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow (the answer is to confuse the asker with more questions!), I would be the one to utter the dreaded "I don't know that!" and thusly meet my demise.

I am deathly indecisive about my favorite color. It has changed 6 times over the course of my life—currently it's usually green, but even that can vary depending on my mood and the context.

When you get right down to it, I'm dangerously unopinionated about pretty much everything—which is a cause of great anxiety when it comes to me and the Internet. I won't even begin to talk about my struggles to complete online personality tests (which I adore in spite of my fickle personality traits); I will jump right into a matter of much greater import: login credentials.

 

When websites ask you to create a couple of security questions in case you forget your password, I am often at a loss, because all the questions want to know your favorites. What is your favorite book? Don't have one. What is your favorite movie? Don't have one. What is the name of your best friend? Well, that, like my favorite color, has changed at least 6 times over the course of my life, too. What if it changes again between now and the next time I have to answer this question?

There is only one thing permanent in this life, and that is the past. When I am allowed to write my own custom question, I use the past shamelessly. I frequently refer to one of the many nicknames of my childhood pets, because – even though I'm linking you right to a post about them (surely security at its worst), there are so many more that no one (except maybe my brother) could possibly guess the correct answer!

So maybe, if websites were to start writing security questions like, "What was your favorite color the week that you started college?" (The answer is lavender), then I could feel secure in my security question. But until then, the best answer I can usually manage is "I don't know that!"

Obsessed with the weather

I began to suspect I might be a little bit obsessed with the weather just about a month ago, when, whenever someone would make any kind of comment or passing speculation on it, I would respond instantly with a detailed forecast for the next two days, and usually state the current temperature to the exact degree.

I never for a minute think this indicates I should have gone for a career in meteorology. However, I do think it's a useful obsession to have, for all it stems from a comparably un-useful curse.

What curse, you ask? Well, the curse of my almost complete inability to maintain a consistent body temperature. I feel this makes me a rare breed, like some kind of magical unicorn of thermoregulation.

Some people are always hot. I feel a little sorry for them in the summer, but at least they're consistent. Some people are always cold. This was me until a few years ago, and, while I don't miss those days at all, it was predictable at least, to know that I was never going to get overheated no matter what I did.

Now, my comfort zone is all across the board.

Once again, they turned off the heat in our building as soon as it hit 70 degrees outside for one day, leaving us poor souls shivering in our shoes now that the temperatures have returned to April normal. The rest of my coworkers are handling it all right, though complaining. I, on the other hand, am running a space heater all day, wearing fingerless gloves, and still feeling miserable. I don't start getting warm until midafternoon, when all of a sudden my torso is sweltering in my blazer, while meanwhile my fingers are still sticks of ice.

On the other hand, while 65 degrees in the office is like 8 straight hours of torture by ice, just let me walk outside in the same temperature for 10 minutes, and I'll be stripping off layers like I'm in a sauna. Any small amount of exercise usually heats me up to uncomfortable levels—hence my careful choice of biking clothes—but all the same, my nose is still running and my hands are still frozen.

I live for the days when it hits 80 outside (about the only days when it's warm enough for me to wear sandals), but come 86, and I start feeling lightheaded.

When we ride together in the car in winter, my boyfriend and I both love to crank the heat way up, but while he can survive the whole ride in his puffer jacket without any sign of discomfort, I am always having to remove my coat and gloves (and subsequently losing them) after only a few miles. But then comes springtime, when all of a sudden he wants to drive with the window open. Naturally he's fine with the breeze, but it is enough to turn me into a blue-lipped popsicle.

I have calculated (by a scientific process of wild guessing) that I have a temperature comfort zone of approximately 5 degrees Fahrenheit...but that zone shifts by 15 degrees or more depending on what I'm doing, what I'm wearing, and whether it's sunny or windy.  Unsurprisingly, this means that I'm rarely comfortable. But it also means that I always make an effort to prepare for whatever climate I'm going to be in—and in the spring or fall when the climate is so unpredictable, that often means checking the temperature and forecast dozens of times a day.

I might be a slave to the thermometer, but it does have its upside. At least for my friends and companions, who can be confident that, no matter where we are or when it is, if they ask me, I will have a weather forecast ready for them.

Whatever happened to the Bitter Valentine Blog?

Surely you remember it...the grand old tradition I kept, for four straight years, of parading my broken heart all over the Internet every February 14th, dispensing cynical observations and maudlin musings, making Valentine's Day a true treat for all my readers, single and otherwise. Where did it go? What happened?

Well, to put it shortly, Al happened. You might know him—the guy I love? In spite of his dog? Well, he has single-handedly prevented me from Bitter Valentine's Blogging for two years running! Yeah, sure, it's hard to get into Love Sucks Mode when you're in a happy relationship, but even more, it's difficult to post a blog when you're busy traveling (see my ever-tardy Indonesia posts for further reference). And no one should be surprised when I say that I and my boyfriend who loves to travel have been out of town for our only two Valentine's Days together.

"Oooh, a romantic getaway!" you're probably thinking. But no — and here's where I think I can still work in a seed of bitterness — we've spent both of our past V-Days crammed into our lodgings with 2 to 4 other people, and both times, the trip has revolved around skiing.

Can you imagine? Me? The one who says "I hate winter" as often as she breathes? Spending her precious Valentine's Day which must be absolutely perfect outside? In the snow!? And yet that is exactly what happened. Not once, but two years in a row. Heavy sigh. The things we do for love.

I feel like I deserve some sort of medal for my dedication and self-sacrifice (no one needs to mention that, now that I have a proper coat, some snow pants, and some high-tech winter gear, the cold hardly touches me and I actually find skiing somewhat fun!), but if not a medal, at least some recognition. And I think I know just how to get it. In a conversation about our upcoming trip last week, my boyfriend made a charming little slip and referred to the holiday as "Valerie Times Day."

I like that. I have yet to experience the Valentine's Day of my dreams, but having a whole holiday dedicated to me would suit me just as well. It also gives me an idea as to what will happen to the Bitter Valentine Blog. As morose as it was, I hate to give up on a tradition.

So from here on out, I vow to always write a post for Valentine's Day. It may not always be on February 14th, and I may not be able to summon up enough angst about romance to match my previous unparalleled self-pity, but I always have plenty of energy to talk about me. So next year about this time, keep your eyes peeled, for I promise to provide you with a Valerie Times Day blog that will knock your socks off. Depending on my relationship status, it may not be the refreshing blast of unadulterated misery that you could count on in the past, but I can guarantee that I will never run short of cynical observations.

The ABC's of Me

Not too long ago, my fellow blogger Geoff hit the world with an epic alphabetical list of all the traits that make him him, and he said it sounded like something I would do, so I said I'd do it. Well, it took me 2 weeks to think of an adjective that began with Z, but finally it is here! One word for every letter of the alphabet, each describing something about me!

A is for Awesome. That's right. Let's start this already narcissistic post off with a bang!

B is for Bouncy. And I mean that quite literally. My favorite thing to do instead of standing still is to bounce on my toes. My favorite thing to do instead of sitting still is to bounce my legs up and down.

C is for Colorful. The brighter the better. Why do something in beige when you can do it in rainbow instead?

D is for Deliberate. As in the exact opposite of impulsive.  I look before I look before I look before I leap, and think about every decision for at least a few days. Unless I am crossing the road, and then I usually just step out blindly.

E is for Eco-conscious. People call me a hippie because I compost, reuse everything, go out of my way to recycle, never buy things new when I can buy them used, choose walking or biking or public transportation over driving almost all the time, carry mountains of groceries in my arms rather than use a disposable bag, and carry a weight of guilt that is approximately equal to the number of pounds of carbon I release into the atmosphere with all my wasteful activities.

F is for Forgetful. I can't remember what else I was going to say about that.

G is for Gullible. I believe everything I'm told, which means my boss has lots of fun telling me I'm getting fired all the time. Gee, thanks, Boss.

H is for Honest. I don't steal, I don't cheat, and sometimes I think I disappoint people by telling the truth when they ask me my opinion.

I is for Introverted. I am the shyest person I know. And I don't know many.

J is for Jumpy. Just watch me when someone pokes me from behind. Or I almost step on a worm. Or drop a cockroach that I'm trying to carry out of the building on piece of paper. This goes hand in hand with screamy, but that's not a word.

K is for Klutzy. If you looked at my legs, which are covered in scratches, scrapes, and bruises, that would be all you would need to know. But you could look at my left elbow if you weren't sure. I slammed that into a chair 2 weeks ago, and I'm still bitter about it.

L is for Logical. I am swell at following scenarios to their logical conclusions, and one of my favorite phrases is, "That doesn't make sense!"

M is for Moody. When I'm happy, I'm on top of the world. When I'm sad, I'm despondent. And when I'm mad, I'm hysterical. I can switch from one to the other of these moods in as much time as it takes me to open a cupboard door into my skull.

N is for Nice. That's what all the kids in elementary school said when asked to describe themselves, and I'm sticking to it. Besides, I think it's true, if not very sophisticated in the literary sense.

O is for Obsessive-compulsive. Not in the crazy way, just in the way that everything has to be neat and tidy and spelled correctly.

P is for Perfectionistic. Oh, and everything has to be perfect. That too.

Q is for Quick. If I have to move slowly for some reason, I slowly go insane.

R is for Risk-averse. I would rather never try something than take the chance of failing at it.

S is for Smiley. When people who don't know my name are trying to call me by name, they usually choose "Smiley." That or "Blondie," but since right now my hair is aqua, it would have to be "bluey" and that just doesn't have the same ring.

T is for Thrifty. Nothing feels better to me than saving a few bucks.

U is for Unhealthy. When I don't have some minor malady ruining my life, I'm worrying that I do.

V is for Vegetarian. You would not believe what a hot topic of discussion this is among everyone who meets me. Let's not discuss it right here.

W is for Wordy. I love to write, and I love to elaborate. Why say something in a sentence if you can say it in a paragraph?

X is for Xerodermic. Every so often, my lips turn into a mini-Mojave, and then I can think of nothing else.

Y is for Yeller. That's right, I'm skeert of pretty much everything.

Z is for Zany. This is basically a second-rate synonym for "goofy," which I was going to use for G because people have on several occasions called me a goofball and meant it in a complimentary way. But I really wanted to get that "gullible" in there, and how many other words start with a Z?

So what about you? Can you alphabetize your existence? If you're a blogger, too, why not have at it? Or if not, just post the whole thing on Myspace, like old times!

No No, Nose

Right before I lost my prescription drug coverage at the end of 2011, I stocked up on nasal steroid spray, pretty much the only product I used at the time that required a prescription.

And then, in typical bring-an-umbrella fashion,* being prepared for the worst made the worst not happen. 2012 was a glorious year in which (except for a few times when I had a cold) I did not suffer from a single blocked nose. 2013 is not. Since January, I've had three upper respiratory infections, each of which have resulted in at least a few days of complete nasal blockage. Today marks the third day in a row that my nose has been extremely congested (but mostly on one side) for no apparent reason.

Earlier in the month, I visited a new doctor, who reinstated my prescription for nasal steroids, even though I told him I didn't really need any just yet. But since CVS kept calling to let me know my prescription was ready, I decided to at least go pick it up for later use. But then I found out it would cost 60 dollars for a 1-month supply.

Curses. Once my fears that I wouldn't be able to afford my prescription any more were confirmed, my nose immediately went into overdrive, hitting me with the worst flare-up of idiopathic rhinitis (I only call it that because I haven't found the cause yet, not because all possible causes have been conclusively ruled out—for example, I have not had an allergy test) in I-don't-know-how-long (but my last blog post on the topic was in 2010).

I've been holding back, but I think I'm finally going to have to start using my steroid spray again. I have one reserved bottle from the Before Times, and then I'll have to suck it up and pay the pharmacist.

In the meantime, though, there is one good thing about this congestion--it keeps me moving. Every hour or so, I try to get up and do a little exercise. With a stuffy nose, I have extra motivation to keep up this routine, since when my heart rate's up is about the only time that I can breathe without chemical assistance.

*You can pretty much guarantee a beautiful sunny day if you just carry an umbrella around with you, because nature is perverse like that. If it can't make you uncomfortable in the rain, it'll make sure you're uncomfortably lugging around more gear than you need. I call this phenomenon "Bring an umbrella syndrome".

Beauty Sleeping

Anyone who knows me knows that I sleep a lot. You might not think so at first. I fool you by rising early – even on the weekends – and avidly avoiding naps, but you start to catch on once you hear my bedtime. "When is it?" Oh, like 10:30. "[Skeptical look] Really? [Pregnant pause for raising of eyebrows] What time do you get up?" Seven o'clock.

So that's like 8 and a half hours a night...and when I get to set my own schedule, I rarely settle for less than 9. Then again, that's from bedtime to wake-up, and it doesn't include the long long minutes I spend trying to fall asleep—I estimate those average out to about a half-hour every night.

I have a love/hate relationship with sleep. On the one hand, sleep is like your body's magical reset button. Frustrated? Confused? Take one night to sleep on it, and you will have an entirely new perspective. I've spent all day grappling with some problem, only to wake up the next day and solve it immediately.

On the other hand, I hate how much I depend on it. If I don't get at least 7 hours, I'm brain-dead the entire next day. No amount of caffeine can counteract my grogginess. I live in seething jealousy of ... well, almost everyone else in the world.

I had a coworker once who consistently got by on 5 hours. I would tell him how sleep is good for you. He would tell me, "We'll sleep when we're dead." I would not tell him, but I would think, "if I don't sleep, I feel dead." I was jealous of him.

It's been hard lately, because my newfound social life requires me to stay up late, but my job still requires me to get up early. My boyfriend manages it easily. He can fall asleep any time, anywhere, and seems unfazed by getting up to face the day after only 5 hours of sleep. I, on the other hand, become a feeble zombie with just enough consciousness to feel jealous of him.

Sometimes I think about all the things I could accomplish if I could just sleep one fewer hour a night. Or if I could just fall asleep immediately instead of burning up the hours tossing and turning. And then I wither in despair.

I am forever doomed, like a certain fairy tale princess, to spend years of my life sleeping. I can only hope that, like her as well, it keeps me looking young.

Search and Self

One day at work, I happened to notice that the Google search box in my browser had stored a list of all my recent searches, and I could actually pull it down and see them all at once! I realized my Google search history gives a pretty accurate view into what I value and what I think about, since whenever a thought pops into my head, my first response is usually to search on it. I thought it would be kind of fun to document, officially, all the very eclectic things I think about on the job. Being the dedicated worker that I am, I laboriously typed out the entire 95-item list (if any of you know where to access your Firefox search history in readable format, now's no longer the time to speak up!) and set about bringing it to order.

In case you were wondering what I do at the office all day (or at least the parts of it when I'm Googling), read on!

Of my last 95 searches at work, I am proud to say that most of them (er, 52) were work-related—and therefore mostly boring. Eighteen of them were related to troubleshooting our website (and therefore extremely boring), but among the work-related searches, a few of them stood out as slightly amusing.

• Doctorate vs. Doctoral - Yes, even as a Web developer, I'm still fixated on the intricacies of English. I was trying to find out which word I should use to categorize the degree programs offered by my college. Turns out the two words are basically synonyms, and either one is acceptable.
• Windows Desktop Folder Gone - I highlight this query in particular, although there were several similar ones, just to illustrate that, no matter where I go or what computer I use, there are always 101 things wrong with my computer. Since starting my job, I've dealt with the user desktop folder disappearing (and a whole barrage of error messages related to that), being unable to install an antivirus program, having Windows Task Scheduler repeatedly conk out and have to be recreated, and, well, if there were other problems, I'd rather not think about them. Sigh. I spend far too much of my working time trying to get my computer working.
• And now for my personal favorite: Platypus - This search occurred when I was seized with the sudden need to identify this strange-looking creature, which was one of many photos in the "Animals Pack" I was using as filler fluff for our demo website.
  
  After searching for "platypus," I realized that's definitely what it was not, but I still am not sure what it is! (I think it's a penguin.)

My non-work-related searches are much more diverse.

•  At least a few of them could be classified as work-related as well, such as altitude sickness (which I was investigating as a possible cause of my illness while in Denver for work) and great web design, which I have to do both at home and at work (although I think this search was inspired by a personal project). 
• Several of them were for the greater cause of blogging, especially clause vs phrase (for a grammar post that is so convoluted I'm not sure I'm ever going to publish it) horseshoe crabs and wall (a simile to be used in an allusion that was, as the search revealed, too obscure to publish) "Painter pants," an apparent misnomer I'd been using for wide-leg pants, and standing side crunch, which is the only searched term that actually made it into a post. 
• A few searches were for the greater cause of fashion, such as convert 84 cm to inches, which I had to do when determining whether a certain article of clothing I wanted to buy would fit me. I concluded it would, and consequently, you will probably see it on The Unfashionista sooner or later.
• The last are a few single-word searches, most of which were simply to verify a definition:
• geometrician - Yes, it is a real word (even though my spell check says otherwise), and some day I will use it in a really brilliant joke. (You know you're never going to make it as a comedian when you have to plan your jokes months or years in advance.)
• petulant and vagary - Don't know why I was looking up these words, and I still don't remember what vagary means! I guessed it might be some sort of synonym for "vagueness," but I don't think it was. My memory on this matter in general is a little vague.
• Once upon a time, I knew my heart couldn't rest unless it could find out why people sometimes call Buffalo Wild Wings "BW3's," even though there are only two W's in Buffalo Wild Wings. Turns out, according to their corporate website, that they used to be called Buffalo Wild Wings and Weck—and a Google search for "weck" naturally ensued. It's some kind of roll with seeds on it. Like a kaiser roll, but with a funnier name.
• "The -  Another classic case of typing in the wrong text box. Enough said.
• Tucks - I brought sewing supplies into work one day, to hang up my giant stuffed giraffe (because naturally no office is complete without a giant stuffed giraffe), and while looking at the little round green case that holds my needles, which I inherited from my mom and probably her mom before her, I began to wonder what the "Tucks® carrying case" label on it represented. By searching Google, I learned I'm carrying around my needles in a hemorrhoid wipes package! I turned it face down on my desk after that.

This concludes my Google Search History lesson. I hope it has given you great insight into my life, and life of mind. What does your search history say about you?

Life changes

A few days ago, I pulled my summer wardrobe out of storage. (And watched as the temperature plummetted to highs of 51 Fahrenheit, compounded by rain.) One of the dresses in the collection had some hairs left on it from the last time I'd worn it. Long hairs. Like 2 feet long. Bent up and mutilated. And I couldn't help but grimace in disgust as I handled them. Seriously? Two feet long? It was just gross. Even though I've been saying I'm going to grow my hair back out as I always do, I don't think I ever want it that long again. Of course, short hair means you have to use different tactics to achieve that dramatic look. I've tried the hat thing, but it's not enough. I'm thinking about experimenting with semi-permanent dyes. Of the pink variety. Anyway, I just thought I'd share that little tidbit, because I might be a short-hair kind of girl for the rest of my life! Wouldn't that be weird?

The other big change is that, after 2 and a half years of miserable singledom—preceded by nearly 1 year of miserable coupledom, preceded by ugh, I don't even want to think about it—I've finally got a boyfriend! I know I've shared this with some of you already. And I know that there's nothing more annoying than listening to happily relationshipped people gush about the object of their affection, so that's all I'm going to say right now. Except I thought you might be interested to know that I will probably be taking a break from cynical posts about love and the lack thereof, at least for a little while.

Love bits

Valentine's Day might be over, but I still have a few cynical thoughts about love up my sleeve, and I'm sure as shootin' (that was a Cupid joke, get it!?) not waiting a full year to air them.

Deep thoughts first

This work of art appeared on the board
where my housemates and I
leave each other messages of great import.

I once read in a teen magazine (I was a teen at the time, really!) an Interview With a Cute Guy. One of the questions was, "How do you know when it's really love?" I've been thinking about it ever since.

The Cute Guy's answer was, "When I stop eating." Which is a valid answer, I suppose, except that it sounds more like an indication of infatuation than love. I daresay even Cute Guys of the hopeless romantic variety start eating again once the initial thrill wears off. How can you grow old together if one of you dies of starvation three weeks after meeting? Cute Guy is excused for calling infatuation love—sometimes I use the terms interchangeably. But he has done nothing to help us answer the eternal question: What really is love?

A significant other once told me it was love if he would "take a bullet" for the lovee. Well, he never took a bullet for me, so I dumped him.

In all seriousness, though, there must be some real-life test that's a little less suicidal to determine whether you love someone. Sometimes I think, if I loved someone enough, I might be persuaded to move to a colder climate to be with them. For me, that would be a big deal, a torturous decision that would definitely require a huge incentive. But even if I were really enamored, I think I might elect to have a long-distance relationship part of the year, rather than join my sweetie in the frozen tundra. Or even New England.

I think the truest definition of love for me is one that gets to the heart of my phenomenally reclusive personality. Social interaction is always a huge drain on my emotional energy. Even when I have a great time with someone, and even when I've been starved for companionship and really need some company, I am always happy when I get to be alone again. Love is the one thing that can break through that introversion. Love is the one thing that can make me not want to say good bye, and the one and only reason that leaving someone could ever cause me pain rather than relief. Aww, how romantic.

And Now for Some Decidedly Unromantic One-Liners

• Some people chase after Sasquatch. I chase after love. I don't know which chase is more futile.
• Being in love is eerily like being high on decongestants.
• If all the guys who joked about marrying me actually did marry me, I'd be a polygamist.
• If I had a dollar for every time I saw someone else having a better love life than mine, I'd still be lonely, but at least I'd be rich.

Rules of Attraction

Recently, I told a friend that I have given up on dating entirely. While this is not a new development, our conversation did remind me about why I've made this rather self-defeating decision.

After a couple years of Internet dating, and even meeting up with some of the guys who have flagged me down on the street, I have had next to no success. This has mostly been because I just wasn't interested—also pretty self-defeating on my part, but it's not something I can help! I've rejected guys for a number of reasons, but probably the most common one and the one that's most deadly to a future relationship is a lack of physical attraction. Though this is somewhat superficial, let's face it: If the thought of kissing someone makes you cringe, dating them will never work.

Sometimes, an unattractive face grows on you over time, but time is one thing that blind dating does not afford. Generally, you are expected to make a decision about the other person after a single meeting that may be as short as one hour!

So! I'm still single because all men are ugly. But what makes them ugly? Well, that's (after a rambling 3 paragraph intro as always) the topic of this post. [Edit, October 25: No, all men aren't really ugly! That was hyperbole for comedic effect. I don't want to be responsible for causing anyone to get an inferiority complex.]

I read recently that generally people are attracted to people who look different from them (an adaptive trait to avoid inbreeding). This seems to be confirmed in my tastes. In terms of coloration, I'm pretty much a genetically watered-down Heidi. So it's not surprising that I go for men who are dark haired, dark eyed, and dark skinned.

Ooh la la!

I have pretty close-set, deep-set eyes, and my tastes run to guys with big, widely spaced girly eyes (but is this a reflection of evolutionary tendencies, or just a reflection of how much I hate my kind of eyes?). Although as soon as I bring this up, someone will say, "You're not fat!" I do, undeniably, have chubbier than average cheeks, and I am attracted to faces that have the exact opposite. All in all, it seems my genetic makeup dictates that I go for a distinctly alien mien.

Except when it comes to mouths. Along with my chubby cheeks, I was graced with tiny rosebud lips (a terrible combination), meaning that I prefer people with a wide mouth and a forest of teeth. Aliens do not have mouths at all.

While all these first-glance preferences can be superseded by a general rapport brought about by someone who charms me by following all the rules to dating Valerie, there is one physical preference that I just can't seem to shake: I only like skinny men. It doesn't seem to matter how long I've known someone or how much fun we can have together. It doesn't matter if he's the world's greatest conversationalist and we have every common interest two humans can have—if he's not at least as thin as me (on a fat-to-height ratio), I just can't seem to get interested romantically. This makes me feel like a superficial jerk, but all the guilt in the world can't persuade me to change my tastes.

This poses two problems. Firstly, it contradicts the genetic theory of attraction. While I imagine myself to be a blubbery elephant of a person, I have it on good authority (namely, everyone who talks to me) that "You're not fat!" And while one can question the veracity of that statement (it seems to explode reflexively out of anyone's mouth as soon as I mention being chubby, which makes me think they might still be saying it if I weighed 300 pounds), I also have it on statistical authority that I'm not fat. So if I were supposed to be attracted to my opposite, I should be ga-ga about heavier men. Secondly, since I'm statistically not fat and the majority of the American population is, this severely limits the pool of dudes who meet my exacting specifications. Especially when you factor in all the hard-to-find personality traits (which could be the topic of several additional posts, so I'm not even going to start) that I also prefer.

So what's an extremely selective girl to do? The answer is, stop going on blind dates. No point in spending your entire income meeting strangers for dinner, only to tell them, "Sorry, you're just too human for me." Therefore I will wait, averting my eyes from happy couples, glaring disdainfully at engagement ring advertisements, and choking back the tears at weddings, until that happy day when I can again fall in love with the wrong guy.

Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow

I'll have you know that this is my 111th post, which, if anything, is even cooler than my 100th!

Well, my new haircut has met with mixed responses. The majority of them have been favorable (those who didn't approve have mostly either been good liars or had the good sense to keep quiet), but I got a few negative reactions too.
There was my coworker who was so shocked, she just kept walking through the store exclaiming, "You didn't cut your hair! You did not cut your hair! What does your mama think?" to which I responded honestly, "I'm not sure if she knows yet." (Got to call my mother!) But really, don't you think the days when my mother could dictate my appearance are long past? My mom stopped telling me how to dress when I was in kindergarten. Actually, I wish she had encouraged me to dress in a more socially acceptable fashion... I wonder what kind of person I'd be today if I hadn't been so dowdy when I was a kid. But I digress.

There was my Facebook friend who commented, "VALERIE YOU DIDNT!!!!! :(" Hey, now, friend-who-shall-remain-nameless, you weren't the one who had to brush out this overgrown mop every day! You weren't the one who was facing depression due to a lack of new styles to put your hair into (and a dwindling number of tried-and-true styles that were succumbing one by one the gravitational forces continuously growing stronger against your continuously growing mass of hair). Perhaps you appreciated my hair long, but I myself had had more than enough.

Then there was the friend I told over the phone, whose response was an appalled, "Why did you do that?" I answered, "Because I got tired of it. None of the styles looked good any more." And he said, with murder in his voice, "Did someone tell you that?" No, I told him, and I thought to myself vindictively, "This wouldn't be such a shock if you had actually been paying attention when I told you I was planning to do it!"

But regardless of my own personal opinions on these few negative replies in a sea of compliments, one thing remains a fact: It will grow back. And I will grow it back. Because that's what I always do. Just wait a couple years...and in the meantime, relax already! And enjoy all the fun short hair styles that I will discover and wear for your amusement.

Doing the do

Vanity dictates that I share this story with you.

It began in September of 2004, when I cut my hair short for the last time, and ends today in 2010, when I cut my hair short for the new last time. As you know if you read this blog regularly, I was in quite a quandary over whether I should go under the scissors, but by a week later, I was pretty sure I was going to do it, and the only question was when.

After my mid-August trip to Ohio was the answer. That way all my family could see me with my familiar keratinous tentacles, and afterward, I could devote my attention to finding a salon without having vacation packing to distract me.

I really did need to devote my attention to finding a salon, because, after going without a haircut for nearly 6 years, I wanted to make sure that when the big change happened, I would get it done right. Whenever I cruised the streets, I kept my eyes peeled for hair cutting establishments. One day when I was shopping, I stopped into two salons in the neighborhood. At the first, Shear Pleasure, the lady at the front desk was outrageously friendly, answered all my questions, and gave me a brochure. At the second, there was nobody at the front desk, all 5 people in the store looked at me when I walked in the door but no one said anything. I stood there for a few moments, awkwardly waiting for some acknowledgement, then I picked up a brochure and left. Turns out their prices were higher than the prices at the other place. And for what, I ask? Hostility and superior attitudes? The second place, by the way, was Viva Salon, so if you're ever planning to get your hair cut in College Park, I recommend you don't go there.

I set up an appointment at Shear Pleasure a few days later. The night before my appointment, I braided my hair and chopped most of it off, partly to ensure that it was in good condition to donate, partly to save myself the trauma of losing 5 years of work in a public place, and partly to obviate any fees that the salon might charge for cutting longer hair. (I'm still not sure if they charge extra for cutting your hair completely off if it's long, or if they only charge extra if you have long hair and you're getting it trimmed.)

I documented the process on this Facebook video, and I am pleased to say that the results make me happy. SO looking forward to not spending nearly an hour every day brushing out my tangles!

Here's a clip from my video.

Hair

As I mentioned in my last post, when I'm feeling ennuious (no, that's not a word, but it should be!), I develop 3 cravings: to eat junk food, to move away, and to wear makeup. There is, however, in recent months, another option. Lately, my general malaise has also been manifesting itself in a desire to cut my hair.

My ponytail measures 27 inches these days. It has already reached the point where people are awed by it, and there's really no incentive for me to keep growing it "until it starts to look ratty," as was my original plan. I'm growing weary of its demanding maintenance schedule (which requires a good half-hour of detangling every day, plus nightly braiding), and I've seen ladies with braids that extend past their butts, and I don't think they look all that good.

But still, I hesitate to sever all ties with my old friend (get it!?) just yet. I've begun to feel that my hair is my not-so-secret weapon. It's dramatic. It's a talking point. It gives people reason to notice me.

Without this 2-foot clump of keratin trailing behind me, I fear I would recede into invisibility. Without "Wow, your hair is getting really long!" as an opening line, my reunions with long-unvisited friends and family members might never progress past the awkward-grinning phase. I have long suspected that one of my chief social failings is that people forget me as soon as I'm out of sight. Yet, I've come to believe that my hair is the only thing that might mitigate my forgettability (no, that's not a word, either. Get used to it). Without my ridiculously long mop, I worry there would be nothing distinctive about me.

Before I commit to such a drastic move, I need to find another gimmick—something that makes me more than just another face in the crowd. There is that penchant that I have for one-of-a-kind thrift store getups... And last winter's experiment with knee socks as a wardrobe staple went off pretty well. Maybe I should learn to harness the power of accessorizing—without big tumors of hair sticking out of my head, I'd be free to wear things like hats! Or maybe I should just stop being so vain.

Anyway, while I'm pondering how to cut my hair without going through separation anxiety, I'll leave you to ponder this abbreviated top-ten list:

You know it's time to cut your hair...

• When you can hit your funny bone with the end of your braid.
• When you can use your hair in place of a scarf.
• When you see your hairstyle reflected in a window, and you remind yourself of an alien in a Star Wars movie.
• When a loose hair can work its way down your collar and become an instrument of itchy torture somewhere in the vicinity of your belly button!
• When you start accidentally sitting on it.

Life After Graduation

You know, it may be a little late to get incensed about this, but why does everyone assume "University of Baltimore" means "UMBC" (a.k.a. University of Maryland Baltimore County)? If I meant UMBC, I'd say UMBC!

A little under a month ago, I graduated from the University of Baltimore with my MA in publications design. I mentioned this to one of my freelance clients, and he said, "Ahh, you're a CSP!" "CSP?" I said. He answered, "Certified Smart Person!"

That's right. Now that I've joined the ranks of the highly educated, all sorts of new possibilities have opened up. With my advanced degree firmly in my grasp, I've already begun accomplishing great things!

I took on full-time work! (Full time caretaking the bulk foods section of a grocery store...)

I converted 3 men's shirts to women's shirts!

I set up a hook to hang my headphones on so I don't have to wrap them up and stow them in a drawer every time I'm done with them.!

I designed and created 2 new pairs of earrings, one of which is finished and pictured here!

I learned – after a year of thinking it impossible – how to turn on the outdoor faucet, and then procured a garden hose, to enable future washing of my car unhindered by the expensive and frantic process of using the carwash!

I organized my beading supplies--an act inspired by the process of creating the aforementioned earrings!

I repaired the brake on my bike and logged 7.1 miles on the 2-Mile Challenge!

With a flourish of my permanent marker, I labeled all my property in the basement and shed, so as to prevent future incidents like the mysterious disappearance of my stain remover's lid!

Though I had been deeply saddened by the tragic demise of my favorite pair of jeans (the only pair of jeans I ever had that I didn't find obnoxiously uncomfortable) I finally gave them new life by sewing the patched part of them into the shape of a pouch, in which I now carry a set of tableware so I don't have to use a new disposable set every time I eat at work! Later on, I intend to turn the rest of them into napkins.

I moved all my cosmetics into a nice, organized box and rearranged my bookshelf! Again.

I designed a long-overdue new Facebook profile picture! It is pictured to the right. Yes. It is another tree.

Wow! I accomplished a lot of wonderful things! It's amazing where a master's degree can take you!

Give me a knight with a white horse, shining armor, and the ability to arrive before he's called.

I really look forward to my days off. Today was one. This past week I worked three full days in a row at the store (whoa, I know...), so I was feeling burned out on groceries and eager to get back to my cozy room where I can edit websites in my pajamas. Strangely enough, though, while leading people to the honey all the time and making endless amounts of coffee burns me out quickly, it seems that working all by myself in a chair burns me out quicker.

Usually, after just a single day of e-freelancing, I begin to feel this creeping sense of sadness. It's a little bit lack of motivation (which I admit is pretty easy to feel when you are surrounded by all the paraphernalia of your life that have nothing to do with work), and a little bit restlessness (but you'd think that wouldn't be such an issue when I take exercise breaks every time I get too cold or antsy), but mostly, I think it's just loneliness.

I have that much-touted ability to see eternity in every moment. Unfortunately, for me, this means that when I'm happy, I think it's going to last forever and am devastated when it doesn't...and when I'm lonely, I can't help but think that's going to last forever, too, hence the creeping sadness, despite all the logical self-admonition I can muster.

I often wonder why, when I've been around people for a while, I start to crave solitude so much, knowing that only a few hours of it will turn me into a tragic figure that sits silently in shadows, leans wistfully out the window, and dreams incessantly of her white knight. However, putting it in those terms, I realize exactly why I feel lonely.

It's not that I don't need lots of alone time. I do. I'm a certified introvert. But even the most die-hard hermit needs other people occasionally. And I see that moment coming from miles away. Long before I've reached the point where I feel desperate for companionship, I'm worrying about the time in the future when I will reach that point. I worry because I know I am powerless to prevent it. The difference between a person who is lonely and one who is not, is that the un-lonely person knows how to not be alone when they no longer want to be.

That esoteric knowledge is inaccessible to me. I truly am at the mercy of whatever white knight may appear to rescue me from my solitude. For I know not how to summon one. Or, if I were not so inclined to speak in terms of fairy tales, I might say that social phobia keeps me in my lonely tower – no, no! Must dispense with the fairy tale imagery! – that the effort of reaching out to people stresses me out so much that it pretty much negates any benefit that I might gain from having company, in the event that my attempt is a success. I might also say that I don't know how to connect with people, and when I try, I end up looking like a total fake.

So I just don't try. I think it would be easier to stab myself repeatedly with a pushpin than start a conversation that might embarrass me.

Believe it or not, this hasn't been a sloppy wallow in self pity. It's just an insight. I don't think it has the power to turn me into Miss Congeniality, but knowledge is power. Maybe there's enough power in it to drive me to call up an acquaintance and see if they'd like to get ice cream with me! Then again...oh, look! Pushpins!

A similar discourse about squirrels

By the way, I plan to make a whopping 5-day trip to Ohio for Christmas this year. If you're in Ohio and want to visit with me, get in touch with me soon! I will be there from Tuesday through early Saturday next week!

One of my readers actually wanted to hear me talk about squirrels, so, what can I do but oblige? Frankly, it won't be too much of a hardship.

If the seagull is the top bird in the collection of "things that make me squeal with delight," then the squirrel is the mammal. The other day, I was riding in a car, looking out the window with a ludicrous grin on my face. No one asked me why I was smiling, but if they had, I would have had to respond, "I saw a squirrel."

Who can resist the allure of squirrels, with those big bushy tails, and the ridiculous things they'll do for food? The way they chatter when they're offended and squall sadly when they're unhappy? Have you ever seen a squirrel in the rain? They huddle with their tails over their heads and make woebegone noises. It's heartwrenching. Like watching one of those commercials for Feed the Children. Of course, wet squirrels don't make any effort to look for shelter, mostly because they're dumb as posts, but still, I feel for them.

I have been likened to a squirrel on a number of occasions. Actually, whenever people try to assign me an animal identity, it's usually some small rodent-like mammal or other. Probably because I'm just so cute! Or is it because I run around stuffing grain products into my mouth? It's true that when it's cold and rainy, I really don't feel like doing anything but huddle with something over my head and make woebegone noises. Whatever the reason for my association with the adorable vermin, I'm proud to be considered among their ranks! In fact, if you are familiar with me on AOL instant messenger, you will know my avatar is a squirrel.

That avatar picture is one of three that I made for a class but never used. One of them has appeared on this blog, but the last one, you might never have seen. Here seems as a good a place as any to share it! I might also share that all three of these images are available as free clip art on Deviant Art.

Speaking of art, let's talk about squirrels in comics! The same friend who mentioned actually being interested in a post about squirrels also introduced me to this cartoon about squirrels, which was done by the artist of a webcomic that actually features squirrels pretty frequently, sometimes in conjunction with incomprehensible science and philosophy. Something for everybody!

And that same friend also introduced me to videos of squirrel fishing, wherein you get squirrels to do amazing feats of acrobatics by offering them a nut on a string. This is a lot more humane than fish fishing and much cuter to watch.

So, seeing all that stuff about squirrels out there on the internet, I have to conclude that I'm not the only one with a soft spot in my heart for squirrels. And with that happy thought, I think this discourse has come to an end.

P.S. If I had a tail, it would totally be a squirrel tail.

More perils of being Valerie

I humiliated myself multiple times at work today. Now, because I don't know when to quit, I'll recount the embarrassments in my blog!

First, I confessed to my coworker that I don't know how to make friends. I'm sure all you readers have read similar confessions from me so many times that it's just a fact of life and not a confession. But the people at work all seemed genuinely surprised that little miss sunshine has no friends. So then my coworker said she'd start inviting me with her everywhere she goes because she feels sorry for me. Yippee. Charity friendship, here I come!

Well, after that, my manager decided to laugh long and loud at the nice suggestion I gave to the nice lady that she could use her baking chocolate (she'd bought it thinking it was drinking chocolate) to bake brownies, since she couldn't return it opened and without a receipt. I said, "That's not funny! I was just trying to be helpful!" And he said, "It is funny! It's a good thing!" And I said, "Maybe it would be good if I was trying to be funny, but I wasn't!" And he said it still was funny and it was just "such a Valerie thing to say." All right, fine. At least I have character. I guess, deep down, I don't mind playing the clown.

But I do mind alienating people with the stupid things I say, which is what happened in the last, and far worst, embarrassment. Every evening, we make an announcement at 8:50 reminding customers that we close in 10 minutes, and a second announcement at 9:00 to inform customers that we are closed and they should make their way to the registers. I have those announcements memorized, and I can recite them like a pro. But today, my manager asked me to make another announcement at 9:05 to encourage the stragglers to get out of the store. My impromptu announcement went like this: "Good evening shoppers! The time is now 9:06 and we will be closing our registers in the next few minutes. If you haven't made your purchases by then, you will lose your opportunity to do so." I knew instantly that it was the most horrible announcement in the history of store announcements! Being thus mortified, I could not even think of a friendly closing line, so I just held the phone (our version of a microphone) for a few seconds, squeaked audibly into it, and hung it up. Oh, the horror! Apparently there was only one person in the store...but if they report the incident to the owner, my job is gone! The manager (the same one who laughed at my brownie suggestion; he laughs at pretty much everything) laughed hysterically and said it was great. I was not convinced. Everyone else laughed hysterically too.

I snuck out the back door and went home.

I'd put a lyric here, but I think I've used it before.

So, sometimes, I have this overwhelming urge to quote song lyrics, even if they have only the most superficial resemblance to the issue at hand. Today I have all these lyrics crashing in and out of my head, and I'd like to quote them all.

I'll start with, "She says she's tired of life; She must be tired of something!" even though I'm not really tired of life, and I can certainly be more specific about what I'm tired of than "something." And then I'd like to increase the hostility level a bit and quote two songs that both have to do, strangely, with divorce (one of them's about a guy who would hate his ex-wife if it weren't for his two kids, and one of them's about a kid whose parents are getting divorced) and both, coincidentally, have the same lyric--"I hate everything." And I quote them even though I don't hate everything--just most things.

End rambling intro.

Remember that post so long ago when I said I'm too picky? That's what all those song lyrics are about. I hate most things. I'm tired of everything.

I'm tired of my job. Working at a grocery store is pretty unrewarding. Much more so when you don't get free food. I'm tired of freelance design. I think I should go into software engineering. That's where all the money is, and it doesn't require you to be creative on demand. Yes, with one class left in my academic program, I am suddenly wondering, "Why did I choose this direction for my life?" This seems to be a common theme among me.

I'm tired of my housemates. I'm looking for a new place right now, but it's going to be pretty darn hard since I'm so picky. It must be within a mile of a Metro station. Unless I get a new job and can leave my job in College Park, it must be on the green line. It must be under 500 dollars including utilities, the other tenants must be friendly. It must have windows and not be in a basement and must have room for all my stuff, which is still too much even though I keep trying to get rid of it.

I'm tired of green shirts. Why am I always wearing a green shirt in all my pictures? Why, even though I'm tired of green shirts, do I keep buying every green shirt I can find because I just like green more than all the other colors?

I also hate having a tan. It makes me feel like I've failed in my efforts to be an anti-trendy warrior for nerd-dom. I have a tan right now. I weep.