My Lion Story

This is the last time I will blog a depressing blog on this subject. I promise. In fact, I wasn't going to do it, but when I told Libby this story, she liked it, and when I told my mom the story, she kept saying "That is just the best story." ALL YESTERDAY AFTERNOON.

So what better to do when you wake at 6 am on a Saturday than tell a story?

Without going into too much specifics, let me just tell you that I had a rejection this week. By a boy. I knew I wasn't going to hear what I wanted to hear, but I'm one of those girls who just HAS TO GO FOR IT. (I'm still waiting for that personality trait to pay off.) I just needed my feelings out in the air. Bad move? Probably, but whatever. It happened.

Timeout. Anyone else seen Mat Kearney's "Ships in the Night" video? Could he sing if he was sitting on his hands?

Time in.

I take rejection WAAAAAY too personally sometimes. Every time, actually. I will literally sit there for a very long time and try to dissect what exactly was wrong with me and why exactly I wasn't good enough for something. (This does not only happen in the area of boys. It can be with my own family, even. Or jobs. Or any manner of silly thing.) But in my defense, being rejected isn't really anything that's easy and you just go "OK! COOL! THANKS FOR CRUSHING MY MOST OF ME!!" and then skip through a flowery meadow. But I still didn't need to take it as hard as I did.

It. Was. Ridiculous. I seriously don't even know who that Thursday Katie was.

When I got home for lunch on Thursday, I pulled into the garage and just sat in my car and ugly cried for awhile. Through the swollen, puffy slits in my face that I now called "eyes", I looked up and through the tears I noticed one of the old clear tubs that contains my precious childhood artifacts. I could see the outline of Squeaky Mouse, and Bunny, and then I saw the face of a little lion that I had never named and quite frankly, I'd forgotten I'd even kept him.

"HAH!" I bitterly said out loud, "Betcha wish you could go back to THOSE DAYS." and I got out of my car and slammed every door I could find. (Again. Totally mature.) I went in, sat on my couch, watched "Sherlock", yelled, pet Cordy, and did everything BUT eat. (Why? Because someone would notice I wasn't eating? *rolls eyes*)

I got back to work, and I was there for about an hour when I could feel the tears well up again and I had to excuse myself to the bathroom. Sometimes it's nice working at a place with public restrooms. There's a certain anonymity that comes with it. You don't have to worry about people knocking on the door and asking "Are you OK in there?".

I locked myself in my favorite middle stall and buried my face in my hands and prayed "Lord, I just do NOT GET THIS. I've been locking myself in this stall and having this conversation with you since last NOVEMBER. WHAT THE HECK!?!? What is it about him that reduces me to an angry, ridiculous, kicking, screaming, crying, temper tantrum throwing maniac? I never even threw temper tantrums like this when I was a KID!!" (My parents can back me up on that.)

And then God ever so gently reminded me of one.

I was waaaaay too old to have a temper tantrum. Like 10 or 11. Yeah. It's embarrassing. (Almost as embarrassing as being 27 and doing the same thing, but I digress.) I was going through this "BUY ALL THE STUFFED ANIMALS!!!" phase. (I was probably too old for that as well.) If I felt a "connection" with one, I HAD to take it with me and give it love and a wonderful home. (And write stories about it. When I was a kid, I didn't have Instagram so I wrote stories instead.)

My family and I went to Walmart one night (it must've been quite the outing because even my Dad went, and he friggin HATES Walmart) and of course my brother and I asked to go look at toys. (Even now, when I'm at work and I hear kids ask their parents "CAN I GO LOOK AT TOYS??!??!" it brings a smile to my face.) We went to go look and I went straight for the stuffed animals.

And theeeeerrrrrrree he waaaaaaasssss!! The cutest little tiger you ever saw. He had the cutest eyes, the cutest little eyebrows, and he had a stuffed body with limp legs and huge stuffed paws. He almost looked like a little puppet. Oh! And the best part? He had a little voice box and he ROARED. I know. I know. It was simply too much.

When Mom and Dad came back around, I attacked them immediately.

"IFORGOTMYMONEYBUTIFYOUBUYMETHISTIGERIWILLPAYYOUBACK!!!!!!!!!!!"

"No, Katie."

"PLEEEEASE!??!"

"No."

So, I snuck away in order to attack my only other option: my brother.

"IFORGOTMYMONEYBUTIFYOUBUYMETHISTIGERIWILLPAYYOUBACK!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Ok." (He was considerably easier to persuade.)

So I informed my parents of our new plan, and their response?

"No."

This resulted in me CRYING and BEGGING and PLEADING and just being overwhelmingly unruly and stupid. It also resulted in lots of weird looks from strangers. I vowed then and there that I WOULD be returning for that tiger.

It was the mid 90's, and my mom actually painstakingly planned her trips to Walmart, so it would be at least a week before I made it back. When I got there, the tiger was GONE. But there was a lion like it, so it would just have to do. I would not be defeated.

As I exited the stall after that lovely trip down memory lane, I was like "Ok. Fine. Thanks for reminding me of that stupid story, God." And I wiped my eyes and went to go get a drink out of the drinking fountain. I was just about to take a drink when it hit me: The little lion face I saw peering out of the clear tub at lunch, the lion I hadn't thought of in YEARS and actually kinda forgot I even HAD, was THAT lion.

What in the HAIL?!?!?

Why would I even look up and notice that tub when I was on lunch? What would've caused me to even THINK to look up when I was crying my face off in my car?

Sometimes, you don't get the tiger you want and beg and plead for. And sometimes the lion seems like your reluctant second choice, but in the long run, it might be a better choice and you might need it.

He's one dapper dude. Look at that face.

Also, he can rock the shades.

It was "fun" digging him out of the tub when I got home. It was on the tippy top shelf and so I had to take off my heels, stand on an old DQ chair in the garage, somehow perch over the lawnmower AND a bicycle, move a Christmas tree box, and then attempt to pull him out of the middle of the tub. It obviously worked, but I was hoping my body wouldn't pull a "Grace" and end up a crumbled bag of bones on the garage floor.

Here lies Katie: She was retrieving a stuffed animal for a metaphor.

THE END.

P.S. Little Lion Man needs a name. Any suggestions?

Advantages and Disadvantages

There are advantages and disadvantages to everything. Today, we will profile drinking. (I have a slight buzz going as we speak. You know. Just for the sake of science.)

ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES OF DRINKING:

PMS For Dummies

After a visit to my Dr last month (first Dr visit in 3 years. THANK YOU INSURANCE!!) she decided to put me on birth control for a month and see if some of my health issues could be relieved. Come on, people. Mind out of the gutter. I have broken ovaries, ok? Ok. Good talk. (But while we're on the subject of gutter... nevermind.)

This week is "off pill" week, and let me tell you, brothers and sisters, if I live through it, it will be an EVERLOVINGMIRACLE. Libby and I were discussing PMS vs Birth Control PMS today and I told her the difference was that Regular PMS just looks at BC PMS and laughs hysterically.

I'm not lying.

This is a picture of me trying to get my computer to work so I could draw this blog. (Blogging outside because it's beautiful today.)

(On the right, you see a person fairly concerned about the lack of her computer's performance. On the left, you see a person ready to lob her computer into the depths of Mordor.)

I have seriously almost murdered my dog 57 times JUST SINCE BEING OUTSIDE.

You believe me now, huh? Thought so.

I know that being a woman automatically qualifies me for the gift of having emotions that change quicker than the weather in Kansas, but I've managed to pretty much avoid that for much of my life and for that I am grateful. If these last few days are any indication of how most girls are or how pregnancy or menopause is going to be, I'm handing in my lady resignation RIGHTNAO.

Here's a few of the things have happened to me JUST TODAY (more specifically since I've been out on my back patio).

(This one is obviously not a thought. It's an introduction.)

(Cordy got caught around one of the patio tables and I LOST MY ISH.)

(I saw a butterfly.)

(This happened.)

(Yep.)

(I thought all of these thoughts.)

(Brother was so kind as to point out that it looks like "PANK ATTACK" but I left it anyway. He also wanted to know exactly what I'm doing with my body here, but I had no answer.)

(This was his insightful description of the previous frame. He's not wrong.)

(Not an exaggeration.)

(We mostly just need the cookies and the cuddles. It's a small price to pay for peace and keeping your face, am I right?)

(Brother says we need to wear signs.)

I am glad this only lasts a week.

Worthy

Today, I’m going to tell myself something over and over and over again.

“You are worth it. You are worthy of good things in life. You are worthy of being pursued. You are a treasure.”

I don’t know about any of y’all, but I have a great and expansive history of selling myself short. It’s not only exhausting to myself, but to others around me, I am sure. *Cough*Especially Libby*Cough* I know what I wrote above is SUPER cheesy, and it’s all I can do to not go back up there and hit “backspace” a hundred times, but it’s true.

It’s not just true for ME though.

We are all worthy of good things. We’re worthy of love. We’re worthy of healthy relationships. Yes, we all have bad days, but we don’t have to STAY there. (And deciding not to stay there is the HARD part!)

My friends, I love you. You are worthy.

Start acting like it.

(And that goes for me, too.)

How Embarrassing

Yesterday, I was a very bad girl. I threw a mind-blowing temper tantrum.

Over what?

I don’t really know.

I just needed to be ANGRY and I succeeded.

I chucked my phone all the way across my basement. (Otterboxes really ARE the way to go, folks.) I cried. I yelled at my dog. I stomped around. I even yelled at God “You know, I KNOW you love me, but I sure do not FEEL it right now.”

Then I quoted Luke 11:11-13 at Him, like He doesn’t remember it.
“You fathers—if your children ask for a fish, do you give them a snake instead? Or if they ask for an egg, do you give them a scorpion? Of course not! So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him.”

“You know, I have been asking for things for a while now and I feel like I am being given GLASS to chew on!! If You were here, I would pound my fists into Your chest and tell you how mean You are!!! I know that this is not very nice, but I am sorry. I am just so MAD!! UGH!! I JUST NEED SOMEONE TO HOLD ME RIGHT NOW!!” (Fun fact: When I am really and TRULY angry, I don’t use contractions.)

I know. I’m not proud. Yelling at God and quoting scripture at Him like I’m so smart. (Don’t worry, I apologized profusely this morning.)

And the whole time I was yelling, I KNEW in my heart that everything was going to be ok, it just didn’t LOOK like it was going to be ok.

Just because I lack faith, it doesn’t mean it’s God’s fault. Just because I’m impatient, it doesn’t mean He’s making me be that way.

Some people will probably get mad at me for being “sacrilegious” and being “mad at God”, but I don’t subscribe to a religion. I have a RELATIONSHIP with God and just like any relationship you and I will ever have, it has its GREAT times and it has its bad times. He doesn’t get mad at us for questioning or yelling. He’s bigger than that. The important thing is that we don’t STAY mad. And we can admit when we’ve been out of line. We can apologize, and move on.

Let's Talk About...

Libby.

Let’s talk about how she’s going to be weirded out and possibly annoyed that I’m devoting an entire blog to her, but how I’m going to do it anyway.

I first met Libby online, which is how all good and non serial-killer relationships should begin. At first, she was just a girl who posted on my friend Nickie’s statuses and made me laugh. REALLY HARD. I was all “This girl. This girl is a treasure.”

(Example of this treasure: I just sent her a text that said “What are we? ‘Sex and the City’?” and her reply involved not only the need for better footwear, but also more ladylike drinks instead of the beer and whiskey we both adore so much. WINNER.)

The first time I saw her, she was working at Walmart and talking to Nickie. We were introduced. We were shy. (We’re both that way sometimes.) That eventually led to a LEGITIMATE Facebook friendship. (Yes folks, it’s 2012. Facebook is a LEGITIMATE friendship tool.)

Now, to hear her tell this story, she was the one who thought I was awesome. It was a mutual feeling of awesome and ooeygooeyness. I assure you.

After being friends on the FB, we (Libby, Ryan, Justin, and I) decided to actually hang out face to face on Sunday and our lives have never been the same. For the better. I can’t imagine what life would be like if I hadn’t met them.

There’s a hilarious story about our friendship last summer, but I don’t have clearance or the words to properly convey it. Let’s just say if put in a position like she was last year, any lesser person would’ve stabbed me in the eyes, set me on fire, scooped my ashes into a trash bag and disposed of them in a ditch somewhere. You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not. That. Girl. Has. Grace.

Having a bad day? Libby brings chocolates.
Having a pity party? Libby keeps it real. In love, of course, but she doesn’t let you get away with anything.
Having a REAL party? Libby will bake something delicious.
Having a freak out crisis time? Libby will make you feel better but not in an annoying way.
Having a boy confusion? Libby reminds you that we’re just all people, regardless of our genders.
Thinking about causing real, bodily harm to someone? Libby will talk you out of it, but support your reasoning 85-100%.
Need a truthful opinion that won’t scar you for life? Libby’s got one.

I just love her.

If I could have as much kindness, wisdom, grace, and awesomeness as her left pinky finger, I’d be doing good.

That is all. <(O_o)>

Never Underestimate the Power of Neon Bendy Straws

For reasons that I cannot divulge in this public arena, this has been THE longest week OF MY WHOLE LIFE.

It’s Thursday, and I feel like repeatedly banging my head against a hard surface. Or running around tearing my clothes. Or ripping my hair out. Or inventing my own language to express my unhappiness at the slow passage of time.

Work has even been slow this week. I’m sorry, but I can only read yesterday’s Sentinel so many times before I start to go mad.

Tuesday, being bored, I decided to clean the re-usable straw from my plastic travel cup. There are no words to describe the overwhelming disgustingness. Have you ever cleaned a straw? It’s not an easy task, I assure you.

We have those extra long Q-Tips at work. The ones that are about five inches long or so and they’re made of wood with a very little cotton at the end. You have to stick one end into the straw, get what you can, pull it out, then attack from the other end. I realize that that entire description has the potential to be misconstrued as VERY dirty, but I have neither the time nor the desire to fix it.

The problem is that the cotton on the swabs is VERY LITTLE cotton. SO, I had to take Kleenex, tear it into little strips, wrap it around the end, and then go at it again. (Wrap it up, kids. WRAP IT UP.) It’s really gross because you get SOME of the stuff out of it, but then you have to attack from the rear again, and so you feel like you’re just pushing rot up and down the straw. (As I write this, I’m asking myself “WHAT IS MY LIFE?!!?!”)

Whatever.

What I was able to dig out of the straw was the most disgusting stuff I’d ever seen. Who knew that a STRAW used for DRINKING WATER could get so DISGUSTING? Not this girl. Noooooot thiiiiissss giiiiiiirrrrllll.

And that’s when I swore off drinking water and switched to ONLY drinking Margaritas and shots of Jack for the rest of my life.

The End.

Not really, but I was terribly disgusted. I immediately felt weak and feverish. I started sweating bullets. I turned white as a sheet. I knew that as a result of my tainted straw, I would surely die and that death would be swift. Probably within the next half hour. As soon as I started writing my last will and testament, a customer came up to my window and I had to postpone the plans for my imminent demise.

This morning, I came back to work after my day off, forgetting about my cup incident on Tuesday. I noticed that my cup had been cleaned and set aside. Without even thinking, I filled it up and started sipping my water.

BLEEEECCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I went back to my desk and rummaged through my purse to find my wallet. I ran to the paper towel/ paper plates/plastic cutlery/ red solo cup aisle and scanned for some straws.

AND THERE THEY WERE.

The NEON BENDY straws, just like I had used for the first time when I was six years old and on vacation in Florida. The special straws that made me feel like a special kid. They were calling to me. And they were $.98.

Isn’t it amazing how sometimes the smallest things can trigger the fondest memories and push unpleasant thoughts of expiration away? I thought I was going to curl up in bed and die like a Dickens character, very poor, very cold, and with my feet wrapped in strips of cloth for no reason other than dramatic effect. Instead, I was instantly transported to a sunny day on a beach and I was learning to swim.

Who knew that a box of neon bendy straws could serve as a time machine?

I still might die, though. Stay tuned.