Profanities and Other Sundry Joys of Childhood

I remember very clearly the very first time that I ever heard the "F" word. I remember every vivid detail. I remember the way it made me feel a flux of charged energy-- excitement and terror and joy. It stopped me in my tracks and divided time. It was a deflowering of sorts.

I was a kid who feared correction. I hated getting in trouble. I hated it when anyone else got into trouble. Any time that one of my brothers required a spanking, my sister and I would leave the house and I would cry in the front yard. Sarah would try to make me feel better by saying things like, "Libby, it's his own fault. Mom told him that if he left Legos on the carpet and she stepped on them one more time, he'd get a spanking. He just didn't listen." I was a sensitive girl, to be sure but mostly I was afraid of everything. Authority figures were to be obeyed without question, big kids got the right of way and one must always err on the side of caution. I know that if I ever have children, they will behave in this same way. Those poor, terrified, unconceived children. When I was really little, I used to make up words and sing them--undeniably a harmless past time. "Dillypop" was one in particular. It must have bugged the H-word out of my older brother because once he'd gotten sick of it he informed me that I was saying a curse word--repeatedly and that if I kept doing it, then he would tell mom. I freaked out and begged him not to. I think that my reaction was a little more dramatic than he'd anticipated and he used this as leverage for days.

Isn't it incredible how simple words, a collection of sounds--really, can prompt such a visceral reaction? In our house, I don't remember that my parents used curse words with much regularity. If my dad said, "damn" then we were dealing with a man of complete seriousness. "Clean your damn room!" Don't question it. Just do it. It's in the best interest of your hiney. One day, I had to have been in Kindergarten or the First Grade, I made a decision that not only was I going to say "dang"--but I was going to do so in front of my parents. I'm not sure what prompted this but it was a huge life decision for me. And that night, during the evening meal I gathered up all of my guts, held my breath and finally said, "Can I please have some more dang spaghetti?"

No one noticed. What a bust. I continued to experiment with "dang" and finally decided to incorporate "heck" into my vernacular.

But on this night I was exposed to the worst word of all of the words.

As young'ins, we attended Awana. On paper Awana is a children's ministry program sponsored by the local baptist church. In actuality, it was an evening time daycare so that parents could have some time to themselves on Wednesday nights. It was also another place for me to feel intimidated physically, intellectually, artistically, and spiritually. Also, at Awana, the kids who are mean to you in school are even meaner because there's not really anyone to tell them not to. There are adults, sure, but they don't know the kids and they're just trying to get through the next couple of hours alive--just like I was.

The most horrible part of Awana was the bus ride to the church, which was about fifteen minutes outside of town. All of the kids met on the high school lawn and then we were packed into the bus where 9/10 times I would crawl under a seat to keep warm and avoid an at-random public flogging to be administered by the red-headed, 15-year-old 8th grader.

The night in question was one late in the school year, the sun was starting to stay up a little later than usual and the tease of summer was obvious. As usual, I found a spot in the grass and waited quietly for the church bus to arrive. The grass was still brown from the winter but the ground wasn't cold anymore. Behind me, a friendly wrestling match between boys arose, like usual and got a little carried away, like usual. Only this time, it went on too long and got pretty loud. I was panicking, looking for an adult but I didn't see any. I turned around to see what was going on and I saw Jared Fox, my neighbor, slung over an older boy's shoulder and then land--flatly on the ground. Jared was a nice boy. He was smart and always wore clean clothes and never said mean things to anyone. I don't know how he got caught in a scuffle of this magnitude. Just as he landed, the church bus rounded the corner--promptly ending the fight. Everyone scattered away from the fight. The older boy walked away, cocky and chuckling to himself. I walked over to Jared who was still laying there, coughing. I said, "Are you okay?" In one graceful motion, Jared lept from the grass, ran past me and landed on the back of the other kid who smashed face-first into the ground. As he ran past me I heard him mutter under his breath, white-hot, motherfucker."

I had never, in my whole life, ever heard "motherfucker" but instinct told me that this was the worst word of all of the words and that if a mom had heard it, he would have been in more trouble for that one utterance than for tackling the older kid to the ground. I watched as grown-ups covered the scene, tearing the boys apart and punishing Jared to the highest degree. I felt terrible, I knew that Jared was a good boy who had been treated unjustly but those adults didn't know a good kid from a bad one and they didn't really care, either. On the bus, I called the monitor over and told her, sheepishly that Jared didn't start it and that the other kid hurt him real bad before the bus showed up. Bus Monitor said that it wasn't my business. She walked away and I whispered "motherfucker" to myself for the next fifteen minutes, looking out the window and growing more and more powerful every time I said it.

I love remembering it.

What kind of a kid were you? Was cussing a big deal, growing up?

(photo credit: www.just-whatever.com)

In Which She Steals Prompts

Guten Tag. It's Friday and on Friday, I don't want to think too hard. So that's why I go to Roots and Rings and steal all the stuff she did on Tuesday. But I cite my sources, so that makes me not plagiaristic. And if there's one thing I'd like you to think of when you think of me in the event of my untimely demise, I'd like it to be "not, technically, plagiarisey".

1. Do you decorate for Valentine’s day? No. I don't really decorate for holidays. I typed that and then glanced over my right shoulder to see my Christmas tree still sitting happily in the corner. You may think that makes me a liar, but I think it just brilliantly excecutes my point that, I find a fake fir to be applicable to all seasons. So... there.

If I did decorate for a holiday, it would be Valentine's Day, though because it's my favorite holiday. But the decorations for VD are so cheesy and horrible, hearts and lace and glitter and all of those things are, frankly, tacky.
2. Does your desktop have a picture or computer graphic? Is it organized? It does have a picture and It is organized, which is kind of odd for me since very few other things in my life are organized. I even have a folder called "Desktop Shit" full of stuff that I don't really want to have all thrown up all over my desktop. Here, you can look. (I love screen shots, so bad.)3. Do you use a paper planner, electric planner or no planner at all? Paper planner! I hate the idea of needing to check an electronic device to see what I have going on that day, I mean, really? That just adds another thing to do. I just leave my Charley Harper 2011 Engagement Calendar open on my coffee table and then I find out about my day pretty much on accident. Also, I love filling in something that happened every day. I know I blog and there's Facebook but I like the handwriting and I love having a physical record of my life. I write down the particularly boring things that no one is really interested in, except for me. For example: January 5, 2011 My laptop charger died today. RIP $69.
4. Do you change purses or bags often or stick with a good thing? My sister in law has a large collection of purses. She'll use one for a week and then change. Or she'll sometimes change one to go with her outfit. I have a collection of bags that I use for purses but I'm so particular about what I use to carry my junk around, that I usually just end up using a temporary one that I hate while I'm searching for the perfect bag. It's silly, I know. I end up using something akin to a burlap sack waiting for the perfect one to come around. I need to move on before this turns into a metaphor.
5. What’s your favorite YouTube Video? This. One.
6. Do you use Turbo Tax or a real person to pay your taxes? I got to www.hrblock.com. I've mentioned them twice in two days, they should really give me more than 1/6th of a bazillion dollars for this one.
7. How many states have you set foot (or tire) in? Which ones? Oh geez. Here we go. Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, Arizona, Arkansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana, Nebraska. Get this girl out of the Midwest. 17/50 states.
8. How many countries have you been in? Which ones? Just Canada. And that was a trip to Walmart and Subway. Not that it wasn't an incredible time. Estevan Fine Dining and Heater repair? Who's with me?
9. How many pillows are in your house? Let's go with how many pillows are on my bed. The answer is... six.
10. How cold is too cold for flip flops? Today it's supposed to be 65 degrees (and it's JANUARY!) and I say that's not too cold. That's celebration time.

Death (of my self-esteem) and Taxes

You know how when you finally go visit your family that you haven't seen in a year or so, you have to do the whole, "No, I'm not dating anyone. No, I haven't purchased a house or gotten a cool job or given money to charity or been otherwise awesome." You know what I'm talking about? You know how you have to force yourself to stand up a little taller than you'd like and pretend that you're proud of yourself anyway? Even if they don't get you and your happy, singleton lifestyle? Even if they think that makes you a lesbian? Maybe you don't get that. Maybe you follow societal norms and do regular things like date, marry, procreate and find stable places to live--if that's you, then you might not get this. And you can go read www.igotmyshittogether.com. Turns out, that site hasn't been taken yet. Dibs!

Well, anyway, friends, doing your taxes gives you that feeling, too. I recently got a paper W-2 from one job in the mail and I knew that I could access one from my other job online. So I poured a tall glass of water, put on my flannel pants and created a comfy spot on the couch with my laptop and all of my paperwork. First up, accessing that pesky W-2 online. I learned that God, himself, would need to find a notary to access his W-2 online. They ask questions like, "are you sure you're you?" And I'm clicking "yes" and thinking this is good enough. And they're all, "I only kind of believe you. I'm going to show you a list of questions and then you pick a question and give me the answer to it and then later I'll quiz you on it just to see if it's really you. K?" And I'm like, "Is that really necessary?" And they're all, "On your knees, bitz!" So I go ahead and fill out the six questions that they make me answer because, well, they've got me by the balls here.

The game goes like this, I choose a question from the drop-down box, answer it and then pick another question and repeat this process five more times. Each drop-down box has the same twelve questions to choose from and it becomes obvious, very quickly that there's a certain kind of person who tries to access their tax paperwork in a timely manner. The following are actual questions that I was unable to answer to access my W-2 online:

• Where did you meet your spouse for the first time?
• In what city were you married?
• What is the name of the maid of honor at your wedding?
• What is the first name of the best man at your wedding?
• What was the name of your first boyfriend or girlfriend?
• In what city is your vacation home?

Like it's not bad enough knowing that, later I'll have to check the "Single, unmarried, unexciting and otherwise generally boring and lonely according to societal mores" box on my actual tax form. I have to be reminded of how completely uninvolved and yet, highly complex my romantic life has been up until this point. In addition, now I'm evaluating my platonic friendships, wondering who I might use as a maid of honor in a wedding if I had one. And, oh dear God, where will I put my vacation home? Should I buy or build? It feels like it should be in Cape Cod, right? I think that sounds about right. Now I'm checking airline prices for weekend trips to Cape Cod just to check out my vacation home options.

The only questions that I could answer were the ones that I still don't have an answer to but I could make one up more easily.

• What was the name of the last town in which your paternal grandmother lived?
• What was your favorite restaurant in college?
• What's the name of your oldest nephew?

Thanks! Thanks for reminding me that my grandma should have died by now and I should probably write to her because, after all, I know most of her address off the top of my head and every day is a gift, right? Guilt trippin' bitches. Who ate at restaurants in college? Was I the only one on a budget only marginally tighter than the one I'm on now as a grown up? And are we talking biological or step-nephews? Because I have a couple of each of those. Life is complicated, alright!?

But I pushed through. I powered through and I got into the section where I'm actually filing these puppies. Thanks, H&R Block for providing free Fed Filing on the internets! Well, I put in the information for one of my W-2's, but I sort of forgot about the other one that I didn't work so damn hard for. So The Government was all, "You poor girl, you made, like, no money this year! I'ma give you a bazillion dollars in your refund so you can buy a car, one day." And I was like, "Sweet!! I love taxes!! Wait, I forgot this other one, let me give you that information, too." And then Government said, "Uh... *tongue click* yeah. That actually changes things, I'm going to only give you, like, 1/6th of a bazillion dollars. Also, would you like to donate $3 to the presidential campaign?" "Would I like to? What? Are you--are you for real, Government? No I would not like to do that. But thank you for the 6th of a bazillion dollars and thanks for not making me pay you any money. I do appreciate it but I still feel like you can go fuck yourself. Also, I have made a choice to be single, alright?! It's not like I couldn't have made it happen if I wanted it to." And even though that last part is only mostly true, I still closed my browser with confidence. So, there.

And now, as a personal reward, I'm going to a matinée. By myself.

Also, since people really seem to go for posts with pictures, I leave you with a photograph of a hedgehog with a broken arm. Awe.

A List of Wonderful Things

My new foundation really does offer flawless coverage. Advertisement lives up to a road test? Indeed it does.

The Sun sent me a mini, pre-free trial issue of their magazine and it has a short paragraph inside that a reader wrote to the editor. This is what it says,

"What saves me from the tedium of another day is falling hopelessly in love with the people I meet: the curly-haired barista at the coffee shop who hands me my change as if dipping his fingers into holy water; the girl with Down syndrome who talks loudly about vacationing with her grandmother; the elderly couple who grow giant bubble-gum-colored puffs of dahlias at the corner of Twelfth and Chambers; the toddler girl across the street who bleats sweetly, "Mama, come see!" I fall in love with the deep timbre of my brother's laugh; the way my mother says my name; the way my father calls me sweetheart; the way my sweetheart calls me baby." --Bobbie Willis; Eugene, Oregon

When my phone rings and it's my sister on the other line. A lot of times it begins with, "I am so frustrated right now!" But usually it ends with a completely absurd story about something absolutely weird that her kids did. Kids are so weird. The beautiful thing is, though, that they have no idea. That is the thing that I like about kids, they don't know that they should be ashamed about 1/3 of the things that they say or do. And also, Sarah is rarely still pissed when she hangs up the phone which means that I'm either a great distraction or that talking about weird shit that your kids do is a lot like talking about dreams. When you talk about it you suddenly realize how surreal and little-picture it is. And also it's usually pretty I-shoulda-known-better. Like the time she bought a fluffy white rug for the bathroom and in less than an hour, one of The Middles pooped on it. I mean--that can happen in real life? Not only does it happen--I'm getting the impression that it's kind of a rule.

I have freshly washed sheets, socks, and delicates. I said "delicates" because I'm such a lady and also to counteract the fact that I also just said "poop".

Love, Libby

I Get to Talk Endlessly About Myself? Ok!

My last post was on Sunday. This isn't an indication of me being a slacker or uninspired, this is one of those cases where "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

The vehicle that I've been driving hasn't started in over a week. When your car doesn't start and you have places to be, you have to start asking people for favors. Now, there are some people in the world who don't mind asking for favors and then there are other people [neon sign with blinking arrows pointing down at me while I stare, oblivious, into the camera] who would really, really rather not. Asking for a ride to work conjures up too many feelings of insecurity and inadequacy. I question my ability to be a successful adult. I start listing all of the things in my life that I have sufficiently fucked up and all of the reasons why I'll never be good enough and then on the very top, I'll throw on "and no one will ever love you!!" And when girl's in that mood, who wants to listen to anything she has to say? So all week long she just went to bed at 9:00 pm and woke up and went to work and came home and went to bed so as not to subject you to her moodiness.

BUT, I'm coming out of the funk. The car is currently in the shop and by the end of the day I'll be able to go to the grocery store and buy more tofu without having to browse my contacts list and wondering who's not sick of me begging and being over appreciative. I'm sure that's more trouble to put up with.

Any.Way. All that to say that I'm coming out of it but I haven't actually been in a very bloggy zone lately so I'm taking a prompt. My friend, Deanna, talked about Roots and Rings and how every Tuesday, they have ten questions to answer. Sounds simple enough but this kind of stuff is certainly on my list of favorite things ever. I mean, you ask me questions and I get to talk endlessly about myself? Blogging is so masturbatory.

I really like the idea of having some stability and predictability, too. So maybe I'll do Ten on Tuesdays every Friday. And with that, I give you: The Ten.

1. What’s your favorite color to paint your nails? I bit my fingernails for as long as I could remember. When I was a senior in college, I decided that I would start experimenting with something called self-control. I amazed myself when I actually trained myself to stop biting them. I felt like I could do anything. And when I find myself in a situation that I think I'll never get out of, I pep talk myself with, "You bit your fingernails for 23 years!! And now you don't." And usually that works.

That being said, my fingernails still feel like a brand new accessory. Black is my favorite. I love it more than anything. But I can't paint them that color anymore because, no matter what you do or how you apply it, it always chips. Especially in the wintertime when my body is thiscloseto just flaking into a million pieces from dryness. Fantasy aside, nudes are so in right now and I've been wearing Rimmel London's Bare Naked. It's brilliant because I can wear one coat and my nails just look like a much more dignified plain. Or I can apply three coats and it's a gorgeous, matte nude. I'll bet boys are thrilled with this topic. Moving on.
2. Do you like to sneeze? Think of it this way, sneezing is a miniscule bit of your day when you have absolutely no control over yourself. When I'm in public and I sneeze, I'm a little embarrassed. Simply because I was out of control for a second (reason number one for why I'm not a fan of public drunkenness). When I'm driving and I sneeze, I'm a little terrified for different aspects of the very same reason. But when I'm alone, in my house and I sneeze--I love it. A lot. [Side note, you can be in control of your sneeze and here's how: grab a kleenex. It will get disappointed and leave. Every time.]
3. How often do you fill up your car with gas? Every payday. Because girl's got priorities. I needsta get to places.
4. Were you named after anyone? I don't believe that my first name was specifically chosen after anyone. It has been discussed that my dad had an aunt named Libby but that wasn't intentional, I don't believe. My middle name is Marie. I realize that "Marie" is the middle name for 80% of girls born in the 80's but it's also my mom's middle name and I've always kind of secretly loved that we have that in common. Because, let's be honest, there's not a whole lot else that we have in common. I still maintain that I will never actively pursue having children, but if I happened to have a daughter I would probably make her middle name "Marie" just so that we could all have that in common.
5. Have you made any good recipes lately? Of course. Most recently, I had roasted potatoes for lunch. I cut them into wedges and then tossed them in olive oil and salt and tons of black pepper. I am currently more in love with black pepper than I am with any other flavor. I put it on my popcorn, French fries, noodles with butter... everything gets it. Also, I'm learning to cook with tofu and I'm really excited about that experience.

I think that this weekend I'm going to make very simple, undressed, basic chocolate chip cookies. No nuts. No fancy flours. Not even cinnamon (which is my second favorite flavor). I'm going to feel like a kid again.
6. What’s an easy money-saving tip that you use regularly? When it comes to anything other than groceries, patience is key. It will go on sale and if you still want it next week then you'll know that you really want it. Groceries, though, buy generic. I have come into some knowledge recently that I will share with you: A lot of the times, generic grocery items are produced on the exact same assembly lines as name brand stuff. I know for a fact that the Walmart brand of milk IS Highland milk, it's just cheaper. Because it is--don't ask questions. The same thing with a lot of frozen and canned vegetables. Now, there are some things that you just know in your heart is better by the brand. Salad dressings, coffee, peanut butter, pickles: I have a brand loyalty to these items. So save in other areas.
7. Would you rather have a sore throat or an ear ache? Sore throat, hands down. In my mind there is nothing worse than an ear ache. When I was little, I had chronic ear infections and there is nothing more miserable. With a sore throat you can drink tea and eat ice cream. With an ear ache, there's nothing to do except slam your head against the wall until you pass out.
8. Do you have any scars? What are they from? I have dozens of cooking-related scars. There's a scar on my lip from when I was little and my older brother tried to remove my face with a swing set. You can't really see the scar, but you can [ok, you probably can't but I can] tell that my right side and left side are not symmetrical. I like that about my lips. Also a scar on my knee from the first time that I, literally, shaved my legs.
9. What are you “known for” in your circle of friends/family? Um... I'm the one who... [fills her cheeks with air and releases it while her eyes dart around the room. This goes on for several minutes.]
10. How do you like to eat your pancakes? With butter and a fork.

Also, I'm tossing around the idea of moving my blog to another host. Would you follow me there if I went?

"This is not a hooker/ pimp transaction."

Well, hello everyone. I see you there, putting off something relatively important because you're wondering how I spent my whole entire Sunday. I'll tell you something interesting: the closest thing to human interaction I had, today, was an actual phone conversation with my sister. And that lasted eight minutes. That wasn't a cry for pity, or anything. I didn't even notice it until right this second.I decided to document my day, for you, in various forms of mixed media. So don't forget to click links to get the fullest of effects.

My day began in the usual way (cut to montage of me in various positions in bed, feigning a sleep disorder). I laid in bed until I had to pee so bad that I got up. Who needs an alarm clock when your bladder goes off, promptly, at 8:34 am? The answer is, only people who have to be at work earlier than that. Or also people who would not trust their bladders to wake them.

I would imagine. I got up. Decided not to shower today (a bold move, if I do say so). And sat on my couch, catching up on reading some blogs and watching Charlieissocoollike. I also ate a cupcake. I made cupcakes last night but despite having all of the ingredients necessary in creating frosting, I just didn't feel like making any. Does that make my cupcake a muffin? Is the frosting central to the identity of the cupcake? Do you see that crazed look in my eye?

Via a stream-of-conscience bunny trail, I found my way from YouTube over to My Damn Channel which has been, simply put, the highlight of my weekend (except for one other thing). I just recently started following Daily Grace on YouTube and learned, today, that My Damn Channel has a whole archive of Daily Grace vlogs!! So, yes, I spent probably about 60% of my day, sitting on my couch with an ever full cup of coffee and my computer on my lap watching Grace mature into the woman that I have a girl crush on, today. So, mostly I did this:

My Damn Chanel got me really, really excited about this new show called Portlandia. They played the same two commercials between every single episode of Daily Grace and I didn't even mind because I couldn't get enough of Fred Armisen making this face:

I know, I'm at least a decade too late to be saying this but I am really starting to love the internet. A lot. Alot.

But I didn't just watch the internets. No, no. I also did some grown-up, clean-your-damn-house stuff. And I photographed it. PHOTO MONTAGE! Only not really a montage, just a collection of some photographs of super-basic things I did today featuring sexy editing.

Like, the sexy coffee:

And then after I drank all of the coffee and watching all of the Daily Grace, I couldn't take it anymore. Grace inspires me to wax my eyebrows. When I was doing that, I was thinking about how when I don't wear my glasses, my eyes go crossed. But when I look in the mirror, I can't see my eyes cross. So I decided to take a picture of it and then post it on the internet. Because I am without shame despite the fact that I'm still wearing last night's make up. Cosmo would not be proud.

It doesn't look to me like they're crossed but there is, for sure, a difference between the too. Optometrists have told me for years that my eyes, more or less, see independently from one another and not as a team. Yes, that seems to be manifesting itself right here on my face. Right Eye says, "I'm full of wonder and excitement. I like sheep!" Left Eye says, "Can't you see that I'm flirting with you?" Right Eye, innocent and a little special but still cute. Left Eye: horny. Wa. Waaa.

But then, with the help of both my eyes and some other parts of my body, I turned this:

into this:

By way of this:

Hooray for teamwork, body!

I specifically did my dishes so that I could take those two photographs. It wasn't until I'd finished the chore that I realized that I could have just moved all of the dirty dishes to get the clean shot. Oh well, you live and you learn.

Then I made this for dinner because it makes me conjure up my youth. Did you know that you can make it without meat? I did.

My sister hates it like I hate Jell-O.

An Open Letter To The Linux User: UPDATED

Dear Reader Who Views This Blog Using Linux,

Wow. At first I thought it was an arbitrary passerby. A fluke. But, no. You, Linux User, you show up on the regular and I'm a little intrigued by your choice in operating system.

Please, introduce yourself to the rest of the group.

Your Friend,

Libby

UPDATE:

There have been 22 views today from Linux users. And no one has stopped to say "hello". Come on, I know what operating system everyone has. I'll ask all the iPad users to say, "hi" next. Someone's got to start it!

A List of Specific Things That Always Seem Like Good Ideas. But They Are Not.

I just did something that had the potential to be pretty stupid. For several weeks I've been texting my friends, saying, "I feel like doing X ("x" is a variable for the stupid thing I did. Not drugs. Not drugs.), do you think I should?" And 100% of the time, my friends would say, "You absolutely should not do X. You will regret it and you will feel sad. Also, you will develop herpes. Probably." And I never did.

But then, this afternoon, I said, "Hey, what the hell? I'ma do it." And I didn't ask anyone because I knew they would say the thing about it being stupid. So I began this task and right as I hit the proverbial "send" button, my soul crawled up from my toes (little known fact: that's where everyone keeps their soul) and screamed, "No!!! Abort! Abort! Abort!" Luckily the gods were smiling down and that stupid thing didn't go very far at all but I'm not doing that again.

How's that for a vague intro/segue? For putting up with it, and for loving me, I give you:

A List of Specific Things That Always Seem Like A Good Idea

Until You've Reached The Point of No Return

Painting: I painted all of the trim in my living and dining room. I also painted the fireplace. You expect it to be a relaxing, creative experience that will take, oh, maybe an afternoon and with a little attention to detail, you will feel good about yourself for weeks to come. It's always nice when you can stock pile self-esteem without having to resort to sexual favors.

But does it ever work that way? It does not. The following is a look into the mental progression of deciding to paint a room.

1. Beige is so 2002.
2. Paint the walls!
3. So many colors to choose from. I'll go with Cordovan and then consider using that name for my first born. Cordovan will be such a sexy baby.
4. "I'll take a gallon of interior semi-gloss in... Cordovan." Then you whip your hair around.
5. Pouring paint into the tray is such a gorgeous activity.
6. Loading the roller brush with paint is such a satisfying activity.
7. Rolling the paint onto the wall is such a--crap. I'm going to have to do this on every wall. And not miss any spots.
8. And I'm most definitely going to have to do two coats.
9. Painting. Blows.
10. I'm out of paint so I must be finished.
11. I hate Cordovan.

Playing Truth or Dare. Playing Truth or Dare is like showing up to a job interview without pants. First of all, you don't play Truth or Dare unless you have a crush on someone at the party (so that's your interview). And it will always end badly. Always. It's a fact. You're hoping it'll turn into Spin The Bottle and you'll get hooked up with your soul mate. It won't. And we're 27 years old. I don't know how we even got invited to a party like this.

The first time that I played Truth or Dare, I was in the 6th grade and a group of us ditched out on Oktoberfest (which, in its prime, was a little like Mardi Gras for the youth of my very, very small town) and ran to a shed behind a friend's house where we said curse words and sat in fear of getting caught. Okay, that last part was probably just me. Someone suggested Truth or Dare and everyone was down. The problem is that 6th graders don't really have secrets and shockingly poor imaginations so all of the dares were "I dare you to kiss so-and-so." No one dared me to kiss the boy that I had a crush on. They only dared me to kiss Tevin. And I refused. In retrospect, that was probably not very good for him. That was, actually, quite rude. When you agree to play Truth or Dare, you agree to drop your standards at the door. It's the nature of the game. I left, disappointed because I didn't get to kiss that one boy.

In college, we drove out to the lake to play Truth or Dare. But we were in college and surprisingly lethargic. So, really, we just played Truth or Truth. I had a crush on a boy there, too, and I left disappointed because it was revealed that he had kissed someone else not that long ago. Truth or Dare: it's always, only about kissing. And you will throw up in the mud.

Wearing shoes without socks. It always seems like a good idea. All the cute girls can pull this off. Keds without socks. In shoes without socks, you're thin and light and airy and are probably wearing a sundress no matter what. Vampire Weekend plays everywhere you go. That is, for the first forty-five minutes and then when you're standing still, in line at Pottery Barn and notice that you're working on a blister the size of Delaware (you have such big feet) and you're no where near home. Once you nod in the blister's direction and acknowledge its existence, you will be, instantly, 40% crippled. Hobbling everywhere you go and yelling at your friends to wait up, you guys! They give you the finger and walk into American Apparel because they told you to wear socks. Now you hear Nickleback everywhere you go.

Watching Garden State: You're all saying, "Hey, I liked Garden State!" And of course you did. All of us of a certain age watched this film, birthed of Zach Braff's loins and handed to us still covered in the goop. And we loved it like it was our adopted, Asian brother. Never before had we been so understood. No one understands me! We sang. Our parents don't get us! Our old friends back home don't get us! Our psychiatrists are fucked up! Only Natalie Portman understands me! And then we set our MSN Messenger away message as "Off to explore the infinite abyss" and sat in the bathtub.

That was good. You sat in it. You stewed amongst your own obscurity and you went on with life and then you see Garden State on your bookshelf but anytime you pop it in the DVD player you think, "I never understood that Serpico joke." And you're irritated about what an effort it is for Zach Braff to see past his own nose but you know he'll never do it. I say watch it one more time, though--watch it with the commentary. Worth it.

Communism

Eating an Altoid: You think you need a mint. You buy a tin of Altoids because, they're curiously strong and your face is all up in everyone else's face all day and you'd like them to contemplate your curiously strong breath--in a good way. You want to leave a positive impact on the world. But there comes a point between popping it into your mouth and actually finishing it where you find that you're in a double dog dare with yourself. It hurts. Your nose is running. Forget it. It's made with mad amounts of sugar which is only going to give you worse breath than you had originally.Just spit it out. You win both ways.

On Love and Other Sentimental Things

I work in a place where Valentines days is everywhere. There are big cardboard signs that are pink and also red and they hang from the ceiling and you would probably be surprised to learn how many tries it took for me to spell "ceiling" correctly. There are so many words that I am so magnificently terrible at spelling. Consious. Conscience. That's it. I'm a little proud of myself that it only too two tries. Go, me. We're talking about love. Not spelling. Though spelling is sexy and should not be ignored. In the same way, love. Love should not be ignored. Segues are important. And also sexy. Just like spelling.

Do you know what happens when you Google something generic like "love"? I'll tell you, you're sent to this super official looking site that takes all the guess work out of your boy/girl stuff (or your boy/ boy stuff, girl/ girl stuff, baisically all combinations that are relative to my LGBT friends. I got you covered under a blanket generalization). You know it's legit because of all of the Times New Roman and correct uses of "affect" and "effect". Not to mention the timeless and personal advice.You're thinking, "I like So And So Jr. but should I even pursue it?" Don't sweat it, go to The Love Calculator. The Love Calculator is never wrong. See??

So I ask you, Dr. Love (who is, I'm pretty sure, Dr. Drew--I picture Dr. Drew anyway). How, uh--how's my 2011 looking? Got anything for me? Maybe something in purple bike shorts? A nice, tight package, perhaps? (That was too far, methinks)

Oh, sweet Cupp-in-cakes! Things are looking up for Ole Lib. I read this and went to my fridge to take a celebratory shot of the homemade Kahlua. And then I booty danced to "Billionaire". Not that, you know, hooking up with the FedEx guy would make me a billionaire or anything--it was on. That's all. New readers will be surprised to find that I live alone--save a cat. The cat was not amused. But who cares? I'm gonna screw FedEx Guy! Cats can't possibly comprehend the gravity of this situation.

My formatting was not appropriate when I initially used the site, I just now realized that I made FedEx into two words in every attempt. I will not go back to change it, though. And the reason for that is twofold: I don't feel like it and also, I'm afraid that it could potentially alter such a promising reading. Back to the booty dance!!

Ooh, wait. Other things I forgot: Hot FedEx Guy is still married. So... I'm sure they're about finished. I wonder who could know. Dr. Love, that's who.

Dr. Love? How are things going with Hot FedEx Guy and the wifey?

Well, crap.

That's great for them. Really. No, seriously. I'm happy for her. Good for her. I've seen him in bike shorts anyway.

But where--where will I find my one, true, irrational, story-book romance?

OK.

I see what's going on here.

Now we have to have another boundaries talk with the internet.

UPDATE:

I think you should know that I have a pretty unreasonable fear that Hot FedEx Guy will for sure find this and transfer.

Robert Frost, Charlotte Brontë, Seth MacFarlane

So many people come to my blog by Googling "The Lovely Shall Be Choosers". They are looking for Robert Frost and a girl who is poetic and delicate and darling.

And they get a front page featuring an MS Paint rendering of Milky Bread Chips and a Family Guy video clip featuring excessive and profuse vomiting.

I'm sure I'm a disappointment on some level.

So to alert you to the fact that I am a poetic, delicate, darling and multi-faceted woman, I leave you with this line from Jane Eyre:

"There is ho happiness like that of being loved by your fellow creatures

and feeling that your presence is an addiction to their comfort."

Have an incredible day. Take a walk in the snow.

Milky Bread Chips

It doesn't make a lick of sense. Not even a little bit. Not even to me or any of my siblings but that doesn't keep it from being irrationally hilarious.

We were little kids, I can't even remember how old we were. I remember specific details but not much of a narrative of what exactly happened. I remember that it was the summer time because I was wearing a pair of hot-pink bike shorts (stop--just stop trying to visualize the sexy). All four of us were standing in the kitchen and looking at the grocery list that mom had written. I remember our black, shiny stove top. I remember that the kitchen was unusually clean. I remember that Mom was on the phone and we were getting bored waiting for her to take us into town. Why is it that grown-up phone calls take for-ev-er?

We decided that since moms almost always forget their shopping lists, we were going to memorize it. We employed a mnemonic device that would lump two or three things together to make one imaginary grocery list item. Because memorizing one made-up thing is easier than remembering two or three real things? That was the plan.

Let's pretend that this was mom's shopping list:

Cereal

Yogurt

Milk

Baking soda

Chicken nuggets

Chips

Bread

Tortillas

Cognac

Toilet Paper

Apples

So using our fancy, callow brains we came up with stuff like, "Apple Cereal Bread" or "Toilet Paper Cognac" (by the way, my mom would probably appreciate it if I included that she never put cognac on our shopping lists. She was strictly vodka and Pepsi). Anyway, at some point someone decided to turn some nouns into adjectives at which point (and I really wish I could remember who said it), Milky Bread Chips was mentioned.

And the thought was so horrible, the visual so appalling, the idea of the texture so vomit inducing that the game was immediately and unanimously cancelled so that everyone could privately display how horrific the idea of Milky Bread Chips truly was. That was one of the first times in my life that I remember feeling a true and sincere camaraderie with my siblings. We were all so commonly bound and in tune with one another. Our sounds of revulsion quickly turned into laughter so hearty that we didn't have legs to stand. We fell to the floor, tears streamed down our face and for weeks "Milky Bread Chips" would trigger the very same response.

We were defenseless against it. My mom walked into the room and, for the life of her, did not find anything even remotely funny about what was going on. She probably didn't mind, though, because for once we were all together and not at war over one thing or another.

Even into adulthood, the idea makes me laugh so hard that I weep.

Today my brother, nearly thirty years old, posted this on my Facebook wall.

Adam Parker

Huh... I just googled "Milky Bread Chips" and found nothing helpful. Guess you'll just have to try and recollect the recipe from memory. I think it's just milk, bread, and chips, and then mix them together. Wish I could have been more help.

UPDATE: It was kind of like this, but with laughter. Mostly.

A Group of Owls is Called a Parliament.

It's no secret that I love every square inch of my apartment. Seriously. I know, you're looking around your house right now thinking I like that window and I like my counter tops. But you don't seriously love every little bit. Nope. You don't. No one really does. I do. I even love my teensy-weensey bathroom that is unreasonable for anyone over 5'8". I love it. My mom said that if you love something, you'll want to take care of it and keep it clean. Well, my house isn't exactly spotless. In fact, I made chili on... Tuesday. Is there still boil-over dried onto my stove top? Absolutely there is. I'm a human. Is there a stack of months-old mail on the dining room table? Of course, who uses a dining room table? A lot of times I don't even put my dinner on plates, much less a table.

Anyway, my friend, Deanna posted about her favorite display shelf and I thought I wanted to do that, too. You know why? Because I like it when people look at my stuff. ...I'm going to leave that and let you chuckle at the inadvertent adianoeta. I have a camera but it's kind of having a tantrum these days so we're going to make believe that my camera phone produces a much better product than it really does.

I put all of my favorite stuff on the mantle. Why? Because it is the very first thing that people see when they turn the corner into my home. When people first walk into my house, they're greeted by a stairway. The stairway isn't that impressive and it's often dusty and I forget to clean it because, well, once I'm not on the stairway it's hard to think about it. I imagine that people think, "Libby's kind of icky, I mean look at this dust. It couldn't even pass a beige glove test!" But then they turn the corner and they're all, "Ooh! Peacock feathers!"

I switch out all of my stuff pretty often. It's usually on accident, too. It happens gradually.

My favorite thing on the shelf is this framed card that my sister got from a delicious little Etsy shop. These were the thank-you cards that she sent out after her baby shower back in October. Inside this card is more than "thanks for the onesie". It's a lot of heartfelt I-Love-You's from my sister. She's a really great writer. Read her blog, it's better than mine. She has real-life stuff to talk about.

Next to the thank you card is a bottle of Muscatto wine that Sarah gave to me for Christmas. It's filled with the peacock feathers that were all up in my tree this year. It adds a glorious height. I needed that.

Joshua drew that dude and he's come with me on every move I've made since I left college. It's kind of fading but I still love it and when the lighting's dim you hardly even notice.

I'd like to say that jar is filled with rocks from a highly sentimental trip that I took while I was out finding myself and backpacking across Scandinavia (because that's where I'd go, screw Paris). But really it's a bag of black rocks from Walmart. The owls (and there are plenty throughout my house) came from my sister-in-law who has single handedly provided me with my collection. The orange speckled guy is the newest member of the parliament.

Further down the line is another bottle of wine and my favorite Christmas card that I haven't had the heart to take down yet.

Lastly, isn't this chair bad ass?! My little brother left it when he moved out and I'll be damned if anyone other than myself will ever remove it from my house. It is simply incredible.

This post wasn't that funny but look at all the pictures!

How To Open A Bottle of Champagne

I was called upon to open a bottle of champagne, last night. I was totally up to the challenge despite having never done anything of the sort before. I opened my first bottle of wine only a few weeks ago and was very happy that no one was in my apartment to see that go down. I am a lover of beers, not wines. But I'm branching out.

Also, I'd like to take this moment to explain that we're not really the type of people who pop champagne on any, given Thursday night while eating pizza. Though it is an adorable combination, I think. It was left over from Christmas and there were more than a few of us in the house so we went for it.

Arryn was holding a baby and said to me, "Can you open this?" I said, "Sure!" Between you and me, my underlying thought was "this will end badly."

I found a perforation in the foil and traced it with my thumb nail. Yay! Step one, complete! I twisted off the little, gold hood. Step two! I can do this. What's the big deal?!

Yeah, so then there's the cork. Mostly it's just pulling it out, right? Or pushing, or something like that. Arryn kept saying, "do you want me to get Adam to help?" And I kept saying, "this is not, strictly, a man's job!" I twisted and pulled and made little headway. Proving that it would take a few minutes to bust into the booze, everyone got bored except for Genesis who is five and fascinated. I don't know if she was more wrapped up in the fact that this bottle didn't have a twist off, plastic cap or the way I kept saying, "I can do this!" I was offering her wise, feminist advice like "Genesis, don't ever be afraid to do something just because it's difficult and don't ask a boy to do it just because it requires a little physicality." This would have been more convincing if I wasn't grunting this important life-advice to her.

I was feeling it give. I looked at her and said, "I got it!" I used my thumbs and gave the cork a good, solid push and it released. I felt pretty victorious until I saw that there was still half an inch of cork in the neck of the bottle.

I said, "Corkscrew! We'll use a corkscrew!! Huzzah!"

Genesis said, "Huzzah!!" At this point, we're essentially the same age.

And let me use this space to tell you, just in case you aren't already thinking "don't do it", there is a reason that you don't use a corkscrew to open champagne. Just take my word for it and don't poke a tiny hole into something stuffed to the gills with carbonation. It's a bomb is what it is.

I was glad that it was only Genesis in the kitchen with me. She doesn't know that this is shameful. Despite the oppressive spray, I went in for it and ripped out the cork and started filling glasses. I cleaned up the mess and washed my hands while she just watched quietly and finally she said, "Libby,"

"Yeah?"

"You should have done that over the sink."

Photo credit www.allposters.com

Where's the sleep?

Oh mah gah. Is it really not even 6:00 am?

Now, I've known people who have actually struggled with legitimate insomnia for more than just a night. I'm not trying to compete with anyone here but I am going to over-exaggerate the rest of this post for dramatic and comedic effect. Capiche?

I'm not going to say that yesterday was the worst day ever. But on a scale from "awesome" to "catastrophe" it was just a hair past "uneventful". For example, I learned that Hot FedEx guy is married. So I will secretly refer to him as Dead To Me FedEx Guy (if I'd been as awesome at ring-spotting as my friends Gina and Katie, this would have never been an issue but maybe DTMFedEx Guy shouldn't wear gloves just because it's 18 degrees outside, pansy). Whateve, that's fine. Some days you don't even get it that good. Some people wake up chained to hotel beds without any clothes. Now, that's worth whining about.

But I got home from work at 8:00 pm and I have to go back at 9:00 am so I think you can all understand why I promptly changed into my jammies upon entering my house. I got my curly fries (because who's going to cook when they get off work at 8:00, not this guy) in hand and I opened my laptop and... okay I can't think of a humorous way to say it but it was not working. I knew exactly what the problem was, I'd been having some trouble with the charger and I'd been thinking about maybe looking into getting a new one. But I didn't. And the A/C adapter just bit it. Oddly enough, not the first thing to die on my living room floor in 2011.*

So I went to Walmart and found Sean and said, "Sean, my charger died! Help!" And he said, "You can have this one, it's $90." And I said, "What the damn?!" And he said, "Or this one is $69. *snicker* sixty-nine." So I took that one and I was glad that I brought my employee discount card because I saved almost eight bucks. Which did not make me feel better until I opened the box and sang to myself, "Worth it!"

I'm going to take a break from the story and tell you (one of you, in particular, I know is probably irritated with my lack of shopping around) that I know I could have gotten one for, like, fifteen cents on eBay but it's not so easy to buy stuff on eBay when your computer is inoperable and also I need to get famous, like, now and I can't wait around for some dude in Sweden to pack up a charger that may or may not fit my American pluggies. Another thing, it totally charges my iPod in the wall and came with lots of extra tips so I'ma charge all your shit. Welcome.

It was about ten when I got home and then I had to check Facebook, my emails, the stats on this here blog (I have an addiction to the stats) I'm such a popular person, you don't even know. My brain was in a lot of places. Other, unmentionable things were on my mind and I really wanted to write a super funny post so that you'd have something to read but I wasn't so much in a funny or focused mood. I knew the only way to be awesome would be to just go to bed. It wasn't easy but I went down and fell asleep hard. I stirred and checked my phone to see the time. It said 2:00 exactly. I had a terrible (like there's a good one) Ke$ha lyric stuck in my head (I feel defeated that I just spelled a word with a dollar sign in the middle of it) and it wouldn't go away. Then the unmentionable came back to my brains and now here I am, four and a half hours later and I'm just up--dwelling. I fought it for a long time. That's the worst part, really. Not that you're awake but that you hate that you're awake. At about 4:30 or 5:00 my sister got online. She has a baby and he doesn't sleep. She accepted her fate and put on a pot of coffee, so I did the same. Talking to my sister will almost always give me some perspective and helps me feel better about anything. Maybe not bursting-with-rainbows kind of happy but better, and that's nice.

Do you have any fall-asleep-now tactics or does everyone just kind of lay there with eyeballs forced shut?

*I took a picture of the last thing that died on my floor, I can show it to you if you're interested. Note: it's not an electronic device.

It Was Best To Not Say Anything At All

And now, A Short, Offensive Conversation between Myself and My Sister

Libby: Hey, question.

Sarah: Yes?

Libby: I'm writing a blog and it's tentatively titled "A Dozen Unsolicited Confessions for Mah Nigs". That's... offensive, right?

Sarah: Hahaha! To some, yes.

Libby: I need a new word but I don't want to say "homies" and I'm not exactly sold on "bitches".

Sarah: Motherfuckers.

I Win at Sick

Let's just face the facts right now that this post will be riddled with hyperbolic statements.

It's no secret that I'm sick. Maybe it is to you but that wasn't on purpose. It shouldn't be. I'm in a fever dream. I'm not in control of myself--in a lot of ways, today.

There's something about getting sick that feels like defeat and that's the worst part. It's like a sucker punch that delivers certain death to your pride and once it's gone, there's no sense in attempting modesty or humanity. You just lay down and beg to die and hope you're not alone when it happens. Here's how it went for me.

I woke up on Sunday morning feeling fine. I bounded out of bed , I washed my face, I ate my Cap'n Crunch and I made a lot of headway on a writing project. I was feeling good. I got in the car with Sarah and Nickie and we drove to Hutch. At one point we split directions in the mall. They went to Payless and I went to the calendar store where all the planners were 50% off. I got a Charley Harper planner for just over $7.00 (it could have been the highlight of my day). Anyway, as I walked into the store my head started pounding immediately. It was as if my brains just started noticing my heart beat and turned up the volume to alert me and say, "What is this?!" But just as suddenly as it began, it ended. "Oh, sorry. Yeah, I know what that is. Sorry for the alarm." I was shaken, and woozy but I wasn't really bothered. I found my planner, I met my friends. We left.

We decided to get something to drink before leaving town and as we sat in Starbucks I could feel myself getting progressively worse and worse. I was rapidly becoming this illness' bitch. Every five minutes was worse than the previous. This was alarming. By the end of the 30 minute drive home, I was laying in the back seat moaning like a weirdo at every bump in the road. So I crawled up my stairs, laid in my bed and missed "Christmas on January 2nd" with my mom and her boyfriend and all of my nieces and nephews. They delivered a bowl of soup and my Christmas present. I was too weak to open it. I made Andrew do it. I wept over my wimpiness. When Libby gets sick, things get unreasonable.

This is how I know for certain that I am sick and not that I am simply not feeling well. When I am sick, I cry all the time. All the time. For any reason.

• My iTunes list went from playing Coconut Records to Colbie Caillat. Why, God, why?
• I woke up and realized that I was still wearing shoes and jeans and that I would have to get out of bed in order to change into flannel pants. Pants! I don't understand your lack of pity!
• I looked in the bathroom mirror. Who could ever love me?!
• My cat stepped on the controls for my electric blanket and turned it off in the middle of the night. Give me a break, would you?!

Next up is the issue of calling in sick. It's the worst. I hate it. I wake up in the morning and I think, "No, I'm fine. I can totally go to work today. Here's to health!" And then I stand up and fall back down and realize that in my slumber all of my muscles were replaced with spaghetti noodles and my brain weighs thirty six pounds. So I lay in bed to gather my courage to stand up again and I use the wall to get me to the bathroom where it's made perfectly clear that I am incapable of caring for myself. I contemplate getting one of those stools for the shower. Extra hand rails. I'll never leave my home again. Except... I have about 1/2 a roll of toilet paper left and decisions are going to have to be made at some point.

When you finally decide to go ahead and inform your employer that you're never going to leave your apartment again it's always when you're at your absolute worst. In my case it was just after a pitiful collapse into a crumpled, sobbing heap between my bed and the wall. I sent a pathetic text message. I waited for motivation to get off the floor--that took a few minutes.

I don't know if you can relate to me at all but I always feel a teensy bit better right after calling in and then I'm riddled with guilt for the rest of the day and I wonder if I'm playing hookie. Any small measure of progress makes me feel like I could have gone to work. The voices say, "Look at yourself, you made it to the kitchen and microwaved a cup of water and successfully carried it back to your room. What makes you think you couldn't go to work? She's a liar." I forget that it took three tries to get out of bed and then after I got back in, I discovered that I forgot an important component in making a cup of tea and I'm too washed out to go back for it so I'm sitting in bed drinking what is quickly becoming a mug of tepid water.

I even feel guilty for being on Facebook and for writing this blog post despite the fact that it requires little more than finger movements and little muscle control.

Update: This is helpful. I will link you to this http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/02/boyfriend-doesnt-have-ebola-probably.html and tell you that I am currently rolling at a solid 4 but last night there was some 7 happening in my life.

A New Year's Determination II

I started reading the post that I wrote a year ago. So, that was a depressing idea. Some excerpts:

Can you believe that I'm 26 years old and I don't have a savings account? ... Resolution Number One: Get a savings account. --Didn't happen. Also, 26 doesn't seem as adult as it once did.

The other day, a guy came into the deli and I fell in love with him pretty quickly. --This wasn't a resolution, but this sort of activity hasn't subsided even a little bit.

Resolution Number Three: Work on the relationship between body and mind by being mindful of what enters the body. --In light of this, my alcohol intake has increased at least three-fold in 2010.

Maybe writing on this day should just be avoided all together, no? Am I in the business of doing things that I'll probably regret a year later (if not embarrassingly sooner)? Absolutely I am, so here we go!

Honestly, though, I really do hate the idea of "resolutions". So does everyone else, so with that in mind I'm not going to go on about it. But I do like the idea of self awareness. Looking at your life and seeing things that you want to end/ begin/ alter and then deciding that you are in-charge of yourself enough to make that happen. New Years resolutions are nice in that while many people look at their life as something that has happened to them, something they can't change, for a moment--for a day or even a few weeks they remember that they are the boss and they can do what they want. That's a good energy.

I resolve three things this year.

In 2011 I resolve to stop pretending. Don't know what I mean? For example I'm not going to pretend like this:

Wasn't my breakfast. Nor am I going to pretend like I'm supposed to feel ashamed of it. It was fucking delicious. I'm not going to pretend like I'm a little embarrassed that I say "fuck" too much. Because I'm not. It is the most versatile word in the entire English language. Don't believe me? I have a Mad Lib that I would like to submit to the court. Noun, adjective, location, best-fucking-verb-ever, It works. I'm not going to pretend like I didn't use my iTunes gift card to buy this song. I'm not going to pretend like you're not free to stop reading this at any time. Moving on...

I'm not a very good listener. I resolve to become a better listener. The other day my friend was telling me about his girlfriend and I was thinking, "I'm happy for my friend, how can I possibly convey that in words?" but I just kept saying, "Uh huh" in what is probably the most uninterested sounding tone. I'm a super communicator. I spend a lot of time trying to figure out what words I'm going to use. And I interrupt because I get excited about having found those words. People don't punch me but self improvement would swift if they employed that tactic. Maybe that can be your resolution! Think about it.

My other resolution is a secret.

(Also, I didn't feel like editing my grammar or spelling so feel free to judge. I have it coming.)