Confession Friday: I’ve Taken My Love of Cheese to a New Low (or High)

Guys, I have a confession to make. While some of you may be new around here (Shout out to all my new blog friends from BlogHer!), the rest of you loyal blog friends understand my cheese obsession…

Or do you?

It has come to my attention that while some people sneak spoonfuls of ice cream out of the carton, and that seems completely rational, logical and relevant…

I am busy hiding in the corner of my kitchen with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar (in my case, the cheese carton. With a spoon.)

slide-almond-swiss

This cheese carton. Photo from Merkt’s Cheese website.

I know. I’m a little gross. But really…who needs crackers at a time like this? Especially when gluten free crackers are expensive, yo.

So yes, confession Friday ends with me. Eating Wisconsin cheese spread. With a spoon.

Why?

Because I can.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Confession Friday: Cancer isn’t Funny…But I Might Be

Yesterday, in an effort to relieve the back pain that I’ve been in all week, I went to see my favorite massage therapist in the whole world. C has been there for me through the years. Through the boyfriends, the jobs, the sprains, and the slips. He’s my therapeutic rock. Not only do I get an hour to two hours of his time every month while he kneads the pain out of my back, neck, shoulders, and anything else that hurts, but the time is also well spent in conversation. It’s like therapy. Only better.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw C. I had just joined Massage Envy (If you ever decide to join–use me as your reference!!) and had seen a few different therapists. When I saw C for the first time, he asked if I had a regular therapist. I told him, “nope! I just see whoever is available.”

His next words to me were, “Let’s see if we can change that.”

Since that day, I’ve been a C-fan without question. I feel like I’m cheating on C whenever I go to a different therapist (and since his hours correlate with the normal working hours of normal people, when I have a full time gig, no C for me.) Regardless of his Wisconsin-loving Bear-hating ‘tude, he’s pretty much the greatest thing since sliced bread. Plus he thinks I’m really funny.

With the back pain this week, I tried to get in all week. Finally I was squeezed in this morning. JOY! As we chatted and C beat the crap out of Angry Lower Back, this conversation played itself out:

Me: “Sometimes, I think I’m a hypochondriac, but then I realize that I have legit pain…”

C: “Hypochondriacs feel legit pain. But I don’t think that you’re a hypochondriac.”

Me: “So, if I think that I’m a hypochondriac, does that mean that I am?”

C: “No, if you were a hypochondriac, you’d come up with more interesting ailments.”

Me: “But what if I’m a lazy hypochondriac?”

C: “So you would have come up with a disease, but you didn’t feel like Googling your symptoms?  I don’t buy it.”

Me: “Well, I could just say it’s all cancer. Like that angry ball in my lower back. It’s a tumor right?”

C: “Yep. Tumor. Definitely. You should have a fundraiser to pay for all of your medical bills and care. Then you can give me a cut of the money, when you’re magically cured.”

Me: “OK. So, massage therapy will cure my cancer. Then you can give me a cut of the money from all your new clients. When can we start?”

OBVIOUSLY, we were both joking around. But it’s nice to have a therapist who totally gets my humor. A massage therapist, that is.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

How I Sprained My Knee 3 Times in One Semester AKA The Fucking Strawberry

Confession Friday: I sprained my knee…slipping on a strawberry.

“A what?!” You may be asking yourself…and yes, I said a strawberry.

If you aren’t caught up on the fact that this is part 3 of a series of blog posts, you can read the first two, about my skiing injury and then my epic battle with an icy alley.

Now that you can see what you’re dealing with here (you know, the biggest klutz in the history of ever…), let’s move on, shall we?

So I was finally out of physical therapy for the second time…thank God for Bradley and their fancy pants PT department because we had no insurance…and I was walking a little bit better. My physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major was making me do regular exercises to regain mobility (Sit on the ground with your legs straight out. See how they both look normal? Now pop one knee up about 4-5 inches… And imagine that you have a hyper-extended other knee…because I have hyper-extended joints… That’s what my knee looked like. It would not straighten out completely. And it still hurts a little bit to this day Oh, hey! We’re still inside a parenthetical statement. Sorry about that…)

So I was doing everything she told me. Even though it was essentially healing really well, I still iced it…and used elevators…and was late to math class (okay, I was late to all classes, but math was the best. Math 101: the only math class I took at Bradley. Math 101: in which I hobbled in late on crutches every day. Math 101: in which I walked over to the far side of the room after class started, pulled out the left-handed desk, and pulled up a chair to rest my knee on… Math 101: where I was the biggest asshole in the history of ever.)

I may have mentioned that I’m a stubborn ass Polak…and I like to do things for myself. I don’t like to rely on other people, and I certainly like to push my limits. So I always wanted to keep moving and get my mobility back. But I did what my physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major said. I even used the elevator when I wanted to take the stairs (Yes, there was a time when I wanted to take the stairs! (I don’t particularly care for elevators. After you’ve been in a few too many over-stuffed elevators that have ever gotten stuck or *gasp* dropped a few floors, you wouldn’t either!)

So I was feeling a little pain after a long day of walking to class…and I thought to myself, Self, you should ice your knee. So I got up from watching bad college TV (at one point we had a lava lamp channel!) and started to head toward the stairs. I thought twice and decided…No, Chrissy…it’s already been a long day. Suck it up and take the elevator. So I walked to the elevator. Rode up to the second floor. Made my way to the laundry room, which had two doors on either side of the floor (girls on one side, guys on the other). I walked into the laundry room with the sound of dudes’ laughter on the other side. But the second step, I slipped comic-style with one foot in the air and my ass going toward the ground. My knee was shot. Again. I screamed the way that I scream when I injure myself or see a spider or accidentally forget to take cookies out of the oven and burn them. And the boys on the other side of the door looked at me like I was crazy.

And I panicked.

Again.

And when I saw the apparatus of my demise…I was like, why the fuck is there a rotten strawberry on the floor of the Willy 2 laundry room? And then I remembered that one of my dear friends had also banged some dude in that same tiny laundry room and decided that it was better not to ask questions like that.

I crawled back downstairs and handled myself…and called my physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major…she came over and told me I was an idiot and had sprained myself again. I whined, “But I took the elevator and was getting ice and everything!!! It was that fucking strawberry!!”

A fucking strawberry.
Not a banana; that would be too cliche.

A fucking strawberry.

9 years ago.

And yet, just this year, Katie, my favorite little bookworm, Katie decided to tell me that she saw the strawberry…a few days before my little slip. And didn’t like…tell maintenance or anything. So, you know…if you don’t visit her blog today in solidarity with me and the strawberry incident… And she’s been begging me to tell this story. (I’m not going to lie, it was my favorite to tell on first dates. It gave me an idea of whether a dude could handle my shit or not.)

A fucking strawberry. In a laundry room.

Are you kidding me?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Confession Friday: I’m a Sucker for Midnight

Confession Friday: I went and saw Twilight last night. Yes. I’ve seen all but the first one at midnight. And all but the first two Harry Potters. (And the last 3 Harry Potter books at midnight.) And the Hunger Games movie. I’m  a sucker for things that teeny boppers dig. Sometimes I think that I’m a 12 year girl stuck in a grown up body. Except that I mostly dislike 12 year old girls. And I don’t want to be around them while I’m enjoying my kiddie movie. At midnight.

Twilight meme

So the last few years, I’ve spent an extra couple of bucks for all you can eat popcorn in a swag leather seat with free refills on my coffee and bar to seat service of booze, snacks, and desserts. Definitely worth the price in order to avoid the annoying…the lines, the wait, the screaming teenagers, the giggling teenagers, the unaccompanied teeny boppers, the text messaging, the talking, the swooning, and the biggest movie pet peeve of all–the clapping at the end. Movies are where a lot of my pet peeves happen…

But this time around, my fancy-pants movie theater decided to charge $35 for an all-day affair. Fuck. That. I’m too old to sit in a theater all day to watch a Twilight marathon. And I’m a Polak, unwilling to spend $35 on anything.

And for some strange reason, the movie was shown at 10, 10:15, 10:30, 10:45, 11, and so on until 1 o’clock in the morning. This made it less magical, but it also made it easy to choose which show to go to. The big “open” was at 10 PM…and there was only one 10:30 show… no lines? no crowds? Not even a full theater? I’m OK with this. What baffled me, though, was the line of camped out midnight die-hards. Dude. Go see the movie. Don’t sit there waiting while the rest of us are already on our way into the theater. Seriously.

As I was driving home shortly before 1 AM, I realized last night, that I may be too old for Twilight. I spent more time making fun of the ridiculous in the movie than scoffing at how it didn’t measure up to the book. I think that says it all. Harry Potter is done. Twilight is done. I think that when the next Hunger Games comes out, I’ll see it at a respectable time on opening night. In my fancy-pants-no-kids-under-21-allowed-theater.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Confession Friday: Christmas Music is Coming

Yes. Yes, I said it. Confession Friday: I am a Christmas-obsessed-giant-freak-of-nature-who-wants-to-start-decorating-now kind of girl. You think I got into Halloween… You haven’t seen ANYTHING yet. But I will try. try. try. to refrain. For Brian’s sake. For your sake. For at least a week or two. As soon as Thanksgiving week gets close…I make no promises. Christmas music is coming…

(But not that horrible song: Do they know it’s Christmas? Of course they don’t know it’s Christmas. And they don’t care. They do not celebrate Christmas because it is a Christian holiday and non-Christians in Africa who are starving and sick do not care that they won’t have snow in Africa, you ignorant prats./rant)

When I told Brian (long before I was officially living with him in Aurora) that we were one day going to have a Christmas tree in every room, he may or may have believed me…Much like when I told him that the Olympics was going to be 24/7 Sports TV for 2 and a half weeks…And when I told him that I had a cheese obsession…And when I told him that I had a lot of stuff…Come to think of it…maybe HE does believe me.

Regardless…when he realized that half of the boxes that were carted up the stairs to our new apartment were Christmas boxes…he may have gotten a little scared. It’s a fact: I love Christmas. I love everything about Christmas. It’s joyful. It’s bright. It’s cheery. It’s wonderful. Our little apartment is going to look amazing. and Christmas-y. As soon as the rest of the boxes are unpacked…Christmas boxes are next.  and the trees go up.

Yes. I said trees. Since I was a young child, I have always made the Christmas tree my responsibility. And no one was allowed to help…Because they didn’t know how to do it right. Really…it’s because I’m slightly OCD and have a need to see every ornament as it goes on the tree. You’ll note that the baby picture of Chrissy goes front and center every year.

Confession Friday Christmas Music is Coming

We made her pose like that.

In closing, fair readers…I have borrowed a brilliant idea from Lauren of Filing Jointly. I would love to send you a Christmas card this year! As a thank you for being awesome and reading my blog and all of that good stuff. Just send an e-mail to quirkychrissy @ gmail with your name and address, and you will receive a fantastic Christmas card. I haven’t quite decided what it will be yet…but you can bet it will be hilarious. Last year, a girlfriend of mine convinced me to send out this beauty:

Christmas Cards

I know, perfect right?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Confession Friday: The Last Minute

Confession: I wait until the last minute to do lots of things, which often works out smashingly for a girl like me, but sometimes…not so much.I guess you could say, I’m a bit of a procrastinator.

So, several weeks ago, I was talking to Katie (Of yesterday’s guest post and Words for Worms Katie) and she said to me, I’m in on a sweet Secret Santa blogger thing. You need to get in on this. And so I looked up Pocketful of Joules, and her fun Fall Swap. I e-mailed her and requested to join the club.

When I received my secret swapper…I was so pumped! I felt honored and excited to get Heather from the B(itch)log. As a Chicagoan(ish) myself, I felt that it was my duty as a blogger and new blogfriend to find Heather the perfect little piece of Chicago (as she is currently residing in California).

As any good Chicago-land native knows, if you’re born here…this will always be your home. If you move here and acclimate into the joy of northern Illinois…this will always be your home. They don’t call it Sweet Home Chicago for nothing. It’s the best.

Bon Jovi Loves Chicago

Me too, Jon; Me too.

So, I decided that dammit, I was going to give Heather a piece of Chicago, come hell or high water. And I searched. And searched. And I realized that sending something from Chicago will give the secret part away immediately. So despite my better judgement, I moved to the online world. I found a lot of “Chicago in the Fall” products…but they were cheesy and uninspiring. Even the “Chicago in the Fall” Apron, after reading that Heather digs aprons…it just wouldn’t do. I’m a perfectionist by nature, and I really wanted to get this right.

So finally, in the home stretch, on the last week of the swap, I was searching the digital world like a maniac. And came across this SWEET poster. Sure, it may not be completely “fall” themed. But shit! It was the coolest thing ever. A World’s Fair Chicago poster dated May-November 1933. And it was everything I was looking for (you know except for the fall theme). But it did say November… November = fall… Truth be told, I totally searched “November Chicago.” I call it a success.

So I had it shipped to Heather without any purchasing info, and the really nice guy even offered to throw in a secret message!

Of course, because it was shipped from a third-party to keep my identity a secret…and I waited so long to send it…it took forever to get to Heather. Joules was worried. Katie asked if I had sent it. and Heather was waiting and waiting and waiting.

Then she got it, and I was worried that she didn’t like it (I worry a lot…an ex used to tell me I was wound tighter than an 8 day clock…douche.) I kept thinking, “Maybe she was hoping for a cute scarecrow or pumpkin or fall snack…”

In the end, I think I did alright… You can read about Heather’s super excited reaction (She loves me more than French toast! MMMmmmm French toast…maybe I’ll make some for breakfast—nah Fritos and queso is more my style) on her blog post about being homesick for Chicago.

In other procrastinator news, I finally get to send my giveaway today to the winner! Lily from It’s a Dome Life… I had to dig through a lot of moving boxes to find my Huck Finn books.

Procrastination is a lot like Masterbation

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Confession Friday: The Poop Story

WARNING: This post contains a poop story. It is highly inappropriate. It is (a little) graphic. It is poop. If you are squeamish (or eating), stop right now and come back on Monday. 

Disclaimer: My boyfriend would probably rather I did not post this story. But I couldn’t help myself. Also, if you know my boyfriend’s dad…never tell him this story. Ever. 

Dear Twitter followers, You’re welcome.

Last winter, Brian and I escaped the unusually-less-than-frigid Chicago weather with a long weekend away to Florida. Had we known that I would be losing my job a few weeks prior to the trip and take 8 months to find another one, we probably would have gone for a whole week. Regardless. Florida. Trip. Warm. Beach. Sun. Yay!

Brian’s dad lives on the coast of southern Florida. I spent most of my days barefoot on a beach. Brian spent most of his days sleeping until 2. It was the perfect trip. One of our days, though, Brian’s Dad took us out on a boat trip. This was very exciting for me. One of the perks of living on an island full of canals is DOLPHINS. If anyone didn’t know, I love love love dolphins. Love them. They are amazing creatures. (No, I’m not giving away free dolphins. If I had dolphins, I would keep them all to myself.)

Dolphin love

Yes, Brian puts up with me…even when I do things in public that embarrass him

So we took a boat from his Dad’s backyard through the canals out to sea. In the canals, as promised, I got to see dolphins playing! It was the most amazing experience ever. One day, I will swim with the dolphins, and that will trump this.

Dolphin in the Canal

This dolphin was not only 20 feet away in the canal…he also swam up to us and did wild dolphin tricks–stood up on his flukes to see what was going on inside the boat. It was the most exciting thing ever. Ever!

So we took a nice long boat ride in the Gulf of Mexico around the southern tip of Florida to a little island, which I will not name. The ride was a good hour from door to island. It was beautiful. We shelled along the beach, and had packed a picnic lunch. I was walking along, looking for sweet shells…when all of a sudden I felt a rumbly in my tummy. I tried to let it pass, but within two minutes I knew… I really had to poo.

Now in all actuality, I’ve got some sick digestive issues (that would be probably be diagnosed as something if I had health insurance and a doctor…), and there are times that I will go far too long without releasing the toxins. So when I gotta go–I go. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.)There’s no such thing as holding it. In fact, I don’t understand people who go and spend 20 minutes on a toilet waiting for it to happen. But that’s another story entirely.

So I walked over to Brian…

“Babe, I’ve got…a problem.”

Now, Brian is the best boyfriend ever, and he puts up with me talking about poop on a somewhat regular basis. That’s love right there.

“What?” He said to me, all innocent-like. He really had no clue.

“I have to go. Like bad.”

“Pee?” He looked hopeful. Squatting to pee on an island is not difficult.

I shook my head…

“Can you hold it?”

I shook my head again…

“Well, we’re about an hour away…even if we left right now.”

So I thought. And I thought. I didn’t want to embarrass Brian. Or his dad. Or make a scene. I wanted to enjoy the day. And I thought some more. And when I couldn’t take the stomach pains anymore, I said, “I’m going to go dig a hole. I’m going to need toilet paper. or napkins. or paper towels.”

So Brian and I casually walked back to the boat, as his dad was shelling. He acquired paper towels for me and waited by the boat. I walked deep into the not-very-sheltered island, where I found a semi-secluded spot. I dug a fairly deep hole. Took off my bathing suit (while keeping my skirt and shirt on–like MAGIC). Squatted. And birthed a small child out my rear end. I cleaned my person. Re-dressed. Covered the hole. Hand sanitized. and called it a day. I was proud of myself.

I would so survive on LOST. Or Survivor. Or even The Amazing Race. I am a winner.

I walked back to Brian, who didn’t want to know details…

…but I told him anyways.

We proceeded to picnic on the island…As we started walking in the direction of my man-made bathroom, I was fearful that we would end up dining a little too close for comfort. Luckily, we were still pretty far…ish away.

picnic on the beach

Cute picnic, right?

Funny Face Because I just pooped

The Best Boyfriend Ever

Plus I made him that sandwich (before the, um, incident).

When we got back on the boat, I texted Lily, as she is my go-to poop story friend. She was thoroughly impressed.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!