most interesting.

Do you remember when the world had that SARs scare? Avian flu? Anthrax? The fear manifested itself into pure mayhem; a sea of surgical masks and unopened manila envelopes. We were scared! We watched the news, we educated ourselves, we went into protective mode to save mankind. What most Americans don't know is that today in late 2011 we've been aiding the spread of one of the most frightening plagues out there: stupidity. We in America don't just condone stupidity... oh no... we celebrate it. Yesterday I caught a commercial for Barbara Walters' special on the 11 most interesting people of 2011, and almost choked on my Lean Pocket when the Kardashian's made the list. Excuse me? Yea, maybe the Kardashians are interesting the way a car accident is interesting. Maybe they're interesting in the way an oozing boil can be interesting. They're interesting like your friend's response when asked their opinion on your new muumuu. But if Barbara Walters, one of the most respected journalists of her time, can pick out this dim witted family who are an embarrassment to strong, independent women everywhere and glorify them with "Most Interesting of 2011"...then I'm afraid we're lost, folks. What about all the women who overcame hardships this year, who worked toward a cause, who made a difference? Kim, honey, I'm not talking about the hardship over which $20,000 cake to have at your Titanic of a wedding. I wish I could think of more examples, but I keep forgetting what she does. But hey, Kim's on the cover of Glamour this month and we must see if it's true that her ex-hubbie is gay. When does this madness stop? If it takes a village, then pretty soon our village will be extinct if we don't make a point to question the examples we're deeming acceptable in society for upcoming generations. Hell, the examples we choose to award with fancy superlative titles like MOST interesting.

I don't want to catch the stupid, and I think it's time we grabbed our proverbial surgical masks and put an end to this pandemic.

homo erectus

Maybe it was because I had a brownie for dinner, or because I chose "Random Hill" on level 2,000 and was sweating so profusely that my clothes were a good three shades darker than when I arrived; but as I was on the elliptical tonight I couldn't help but think about what a strange concept this whole gym idea is. It is absolutely without a doubt the most unnatural invention of our time. Jello looks like an indigenous crop compared to a gym. Back in the day people got exercise because it was key to survival. The caveman ran after rabbits, ran away from mountain lions, squatted to pick berries and pushed heavy things out of his way... I don't know much about my caveman heritage, actually but I know for damn certain my great great great great great [. . .] great great great [ . . . ] great great grandfather did not mount a metal contraption with blinking lights to get his quads in shape. It goes against our very human nature to go to a big INDOOR room to pick up and put down man made materials specifically suited to aggrandize our muscles. With this being said, I began my usual cardio people watching session and realized that as far away from our grunting forefathers we seem to have gotten, are we really that different? The gym might actually take us all back to our primal instincts.

At the gym you will see women gym-goers in full make-up, painted on yoga pants, a skin tight tank top, and neon, clean, hardly-worn running shoes. I like to call them peacocks. Today I watched a girl with fake eyelashes parade in front of a captive audience of guys, bend at the waist for a 3 pound weight, stand up and walk off to a group of identically dressed girls who were casually drinking water and using the ab machine as their own personal scratching post. I briefly wondered if they knew it had an actual use, but scolded myself as pointing this out would disrupt the flow of this ecosystem. The Peacock is constantly looking for the right moment to sashay by a beefy man with convincing, albeit fraudulent need for a certain machine; or to bump into him oh so casually on the way to the water fountain. You'll see said beefy men grunting and throwing weights and yelling things like "ONE MORE" at each other; their anger always such a mystery to me until today. It's not anger...it's innate man. You'll see him venerating himself in the mirror with that 10th bicep curl, or wiping sweat from his brow as he grabs a drink from the water fountain and tries to play it cool when what’s her face with the lipstick approaches.

Lust, unintelligible yelling, raw emotion, ego, sweat. What’s more primal than that? Maybe I had it wrong all along. This IS natural. It’s new, yes; but nothing can ever really separate us from the cave man and woman inside us all.

I'm bringing sexy back.

When does life stop being a runway? When can I breathe in my jeans again? Can I please just eat a pint of Cherry Garcia and enjoy the sugar buzz regret-free? Having the right labels doesn’t label me as right, and the number sewn into my pants has as much to do with me as Kim Kardashian has to do with rocket science (or winning "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader" for that matter). So instead of running on this figurative ..and often literal…treadmill in the unwin-able race for hotness, I’ve dismounted to focus on my sexiest body part. My brain.

lone grazer

Of late, I have mastered the art of eating alone in public. Allow me to offer fair warning, this sport is not for the faint of heart and I advise you to read further only if you crave a challenge. Let's take today's experience for further anecdotal examination.

I arrived at the Centrum at 10:58 AM with the full intention of eating an early lunch as my first class for the day was cancelled. There are a few stragglers eating breakfast, and the sign indicates that lunch won't be offered until 11 AM. I decide to wait out the two minutes. The cashier patiently waits for me to approach, but instead we have a staring match from an awkward distance where I try to explain my situation through facial expression. I don't recommend this technique. Just because you're a loner doesn't mean you should go around accidentally eye fucking innocent employees. They don't get paid enough for that. After a minute of this awkward silent exchange I decide that these two minutes are personally out to torture me, and to take my own revenge, I cut one short and just order a bagel. It later turned out that the joke was actually on me as I left hungry and lunchless.

Next, the lone eater must choose seating wisely. If possible, don't be a jerk, save the 4-chair tables for 4 people. If you're eating alone it probably already means you don't have many friends. Don't perpetuate this by pissing off large parties of people. While choosing, I avoid a table that faced another lone eater. There's nothing worse than having someone in your line of "staring off into space vision" when you're trying to gnaw on a wrap. Although these people are alone as well, again you do not want an accidental eye fuck. It's impossible to gauge the state of desperation of another loner, and this could result in unwanted confrontations on your way to the bathroom.

Now that you've chosen your seat, it's time to eat. I recommend bringing something with you that makes you look smart. This does not include playing Words with Friends on your iPhone. It's wonderful that you just scored 70 points from a word you didn't know existed in the English language until Words with Friends accepted it, but everyone else is going to assume you're just pretending to text the friends you don't have. Instead, bring mystery to your lonely eating with a book- preferably in a foreign language. Today I read my French literature book even though I had no homework. This way, you'll most likely have a perplexed look on your face the entire time while trying to decipher the meaning. This says: I am choosing to eat alone because I'm worldly and quite frankly better than you.

My lunch turned breakfast was cut short today by a mosquito circling me. My frantic waving hands broke the last rule. Be invisible. Don't draw attention to yourself if you can help it. After several attempts to rid myself of the pest (including squatting down under the table where I knew it was hiding and plotting its next move in order to verbally threaten it), I decided enough was enough and it was time to go be alone somewhere more acceptable. Like here in the library. Like I said, kids this is no joke, but by feigning nonchalance and following these guidelines, you too can dine tout seul.

naked

I meet them under the arch as hastily planned minutes before. I can hear them on the phone behind his voice, those eyes conveying their intensity even when they're hidden. Since day one they've haunted me, they've paralyzed me, they've disarmed me. I'm a particularly difficult math problem they're trying to solve before a kiss, I'm the most fascinating human in the room during dinner, I'm a wretched odor after a dissenting opinion. Though the man behind them says little, the light green pair framed by impossibly long lashes has more power than any words I've ever heard.

It's been weeks since my last encounter with them, and though they've lingered every time I've closed my own, I'm eager to stand before them while they trace my soul. My carelessly chosen sundress and still wet hair falls away while I feel the exhilarating chill of being naked in the middle of the street. Maybe my decisions have wavered from my safe norm the past few weeks, but this exposure is the terrifying, adrenaline junky thrill I never knew I craved. Through having drinks they are kind and unfaltering. The mouth is talking now, and the sentence slips in without me even realizing. The message alone is heartbreaking, but the deceitful discrepancy between mouth and eyes is enough to make me vomit. While I was busy believing in the eyes' ability to read the life in me, I failed to recognize the death behind them. This addiction is like all others. The substance of choice is not of the living, and therefore can't need you the way you need it. Walking home I'm still naked, only this time I've been forcibly stripped of my defenses.

shit's messed up.

Thursday I picked up dog shit from the sidewalk voluntarily. Two hours later, with endless pavement around me to hit, a bird with a wonderful sense of humor decided my arm was a more suitable place for his feces. While I don’t blame the pigeon for fulfilling his own prophecy, lines of communication were crossed somewhere in between the asking for shit and receiving it without my consent. You’re not supposed to let shit in. It comes out of you for a very specific reason that is both medically pertinent and in which necessitated a colon even long before the days of list making and general laziness in sentence formation. But listen: it’s no coincidence that expelling shit away from the body is the natural order. The second you have no pressing incentive to be in contact with shit yet choose to anyway, you’re opening a can of worms…figuratively, yet potentially otherwise. And still. Down I knelt with a scented baggie, and gingerly scooped the steaming pile into my hand. In that moment the universe took note that this woman will take shit without a complaint. Hell, she will do it without asking. Cue pigeon. My first inclination is to show the universe a bird of my own, but let’s take a moment and examine. It’s my own damn fault for picking it up in the first place. So next time when that pigeon comes in the form of a judgmental friend or an overly demanding boss, I won’t just yell, “fuck, that’s gross!” I’ll set things right with the universe again and throw a stick at them.

MIA from the PTA

I have a big time major fear of being stuck. The list includes: elevators, quick sand, coffins, traffic, Chinese finger traps, on a math problem, in the middle, and ....up. But even above those (yes, even above the gut wrenching sweaty brow panic that those damn finger traps ellicit) is being stuck in one single place. At this moment the idea of marriage and a steady job and the whole shabang called being a grown up makes my brow start to glisten. Growing up a lot of us see this shining beacon of the finish line. You envision yourself at about 37 with the ass of Jennifer Aniston and the hair of...who are we kidding...you envision yourself at about 37 looking exactly like Jennifer Aniston. Ignore the fact that I did the whole highlights thing and it doesn't work for my skin tone, or that my ass doesn't look like that even NOW. It's a whole new ball game because at 37 in your fantasies you automatically get reborn as a hottie actress from Friends. Yes, I know, I will age extremely gracefully.... into a different being entirely. Your husband is dark haired and handsome with a mean backswing in tennis and you live in an unnamed suburb on a quiet street that looks something if not identical to that in Father of the Bride. Your son and daughter are active in extracurriculars and you spend your spare time working on the PTA. You also have a terrific sex life and you drive a fuel efficient SUV.

I don't really want my finish line to come yet, though. As wonderful as my life with my hot husband could be........where's the adventure???? The finish line means the race is over. You don't get to feel the rush of adrenaline and endorphins take over as you run miles and miles. I don't want my happily ever after tied up with a neat bow and a Hallmark card on the side. I want to travel and experience the world and my freedom before I'm stuck. Because maybe then stuck won't feel so stuck...it'll feel more like luck. So I'm gonna go for a run and I won't stop until I create the life I want, and not necessarily one in which I ask, why is Jennifer Aniston on my family Christmas card?

the only gut gushing post you will ever see on this blog

I've lived three very different places, each 3,000 miles away from each other or more....and thought about him. I spoke new languages and unknowingly ate blood sausage and layed on the beach and kissed boys to prove to myself that I am an independant woman...and thought about him. And I've mourned and I've partied and I've strengthened my relationships with my best friends...and I thought about him. I met people I could love and I kept my distance. Because I was thinking about him. I've been a free person wandering and learning, making it a priority to myself to stay that way. I've valued this sense of liberation from all things tying me down. I am dancing with my uncertainty. I am running around breathlessly happy, endlessly energetic, 7 feet tall! and then we have lunch. Just lunch. And I'm 2 inches again...and I'm paralyzed with the uncertainty.

I wish I could tell someone that he's just a person I barely know. Ah, yes, him...we met once or twice, it was fun. I could say that. I've even said it to myself a few times. But I can never seem to make eye contact or drown out the voice telling me I'm wasting my time with that false truth. Because that liberation?? It's really only as far as him. I don't need to find my footing with him, I don't have a rare disease of which his love is the only antidote, I don't need Webster to put his picture next to my name. I just need him. After a long time of putting myself first and figuring it out, I'm actually allowed to say that. I'm allowing MYSELF to break an uncrackable, super humanly strong image I've created for myself...to admit that I want someone...and that I'm not sure that I will ever get it. ...And in that, finding a peace with the inevitable.

go directly to jail; do not pass Go; do not collect $200

Last night my loving cousin uttered probably the dumbest grouping of words ever to be assembled and repeated by millions of pathetic guys all over the country in attempt to somehow justify their unacceptable actions. Now, my cousin is a smart man. His wisdom ages my own by a few years, and I've trusted him to give me sound advice when it comes to the wayward and illogical ways of the opposing sex. Since I suppose he was just doing his job, it was almost his duty to remind me of the key lesson they want us women to take away from their stupidity: Don't hate the player, hate the game.

I have a lot of beef with this phrase. First of all, excuse me. I can and will hate whomever I please, especially if you're absolutely deserving of it. When you're 16 and your mother disapproves of your boyfriend, do you immediately break up with him and ask your mom to become your own personal matchmaker, or do you continue to date the loser out of sheer spite? Exactly. You ignore that his band is really just a mix of random powerchords and screaming, and you love him that much more because the authority told you not to. Same thing here; I go all teen angsty and hate the player 10 times more. Besides, if you're a douche with commitment issues, just own it and invest in a sign for your forehead to spare us unsuspecting women instead of blaming some illusive game that only exists in your mind.

Secondly, who the hell gets off running around calling themselves a "player"? Are you Chingy? No. Do you have grills? Not the last time I checked. Since you've been so busy playing the..."game", when was the last time you even liked the person you hooked up with? Was she sober? Does it make you feel good to know you'll die alone?

Which brings me to my last point of beef. I don't understand the rules of this game or why it's necessary. It's like I just purchased a highly complicated board game and the manufacturer left out the instructions. What happened to just saying what you really mean? Recently I have totally disregarded all traditional dating rules, and I seem to be doing just fine. Hell, I am doing great. I see no real reason for them other than maybe as means to hide behind and avoid your own insecurities and fear of rejection.
Since when am I more of a man than most I've been meeting these days?...playa please.

not so silly putty

Last night I had a discussion with someone about my readability. This wasn’t the first time that someone has told me that when it comes to talking, I can do some damage. The only problem is that I somehow defy all logic and never say anything during my ramblings. I am the master of taking the simplest sentence in the world and caking on the foundation and false eyelashes until it’s so fancy that its original identity is unrecognizable. That sentence could have started as a boy and ended as a…well…a drag queen. The point is, even getting to my point has taken me 7 lines and an unnecessary reference to a group of men who embrace self tanner and panty hose. I always mean what I say, but I rarely actually say what I mean...excluding my dreaded Napoleon Complex under which I am plagued with asserting my assertiveness on anyone who’s done me wrong, perceived or otherwise. But when it comes to the real stuff…that ooey gooey part inside of me that laughs when you tickle it and cries when you abandon it…I keep that behind a brick wall.

The ooey gooey is just that…it’s soft and vulnerable and I can’t just put it out there on its own! I bring along my padding of words and jokes to ensure my ooey gooey’s safety. I like to call this technique self-preservation, but maybe a better term would be stupidity.

I’ve always thanked my parents for allowing me to be whomever I wanted. When I was 3 years old and watched Aladdin for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, my mother hand sewed my Princess Jasmine Halloween costume. When I was 12 and convinced I would someday be a scientist, my father drove me all over 2 states to find materials just so I could go on to win the 6^th grade Science Fair. And when I was 18 they let me move across the country on my own to continue creating myself ... Not as a scientist due to an acquired allergic reaction to math, but whatever else I wanted. I haven’t been giving myself the same opportunities or credit by over protecting my feelings. Sometimes ya gotta risk it to get the biscuit and let your ooey gooey do the talking, or people will never know you. Taking down my brick fortress may prove to be difficult … and maybe I’m still not exactly sure what I want to be when I grow up… but I sure as hell know that I don’t want to be a chemist OR a wall without windows. Princess Jasmine still sounds pretty good though…

my life as a socialite...very lite on the social

It's 9:00 on Friday night and I'm sitting on the couch with a bowl of mac and cheese that I can't taste thanks to a week-long cold, surrounded by tissues, my laptop weighing on my stomach, and a 10 page research paper weighing on my conscience. Instead of starting said paper and mulling over the implications texting has had on teens' social skills in APA format, I've opted to mull about topics closer to my own life...like how does Carrie Bradshaw afford that apartment on the Upper East Side and how does Samantha not have every STD in the book? This relates to my life because I will be living in NYC in 2 months and I must take note of how little sex I'll be having in the city, but what it might look like if I could afford Manolo Blahniks. Let's not skirt around the elephant pooping in the room. My life is less than glamorous. I'm in sweats eating an overload of carbs debating with myself the sexual health and footwear of fictional characters.
Often on Facebook on a Monday afternoon, you can see the photo reels of the previous weekend affairs featuring girls wearing dresses that highlight and flatter their vaginas more than any other body part, and guys oggling said girls...er parts. Call me old fashioned, but I like to keep the privates private. However to document this night in photos might be just as embarrassing. I'm freshly showered with full make up on, Kardashian style, but it somehow doesn't make up for my sheer lack of polish and friends currently. In the end, I am at least considering being studious while all others on campus are preparing to go out partying. This is the fasting of fun for the benefit of education...or thoughts of education. I am like a monk during Ramadan. Am I mixing religions? Is my consumption of cheesy pasta from the microwave while talking about Ramadan disrespectful? I hope not. The point is, I like to think of myself as staying home on a weekend night as a symbol of my life as a beacon for higher education. Now I gotta go because the Soup is on and I've got to catch up on what I've missed in reality tv this week.

With Easter rapidly approaching I started thinking about Easter baskets today. And then I started thinking about dyeing eggs....and as a side note I thought a little bit about how I only ever eat the chocolate bunny's ears and then give up before I lose a tooth. When I was little we used to have Easter egg hunts at my grandparents' house with all the little cousins. Every year at least one child spilled their basket of eggs all over the driveway, sending nickels and chocolates everywhere. Yes...nickels...we're a very monetarily motivated family at a young age. Anyway, it got me thinking of how what a pain in the ass it is to have to go around picking up all those damn nickels and how the chocolates never quite taste the same after they've hit asphalt. Why do we give these little kids baskets in which to put some fragile, cheap plastic eggs full of tasty treats and financial opportunity?? These children are unstable, wabbly little humans barely able to keep their balance, and then we add weight to one side and over they fall.

I hate cliche sayings. I mean what the hell does "a bird in hand is worth 2 in the bush" even mean? Is that a dirty reference? Are we talking about badminton? Just say what you're actually thinking!!! But the whole "don't put all your eggs into one basket" adage kinda came together for me today while pondering all this Easter insanity. Is it really all that different? Aren't we just as wobbly in our daily lives trying to make the right decisions, plagued with insecurities and fears and holding onto our basket trying not to fall. One day we meet someone and start filling up our basket with them...adding in the commitment egg, the trust egg, the warm fuzzies egg, the promises eggs, ....and one day the basket finally gets too heavy and we fall, except this time it's not just your chocolates that were ruined. So what are we supposed to do? Where are we supposed to put our eggs if not in our basket? I don't have that kind of cleavage. And when do you know if that person's going to be there to catch you when your balance is lost? Following this old saying has made me a fearful and cautious individual. Don't give me your eggs, I have a hard enough time standing on my own. But has any of that fear slowed my little cousins on Easter Sunday? never. They collect what is salvageable from the ground and carry on, because it's Easter and an overgrown rabbit has just left a small miracle of hidden colors in the backyard.

Maybe putting all your eggs in one basket isn't such a bad thing. Maybe we're just participating in a game that no one wins or loses, but one that always has the potential for a fun surprise.

who lives in a pineapple under the sea? my neighbor...

It wouldn't be a day in the life of Caitlin Skelly if I didn't make a complete idiot out of myself, right?! Exactly, so sticking with tradition I had a complete moment of crashing and burning today.

Every few days since I have arrived in Paris I have seen a particular guy in various parts of the city on random occasions. He's exactly my type...hopelessly nerdy. Although my mystery man and I run into each other without warning, we do have one habitual place we see each other: line 4 at the Saint Michel station at 2:11 PM Mondays...I mean...roughly. When I see him on Mondays I think of myself as Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping...except I hope to God he doesn't get hurt rescuing me from the metro tracks. I leave in 3 weeks and I'm fairly sure he wouldn't be out of his coma by then. Besides, if he doesn't have a brother I'd be screwed. Anyway, today I decided that enough was enough, and I needed to talk to this guy or I'd always regret leaving Paris with unfinished, although somewhat creepy, business. I worked up in my head what I would say, and I turned on my iPod to some motivational tracks...you know you're usual "I Believe I Can Fly", "Eye of the Tiger" and..."Party in the USA". As soon as I saw him approaching with his gang of World of War Craft playing friends, I started to doubt Miley's ability to give me the boost I needed. I went from Sandy Bullock: strong woman and Oscar nominated actress to Sandy Cheeks: underwater dwelling squirrel and confidant to Spongebob Squarepants. But we got on the same train and I knew I had 5 stops to make my move. I decided to go with "Pardon, ,Pourquoi j'ai l'impression que je te vois toujours?"

Oh my gosh he's looking at me. Oh my gosh he's looking at me like I'm certifiable. Oh my gosh he's looking at his friends like I'm certifiable. Oh crap he just said something to me in French. Something about seeing me on the platform. I think.
He smiles at me like how one smiles at a vicious dog to keep it calm, and just like that all my hopes and dreams of us exchanging nauseatingly cute glances over a croissant and listening to accordians under the Eiffel Tower vanished. The moment passes as his friends exchange confused glances and continue talking, most likely about that strange American who's still staring despite their friend telling her he's never seen her in his life. As I pretend to text, I can't help but laugh, probably furthering the impression that I belong in a straight jacket. So much for my Hollywood ending, but hey, I did something today that scared the begeezus out of me and tested my confidence. I'd say that's a success...while actually just highly embarrassing...but let's call it a success, eh?

party like it's 2011

New year, new decade, new excuse to reflect on life. As everyone rushes to the gym or attempts to quit smoking, I find it difficult to make a list...and why should I?? What power does this new year possess over me that the old one didn't? I mean we only just met, and already 2011 is trying to change me...little controlling, wouldn't you say? But really, we all know that come Valentine's Day, the gym go-ers will be stuffing their faces with chocolate and the smokers will have tossed the Nicorette for their old crutch because after all, in a relationship or single...it's the first sign of a holiday, right?? If not the old holiday excuse, the fact that life simply keeps going in this shiny new year just like it did in the old one will surely cause those goals to come to a screeching hault.

BUT...wouldn't it be wonderful to wake up on New Year's Day and feel a shift...a shift that has nothing to do with your spinning head from your hangover? To have a fresh sheet of paper, with a fancy heading "2011" to cover with your neatest living. But nope, the scribbles, that time you spilled coffee, and your attempts at white out from last year are still there, and this endless scroll picks up right where you left off in 2010. I don't want to make a change in my life just for the sake of the date on the calendar, but I have taken a closer look at my happiest moments and biggest regrets of the past year and have compiled a small list of REMINDERS to myself to check back on every once in awhile. 11 for 2011...preeeeetty smooth, eh?

1. "The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them." — Maya Angelou

2. avoid vodka

3. smile more...nothing is that bad.

4. if it looks delicious, eat it.

5. say hi to that cute guy...and then forget about him when it goes nowhere because your worth isn't calculated by the men you attract.

6. writewritewrite!

7. nothing good happens after 2 AM

8. just like the most amazing pictures are always of simple subjects, the best moments are found in the simplicity.

9. learn something new!

10. moisturize

11. stick with your gut...other than the final resting place for your beer, it has a helpful purpose.

Go forth and party like it's 2011...because, well...it is.