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.

paris, je t'aime

I completely at this city's will. Everything from the sights to the language consume my entire being and cram up my brain until there is no room for anything other than "je voudrais..." and "tout va bien". I'm in love with the sounds of the French language...on the bus I feel like the man on the phone next to me is reciting a romantic, emotion filled love poem while he actually is discussing God knows what with his boss. The waiter asks if I want the bill, and I blush at how sensual it sounds. I can't help but have a romantic relationship with everyone I come in contact with, with a "bonjour, comment vas-tu?" And it's not just the language. This whole city has my head in a spin, and just like falling in love with a human being, I find myself at a loss for thoughts of my own. When the Notre Dame is staring you in the face on a daily basis, you tend to feel small in comparison. Paris, this relationship is amazing and everyday is a whirlwind, but I'm starting to lose myself in you. Though your romance has won me over, I can't compete with your lights glistening off the Seine, or your sparkling Eiffel Tower every hour on the hour, your museums which are themselves as historical as the works they hold, your beautiful natives, your rich food, or your heartbreakingly stunning streets. I'm torn, my dear city of lights. I would love nothing more than to stay with you forever, but I fear giving up myself entirely.

Maybe the best places are those we can both love AND hate, but fit into comfortably. This passionate love affair I have here cannot last...and I'll return home filled with the thrill of living in the midst of unimaginable beauty, but ready to settle back into life.

to be or not to be

He's beautiful in the way that Greek gods are beautiful. I don't know how his hair stays so damn voluminous without an overabundance of gel, and I marvel at the fact that I will never be able to say "princess" in French the way that this man does, with the P and the R making a sound I can't even begin to place in my brain. I catch him staring at me and I think about how my love handles have grown and how my fading dyed hair must be getting frizzy with the heat in this bar. I don't know how his hand got there, or what I'm saying that amuses him so much, but it's intoxicating. His assertive arrogance has me simultaneously mesmerized and repulsed. From my days of reading Twilight, I get the faint indication that I should run as fast as I possibly can from this gorgeous monster. My moment of hesitation is enough for him to wander, and for me to remember how much I want his hand to stay on my back while we piece together broken sentences in two languages to compose our conversation about nothing. I would talk about nothing with him for as long as humanly possible, because for those moments when we were there, I forgot that my body doesn't feel like it used to and began to think maybe my American accent is indeed sexy. His carefully premeditated movements equate to a well rehearsed choreography routine, and while knowing full well that it is anything but personal, the show of his attempt at impressing me has succeeded and has in fact entertained and fulfilled me.

And then I realize, that it's all a show for me. This worry about my appearance and the prospect of it changing, the capturing of another's attention, the planned words and actions- a show. Yes, this foreign man has me captivated, but eventually the routine has to end, and what will be left is really nothing of any substance. The most I could hope for is to find out the secret to his hair in order to repeat it on myself. As much as I'd like to stay for awhile and play the leading lady in his play, I've got to keep the real world in mind and peace out at intermission.