You win, ok? I'll write something.

I'm sort of like the kid who sits in the back of class and tries to skate through with as little effort as possible. Taking everything in, but not saying too much. I guess in innerweb land I'm not too far off from the creepy old guy who floats around in kids' chatrooms, never chatting- just taking up space. I read all sorts of blogs...enough to be a regular, even. I very rarely leave a comment, and write on my own blog with even less frequency.

This week, though, the gauntlet was thrown. I guess I flew too far under the radar. Six weird-slash-interesting things about me. That's a lot of pressure, considering the source. This guy chews his fingernails and saves them for later. What a middle child.

Almost never (ok, fairly often) one to back down from a challenge, here goes:

1. I suffer from terrible road rage. I don't carry any weapons, unless you count my evil forked tongue. Admittedly, I'm usually on the cell phone while driving. This in no way affects my ability to drive competently. In the midst of a normal conversation about TomKat's baby, foul obscenities will erupt in Linda Blair-like fashion. My close friends are used to it; they know that the new words they've just learned are not directed at them, but I usually apologize anyway. My husband, Ron, says I have Tourette's, but I won't seek treatment because it doesn't warrant the good pills.

2. That's a nice segue into my counting habit. I'm sure I also have mild to moderate OCD. Come on now, who doesn't? I like to count other cars while I'm driving. Volkswagens, specifically. On my daily commute, I try to count every VW I see. I look up side streets, into parking lots, and on the other side of the expressway. The most I've seen in one trip home from work was 72. It's entertaining and very safe. Again, it in no way makes me similar to any of those other crackhead drivers out there.

3. I have two tattoos. Yup. Just two, Dad. Very stupid, circa 1990 artwork. There's Winnie the Pooh on my shoulder and a fairy on my thigh. I'd love to get them covered up, but I'm embarrased. I know the tattoo guy will scorn me and laugh behind my back about my subpar taste in body mutilation.

4. I have a near photographic memory. This came in very handy throughout my schooling. On tests, I could recall where specific answers were on study sheets and in textbooks. Although I can't remember faces well, I'll never forget a name once I've seen it written. I can usually picture the handwriting or font it was in years later. I've always been able channel surf at break neck speed and know what's on, be it the "Festivus" episode of Seinfeld, or some random John Cougar (Mellencamp) video. It also seems to help me remember song lyrics that I'd love to forget. I have a head for useless trivia. This weird-slash-interesting quality in no way benefits my husband, as he gets away with very little.

5. Most people who know me, aside from family and old friends, call me by my last name. Fortunately it's a pretty good one. Tilley makes for a much better first name than Von Lichtenstein or something. This is due to my old job. The store owner's name was also Karen, and she was obviously a much more important Karen than I. So people wouldn't confuse me for someone who mattered, I was given a new name.

6. I have mutant fingernails. For starters, they curve up as they grow. If they weren't so thin and skimpy, I'd look like that creepy lady in the Guiness Book of World Records with the twisted crazy straw nails. Also, they are freakishly small. I mean small child size. My left pinkie, in particular, belongs on a toddler. At work, my fabulous co-workers used to make all the new people look at said pinkie. What a team player I was. As an aside, that was the same job where I was renamed and pretty much sold like chattle. What a crap job.

That pretty much brings it all full circle. I can't bite my nails and save them for later; I just don't have enough to spare.

Spring has sprung...

Today is a beautiful day! I've had the door propped open at work so I can at least pretend that I get to enjoy a very springy day in March. In actuality it's a mind-numbing day at my desk. I can see through my front door and even catch a breeze now and then, so I guess that's better than The Golden Child's sad tiki-cube existence. I, at least, have a full-on view of my mid-life crisis car, a convertible dying to be driven today.

I do have work I could/should be doing, but what fun is that, really? It's way more fun to look for funky Chinese paper lanterns at www.partylights.com! Besides, I'm still recovering from Fat Tuesday. Norfolk has a very cool little Mardi Gras parade every year and some mighty strong Hurricanes at the local bars. Between sips of my yummy rum beverage, I thought about how odd it was that no one mentioned New Orleans the entire night. How quickly we forget. More likely, though, it's how little we care when our own fun is at stake. Who needs a downer like a natural disaster? Put on some beads, get drunk and flash your breasts (no, Mom, I did not do that!).

The neighborhood Episcopal church had no rum. They had their annual Fat Tuesday pancake supper. Why pancakes, you ask? Historically, people feasted before the Lenten season to clear their cupboards and prevent food spoilage. Because fatty foods (hence Fat Tuesday) like uncured meats, eggs and milk spoil so quickly, the meal was traditionally based around breakfast. In today's age, pancakes are cheap and easy to serve in mass quantities, so churches around the country are flippin' the flapjacks.

What am I giving up for Lent? Nothing. I'm a Presbyterian.

V-Day Plus One

I am the proud owner of 1/2 pound of fabulous chocolate fudge. It was a full pound, but I got my Valentine's gift on Monday. I had a nice head start.

For our Valentine's "date," my fabulous spouse and I put on pajamas, drank a really nice bottle of champagne, at some celebratory fast food, and watched Lisa Loeb's reality show on E!. We were in bed by 10; a good time was had by all. Does this mean that we're officially old married people now?

On a side note, if anyone has a desire to share the joy of Valentine's Day with your dogs, please reconsider the strawberry flavored Nylabone chews. My lovely couch, my clean sheets, and the oriental rug are now the grossest shade of pink I've ever seen. Coming from a bonafide pink lover, that's a really bad thing.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Who wants some Peeps?

Sweet Tooth Gone Awry

Valentine's Day is quickly approaching, and my sweet tooth is well aware. I don't know the average number of times a day men think about sex, but I feel certain my sugar fantasies have them all trumped.

I've already dropped subtle hints that I want the peanut butter fudge one of my husband's chef-friends makes. It went something like, "I want some peanut butter fudge for Valentine's Day. Don't forget." Think he'll figure it out? Place your bets. Then my thoughts wander to the imported Belgian truffles my fabulous boss gave me for Christmas. Don't think I didn't source those babies out for replenishment. Even my husband who doesn't like sweets (alien life form?) fell for these. Have a hankering for white chocolate soup? It's on my list, too.

I cannot stop thinking about chocolatey, sugary goodness. It's not limited to super high-end stuff, either. I have no problem (or pride, apparently) in eating cheap frosting straight from the jar. This usually happens around midnight with no lights on. Those fun-size Snickers in my shop for the customers? I've had more than my fair share.

The kids working at Coldstone Creamery know what I want: cake batter ice cream by the quart. The ice cream shop is right next to the wine shop. I look like a Dr. Phil nightmare loading up my car.

It'll all be over soon. Valentine's Day is less than a week away. All of those enticing sugar displays in Target will go away. The Whitman's Sampler won't be at the checkout counter in the drugstore. I can breathe a sigh of relief. After next week I'll only have to look at the Easter candy...Um, I'm starting to see a small flaw in my plan.

The Importance of Being Self-important

I've been called many things in my life, both complimentary and not-so-much. Most recently, I was referred to as being "self-important." At first blow, I was a bit taken aback. I felt the blood rush to my face, a mix of anger and embarrassment. Typically I would fire back a retort designed to reduce the name caller to a sad, hollow numbness. Without an avenue for immediate response, however, I've had time to think about what self-importance means to me.

There are only teeny tiny gray lines separating self-importance from stuck-up obnoxiousness in one extreme and Gandhi-like sainthood in the other. Some people ride the fence between the two. U2's Bono is a perfect example. Nominated for a Nobel peace price, yet still bleeding his adoring fans dry through $60 t-shirt sales.

As for myself (me, ME, MEEE!), having now been saddled with this phrase, I'm beginning to see it more objectively. Sure, as a teenager I was obnoxiously self-important. Looking back, though, can't we all see that my smarter and better than you antics were really just a way to mask the anxieties of being a really pale-skinned freckly girl in clunky shoes?

As a thirty-something grown-up, my self-importance has become a much cooler thing. I value myself enough to bounce back from my mistakes. I no longer have to listen to The Smiths for days at a time when someone else gets something I yearn for. It's a pretty rewarding feeling to be honestly, from the heart happy when someone I care about has a success where I may have stumbled. I'm no longer the girl you have to tip-toe around. My self-importance can finally be attributed to self-worth. How cool is that?

As an ending to this feel-good post, I have to admit that I still have a long way to go. I'll never be a perfectly humble person. There's something that feels so good about throwing out a really biting, sarcastic comment. It's on its way. You know who you are.

One giant step for Karenkind...

My brother, The Golden Child, writes a blog. Reachable at www.cocktailswithkevin.com, he couldn't be more proud. Actually, everyone seems to have one, save myself. He tells me almost weekly that I need to get on board with the program.

Although I consider myself to be at the forefront of most trends (I've owned Manolo Blahniks, Doc Martins, Birkenstocks, and Justin cowboy boots!), my uncanny ability to ride the crest extends to nothing of a technical nature. Ipod what? I can't even download music! I'm hoping I can type this thing on a 15 year old Brother word processor and then beg my considerably more than 15 year old brother, The Golden Child, to teach me how to post it.

Perhaps if my blog entries are charming enough, I'll become an interweb celebrity. It will be so great for my obsessive-compulsive nature to constantly check that hit counter thingy!

Once my blog shoots me to trend stardom, I'll get to go shoe shopping with Paris Hilton. We'll laugh. We'll dine (and purge). We'll compare the latest models of Blackberries. Those things are delicious and full of antioxidents.