Dangerous stuff

1. Peanut Butter m&ms
I didn't like these at first, but a recent PMS attack saw me throw a bag into my Target basket. And now I'm hooked. That hard shell, the soft peanut butter/chocolate center . . . it's sweet and a little salty at once. Poifect!

2. Wireless Internet
It frustrates me to be such a girl sometimes, and technology really sends me into hair-twisted-around-finger-aw-shucks-I'm-not- smart-enough mode. My boyfriend kept telling me to go wireless with my new laptop (which I'm admittedly nervous about using because it's just so darn cool--no, it doesn't make sense). He, a tech geek, explained to me more than once during late-night conversation how to set up a router and get going. I don't know why it still felt like something beyond my reach.

Yesterday, I tossed plastic into my pocket, put on flip flops, grabbed my keys, and ended up at Staples determined to join the rest of the online world. Of course I am too proud to ask for help, and wanted to just look at all my options, read the boxes, check out the simplified little pictures on the back (phone connection to modem to [highlighted] router to laptop), and hope I make the right choice. But the aisles in Staples are teeming with pasty men in red shirts more eager to sell protection plans than help a poor woman get online.

But I did it. I brought the router home, set the whole thing up (too easy?), and I've been surfing the Web from bed ever since. That is dangerous.

3. Rabies
I might actually contract this if bats keep finding their way into my bedroom at night (six so far this year).

4. Blogs
Um yeah, I realize I'm typing one. And if you're reading this, you might be a pinch as voyeuristic as I am. I lose myself looking at pictures of people's lives, crafts, families, pens, what have you. I judge (that stay-at-home mom is really funny; that woman's crafts are hideous--people buy that crap?) and lose myself clicking through to blogs that those first bloggers like and link to their sites. I even started a Google notebook just to have space to copy and paste anything that amuses me. Time lost+wrists burned out from overuse of computer=dangerous

5. Stuff
I know that's vague. But it's like this: If you have stuff, you are bound to lose stuff in that stuff. Where is that receipt, book, blank birthday card, $10 bill, Trent Reznor autograph, freelance check, book of stamps, recipe for decadent cheese dip . . . I couldn't tell you because it's all buried in my stuff.

Each time I move, I pare down. A lot during this most recent move to the mill. But then I accumulate too. It's a dangerous cycle. And I can't find a frigging thing.

6. Craft Hobbies
Ugh, if only I were content hiking mountains or sitting and watching TV all day and napping. But no. I enjoy crafting. I need to do it. There is a meditative quality to it that allows me to zone out for long periods of time (or just feel less guilty watching Lifetime movies) and eventually come out having finished something praise-worthy.

Quilting was the first hobby. But it takes so long and so much effort (pull out the sewing machine, iron everything as I work, follow directions, get the whole she-bang together just to notice that I screwed up one square . . .) that I quickly lose interest in projects.

Next was cross stitch. Cross stitch is pretty user friendly (easy to transport; everything can be tossed into a basket and tucked away when company comes over; you can do a small picture in a weekend and feel like you've done something), but I get in over my head. I recently bought a great kit (I'm into kits now because I am too scattered to get all the stuff together; better to leave it to someone else) of beautiful French pumpkins. But when I got home, I realized the work was one thread over one square on 40-count fabric. That's 40 squares per inch. I actually gave it a try, but quickly became angry and cursed anyone who thinks this is a good time. I'd need a lot of patience and a zillion-times magnifying glass to work on something like that. Who are these people who make this the "in" thing (bet you didn't think there were "in" things in cross stitch). So I'm doing the picture with two threads over two squares on 32-count (I've decided that's as small as I'll go). It's still draining and difficult, but the pumpkins are adorable.

As of yesterday, however, I am playing with penny rugs. Ah, finally a quick-result craft. The most difficult part is starting a blanket stitch. I find I stare at the wool for long minutes, stab and pull thread through, and instantly realize my attempt won't work and pull the thread out again. It makes me feel like I have an IQ of about 10. Or like I'm high. However, I'm happy with the newest hobby and can't wait to finish a project.

7. Unfinished projects
I am easily distracted. And while it's easy to say I'm a quilter/cross stitcher/wool worker (?), the proof is in being able to unfurl something in front of people to elicit that "Ahhh" of approval. But because I can sit and watch a half-hour of TV without sticking a needle anywhere into the project in my hands, or because, as mentioned, I stare for long periods at fabric trying to figure out where the hell to begin the blanket stitch, I don't get far. And then I become inspired by something else and start a whole new project. I have several orphan projects all around my apartment (probably covering my missing "stuff").

8. Living alone
Is it even necessary to express how living alone allows one to become a foul, disorganized, antisocial mess? I can stay in pjs with a spoon and jar of peanut butter for a whole weekend, and no one will know. Except you, dear reader. And because my boyfriend lives far enough away that visits necessitate plane tickets, I don't waste my precious peanut butter--eating time shaving, filing, and grooming like normal people do. Nope. I can be as greasy and pathetic as I dare. He has several photos of me from times when effort has been put into my appearance. Until he buys a ticket, those can keep him content.

The frightening thing is that I suppose this means he is doing the same as I am. So we are two pathetic, unwashed people who deserve each other. That's almost romantic, right?