How (not to) Skydive Like a Pro

I hate heights. Absolutely hate them. But for some reason, I enjoy putting myself through emotional turmoil by doing things like riding roller coasters and bungee jumping. Skydiving has been on my "things that will terrify and possibly kill me but could end up being decently fun" bucket list for awhile, and Australia sounds like a pretty great place to do it. If I'm going to die by slamming my body into the ground, at least it will be a very pretty piece of ground.

I book skydiving a solid month before my Australian adventure, mostly so I am forced to pay my credit card bill before leaving for my trip and therefore would have to swallow the fact that I willingly threw away hundreds of dollars in the event that I decide to wimp out. I receive two different confirmation emails after clicking the "purchase" button. Both of them remind me of the astronomical amount of money I've invested in voluntarily ending my life and the second email says ... wait, what's that word?

WTF is a heli-skydive? Am I jumping out of a HELICOPTER? Cue frantic attempts at contacting the skydive company. After two emails go unanswered, I resort to Twitter, Facebook and lastly a phone call that tells me I have a wrong number. I. Am. Panicking. Skydive Australia, you're on my list.

The problem is, I've never been in a helicopter. One "first" for  the day (that first being shaking hands with death) is about all I can handle at a time. I realize that it really doesn't matter what aircraft I choose. Helicopter, plane, hovercraft or flying pig: I'm still free-falling at 14,000 feet toward my own demise. By choice. But still. A girl can only handle so much. Planes, I understand. We go way back. Helicopters ... I just ... no.

I eventually hear back from Skydive Australia (it really didn't take that long; I'm just a paranoid freak), and, just my luck, they don't have a plane anymore. Just two helicopters. Two "firsts" it is.

My skydive adventure begins at 6:40 a.m. outside a Holiday Inn in Kings Cross, where random drunkards are still piggyback riding through the streets and slurring karaoke songs. A small van pulls up to take us to the jump site. Our driver, the quintessential Aussie who would make a career out of skydiving, ushers my friend, Julia, and I into the van along with six strangers. We arrive at the jump site an hour later without incident and confirm our bookings, then I slip away to the bathroom to ward off the possibility of peeing on my tandem jumper when he hurls me out of a helicopter.

Also, yes. I brought Safari Sam with me for support. No, he didn't really help calm my nerves.

I return from the bathroom to hear my name being yelled repeatedly. I've been here for approximately 10 minutes, but it's time to get dressed for my jump. Oh, and by the way, I'm going in the first load.

Pardon?

No Pictures, Please (part 2)

I really wasn't kidding when I said I can't pose for pictures alone. Boredom recently led me to reach back to the depths of my Facebook past and discover that I've had this problem for as long as Facebook can remember (meaning since 2006 when I first jumped on Mark Zuckerburg's bandwagon). I truly was a solid solo photo poser up until about age 10, but then puberty hit and my preteen years just went to pieces as awkwardness took over in all my solo pic situations. And still the awkwardness remains.

Please see below for further submissions to my solo pic failures, featuring the faces first highlighted in this blog, plus a few additional faces that have popped up in my research.

1. The "you're taking this picture against my will and I'm not happy about it" face

New Year, New Nonsense

Oh, hello!

Let's all take a moment to relish in the fact that I am now embarking on my fourth year of ranting on this little piece of the blogosphere. From small beginnings involving way too much mayonnaise, a CAT-astrophe of epic proportions and treadmills, we've blossomed into lame pick-up lines, apartment lock-ins and my inability to be photographed alone.

Ah, sweet memories.

Moving on to a new year. Here are my 13 goals for 2013:

1. Convince one of my friends to buy a hedgehog. I would buy one myself, but I'm already in charge of one life, and that's about all I can handle at the moment. Therefore, if you are easily impressionable, please click here to see pictures of Buckley the hedgehog going shopping for a bed. And now you want a hedgehog, right? Please. Make my dreams (and yours) come true.

Want. Need. MUST HAVE. The mini bed and the hedgehog.

2. Go on the greatest vacation ever to Australia. Eat Pancakes on the Rocks. Swim in the ocean. Avoid being eaten by a shark. Learn to surf. Jump out of a plane. Etc. Etc. Etc.
2a. (Optional but preferable) Find an Australian husband.

Guess who will be in this exact spot in exactly one month? This girl.

Pancakes on the Rocks, get in my belly. If I can't have an Aussie husband, I'll settle for this.

3. Finish reading The Three Musketeers. Christmas 2011 I decided to be cultural (and cheap) and downloaded this literary classic for free on my Kindle. Since then, I've read 6 percent of the book. Off to a bit of a slow start on my cultural conquest, but 2013 is my year!

Nail Polish Nightmare

My most recent situation was part Incredible Hulk, part Carrie Bradshaw. The Hulk because it involved my super human strength; Carrie Bradshaw because the culprit that led to this predicament was a beauty product.

We're twins. (Fraternal, not identical.)

This is the Carrie Bradshaw I want to be.

This is the Carrie Bradshaw I actually am. (Except I don't even look cute in tutus.)

Additionally, both of these characters are fictional. Audiences watch in wonder and say, "Surely that would never happen to anyone in real life." Ladies and gentlemen, you've just described my 23 years on this earth.

Only I can lock myself INSIDE an apartment.

Only I can unintentionally put on a peep show for 40 Asian tourists.

And only I can end up in urgent care after a run-in with a nail polish bottle.

It all starts with open-toed shoes. I don't realize until I'm at work that -- gasp! -- my toe nails are not painted and the whole world can see thanks to my open-toed shoes selection. I realize it's a little silly I'm concerned about such things because I work at a zoo. Nail polish is not a must-have for most zoo employees, but it is for this one. Exposing naked non-painted toes is just a no-no.

Dream On

Don't you HATE it when you wake up from an insanely awesome and realistic dream, can still picture it in your head but are unable to put it into words, and then the dream disappears so you're left with nothing but the sad reality of waking up to your neighbor mowing the lawn at 6 a.m. accompanied by the immediate need to pee?

Well, my friends, I woke up from a dream last weekend that was so crazy I specifically laid in bed with my eyes closed and focused on the events until I was able to put words to them and make the pictures stick in my head. Lucky for you, this means I can now share my dream with you. You're welcome in advance. It's pretty great.

Close your eyes and dream with me ...

Pick-up Lines That Never Work: Part I

I've decided that my latest blogging endeavor is going to be to keep track of all the horrendous pick-up lines that I hear when I venture out into Fort Worth's social scene. I'll be honest, these occurrences are becoming more rare since I'm now more likely to choose the anti-social option of staying in with my puppy and drinking wine. (Cool kid, right here.)

Perhaps my hesitation to go out into the world has something to do with the sharks that are out there, waiting to throw their one-liners at me. Here are some examples of the word vomit that has assailed me recently.

Pick-up line that will never work #1

"You should smile. You look angry and sad."

I'm a smiler, but I don't just stare off into space with a smile on my face. In this instance, I was standing in a corner while my friends got drinks. Do I want to be the grinning weirdo standing by herself and surveying the room of strangers? No. I was neither angry nor sad; I was ambivalent. But after that lame pick-up, I instantly became annoyed. So I rolled my eyes and walked away.

Pick-up line that will never work #2

"That isn't how you really dance, is it?"

I talked to this kid for about three seconds and then he asked me to dance. Really? If you just insulted my super sweet moves, why would you even want to go there? Or think that I'd be interested? Not happening. And just for the record, yes I do really dance like that. "That" meaning, I only dance to songs that I know the words to so I can act them out.

Pick-up line that will never work #3

"Are you here for a bachelorette party?"
"No. Do you think me or any of my friends look old enough to get married? How old do you think I am?"
"23?"
"... Correct. But I don't want to get married until I'm at least 26. So no, this is not a bachelorette party."
"Well so you can meet your husband tonight, date for 2 years and 2 months, have a 10 month engagement, and be married by the time you're 26."

I can't figure out if this kid was trying to hint that he had chosen himself as my future husband, or if he was just way too interested in math problems. Either way, I thanked him for his interest in the next three years of my life and politely excused myself. A liiiiiiiiiittle too anxious for my taste.

Between Sir Smiles-A-Lot, Lord of the Dance, and Mr. Let-Me-Put-A-Ring-On-It, I have once again been reminded why I'm still single. I assume there are normal men who strike up normal conversations with normal women in this city. I just haven't been approached by any of them yet. Until I do meet one such suitor, I will continue to inform you all of the ridiculousness that I hear.

And a note to the gentlemen in question: I do appreciate the gesture. Walking up to strangers is intimidating. So thanks for deeming me worthy, numbers 1, 2, and 3. Just ... please think twice before you word vomit all over me again and I'm forced to embarrass you by retaliating with a sassy remark and walking away.

Damsel in Distress

Raise your hand if you've been held captive in your own home four times within a span of 15 hours.

What's that? Am I the only one with my hand raised? Shocking.

I've come to realize that living in an apartment means that things break a lot. However, it also means that people come to fix your stuff for you for free! This is excellent news for me since, by nature, as a girly girl I'm incredibly gifted at breaking things. And, by nature, as a girly girl I'm incapable of fixing things on my own.

Exhibits A and B of my girlyness: I wear tiaras in public and in private. (When in private, preferably while crafting and drinking wine.)

I'm the type that won't complain about something until the final breakage happens and leaves me locked in a room, stuck on the side of a road, cleaning up a flooded bathroom, etc. The door knob to my bedroom has been fidgety for the past week, but I have been choosing to ignore it.

It becomes impossible to ignore the problem on Sunday night when the door knob breaks completely and I become locked in my room. I stand with a dog that I know really needs to go to the bathroom in one hand while my other hand tugs and turns at the door knob to no avail. After a solid two minutes of knob turning, I decide  the knob is dead and I am trapped. So I grab my phone to call my roommate (who is very confused about why I'm waking her up via phone when I'm one room away) to rescue me. Too late for the dog since she's already peed and pooped on the carpet, but I learn my lesson and leave the door cracked open before I drift off to sleep.

Fast forward to 2 a.m.