True story: when we watch Fringe, I spend most of the time talking about how dreamy Joshua Jackson is.

When I was a tween, one of my most serious hobbies was collecting BOP and Tiger Beat magazines. My friends and I would go to the drug store and sit in the magazine aisle, leaf through these bubblegum rags, and agonize over our purchases. My weekly allowance would only support my habit up to a point, so I had to be careful if I wanted to get my money’s worth. Sometimes the magazines had only so-so heartthrobs on the cover, but if there was a magazine with a full-size pullout poster of Jonathan Taylor Thomas (JTT!!!), well, obviously that was money well spent.

Some of my friends were already starting to go on dates around this time, even though most of us hadn’t even started our periods. I was shy and socially awkward around most people, and even more so around boys. I had no interest in them and didn’t anticipate ever wanting to have anything to do with them. I mean...I had books, I had my friends, I had my bike, honestly, what else did I need?

Maybe I wasn’t maturing as quickly as my friends, I don’t know, but I didn’t see the appeal of dating. Frankly, what little dating information I’d been able to gather (mostly from old episodes of Saved by the Bell) terrified me. My friends and I often discussed the perfect age to start dating. Most of my friends insisted that, at 12, we were the perfect age to date all we wanted, and you wouldn’t believe the heavy silence that fell when I suggested that maybe 18 was a better age.

I had no real interest in any of the boys in my life but was obsessed with collecting glossy pictures of my favorite teen actors. My room was plastered with the posters and pages I’d torn from teen magazines. I taped them on my bedroom walls like wallpaper. I lived in my head and my head was full of these Hollywood pretty boys. It was easier to pretend that if I should ever meet one of these actors, they’d fall deeply in love with me, and I’d never need to go through the painful dating process. I weaved intricate fantasies around these meetings, based on information gleaned from all the generic magazine articles I’d read about them. JTT liked ice cream. I liked ice cream! Joshua Jackson liked animals! I LOVED animals! Andrew Keegan liked to hike and, well, I liked to walk? Oh the fun we’d have, JTT, Andrew, Josh (yeah, I call him Josh) and I, eating our double-decker ice cream cones while we hiked through the woods and tried to catch wild animals WITH OUR BARE HANDS.

Obviously, these fantasies never became reality, and I (sort of) overcame my fear of boys and dipped my toe into the dating scene. I still spend most of my time in my head, but I eventually outgrew these magazine heartthrobs. Although, if I didn't think Joe would mind, I might still plaster the walls of our house with pictures of Joshua Jackson.

PACEY 4EVA!!1!!11!

Mom: What'd you break now? Me: NOTHING. I'm not at home yet.

When Heidi and I lived together, we broke all sorts of appliances. We broke the fridge, the garbage disposal (multiple times), several coffeemakers, not to mention things outside the kitchen like closet doors and toilets, but our most memorable was the oven. Only that wasn't really broken, the oven knob was just on upside down only WHO WOULD KNOW THAT?

Well, anyway, it turns out that all of those broken appliances may have been my fault. Things just break around me. I didn't even touch the garbage disposal at the condo but it broke after us being there NOT EVEN A WEEK. And last night, oh, last night...last night the microwave did things that no microwave is supposed to do EVER.

YOU GUYS, I broke the microwave. Or my brain did. Here is what happened (imagine this is a dramatic reenactment, sort of like the ones they did on Rescue 911...or the ones they do on that I pooped my baby into the toilet show):

Joe and I got home from work.

We started dinner (lemon chicken) in the oven and then settled down to watch an episode of The West Wing while it cooked.

Once the chicken was ready, I put a thing of Uncle Ben's rice in the microwave (You know, the kind where you're supposed to tear the top and then it steams the rice in the bag or whatever? The venting thing will be important later).

It's later. I went to the bathroom and as I walked back out to the kitchen, I heard a big POP and Joe's face was all, "...the hell?" and I was all, "what did you do?" and he was like, "um, the rice exploded and the microwave turned off by itself."

And then we opened the microwave to see that one side of the rice bag had exploded rice all over.

LUCKILY, the rice only had like 9 seconds left to go, so it was totally done WHOOHOO all is not lost!

Except, then we (ok, Joe) cleaned up the exploded rice and tested to make sure the microwave still worked. And it did. We were all WHOOHOO all is not lost! except then the microwave went dark and started sparking inside so we turned it off speedy quick.

We stared at each other, mouths agape. I said, "try it again." Yeah, more sparks. Scary! It was like we had forgotten to push the button in the hatch and the world was about to end only not quite that dramatic.

So, yeah, the microwave was definitely broken. We unplugged it and then ate dinner (since it was ready and all) and then I called my parents (since my dad is our landlord) and explained that the microwave was sparking and could we maybe come over and pick up my microwave from college? I didn't tell them about the rice exploding thing until we got over there but my mom said she's done that, too, and their microwave was JUST FINE thank you and I guess being easily distracted and forgetting to do things like venting the rice SO IT WON'T EXPLODE is genetic.

But whatever. My point is, you should keep all electronic devices away from me, unless you want me to break them with my (unintentional) mind powers.

Confession Tuesday: (look, I remembered!)

Back in January, Joe and I had this conversation:

Joe: Did you know Vampire Weekend is coming to Ohio?
Me: NO, WHEN IS IT?!?
Joe: Oh, well, it's sold out.
Me: NOOOOOOOOOO!

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago:

Joe: Can I tell you what I got you for your birthday?
Me: No, I want to be surprised.
Joe: ...please?
Me: I guess. If you really want to.
Joe: Remember how Vampire Weekend was sold out?
Me: ...yes.
Joe: Well, I found tickets.
Me: AHHHHHHHH!!!!

So last night, Joe and I went to see Vampire Weekend because the responsible thing to do four days before moving is to go to a concert. But whatever, it was awesome. It made me want to bop around or run around in circles like a tiny, yappy dog. In fact, there is a certain part of Mansard Roof that makes me want to twirl around in circles with my arms stretched out and when I told Joe, he told me I should do it but I didn't want to smack anyone in the head because that would ruin their concert experience, which really wouldn't be fair because they probably paid good money for the concert unless they were like me and had someone awesome buy them the tickets for their birthday.

This brings me to my confession and that confession is: The only reason I listen to any good music is because either Kat or Joe told me to listen to it. Truth!

What do you want to confess today, Internets? Come on. Get it off your chest.

Know what else? I had a bison burger for the first time last night. It was so delicious. I'm not sure if it was more delicious than most hamburgers I've had because of the restaurant or because it was bison, but I don't really care. It was a bit weird to be eating bison, though. I don't know why. I sort of felt like I was on the Oregon Trail and I'd shot some bison during a hunting expedition and was enjoying the fruits (meats?) of my labor. Although, usually when I played Oregon Trail, all I ever shot were squirrels and then I died of cholera. Not cool. Anyway. I think what I'm saying is, last night was way better than shooting squirrels and dying of cholera.

this is my confession

Hey, guess what! I'm going to rip off about a million other bloggers and declare it Confession Tuesday! And maybe I'll remember to do this next week, and every Tuesday will be Confession Tuesday and we can all discover how weird we are! Funsies!

My confession is pretty lame today, but whatever, here it is:

Today on the way back from lunch, I drove around the building complex for an extra few minutes because that Beyonce Single Ladies song came on the radio, and if it's the last song I hear before I get out of the car then it is stuck in my head for the rest of eternity. So I drove around until it was over and a new song came on, but it didn't work because it's still stuck in my head and it's really catchy and also makes me want to sing it out loud but I can't do that because I have a gajillion conference calls today and they don't take kindly to singing pop hits on conference calls (showtunes are OK, though) and I don't want to start singing and have someone be all, "Imma let you finish, but Frank from Finance had the best conference call interruption OF ALL TIME," because how embarrassing would that be? Totally embarrassing.

On a similar note, I kind of want to learn the Single Ladies dance so if the opportunity presents itself, I can impress everyone by knowing it. This is also why I want to learn the Thriller dance. Usually I just fake knowing it but THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

OK, then, Internets, please confess yourself.