The Man Who Insulted Everyone

I’m used to bizarre conversations. Something about my face says to strangers: “Please say awkward, weird things to me.”

Occasionally those conversations revolve around my singleness. Most of the time they go something like this:

Stranger: “Why are you still single?”

Me: “Probably because I play the accordion.”

Stranger: “Well, are you putting yourself out there and looking?”

Me: “Yes, I’m holding auditions next week.”

Stranger: “Maybe your standards are too high.”

Me: “Are you saying I shouldn’t wait for Robert Downey, Jr.?!?!”

Stranger: “Well, it’ll probably happen one day.”

Me: “Did I mention I play the accordion?”

I don’t mind these questions. They’re a little cliché, but sometimes they pave the way for deeper conversations.

Every now and then, though, a conversation with a stranger leaves me speechless. These are the exchanges I blog about.

Recently I spoke at a conference and, while reviewing my notes in the lounge a few minutes before my talk, a man helping with the conference came up and sat down near me. He was probably mid-50s and I’d spoken to him briefly throughout the day. With one short conversation he managed to insult me, his wife, all women, all men, and the partridge in the pear tree.

“So, are you in a relationship?”

“Not right now.”

“Yeah—it’s gonna be hard for you.”

(Point for insulting me.)

 “What do you mean?”

“Guys want a girl who needs them.”

(I actually do need a guy, if for no other reason than to get into buildings. I’ve always had a hard time with doors due to undiagnosed push/pull dyslexia.)

“I don’t think all guys want needy girls.”

“That’s you as a girl speaking. Guys need girls to need them.”

(Point for insulting all guys.)

“Is that how it was when you married your wife?”

“Yes, actually. Still that way.”

(Point for insulting your wife.)

“Interesting.”

“Well, you’re a pretty enough girl. The happiest guys, though, are the ones whose wife stays at home.”

“I’m not necessarily opposed to that.”

“It’s one thing if you’re really bad at your job—then it’s fine to stay at home. The thing is you’re good at what you do. Problem is no guy’s going to want that.”

(10 points for insulting all women who choose to stay at home, minus a few points for kind-of-sort-of complimenting me, 10 more points for assuming all guys can’t handle women who do things successfully.)

“I know a lot of men with gifted wives, and they live as partners both at home and in their work.”

“Yeah—well, good luck with that. Just make sure you’re running with those circles.”

(You mean hang out with people who are the exact opposite of you? Yeah, I’m on it.)

“Well, thank you for that insight. I have to go onstage now and tell jokes.”

And thank you for the new material.

This conversation wins second place, with first place still belonging to this awkward singleness conversation. 

   www.kristinweberonline.com

I'm getting a divorce. (And I've never been married!)*

When I had my significant other for lunch. This was 6 months ago. 

Not a week goes by where I don't get multiple posts, memes, messages, and texts about Chipotle. Anyone who's known me longer than 10 minutes knows I have an unhealthy obsession. My tag line for this blog is even Chipotle related.

I've eaten Chipotle so much that our relationship probably falls under common law marriage. I was even excited about moving to Colorado Springs because the original Chipotle is in Denver and I could finally visit the burrito bowl Mecca.

They say confession is good for the soul, and it is with great sadness that I must confess I've been cheating on Chipotle. With Thai food.

As with most wayward behavior, it began innocently. Shortly after moving in my roommates said, "there's this really good Thai place less than a mile from our house." I'd never eaten Thai food before, and as Colorado Springs is known for its authentic Thai food,** I tried it. It started with Drunken Noodles. Then Massaman Curry. Then Green Curry. And before I knew what was happening it'd been three weeks since I'd eaten, or even thought of, Chipotle. Even more sad? There's a Chipotle less than 5 minutes from my house and I don't even care.

I've had Chipotle 4 times since moving to Colorado Springs almost three months ago. ONLY FOUR. I feel terrible. (Mentally. Physically I think I'm a little slimmer and I'm pretty sure my blood pressure's gone down a few points.)

I don't know how long this will go on. All I know is that I think about Green Curry constantly. I've barely thought about Chipotle, except when someone posts to my Facebook wall about it. Even then, those thoughts are guilt ridden, which leads me to the worst part of this whole thing: I've been lying to everyone, pretending things were okay between me and Chipotle. I've continued making jokes about my obsession and letting friends make comments and tease me about our relationship.

They say relationships have their ups and downs, and maybe Chipotle and I just need a break to sort things out. Maybe we should see a relationship counselor. I don't know. This is unfamiliar territory for me. All I know is that right now I don't want a burrito, and I don't know what to do with that feeling.

Have you ever experienced anything like this? Is restaurant polygamy a terrible social offense? PLEASE, INTERNET, TELL ME WHAT TO DO!

*I'm practicing writing headlines for Faithit.
**It's not known for its authentic Thai food.

www.kristinweberonline.com

"Hi, my name is High." Part one: Therapy Dog

Well, it's been a week since I rolled into Colorado. I've been hiking every day, I have a beautiful panoramic view of the mountains from my porch, Monday I start my first piano student, and I'm preparing to teach music at a few schools this fall. I've encountered many pleasant surprises with my transition.

I've also encountered more high people in one week than in my entire life combined. (And this includes spending a good amount of time in LA comedy clubs.)

The morning after I moved in my neighbor from across the street came outside while I unloaded my car.

"Did you meet my dog?" she asked.

I looked around to see if she was talking to me, since I hadn't ever even met her, much less her dog.

She walked over and shoved a tiny, shivering dog into my arms.

"He's my therapy dog. He's helping me with my panic attacks and anxiety," she told me.

I looked down at the shaking micro-dog in my arms, who was now nervously clawing at my jacket.

"I think your therapy dog needs a therapy dog," I thought to myself.

"My last therapy dog got stolen out of my hotel room. I was so traumatized. I moved to Colorado for the medical marijuana."

I was so confused. Were those two separate thoughts? Did she move because the abduction of her therapy dog distressed her so much she needed powerful opiates to get over it? I don't know. She kept talking while I ran through my mental inventory of responses for high people but I didn't have many because I don't speak Highnese. Fortunately, I didn't have to think of anything because she changed the subject.

"The doctor prescribed me opiate drops, you know."

"Nice," I replied, trying to hand her back her dog, which for some inexplicable reason I was still holding.

"No, not nice!" she exclaimed. She pulled a red bottle out of her purse. "One drop too many and these will kill you!"

Nothing makes you feel more like an ignorant, over sheltered homeschooler than getting reprimanded by your high neighbor about your lack of opiate knowledge.

"Wow, that's crazy." I said. "Well, I've got to go finish unloading this stuff from my car. It was nice to meet you and your dog!"

I gave her back her dog. She cuddled him close.

"He's my therapy dog. I love him."

"I know," I said in a Hans-Soloish tone and walked away.

To be continued, I'm sure...

50 Shades of Awkward

Over the past week my Facebook feed has literally exploded with blogs condemning 50 Shades of Grey. The violence degrades women, the poor writing degrades art, it paints an unhealthy picture of romance, encourages fantasizing, and is an all around disturbing trend.

I'd like to contribute my gripe into the pool: 50 Shades doesn't accurately present one of the most un-talked about aspects of relationships: the awkwardness. Well, I'm guessing it doesn't address it. I haven't actually read the book or seen the movie. Cards on the table? I'm using the 50 Shades outrage/hype to generate more blog traffic. Tacky? Yes. But hopefully the genius kind of tacky.

With the exception of a few romantic comedies, Hollywood tends to gloss over the fact that dating and romantic relationships are incredibly awkward. I don't know about your life, but I don't have a team of writers making sure every ridiculous thing that comes out of my mouth (and believe me, it's a lot) gets a cute, quirky, heartwarming redemption. Usually it's me trying to back track and a guy stammering and not knowing how to respond.

I remember as a little girl looking forward to the day when I'd be allowed to date. (Or court/dourt depending on how homeschooled you are.) Actually, now that I think about it, I may still not be allowed to date. Our family never really established any parameters on that. We just avoided the topic. Because it was awkward.

First, there's the awkwardness of liking someone. Crushes are a horrific curse, and an unrequited crush can kill a piece of your soul from the inside out. You suddenly become hyper aware of everything you do around that person, get teased if anyone finds out, and it puts you in a portion of your head that was never supposed to be accessed. Once while talking to a guy I liked I became very aware of how much I was blinking. Do I normally blink this much? Are my contacts dry? Does he think I'm the worst flirt ever? Should I only wear glasses from now on around potentials? (In general, a good blink algorithm is 1 blink every 5-6 seconds. If your eyes start feeling dry you can increase it to 1 blink every 3-4 seconds.)

Second, there's the actual dating process. If you're dating someone you don't know well (or at all, i.e. online or blind date), just multiply the awkwardness of a typical date with someone you know by 10,000.

A good Christian first date should follow these general guidelines:

Testimonies get shared during appetizers.
Spiritual gifts and love languages are discussed over entrees.
Intentions and boundaries established over desserts. (No matter how well the date goes if he doesn't pay for it with cash from a Financial Peace envelope, it's over. Standards, ladies.)

Finally, there's the awkwardness of a relationship not working out.

Before you date it's a good idea to lay ground rules for a break up. A pre-pre-nup, if you will. If you're dating someone at your church, you need to decide which one of you is going to switch churches if it doesn't work out. (Or switch services/sit on the other side of the megaplex if you go to a mega church.) Even if you guys can handle breaking up like responsible adults, people around you will continue bringing it up, digging for detail worms, and asking for your reasons and feelings behind the relationship's demise. I'd rather discuss the branding techniques of microprocessing chips than talk about my breakup feelings with people who only take interest in me when my love life has some drama.

Still, despite all the awkwardness, people still somehow manage to fall in love and get married. And then the real awkwardness starts.

Well, as much as I'd love to continue this little rant, I have to run. My mom texted earlier to ask me what 50 Shades of Grey is and I told her it was the sequel to Little House on the Prairie. I should probably call her back and make sure she knows I was joking before she dies of multiple heart attacks.


Kristin Weber is a writer, music teacher, stand up comic, and boasts an honorary, self-given degree in sarcasm. She's single, lives with her parents, and just recently traded in her flip phone for an iPhone 5c, so obviously she's qualified to comment on all things relationship. You should join her this summer for a comedy cruise to the Caribbean. Tim Hawkins is on the roster, which is the real reason you should come. 

www.kristinweberonline.com

Who wants to be a reality television star?

It's been a weird week. (More of a weird year, but that's another blog.)

Last week I received an email from a TV producer who found some of my writing online and was interested in developing it into a reality television show. I was flattered, as anyone would be when a TV network deems their life worthy of exploitation. 

My first reaction was "thanks but no thanks," as being in a reality show falls just above getting a root canal on my fun-things-to-do list. But since it's not every day you get the chance to join the ranks of TV greats like Snookie and Kate Gosselin, I ran the idea past a few people. They all said the same thing: be careful, but it doesn't hurt to listen and discuss ideas. Plus, this would further my ultimate goal of being on Dancing with the Stars. I'm past the point of being able to participate on the show as a professional ballroom dancer, so I'm gonna have to get famous somehow and be one of the stars. This could be that chance. 

I called and I listened to the ideas, and I'm going to try and explain my experience without giving away the show premise. The network, which was at one time known for playing music on television,** wanted to take an "authentic" look into certain aspects of Christian culture. We could use people already in my life, they said, or if the people close to me weren't interested in doing a reality show, they could cast those people. Cause as we know, most authentic relationships begin with a casting call. (I mean, I guess that's essentially what online dating is? A two-way audition? Actually, that sounds like all dating.)

I asked a lot of questions, and to the producer's credit, he was very patient with them and answered honestly. The most eye-opening moment of our conversation, though, was during a follow up phone call. I asked about how much control I'd have over casting, story lines, and final editing. He went through a very long response that essentially said the network retains all control. Then, he confessed he wasn't used to answering these kinds of questions. Usually, he said, people are so eager for their slice of fame they just sign a contract. 

It saddens and frustrates me that so many people are willing to exploit their life for the sake of cheap entertainment. Not all reality shows are like that (some portray things honestly and have redeeming elements), but most exploit lifestyles via fabricated drama. Our culture is so obsessed with celebrity that we'll sign up to do anything without considering the consequences. Or maybe we do consider the consequences and don't care. 

In this particular case, I think it'd be better to develop a script and do something creative, but that's expensive and takes more effort, and networks have figured out that they don't need to go through that much trouble. People will both participate in and watch the cheap programming. (I'm not guiltless. I'm a Toddlers and Tiaras addict, to the point that I've been invited to visit them on location and watch them film.)

I gave it some serious thought. I ran my pros and cons list past several more people--people who understood the industry, had no stake in the outcome, and who would shoot straight. In the end, I went with my initial instinct and turned it down. There's a small chance it would've turned out alright. I don't know. But I'm a writer. I tell jokes in front of people because it's the only way to see if what I've written is funny. I don't want to be a reality star. (Unless we could call the show "Not Sixteen and Not Pregnant," where we follow the lives of people who, you guessed it, aren't sixteen and aren't pregnant.)

I wasn't comfortable having this aspect of my life, and the lives of others close to me, splattered on reality TV. If they wanted to do a show where I "borrow" other people's kids and enter them into pageants, (they'd get to go home if they won, but if they lost they'd be sent to an orphanage in Tibet) I'd be 100% on board with that. We could call it Ultimate Grand Hostage or something equally dark and cheesy.

I also offered to help them develop a scripted series on the topic, but whatever the length of a standard long shot is, this is probably a hundred times that distance.

So, it is with a heavy heart that I say you will not get to see me on a reality show any time soon.

I could go on, but I have to stop blogging and go figure out how to make a steak costume for a costume party. A group of us are going as the ingredients of a burrito and are bringing a blanket to wrap around all of us. On second thought...maybe I should have a camera crew following me around. 

What is your favorite reality show and do you think they exploit the lives of those involved? On what terms would you do a reality show?

**If your first guess was Country Music Television then we're probably not friends. 

Budgeting my juror check Dave Ramsey style

Earlier this month I got extorted by my local government into showing up for jury duty. My lack of luck at getting drawn for things finally had a positive side and I didn't get picked for a jury. Today I received this beautiful souvenir in the mail commemorating the time I spent sitting in a room full of people holding my breath. 

Even though $6 is mere pittance in this economy, I decided I should still steward it well. So I ran my good citizen earnings through a Dave Ramsey budget recommendation pie chart. This is how I'll be spending my $6.

$1.8 will go toward my housing. My parents will really appreciate getting rent from me this month.

$1.2 will go directly to food. I will enjoy feasting on one child size Chipotle taco. 

$.60 will go toward my car. Pretty sure I can get a couple tablespoons of gas. 

$.60 will go to getting clothes, but if I shop at Goodwill that's an entire outfit. 

$.30 will go to my medical bills. Finally get a bandaid and protect this nasty hangnail from tearing.

$.18 will go toward insurance. Or in this case, reassuring me that I will never be fully assured of insurance. 

$.06 to further my education. Perhaps I'll buy a Laffy Taffy and study the joke on it. 

$.60 to my credit cards and loans. Sally Mae will be so proud.

$.18 into my savings account, aka the toilet shaped mug sitting on my desk. 

$.18 will go toward entertainment. I'll probably just get 18 pennies and look for one with my birth year on it. That was fun as a kid. 

$.30 will go to charity. I need to pray about which one I should bless with my abundance.

The good news is I'm off the hook for jury duty for three more years, and I can go get a Smashburger. (But just the burger. If I want cheese and the other trimmings I gotta wait until I get jury duty again.)

Scuba Diving and the Art of Ego Maintenance

Utila, Honduras

Humans cannot breathe underwater.

But humans are not deterred by such physical limitations. We will go to outer space. We will push that oversized bag into the overhead bin to avoid paying $25 extra dollars. And we will find a way to breathe underwater.

During my junior year of college I took an open water scuba certification class as one of my electives. My chubby, socially awkward self thought it looked adventurous.

I went to school in Dallas. If you look at a map you'll quickly realize it's not a popular dive destination. We're landlocked with a handful of muddy man-made lakes scattered about. My "adventurous" dive training equated to sitting in at the bottom of the campus pool in full scuba gear and then rushing to logic class dripping wet. Our scuba certification dives were completed in a glorified pond created specifically for diver training. The only marine life were two catfish that swam around us. But if you squinted they kind of looked like small, sad sharks.

Last year I went diving for the first time in the ocean while on a Caribbean cruise. It was like entering an alternate universe. I don't know why Ariel would ever leave that world to be part of ours. Singing fool. Aside from some buoyancy issues, jelly fish encounters, and the general fear I'd lose my group if I turned around to look at some coral, it was great.

This year two of my sisters and I decided to take a couple weeks and go to Honduras to further our dive training. Already advanced divers, my sisters went on to complete a rescue diver course, and I went off all by myself to an advanced course.

Most of our time was spent on Utila, the smallest bay island off the coast of Honduras. Utila is unlike anywhere else in the world. This 7x2.5 mile island marches to a rhythm all its own, and I absolutely loved the culture and vibrancy.

I met people from at least ten different countries. My dive instructor was from Spain. (I really wanted to ask her or her husband to say "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." But my siblings said that was racist. I don't think it's racist. Incredibly tacky, yes. But not racist.)
I talked with a lady whose great grandmother was one of the original Islanders. She herself grew up there and left only a handful of times.
One of my dive buddies was a former Israeli solder. (My brilliant plan for us in case of a shark attack: I'd distract it with a joke and he could take it out with Krav Maga.)

Kate and Leah heading from Utila back to Roatan. We were taller than our plane. I've never been taller than our plane before.

It had been almost ten full years since I'd had any dive training and I had a lot to learn. I'm naturally gifted at nothing and while I eventually catch on, it just takes me a little longer and makes my pride a little sore. What I lack in natural capability, though, I make up for in resilience and sheer determination.

(A/N: I'm about to launch into scuba jargon. I will try and explain as I go, but you really should go get scuba certified so you can a) understand the language and b) know what raw happiness feels like.)

A few things I learned during my advanced course:

Nitrogen narcosis: At deeper depths some divers can experience a thing called "nitrogen narcosis," where the nitrogen and pressure give a narcotic/drunken effect. I'm a little slow as it is, so that didn't change much. My nitrogen narcosis manifested in the form of feeling very happy. I could've been dismembered by a shark at 100 feet and felt nothing but joy and exhilaration.

Metric: Apparently everywhere except the U.S. adheres to the metric system. Meters, kilometers, centigrade, I had no idea what was happening. My brain hurt from converting constantly. (Okay, fine. It wasn't that bad. I'm just lazy and bad at math.)

Night dives:  This was by far my toughest dive. I had two diving fears: night dives and diving in enclosed spaces. I was determined to conquer them. My shining moment of the trip came during our pre-dive briefing. Our instructor told us we'd have flashlights. I was nervous and distracted and I meant to ask how big and bright the flashlights would be. What came out was: "will we be able to see with the flashlights?" Everyone at our table just stared, and that's when I coined the term "surface narcosis"--being stupid without the help of anything at all.

Diving is addicting. Really, really addicting. I can understand why the diving community in North Texas dug a hole specifically for diving. I'm already planning my next trip. I may even take our relationship to the next level and invest in a mask. And perhaps go back and become a rescue diver. And who knows, maybe I'll even become a divemaster one day.

I'll have to work on my navigational skills, though. Cause right now if I led a dive we'd start in Honduras and end in Thailand.

If you made it this far, please enjoy these pictures:

Our friend Mika. He let us be part of his pod.

 

My sister Kate in her scuba selfie.

                                          

Group photo at the "Airport Caves"

Look how tan my legs are. 

View of the Roatan reefs from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang


www.kristinweberonline.com