Chelsey M Syndrome

I'm pretty sure they should name a social anxiety disorder after me. Maybe call it Chelsey M Syndrome, Chuck Disorder, Chols Complex, Welby Condition, Chelferlane Sickness, Cholo Disease, Chunky Ailment (f u Kevin) or possibly even Chelper Problem. I'd be thrilled with any of these options.


I'm sure you all know and understand social anxiety. Terrible thing it is. For as long as I can remember, I have had social anxiety, though it was much worse when I was a child. My dad would say "Let's order pizza!" and I'd be all like "Hoorah! Pizza!" and then he would say "But you have to order it." Oh God no. You can't possibly be serious. Call them? And speak to them? You have GOTTA BE joking. I'd rather starve.
The rare times I would actually try to attempt to order the pizza, I would get so flustered that I would hang up the phone and cry a little.


"We can go to McDonalds, but you have to order your own." Nope. No f'ing way. I'll just have this glass of water and crusts of bread.


I remember when I was about 5 years old and I wanted to call my neighbour to play but she wasn't home. After several minutes of coaching on how to leave a message on her answering machine from my sister, I finally got the balls to do it.


"Hello Barbara? This is Barbara. UGH!" click.


I think I must have left about 15 messages not cluing in to the fact that they would probably know I called after the first 4 botched messages.


I'm still a mess when it comes to social interactions. If I'm out at the mall or grocery shopping and I see someone I knew in high school (someone I was friends with, even) a lot of the time I will a) pretend my shoe is untied, and I just can't manage to do that sucker up, b) stare the other way like something has really caught my eye, or c) intently read the nutrition facts on a box of crackers I have no intention of buying.
"I'm trying to calculate the percentage of calories from fat. What? I'm only eating things with less than 30% calories from fat!"
Calories, smalories.


When someone very rarely catches me in a good enough mood to say anything, I usually do something really stupid and embarrassing. A guy I knew in high school drives a bus and as I was exiting said bus he said "See ya later Chels." and I in turn, yelled "BYE!"
I immediately turned around and said "I have no idea why I just did that." and walked away.

Maybe I don't so much have social anxiety as much as I dread the awkward conversation.  9 times out of 10 with me, you're going to have an awkward conversation. I'll mostly just stare at you and make weird facial expressions. It's honestly not something I can control. 


These days when I have to phone someone, I will rehearse a thousand times over. I'll even pause for laughter at something witty I said. Yeah, that never happens. Instead, my palms get really sweaty, my voice gets caught in my throat and they think I'm rude because they have never spoken to anyone who says "Thanks, bye." so many times in one conversation.


"Hi, may I speak to Chelsey?"
"Speaking."
"Hi, I'm calling from the medical clinic as a reminder about your appointment tomorrow?"
"Thanks, bye."
"...So you'll be there?"
"Yepthanksbye."


How do I fix this? How do I escape this crippling fear of having a simple conversation? I don't have any idea, I'm sure I'd have to speak to someone to find out. Thanks, bye.


"Shit. The phone is ringing. I can't answer it, it's ringing!"

Wanna know how much I hate my cat? This many.

Question: Louie, why are you such a dick?

10 months old and this asshole has accumulated more hate than any one person can in a lifetime.


What's that? Louie pee'd all over the clothes in the bathroom? And in the bedroom? And in a laundry basket of my clean clothes? And on a box of cheerios? And on my face? And ON MY LIFE? And then he took a shit in front of my bedroom door? And then I stepped in it? And then he ate the plant and threw up all over the place?
"Surely you'll understand, that bath mat looks just like my litter box."
"You mean to tell me that your pillow ISN'T supposed to be shit on?"
"Oh sorry, was this yours? What, you don't like the smell of my piss? Yikes, I guess that's my bad."
"I'm gonna have to plead the fifth, here."


Here's a little anagrammatic poem I wrote just for the occasion;

L- Louie, I hate you.

O- Oh man, I hate you so much.

U- Urine.

I- I hate you.

E- ...I hate you.

                                 This is what I wanted:

                                     This is what I got:

Look at you, your beady little eyes, too close together. Laying around like you don't have a care in the world. Little do you know, as soon as you fall asleep, I'm going to spray you in the face with the "Louie's a dick" water bottle. Not just once. No, no. Each and every time you fall asleep. Me? I don't need sleep. This is more important. You can hide, but I'm going to find you. In the chair, or on the back of the couch, or underneath the kitchen table, or against the wall downstairs, or on the bottom stair where you lay purposely trying to kill me, or in your litter box... Wait, what am I saying? You and I both know that I won't find you in your litter box.


You'll get yours.

Chelsey Sparkle (ne Martin) no longer MIA!

Hush, I'm here now. This is the part where you rest your head on my bosom, I stroke your hair, and you take in my every smell. Lucky for you, I'm wearing deodorant.


So, how in the H-E-double hockey sticks have you been, my friends? I'll take your silence as a positive response. Me? How have I been? Well. Let me give you a brief run down of the past 2 and a half months in the world of Chelsey Sparkle (ne Martin).


Early March 2011, I moved to exciting Boston, Ontario. Population: 7. And we happen to be 4 of those 7. Home to a church, an elementary school and a general store (which is open until 11 pm, holla!), there's usually a whole mess of nothing afoot. We have been living (myself with no mode of transportation) without telephone, internet and cable. That's right, I'm a certified Mennonite. You know, without any of the manual labour, churning butter or wearing dresses. I'm still a big advocate for pants.
At first it was like "Okay, I'm stuck out in Boston without a car, but let's be honest here. How often did I leave the house anyway, right? Gotta make the best of every situation."
  to
"Okay, I'm stuck out in Boston without a car, and I can't watch any tv. But that's alright, I didn't watch much tv before anyway. This will be a good time to catch up on reading."
  to
"Okay, I'm stuck out in Boston without a car, I can't watch tv and I have no phone to get ahold of anyone. Not ideal, and I'm starting to get pretty bored."
  to
"I'm stuck in lame-o fucking Boston with no car, tv, phone or internet. I might take up bulimia as a hobby." 


A few of my favoured activities in my early days of Boston, included staring at the wall, crying, and staring at the wall while crying. On occasion, I would put on Toy Story 3 for background noise, and attempt to put my head through a window based on the fact alone, that I had to watch Toy Story 3 for the six thousand, nine hundred and eighty seventh time. Good movie though.


So, approximately 75 days later, things are definitely looking up. I have channelled all of that negative wall staring energy into more productive things, like doing the dishes once a week, or reading a book I've already read about a dozen times. My tear ducts have seen an improvement, that's for certain.
Why cry, when you can sleep?


You're probably wondering "Jesus H. Christ, Chelsey Sparkle (ne Martin), you've had so much time on your hands, why haven't you been writing up a tropical storm of sorts? And what does the 'H' in 'Jesus H. Christ' stand for?"
The answer to that is easy. It stands for Helen.
I know my writing already comes off as depressing, self loathing, and self deprecating to the max, and that's on a good day when I'm not so depressed and stuck in oblivion that I find myself counting the hair follicles on the back of my hand.
I have zero by the way, because a real lady doesn't have any hair on her hands.
So yes, I was doing some writing. It got a little hard to read between tear drop smudges and big rips in the paper where I decided to jam my pen in and pull.


But I would like you all to rest assured that my funk is now a thing of the past. I was all like... "Hey you funk, get the funk out of here." I would say it was nice knowing you, but let's be honest, it wasn't even!
Here's to positive attitudes, lots of writing and pants!
I look forward to writing to you soon, friends. If you could see my face, you would see that it's a happy one. Or at least that's what it feels like. It might look a little like I don't like your hair cut.

This is my friend Dave. His favourite colour is sienna.

He's baaaaack

And ready to chomp on your soul. I'm sure most of you remember little Dave People Eater, but for those of you who don't, take a hop, skip and a jump over to http://whatthechell.blogspot.com/2010/11/these-are-daves-i-know-i-know-these-are.html and get better acquainted with the many Daves that I know. Despite the terrifying face and tiny evil idle hands, Dave "Plus I'm hungry for flesh" Pointy Eyebrows, turned out to be not such a bad kid after all.

A while back, I decided it would be fun to interview friends of mine. But then being extremely lazy got in the way, and I put it off for about three months. Like I do. Hey, it's better late than never, isn't it? Get off my case.

Please friends, welcome Dave with open arms.

Dave People Eater

I'm using a sock I just found (a clean sock) to wipe my nose. How do you feel about that?

I find my disgust level is lower than expected. It's there. But it hovers around a 6. I was expecting high 7's, low 8's.

If you could be Indiana Jones, what would be your first order of business?

Get the best Monkey Helper money could buy. Like a Monkey Butler, but with more personal freedom for him. Like he can go out and pick up dames if he wants, but during the day he needs to do my bidding. Step 2: Take out the Nazis.

Very admirable, Dave.

How attractive do you find Harrison Ford?

Han Solo Harrison Ford...9
NOW Harrison Ford....2

What's your favourite flavour of jam?

I know this isn't the question, but marmalade is fucking disgusting and whoever invented it should be put down like a dog with rabies.
Strawlsberry.

Is that a typo, or is that just your favourite kind?

Zero percent typo.

Team Edward or Team Jacob?

Twilight is so gay.

That's all you have to say?

Team Edward, because he's super white like me, and that other guy looks like an Indian.

If you could have a 5 person famous people dinner party, alive or dead, who would be invited?

2Pac...obviously. Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Bill Clinton and Dana White.
Disregard females, acquire currency.

Who did you vote for on the last season of Canadian Idol?

I have no connection with Canadian [Idol] beyond that my sister went when Lionel Ritchie was there and made signs. I have never voted in Canadian Idol. I feel shame.

Would you rather be cheese grated to death, or have your head run over by a roller skate until you die?

That's tough. But fair. Is someone wearing the roller skate or it's just like the roller skate itself? Cheese grating sounds way to horrific for me to be able to do, either way I'm going with the roller skate.

Marry one - Boff one - Kill one - Kate Goslin, Chelsea Clinton, Kathy Bates

Tough. Chelsea Clinton is way less gross then she was as a teenager and she's an earner so I'm gonna marry her. Kate Goslin is a fucking toolbag, but I could hate fuck her something fierce, Kathy Bates was disgusting in her prime and her prime was 30 years ago, so I'm sorry Delores Claiborne but you're getting killed.

One word to describe yourself

Awesome.

One word to describe me

Jaunty.

What would you do if you were at the bar macking on some chick, you go to the bathroom and when you come back, Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino is humping her against the wall?

Try for the Devils 3 Way (2 Dudes \|/ ) For sure. Imagine the story. We'd Eiffel Tower.
___________________________________________________

For all of those who aren't in the know, \|/ are devil horns. I myself was at one point, not in the know. And thus concludes my interview with the wonderful Dave People Eater. I would like to send you off with a few of my personal favourite DPE moments.

"What is IRL?"
"In Real Life. We just went through this. You said you were going to work on your internetting. You clearly didn't."

"My mom just brought me groceries because she heard I was sick. This included juice boxes, beef broth, blueberries and C Plus pop because it's got 25% fruit juice. The combination of sweetness and ignorance washes over me like a wave."

Encouraging me to get my blog out there...

"You have to be out there, adding links to every website.
Going on forums, and adding links.
reddit.com
fark.com
digg.com
And you need to do this every single day.
Enter writing contests.
Take nudes.
Send them to me.
Links.
All over the world.
Find other blogs.
Don't read them.
Place a link."

Me + You = Not friends unless I can bully you

Today is "Stop bullying day" or some shit along those lines. Everyone wears a pink shirt to support anti-bullying. Yeah. That's cool. If you're a chick. If I see a man wearing a pink anti-bullying shirt, I'm going to bully him.

I made a joke about bullying children on a certain social network that shalt not be named, and a woman got on the defense because she has children who are bullied. Yes, maybe the joke was in poor taste. Let's face it, most of my jokes are in poor taste. Does it make them any less funny? GOD no. It makes them funnier.

Listen here, Lady. I'm going to bully you if you don't get off my case.

I was bullied in school. Everyone was bullied in school. I'm not advocating bullying and I know there are terrible things happening (kids committing suicide, setting schools ablaze with gun fire, etc) but come on. Just let me make the jokes I want to make. I don't tell you not to make the crappy knock knock jokes you probably make. I wouldn't do that, because I'm just such a nice person.

Everyone needs to quit being so sensitive. I'll call you fat, you'll say my eyes are too far apart, we'll have a good chuckle, and then we'll call it a day. How does that sound, Nancy?
Either you agree with me, or you're too scared to say anything because you're living in crippling fear of me bullying you. Both completely acceptable answers.

You. Your panties. Untwist them. Thank you.

Wanna know how much I love you? This many.

Valentine's Day is for lovers and fools alike. A day to throw caution to the wind and profess your love to the one you adore. Exchanges of sweets, doilie covered cards and french kisses. These things are wonderful, aren't they? But, like most things, there's a catch. Sure, these things are wonderful, but wonderful to whom? Me? Well, this year I'm pretty impartial. Surprising, I know. When there's something to be hated, I usually jump on the bandwagon pretty quickly. Being a neutral party, I've decided to analyze the situation they call "Saint Valentine".

Again, I myself am not pro-Valentine's Day, nor am I bitter about it either. I'm not the most romantic gal in the world, so even if I was head-over-heels in love with my soul mate, I still probably wouldn't be pro-Valentine's Day. But don't worry, I'm not. Cupid had more important things to do like fundraising for MS and fixing his mother's garbage disposal. No worries, Cupid. Catchya next year maybe?

Now, I was racking my brain trying to figure out what to get you. You mean a lot to me, having been there for me these past few months. Reading my ridiculous ramblings and still liking me for it. So I took a trip to Walmart and this just jumped out at me...

And then I thought, "If one is this awesome... What would happen if..."

"...I got you a whole bunch?"

Maybe you'll appreciate (in unison) 12 dancing and singing Valentine's Day dogs more than Walmart employees do.

After much deliberation, I decided against the dogs and settled on something everyone can enjoy. A homemade, straight from the heart, construction paper Valentine.

You're welcome.

Now, whether you're happy in a relationship, happy alone, or miserable in either situation, I wish you a happy day.

HEART CHELS! XOXO

Welcome to Gingertown

My name is Chelsey, and I am a proud Ginger. You'd think I wouldn't toss around this highly offensive term, but it is now a word we use affectionately between Gingers. Kind of like the "N" word for black people.
Thanks for stopping by, but remember, don't get too comfortable because this is a Ginger only zone.

While you're here, I'd like to give you a brief history on Gingertown. Get you a little more acquainted. This is all fact.

The year was 1965 and Ginger bullying was at an all time high. Tired of roundhouse kicking everyone in the face, morning, noon and night, Chuck Norris decided something had to give. But what?
One night he settled into his rocking chair made of cobras, grabbed the sand paper blanket he's had since he was a tot and munched on his favourite snack of nails and needles. While channel surfing from 2-5 over and over again, he came across this sad looking Ginger boy on the television.
"3 year old Axl Rose, fetch me the telephone. I have to make an important telephone call to Hollywood."
You might think it's strange that Chuck Norris' slave child was Axl Rose. I think so too.

A week passed, and a small Ginger boy knock came at Chuck's front door. Big eared, freckle faced Ron Howard stood in the door way. Eyes wide with a toothy grin and his hand out stretched. "We have a lot of important work to do, friend."

Thus, the original Ginger alliance was formed. Chuck and Ron brainstormed into the wee hours of the morning. "What can we do to make people accept us for who we are, not for what colour our hair is?" Ron asked.
"There's nothing we can do." Chuck answered. "Everyone hates us. But we can start a new civilization, all our own. We can call it Gingertown."
Chuck and Ron super Ginger high fived and Axl had a turd in his diaper.
"Change my diaper, pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pleeeeeaaase? Pleeeeaaase?"

So there you have it, the origin of Gingertown. We are sitting at a cool 140, 000, 000 Gingers world wide, with a Gingertown population of about 500, 000. That's about the size of Hamilton, Ontario.

Old Papa Chuck is still active in the crimson community, participating in things like potato sack races and policing the entire city. You don't get thrown in jail here, you get a swift kick in the nuts. But by Chuck's standards, you're only going to learn your lesson if the end result is your testicles in your mouth. Crime is at an all time low.

I don't know why I associate bad eye sight with red hair. Oh wait, yes I do.

I was elected mayor of Gingertown on January 21, 2011. What a joyous occasion that was. Molly Ringwald danced barefoot doing ribbon gymnastics, while Tiffany and Reba McEntire sang their own rendition of "Red red wine". Danny Bonaduce and Lindsey Lohan got drunk on more than just the lyrics, and ended up making public whoopee. Yes, it was definitely as gross as it sounds. Chuck gave them both a knee to the fire crotch.

We like things simple here in Gingertown. We enjoy collecting glass figurines of all types, shapes and sizes. Cats, dolphins, salt and pepper shakers, dragons, roosters, people dancing ballet, unicorns, etc. You name it, chances are, we collect it.

For the most part, our town is virtually the same as yours, with some small differences. Our grocery stores sell hot dogs in packs of 12 as per usual, but hot dog buns also come in packs of 12. Barbecues go a little smoother here. Instead of the many possible choices of orange juice that you have, we have one. Nothing but pulp. The general consensus shows that the favoured food of Gingers is saltine crackers topped with ketchup and processed cheese slices. Fashion is a bit behind, but it's hardly noticable. Right now, the biggest trend among the ladies is high waisted jean shorts that go to your knee. You know, the kind that make your butt look about two feet long. And bandanas. We still think those are cool.

One of the downsides of living in Gingertown and being of Flaming decent is, we have a severe (almost critical) shortage of One A Day Soul Supplement pills. But I think I'm going to have a chat with the pharmaceutical company we deal with, because they taste an awful lot like brown sugar mixed with cod liver oil. I think they might be yanking my chain.
We live in a dome because the sun burns our skin and nobody likes us very much, but the overall quality of life is pretty good.
So if you like orange juice with nothing but pulp, bandanas and having no one like you, join us. Seriously. We need more friends.