You might be a TV addict if your DVR has a busier schedule than your planner

I don’t have a DVR. I also don’t have a planner.

But, if I did, I can guarantee you that my DVR would be completely booked — more so than my planner ever would be — and that’s because I am a television addict.

My name is Lindsay and I (happily) have a problem.

This may or may not be my bedroom door from my childhood bedroom. And those posters may or may not still be there today.

It all started back in the 8th grade with a little show called The OC. Before its arrival on my tiny silver screen, my television interests were shallow. You know, completely non-committal.

Then I met Seth, Ryan, Marissa and Summer (and Luke and Jimmy and Kirsten and Julie and Sandy…you get the point.) Soon I was consumed. I would loyally tune-in every Wednesday. Then, Thursday mornings I would hustle to the bus stop to incessantly chatter about last night’s drama and swoon over Ryan Atwood with my friends. I was hooked.

Caaaaaaaaaaalifornia! Here we coooooooomeeee!
(Image via Google)

Progressively, I started seeing other TV shows. Soon I was having multiple dates a week with my TV screen.

I broke up with The OC after season 3 (sorry, Ryan) and over time, my TV obsessions waxed and waned. Some were casual dates (like that one season of America’s Next Top Model) while others were more long-term (I cannot believe I have devoted nine years to Grey’s Anatomy.) During my summers, burdened with a television void to fill and copious amounts of free time, I would find a show that peaked my interest and then catch up on it (Thanks to post-grad summer of 2012, I am now obsessed with White Collar and cried my eyes out over Friday Night Lights.)

My friends lovingly tease me for all of my TV-show knowledge, but please…who else is going to prepare you for what’s coming up on Glee this week? (Yeah, I read the spoilers.)

So obsessed, my sorority Big Sister decided to make it my nickname

With so many shows to keep up with, I often lose track of what’s on what night and at what time. This week was the second week in a row that I forgot to watch How I Met Your Mother. And New Girl is still on Tuesdays but Glee moved to Thursdays so I have to watch Grey’s Anatomy online since they’re on at the same time?

I now watch more TV shows than my non-existent DVR and I know what to do with — and I am completely okay with that.


What are some of your favorite TV shows?


You might be bad at crafting if your go-to supply is puffy paint

It’s Big/Little time in sorority land, a world that seems like lifetimes ago and yesterday all at the same time. My three years I spent in Greek Life were some of my best memories in college. These organizations, burdened with stereotypes, are more than what they’re notorious for.

However, one way sororities do (sort of) fulfill their generalizations is Big/Little. Known for being a week covered in glitter and hot glue, this tradition is the core of sorority life. And even though I’m graduated, the only tangible sign of my membership being the composites hanging in the foyer, I still find myself getting wrapped up in the “YBM”* of it all. Especially this week as girls meticulously make bulletin boards and flower pots for their new little sisters.

This part of Big/Little — the excessive crafting — is where I defy the laws of sorority girls. I am completely hopeless when it comes to anything artistic.

So, in honor of Big/Little week and in celebration of my ineptitude, I have decided to visit the top 5 reasons why I am gloriously bad at crafting:

5. My favorite color is pink

Obviously not crafted by me…it’s too good
(Image via Google)

If it isn’t pink, my motivation to craft it drops at least 40%.

4. I’m tall

A head above the rest!

This really has nothing to do with my lack of abilities as an artist. I just use it as an excuse for most things that require coordination.

3. I can be impatient

Spots on my ceiling after painting the wall behind my bed. It’s “art”!

If someone can explain to me why I have no issues with messing up my nails as they dry, but somehow end up smearing paint on every part of the canvas that is NOT supposed to be blue, pink or yellow, I’m all ears.

2. I always favored a notebook over a sketchbook

Harriet: My idol as a 7-year-old and also the most boss reporter
(Image via Google)

When I was younger, I didn’t really like art class because I preferred to be writing in a notebook rather than drawing in it.  My nickname from my Dad growing up was Doodle. I’m not entirely sure why, but I don’t think it had anything to do with my artistic abilities. In fact, I think it was life’s (or my Dad’s) way of being ironic.

1. My go-to crafting tool is puffy paint

That design on the side? Totally resembles Picasso (said no one ever).

As my Little has pointed out (numerous) times, nothing good comes out of puffy paint. Her pillowcase is a prime example. During my Big/Little week, one of the “gifts” we gave to the new Littles was a pillowcase — and this gem is a result of my work after trying to fix a puffy paint fiasco. This craft has become notorious in our circle of friends, mainly because my Little likes to lovingly make fun of it every chance she gets.

Lesson learned.

*YBM = An acronym used in my sorority that has special meaning behind it.

You might be tall when you get older if you can’t wear “My Size Barbie” outfits

Everyone knows a plastic crown is so couture
(Image via Google)

I was deprived as a little girl.

Back in the day, the hippest thing to own was a My Size Barbie. I was transfixed whenever I saw it advertised in-between scenes of Rugrats and Rocket Power. A big Barbie AND you can wear its clothes? It was every 6-year-old’s dream.

Well, as sometimes things do in life, limitations can get in the way of dreams. And my height got in the way of mine.

As a product of a vertically-blessed family, anyone could have told me that I was going to be taller than most girls my age. I could see that fact myself among the scalps of my classmates. However, making that notion logical is a completely different battle. YOU try explaining to a 6-year-old the reason Barbie’s dress looks more like a shirt is because she’s technically the height of someone who should not be wearing a dress that goes on a doll. “My size” is not a universal size–a concept that remained lost on me for years as I tried on pair after pair of department store denim.

Since my days of pining after My Size Barbie, I’ve learned to accept the inevitable fact that I am a giant. I hit my head on things–namely airplane ceilings and top cupboards in my kitchen. I look like an awkward stilts-walker when I dance. I don’t wear heels (often). Finding a pair of jeans that are long enough is like finding the lost city of Atlantis.

But, I’ve grown to (sort of) love it. And dresses and princess crowns that also fit on large Barbie dolls are so ’90s anyway.

You might be crazy if you start a blog in a bathroom

Myspace surveys circa 2007: The original blogs

I’ve always been interested in starting a blog; I feel like it’s pretty much expected if you’re an aspiring writer. But up until this point, I just didn’t know what to write about. Most people who blog have fascinating things to share about their lives–but I never thought that about myself. My gift is telling other peoples’ stories, not my own. That’s why I pursued journalism in the first place.

So why start now? And what exactly is the point? Well, I’m not entirely sure myself.

Since graduation, I’ve been taking a path I didn’t exactly see coming–some of which has been a blessing, and some of which has just been absolutely ridiculous. My friends and family have often said to me (especially in recent months) that I should write a book about my absurd experiences, about how my life can often times be the biggest example of Murphy’s Law.

Well, I decided to do something better than a book (and more reasonable). It came after an hour-long battle with a work computer that seems to only dislike me. I decided to take my lunch break and somehow stumbled on several personal blogs. They were engaging, escaping and, most of all, they were inspiring. If their writing could be successful in this outlet, then maybe mine can be too–especially if I have the story material.

I marched into the office bathroom to the mirror, fluffed my hair and stared at my reflection for a narcissistic-ly long time and whipped out my phone. For the first time, I had the urge to write something about me. Not that frustrating work computers and internet browsing are titillating subject matter by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a push in this direction.

And, thus, this blog was born and I started on a (hopefully) new adventure in my writing. In a bathroom.

(Image via Google)

And who said writing a blog wasn’t glamorous?