The Terror of the Woman's Handbag

As some of you may have noticed, I'm a girl.  Among other things, this means that I own and even occasionally carry a purse.  Now, I have some shoulder issues, so my purse is relatively small, and always has been.  I also try to not to pack too much in it for the same reason.  But no matter how little is in it, and no matter how small it is, it apparently still contains a small black hole like every other handbag.

It's amazing what you can fit in one of those things.

Now, I know some of my readers are men, so allow me to elaborate.  Some of you may have delved into a woman's purse before, and will be familiar with this.  Others (like my husband) may view the purse as sacred female territory that should never be entered by a male.  For those who aren't, there is apparently some sort of law that states whatever you're looking for must be at the very bottom of the bag (unless you look there first).  This is true, regardless of how many pockets a purse has.  You could literally have a specially shaped pocket for each item in your purse, and your keys would still be underneath everything and hidden around three corners.  Your purse could be the size of your keys, and you would still be unable to find them in it. 

Or the size of about four Pinkie Pies, like mine.

 

Because of this annoying but inevitable fact, I usually wear pants and put the important stuff in my pockets.  However, I occasionally wear a skirt or dress--these are clothing articles that rarely contain pockets, and are invariably hideous when they do.  On these occasions, I have no choice but to put everything I usually put in my pockets in my purse.  These items include: keys, wallet, phone, pocket knife, and chapstick.  Now, the purse rarely has room for this and it's normal contents, so I have to remove some of the less essential items from it in order to make room.

Here we come to today's story.  I had just such an occasion this weekend.  I pulled out a small notebook, kleenex, lotion, and an empty bottle of painkillers and stuffed in my wallet, keys, and pocket knife.  I went about my business for the day, and when I returned home, fished the stuff that normally went in my pockets out of my purse.

Or at least I tried to.  My keys never actually went in my purse (I clipped them to the strap), and my wallet's kind of hard to lose.  My little tiny pocket knife, on the other hand, had completely vanished.  I could have sworn I tucked it in the secret zippered pouch inside my purse (every decent purse has one of these), but I couldn't find it.  I dumped half the contents of the darn thing out, and still couldn't find it.  I decided maybe I hadn't put it in my purse and it had slipped out of my pocket and fallen between the couch cushions.  It's happened before.  I once lost that thing in our recliner for months.  Unfortunately, only crumbs lay between the cushions.  So, I sadly shrugged and concluded that I had lost it.

That was Saturday.

Today I decided to give it another go, and fully emptied my purse.  It contained:

• four pens (three of which had a Hello Kitty character on them)
• one Sharpie
• a measuring tape
• my favorite lipstick
• a pack of gum
• fugu mints
• blueberry flavored lip balm in an owl shaped container
• a comb
• a Chococat shaped mirror compact
• a pony tail holder
• change
• a receipt for my last visit to the dentist

I was baffled.  Where had my knife gone?  And so I delved further, into the secret pocket.  Keep in mind, I had thoroughly rummaged through here before with no success.  It contained:

• two maxi pads (that's what the secret pocket is for)
• two mysterious stickers with a bar code, number, and the word password printed on them
• a receipt for a pair of earrings I bought off an artist friend
• three seashells

Here I just want to pause and say, seashells.  Now that I recall, a friend brought them back from a beach trip for me some time ago. 

"He doesn't know how to use the three seashells!"

And then I found my pocket knife.  It was in there the whole time.

Goodnight, kids!

Studio Safety and Why You Should Buy Stock In Crock Pot

This week's episode is brought to you by the "What's That Smell?" game.

No, seriously.  I went out into the garage today to put up a couple of things, and there was this bizarre odor.  Well, bizarre for my garage.  Normally it smells like paint, but today it just smelled weird.  I couldn't figure it out.  I would've called in the hubby to consult, but he has virtually no sense of smell.  So I start wandering around the studio, trying to figure out what it is, when I notice something very alarming. 

Yes, the alarming thing  was the source of the odd and fairly noxious odor.

My pickle pot was not only still plugged in, but still on.  Now, for those of you who are envisioning a pot of pickles, and wondering why I would feel the need to electrocute them, let me explain.  Pickle is an acid used in jewelry making to clean oxidation off of non ferrous metals.  Generally speaking it works better hot, so most jewelry studios contain a crock pot (or fancy schamnchy pickle pot).  Any of you who have taken jewelry classes will immediately understand my horror when I realized it had been on since Wednesday.

See, it might be acid, but it's still liquid, which means it will boil away.  Add to that the fact that I had my small parts dipper in there (a film canister on a wire with some holes drilled it in, so I didn't have to dig for itty bitty parts), and it was no wonder my garage smelled.

Behold!  It looks like it's bubbling, but it's solid as a rock.

Not only had all the pickle boiled off, but my small parts dipper had melted.  Those wires, connected to that little piece of plastic?  Yeah, that's what was left.  It's a bloody miracle my house didn't burn down.  This brings us to the second subject for today:  The awesomeness of crock pots.

The actual heating part of it took little to no damage.  There's a little bit eaten away around the rim, and some drips down the side, but that's honestly from regular use (and poor cleaning habits).

Virtually unharmed.

The crock, on the other hand, well, I got most of it out.

 

This is after liberally hosing it down, scrubbing with bar keeper's friend, and using a Mr. Clean bathroom scrubber on it.

I don't think the crock will ever be safe to use again, mostly because of the crispy bits of plastic that appear to have melted into it.  I might find a use for the heating part of it, though (I'm thinking melting wax for candle making).  Still, it will totally hold water, with no apparent cracks.  I think it's also worth sharing the chunks of plastic the hose loosened up.

The lid was murky, but usable.  At the top it looks like my small container got cut off in the photo.  Not really.

I think this is really a testament to the safety of a slow cooker.  I was always a bit nervous about leaving them plugged in and then leaving the house, but this bad boy stayed plugged in for like three days--with melting plastic in it--and nothing happened.  Of course, this is also an object lesson in why you should always unplug your pickle pot when you finish for the day.

The really terrifying thing, though, was that there was a pair of earrings in it when this happened (they were in the small parts thinggy).  They're in that last picture.  Guess which blob they are?

It was this one.

Definitely not what I'd planned on when I put them in there.  I was hoping for shiny and white, not covered in brown sticky goo.  Fortunately, a little bot of work and a new pair of hooks put them better than before.

I cannot do their shininess justice.  But you could go blind.

My current plan is to sell them at the Spring Carnival at my husband's shop, but if no one buys them I may keep them for me.

So to recap:  Avoid leaving your pickle pot on for extended periods of time.  Don't leave plastic in it if you do.  This ended well for me, but I could have blackened scorch marks on my garage wall right now (or worse) if it hadn't.  Be safe, not stupid.

Also, crock pot makes astoundingly safe and sturdy products.  If I had the patience and the scrubby pads, I bet I could get that thing usable for pickle again.  They have my endorsement.  (Not that I am encouraging you to use crock pots for purposes other than which they are designed.  I would never take on the liability for that.)

Be safe, kids!

Next time:  Linda's Suburban Guide To Cycling or Boobs!  It depends on whether or not I can get pictures taken for my cycling guide.

A Wild Dream Journal Appears!

So, I know we've touched on the subject of dreams before, and on the fact that I tend to have a lot of them.  Now before any of you innocent passersby from Google get confused, I'm not talking about your sugary "I want to be a princess!" type dreams.  I'm talking about the kind your brain vomits up in the night to entertain and torment you.  Now, I've long meant to start keeping a dream journal, and at the tag end of February I finally managed to get one started.  I'm still keeping up with it too, although the new meds I'm one to help me sleep better have cut down on the quantity and vibrancy.  That's really a blessing, though, and you'll see what I mean in a minute.

Let's just put it this way--every night is an adventure.  Some more than others.

So let's start with just some raw stats.  I do want to clarify a couple of things.  Firstly, the only dreams that are counted are dreams I remember.  If I woke up and remember that I had a bad dream, it doesn't count unless I remember something about it.  Secondly, nightmares are defined as any dream where I woke a) whimpering b) crying c) afraid to get out of bed d) afraid to go back to sleep or e) any combination of the above.  It can have nightmarish content, but if none of that occurred with it, it doesn't count.

These are the stats for the month of March:
Nightmares: 8
Bad dreams: 9
Dreams involving tornadoes: 4
Dreams involving Sherlock Holmes and or Watson: 2
Dreams involving bad/awkward architecture/design: 3
Nightmares involving bugs/spiders: 4
Most remembered dreams in one night: 8
Best dream: Epic adventures as a werewolf
Worst dream: Watching my husband plummet to his death live on the six o'clock news
Total dreams: 53

That averages out to about 1.7 dreams a night, with two nightmares a week.  I will say, it has been worse than usual, especially with the nightmares (those are actually part of the reason I went to the doctor about my sleep issues).  Of course, the fun thing here is that those dreams aren't aren't evenly distributed.  There were nights where I didn't remember any at all.  Now, luckily, since starting my new meds, I've been sleeping better, and I'm doing well to remember one or two dreams a night.  That's closer to normal, which, frankly, is still a lot.  The meds have also gotten the nightmare frequency down, and the two I've had weren't as bad, although.

Either way, this is not completely atypical of a month's worth of dreams.  I dream all night, every night.  I don't always remember what I dreamed, but I do remember that I dreamed.  I'm pretty sure it's not normal, but I have yet to find any relevant information on anything like dreaming too much.  On the plus side, I do get some really awesome dreams, some of which provide inspiration for paintings or stories.  Actually, I have a wonderful plot for an erotic novel/short story that I got from a dream.  I'd tell you about it, but then I'd have to kill you.  And I plan on doing a painting of the marsh bunnies dream--it will have a lovely mauve sky, bright green hilly marshes, and adorable bunnies leaping in and out of the marsh.  I'd tell you about more recent dreams, but, to be honest, the normal ones weren't over interesting, and I don't want to invoke pity by going into the nightmares.

Anywho, I'm off to go eat my sugar cookies that I bought because I had a dream about making sugar cookies the other night.

Why I Will Never Be an Alcoholic

Before we get started, let me get the obligatory PSA out of the way with:  I am not mocking alcoholism.  It is a serious, serious problem, and if you or someone you know suffers from it, encourage them to get help as soon as possible so they can get their life back on track. 

Now that that's out of the way, all too many years ago, I reached the legal drinking age.  Now, my folks never drank much, so I was never really exposed to alcohol.  There was the occasional champagne at New Year's (which tasted like ass) and of course the wine at communion (which tasted even more like ass), but growing up, I didn't see much of it.  Being the tremendous nerd I am, 21 just sort of rolled on by.  I was old enough to drink but, well, I didn't know what to get, and I hated to waste five bucks on something I might not like, especially when I could get a soda (and unlimited refills) for only two.  Over the years, I did find myself in the position to try some booze for free, and generally wasn't impressed.  Admittedly, the first two drinks I tried were Coors and Peach Schnapps.

They were vile.

Beyond vile.

I would go so far as to say that Peach Schnapps is an abomination that should be wiped from the face of the earth.

This tastes nothing like peaches.

Further experiments with rum and coke taught me that I like my liquor like I like my coffee--so loaded up with other crap you can't taste it. And so we come to the first reason why I will never be an alcoholic:

1) I can't stand the taste of alcohol.

Seriously, it's vile.  You can call me a snob if you like, but it doesn't change a thing.  If I wanted to enjoy the taste of alcohol, I'd just down a bottle of rubbing alcohol and be done with it.  At least that's cheap.  And I'm super picky about how my drinks taste--I went on a wine tour a while back and by the end of it we had a running gag going to see if I'd like anything at all (there was a decent port, but my companions drank most of my share).  I've reached the point where I stick with girly fru fru drinks--strawberry daquiris and the like.  I can also get behind a weak rum and coke, and amaretto sours are pretty tasty.  

 Antiseptic, beer, tastes the same to me.

2) I can't afford to drink.

This rolls right back to reason one.   Mixed drinks cost a heck of a lot more than beer.  I've tried wine coolers, but they just don't taste good enough to justify it.  That wine tour?  Yeah, the one wine I really liked was the most expensive one.  I can't drink the cheap stuff.  I can buy the materials and mix my own, but, let's face it, at the frequency I drink, that bottle of amaretto in my fridge may be there for a couple years.

3) I can't hold my alcohol.

Seriously, one drink gets me tipsy.  That's just pathetic. Oh, and I also get really sleepy.  I joke that you'd have to get me really drunk to do karaoke in public--the cute trick would be keeping me conscious enough to do it.  Karaoke also leads us to reason number four.

Not pictured: Me, passed out in the corner.

4) I can't let go of control long enough to get drunk.

Admittedly, most people will probably be envious of this one.  But I can't not stop drinking.  I start feeling kinda sick after two (mixed drinks, which, to my understanding, contain more alcohol per serving than wine or beer), and I really can't compel myself to go on after that point.  I'm too responsible--I know that drinking too much will have me puking and passed out in the gutter, then waking up feeling like shit.  I hate vomiting--after a nasty bout of stomach flu in undergrad, I almost have a pathological fear of it.  In addition, I often wake up with many of the symptoms of a hangover dead sober, so I really don't want to make morning any worse.  Failing all else, I'm just wound too damn tight.

5) One drink renders me unable to drive.

Okay, this is really just the reason why I'll never be a social drinker.  My friends and I tend to have bizarre schedules, so any get together is usually a meetup.  The hubby doesn't drink, so if we go to a bar I have to drive myself.  If I'm driving, I can't drink, because I'll be too tipsy to safely get home.  Which negates the purpose of going out to drink, n'est ce pas?

6) I can't stand bars.

If it's a restaurant with a bar, I'm good.  I understand the social dynamics.  But a bar?  What am I supposed to do?  Who do I pay?  Where are the tables?  Am I expected to talk to strangers?  What is all that empty space for?  Am I supposed to dance?  Hell no!  I've been in a straight up bar exactly twice, and the second time was to see some friends of our perform, so we actually had a group of people together (and the hubby was there).  If I meet up with friends, I'm drinking water while everyone else is having fun.  It's the typical shy nerdy girl at a party problem.  And then you have all these noisy people invading your space because if you found a table it's about the size of a skinny person.  There's no defense!

They're also never this well lit.

7) I feel lost and awkward in the liquor store.

Well, you say, if you're not going to a bar, why not just get drunk at home?  It's cheaper, too.  Again, my lack of experience shows.  I don't entirely know what to get, or where to find it.  I also feel like the staff is staring at me while I wander befuddled--"Wow, you have no idea what you're doing!" they must be thinking.  As someone who is generally accepted to know everything, it hurts my pride when people think I'm an idiot, even when it's people who don't matter.  Completely irrational, I know.  And then you add in the fact that I have to google what I need before I even go, and all the fun is taken out of getting inebriated.

8) I feel many of the negative effects of drinking sober.

I touched on this before, but it's true.  I wake up nauseous, sensitive to sound and light, and with a headache often enough that I almost don't notice it anymore.  Why on God's green earth would I want to imbibe something that will cause these symptoms?  I also tend to run kinda low on sleep, which tends to have the same effect on one's judgement as getting drunk.  About the only thing I don't get sober is the buzz, or the relaxation effect.  The latter can be provided easily with muscle relaxants, a good reiki massage, or a heating pad, and with no hangover.  I can live without the buzz.  I already question my grip on reality enough--I really don't need to loosen it.

And so that, my friends, is why I will never be an alcoholic.  It's also why I am so darned reluctant to

go out drinking with you, in spite of how much fun it is to laugh at drunk people.

Next time: Dream Journal Revealed!  How Much Does Linda Dream In a Month?  Tornadoes and Spiders and Bees, Oh My!

Obligatory closing PSA:  AA can be very helpful should you or someone you know need help quitting the bottle.

 

Alien Abduction!!!!!!

The old blog has been pretty serious of late (mostly because I've been pretty serious of late), and I think it's about time we had a post with a little lighter tone.  And so, this evening, I will relate the tale of how my husband and I determined that I was abducted by aliens this weekend.  (Saturday night, or, considering when I went to bed, very early Sunday morning).

It all started with this:

Exhibit 1: Mysterious Bruise

So, yesterday morning, while in the shower, I felt a stinging sensation in my left wrist, like I'd scraped it on something.  The hubby and I examined said wrist, and discovered a large bruise on it (it actually looked worse than this yesterday).  It really hurt, and there was a big knot on it.  For a minute we wondered if serious damage had occurred, but it still moved okay.  Since I had no idea where it came from, we chalked it up to a clumsy Linda incident and went on about our business (I find random bruises on my body all the time.  A lot of it comes from walking into things and forgetting about it).

Until today.

While at work, I noticed something about my bruise, and texted the husband.  The following is a transcript of our conversation, and offers conclusive evidence that my bruise may have had extraterrestrial causes.

Me:  Just realized that bruise on my wrist looks like I had an iv and they blew my vein putting it in.

Jay:  Weird!  <8-O

Me:  That's what I thought.  Aliens?

Jay:  They do that stuff.

Me:  Now that I think about it, I didn't remember any dreams Saturday night....

Jay:  And you were *really* tired the next day... ;)

Me:  Definitely aliens.  ;D

Jay:  No nosebleeds though...

Me:  Oh, oh!  And I lost an hour!

Me:  Maybe they didn't inspect my nose.

Me:  God, I love you.

Jay:  May not have inserted the feeding tube if they only had an hour.  ;)

Me:  They stick that up your nose?

Jay:  :)  I love you too, my sweet little abductee.

Me:  This is so going to be a blog post.

Jay:  That's what I hear.

Jay:  Go for it.  The guys in black suits might try to stop you though.

Obviously, considering the missing memories, lost time, and of course, the suspicious bruising, it had to be aliens.

Why, no, we haven't been watching too much history channel.  Why do you ask?

In other, and completely unrelated news, guess what the current McDonald's Happy Meal is?

Ponies!!!

And before you go all, what's that thing on their heads, it's actually really clever.  Their combs clip onto it and you can hang them from stuff, like this:

Pinkie Pie, breaking the fourth wall, even when she's on this side of it.

Yes, I went to McDonald's and bought them all.  I am a sad, sad person.

But I have ponies.

A Penis Is Not Required

...to use power tools.  Don't worry, this isn't an anti male post.  I like guys (in their proper place--the kitchen, making me sammiches). 

Mmm, sammiches....

 

However, this is totally an anything you can do I can do better girls can use power tools, hammers, and fix shit around the house post.  So, if you're waiting for me to make you a sammich, well, don't look at me when you need help to replace a light fixture.

Anywho, this is all prompted by a trip to Lowe's this morning.  And, frankly, a good number of trips to Lowe's previously.  My mailbox was a little wobbly on its post, so I went out to get some screws (apparently the previous owner only felt it necessary to attach it on one side) and some nails to stabilize it, and to make it a bit harder for the garbage guy to bump loose with the arm on the automated truck (they just switched our street to those, and there's a bit of a learning curve--he'll get the hang of it).  So, Lowe's is pretty darned crowded, and I have the problem of never being able to find anything in there due to their questionable "organization" (I mean, seriously, sandpaper is in paint?!  Why isn't it in the abrasives section?  Why don't they even have an abrasives section?).  But, on this occasion, I actually know where what I seek is, at least the right aisle.  So, I'm standing there, looking at the wood screws, trying to find some that are about 1/4" in diameter (the threaded portion) when an employee asks me if I need help.  I wave him on, but less than two minutes later, another attacks.  I decide to let him help me, mostly to keep away the other employees.  I explain what I'm looking for and why and make a comment about how the "sizes" on the screw packages make no sense and what does that number even mean?

Before you criticize, the screw sizes bear as much resemblance to any actual measurement of the screw, as women's clothing sizes do to the measurements of a woman.  Seriously, they have two numbers--an even one, which loosely indicates how big it is (a 2 is smaller than a 12, much like women's pants) and then the second number is obviously the length of the screw.

He explains that's how they come.  I comment that it's not how they're made, and we quickly find something that will work for my purposes so I can dismiss his condescending ass.  I can make my own damn screws if I have to, and, excepting very small threads where things get weird, a screw is typically labeled (on blueprints and such) with the nominal diameter (diameter before threads are cut), thread pitch, and the length.  So, for example, a 1/4-12x2 is really about what I was hoping for.  But I don't know, maybe wood screws follow different (and clearly insane) rules.   I generally avoid doing anything with wood, as it just doesn't work right for me.  (The internet tells me that what I was looking for is specific to machine screws, which would explain my confusion.)

I then move on to the other end of the aisle in search of some big ass nails.  The first employee who asked me if I needed help is here, and asks me again.  I'm having difficulty finding anything but the giant contractor's pack of 3 inch nails (I didn't see anything on the side with the smaller packages), so I ask him if they have any smaller packs of big ass nails.  He does not comprehend the question, and starts telling me about the kinds of large nails available.  I explain what I need them for and that I really only need a couple.  He looks at me like I'm crazy, finds me a small pack (they were in a corner, obscured by signage), and I GTFO.

Both salesmen were very condescending, and had the attitude towards me of, "Aww, how cute!  A girl is trying to fix something!  Here honey, let me explain this, it's way too complicated for you to understand."

"I just don't know what went wrong!"

This is not the first time I've had this kind of service at Lowe's (I know, I know, stop shopping there) and I really resent it.  I also resent the fact that if I go there alone, every single sales clerk within a 20 yard radius asks me if I need help, whether I look like I need it or not.  If I take my husband with me, no one bothers me.  It's as though someone has told them, "If you see a woman alone, she probably needs help, but if there's a man with her, he'll take care of it.")  Either that, or they pass along some sort of message to each other, "Did you see that girl with the giant tits in aisle 5?  Oh, you gotta check her out!"  Either, way, I resent the implication and attitude that because I don't have a penis, I can't fix things or use tools.  (I know some of you other ladies out there have probably experienced this as well.)  Not all men are handy around the house or workshop (I cringe to see my husband use a screwdriver) and, frankly, while I'm not up on my household repair (having only had a house for less than a year, I feel justified in this), I probably know at least as much, if not more than those sexist punks at Lowe's, just in different areas.  I'm pretty sure most of them can't operate a lathe or a mill, and I know they know less than I do about running or programming a CNC machine (and I'm just starting to learn that)--if they knew that they wouldn't be working at Lowe's.  There's a good chance they have no idea how to silver solder or do any kind of casting or hot glass work.  Just because I'm not familiar with wood screw sizes and think the system is retarded, it does not make me incompetent or stupid.

I have worked or studied in male dominated fields--when I worked at Valvoline, and now, when I'm studying to be a machinist.  In both, I have been treated with the utmost courtesy and respect.  Indeed, in the machine tool program at school, most of the guys respect my abilities and sometimes even ask me questions, if I've already made the part they're working on.  They assume that because I'm there, I am capable of doing the work.  This is the 21st century--women proved long ago that they are capable of doing work that has been traditionally male and with equal skill.

 Remember her?

I have known and met men who are completely useless when it comes to fixing things--just because you have a penis, it doesn't mean you are mechanically inclined.  Indeed, when my husband is with me and I get ignored, little do those salespeople know that I'm the handy one around the house.  My husband has many skills, but using tools and fixing things is not one of them.  On the other hand, I am the product of several generations of engineers.  My father, grandfather, brother, cousin, and I think my great grandfather were all engineers, and on the other side, my grandfather was a tool and dye maker.  If I didn't have some mechanical aptitude, I'd have to be adopted.

So take heed, arrogant hardware store employees: treat your female customers with respect, because they might know more than you do, and just can't find it in your poorly laid out store.  And ladies, you take heed, too--don't think that because you're a girl you can't fix stuff around the house.  As a matter of fact, a female friend and I replaced one of the light fixtures in my house a few months ago by ourselves (I did the wiring, she mostly held it up while I got it attached).

A penis is not required to use tools or fix things.

Want To Buy a Subscription?

So, I have issues.  We've even discussed some of them here.  I usually try to avoid going into too much detail because I don't want to  be a downer.  But even my life isn't all ponies and dreams, and I have a confession to make.

I'm not a people person.

No, really, stop laughing.  Some of you already know this, but some of you are slightly misinformed.  I'm not a gregarious extrovert who loves talking to people and hanging out.  I'm actually an introvert who enjoys holing up and would go weeks without seeing anyone if I didn't know how terrifyingly unhealthy it was.  I know for some this can be difficult to believe; I actually had to correct a classmate just the other day on this.  Years of working in customer service and a general desire to please have left me with a great impression of being a people person--sometimes I don't know where the act ends and I begin.  None of my friends from North Carolina will believe this, because that veneer got completely destroyed while I was down there.  But if I come across as cheery and outgoing, it is because of a whole lot of work going on underneath (well, the outgoing part, anyway.  I am naturally cheerful).  I mean, I may come across as Pinkie Pie, but I'm really more like Fluttershy, socially speaking.

And sometimes, this is exactly how I'm reacting in my head.

Now don't get me wrong, I do like meeting new people, and I enjoy spending time with my friends.  But I can't do it constantly, and social interactions tend to be a lot of work for me.  As my fellow introverts can tell you, some people are more work than others to be around, even if you really like them.  Currently, I have a great bunch of friends, the vast majority of which are pretty easy to be around.  And I do need to spend time around them, for my own sanity--if I learned anything from my ordeal in North Carolina, it was the importance of friends.  But I do have trouble with dealing with large groups, even if it's people who I truly treasure.  One or two people--pretty easy.  But once you start getting to about half a dozen or so, I start to get a little bit lost.  And anyone who's ever been to a convention or a crowded store with me knows I can barely handle crowds of people.  Sometimes I wonder if it's some sort of mild latent psychic ability that makes crowds so tough for me.  But combine my introverted nature with a measure of social anxiety, and dealing with a bunch of people--even people I know well--can be a nerve wracking experience. 

Now, I'm not saying I don't want people around at all.  Quite the contrary.  I like to have my friends over and I really enjoy seeing people I don't get to see often.  I also know how much my husband enjoys entertaining, and I know how much fun people have when they come over.  I want people to come over and have fun.  But there are days I can't deal with people.  It happens.  So, if you wind up at our place some night and I'm moody and evasive, well, that's what's going on.  It's probably best to avoid me in turn, because I get snappy, and may lash out irrationally.

Even the quiet ones break sometimes.

I don't like lashing out irrationally, and while I may give off the occasional appearance of apathy and actually enjoying the suffering of others, I don't.  I really don't enjoy hurting other people.  It breaks something inside me.  So, if you encounter me in that mood, feel free to avoid me back and protect us both.

I'd like to leave you with a closing link, and I encourage those of you who aren't introverts (and even those who are) to read it.  It does an excellent job of explaining what's really going on with an introvert, and should give you a better idea of what's going on so I don't freak you out.

On an almost completely unrelated note, don't do a google image search for "pinkie pie and fluttershy."  Rule 34 is a terrible thing sometimes.