I’m obsessive. Let’s just put that out there. I think you have to be to write a whole novel — so at least there’s a practical application for it — but I take everything I like WAY TOO FAR. Like, way too far.
I’ve never had the capacity to SORTA enjoy things. I’m either mildly interested in stuff or UTTERLY CONSUMED by it. There is no real middle ground.
I like to think this quality makes me loveable and interesting. YMMV.
I mention this for two reasons. The first is that my thumbs hurt. My Scrabble fixation has, if anything, deepened since last we spoke. On Christmas Day, as my family snoozed in the sun, I played four hours of Scrabble against my phone. Words with Friends is still eating much of my time and concentration. This morning I was at the SPCA completing the adoption papers for my kitten WHILE PLAYING SCRABBLE. I have a problem.
The second reason is that my friend Jeffrey has been doing the 30 Days of Me challenge. This strikes me as a) WAY too hard and b) super cool. Finding the middle ground between these, I think I’m going to steal some of the topics but write them without a time limit. In your face, rules! I do what I want.*
The challenge calls first for 15 interesting facts about yourself. I thought I’d do 15 weird situations I’ve ended up in by being a creepy fangirl. It has a better ring to it, right?
15 weird situations I’ve ended up in by being a creepy fangirl
(Or… probably way less than 15. I think I’ll get bored before 15. Or distracted by Scrabble.)
Everyone who knows me knows that I love Hanson. It’s weird enough to be memorable, and since regular humans think they died or are still 12 or whatever, people tend to be shocked enough to remember this fact — and to use it to judge the rest of my taste in music, which is ACTUALLY VERY GOOD, THANKYOUVERYMUCH. (Mostly because I overcompensate.)
Nowadays, I love Hanson enough to go to another country to see them live (Australia, America, Canada), but not enough to pay for the special editions of their albums. By my standards this is pretty weaksauce. In my youth — sometimes known by its other name of 1997 — I would have cut off my left arm for Hanson. Sometimes it sincerely surprises me that I didn’t.
When I was 15 (aka WAY TOO OLD) and at the peak of my obsession, Popsicle held a competition to win a meet-and-greet with Hanson. They printed letters on the bottom of their sticks, and to enter the competition you had to spell out HANSON with them and post it in.
To recap: each entry took six Popsicle sticks, plus however many double-up letters you got.
I entered this competition FIFTY-THREE TIMES.
At the time I had a job after school cleaning the café above Parsons Bookshop (never go there). I got paid $25 cash a fortnight (REALLY, never go there), at which point I would run to the supermarket and buy as many Popsicles as I could for $25. Then I’d sit on a bench outside and strip the iceblocks off the sticks. The delicious treats went in the bin. The sticks came home with me.
I didn’t win the competition. When I found out, I cried all morning. At school. I had to be sent out of two classes in a row.
(Years later, I found out that the girl who won was the niece of my boss at the time, and she DIDN’T EVEN LIKE HANSON THAT MUCH. If I ever meet that bitch, I’ll take her down.)
In this same period, I used to write my diary to Hanson. This sounds creepy because it was. I wrote it like I was writing them a letter. I had a lot of messy family stuff going on at the time and it made me feel better to write about it, but I never got the hang of writing without an audience (HI GUYS!). So I wrote to Hanson.
One day my mum found my diary (cunningly wedged under my mattress, as all good diaries are) and TOTALLY LOST HER MIND. To be fair, it was pretty weird of me. And all I did at the time was listen to Hanson and put up posters of Hanson and sit outside supermarkets disposing of frozen confectionery for Hanson.
She decided I was too obsessed with Hanson, and MUST BE STOPPED. So she took all of my Hanson-related paraphernalia, including my diary, and she locked it in a suitcase under the house.
How did I react to this?
A) I punched her in the face.
B) I decorated my empty walls with poems of mourning and flowers in their favourite colours, OH YES I DID.
C) I broke into the suitcase, took my diary, and POSTED IT TO HANSON.
I do not know what my thought process was, either. But I sincerely hope they never opened it. Or, if they did, that they’d sent it back. There was some good material in there.
(This may also explain why I never had a boyfriend in high school.)
Many, many years later, when I was 21, Hanson came to Australia. I went, of course. Because I had to get a bank loan to go, by the time I got my ticket I was too late for the fanclub meet-and-greet tickets (even though I was still a member of the fanclub at the time (I’m not now, JUST TO CLARIFY)). The night of the show I met up with some online friends in Sydney and we ended up drinking at someone’s hotel room. (Yes, you guys, I have online Hanson-fan friends. There’s no other way to MAKE Hanson-fan friends.) These girls were HARDCORE and all had backstage passes. One of them had brought along her boyfriend. We got talking, and I explained why I didn’t have a pass. He said, “well, I have one, and I couldn’t care less” and then GAVE IT TO ME.
AND THEN I MET HANSON. I shook Taylor’s hand and told him he was “fucking amazing”, and Zac laughed at me.
I was very drunk. It was wonderful.Wasting all those Popsicles was totally unnecessary.
JEEZ. This is already VERY LONG, and we’ve only covered one thing! Also, I need to RETURN TO PLAYING SCRABBLE. Maybe I will retitle this blog TEENAGE KATIE WAS A CREEPER and come back later to all my other, equally weird TOPICS.
To be covered in the future:
- Why the crew of Supernatural taught me to pack snowballs
- How I ended up financing and releasing an album for a former child star
- The time I TOOK A MEETING on a script
- Other strange shit, as appropriate.
*Cartman voices, please. Kelly knows how it goes.