I think I over hug now.

In an attempt to not appear super awkward, I’ve tried to be more huggy (which goes against everything my fight-or-flight responses tell me to do).

And I think I’m over compensating. Now I find myself sandwiching my body against others (and this might be my paranoia arising) but they seem to struggle as if trying to free themselves from my vice-like embrace.

Like a Sesame Street Muppet, I come charging at the other person with flailing arms wide and mouth happily agape. “Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaa!” I joyously scream as I bound towards the other hugger. They lean in with the upper-body-only stance, but they’re quickly rearranged into a leg on leg, tummy on tummy, chest on chest experience of arm squeezing fury.

And after practicing my zealous new approach to the hug, I fear I appear even more awkward than before. Because now I’m some kind of pervert. Like the guy who holds your hand three seconds too long during a shake. Or the non-European who kisses everyone on both cheeks.

There’s no happy medium. I either run to the opposite side of the crowd with frightened Bambie eyes and stiffen when arms go around my torso, or I trap my acquaintances in a death squeeze of is-she-trying-to-figure-out-my-bra-size confusion.

Maybe I’ll just have to pretend I always have a cold so I’ll always have a valid excuse to keep my body away from other bodies.

Will someone explain insurance to me?

I live in an apartment.

Like a responsible renter, I have renter's insurance. It covers my property in the even that the guy below me falls asleep smoking and my TV gets melted.

It covers my computer if it drowns in the unfortunate event of my upstairs neighbor forgetting to turn off the bath water.

It protects the value of my stereo and CDs (yes, I still have CDs) if some yahoo crashes his car through my exterior wall.

Without divulging just how many electronics and valuable items my fiance and I have stuffed into our apartment, I'm going to say that the total value of said items and the actual apartment itself is significantly more than my engagement ring.

Then why does my engagement ring cost one and a half times more money to insure? Especially since it lives in this apartment?

My bike got stolen once. It was chained outside and someone hacksawed the lock and took it. It was paid for in full by my renters insurance. The damn thing lived outside and they replaced it with no questions.

My engagement ring is on my finger. And no women in her right mind would let some crazy mugger get it from her. (Just you try, dude. You've never seen crazy. Believe me.)

Yet this teeny tiny item is worth more to ensure than EVERY SINGLE THING IN OUR APARTMENT COMBINED. Not to mention our neighbors' possessions in the event that I leave the bathtub running and flood someone else's apartment.

So I'm paying 50% more for a piece of jewelry (albeit, very sentimental jewelry, but only for a few people) than I am for multiple apartments full of stuff in the event that I forget to blow out a candle while I'm at the grocery.

That's a whole carat of crazy.

I complained about having too many weddings to go to, and then the universe tortures me with even more.

They just keep piling up. And now, being engaged, I worry that I’m soon going to be part of the problem for someone else.

There’s a lot of financial pressure for being the friend of someone getting married. In addition to travel costs for the wedding (gas or plane ticket, car rentals, hotel rooms, on-the-road meals) there’s a shower to shell out cash for. There’s a bachelorette party with it’s own set of travel costs, hotel rooms, party favors. What ever happened to going to a bar and getting shots? And then hope some dopey guy pays for them before slinking away?

If you’re in the wedding, you probably have some (god-awful) outfit to pay for. And no matter how hard the bride “tries” to make it somewhat reusable, you’ll never wear it again. Because you didn’t pick it out yourself (the exception being the bride that says, “Get a black dress. Whatever you want.”) I don't care how cute the to-the-floor, iridescent purple dress is--re-hemming it does not make it socially acceptable. Then there are uncomfortable shoe requirements. (I read in my how-to-be-a-bride guide that bridesmaid shoes are supposed to hurt because you want your friend to prove themselves. True story.) Some brides insist you pay to get your hair styled or your nails done. Oh, and there used to be a bridal luncheon as a thank-you, but that seems to have fallen by the wayside. Heaven forbid you thank your party with a simple cucumber sandwich and glass of iced tea.

Then there are gifts. Not just a single gift. Multiple gifts. There’s a gift form the hostess(es) of the shower to the bride (as if the party isn’t gift enough?). There are gifts given at the bachelorette party (again, isn’t the bride getting a free night/weekend out?). Then there’s a wedding gift. If the couple is having a couple’s shower, there’s also a shower gift.

Call me nuts, but it hit overkill about two showers ago. And six weddings ago. And literally thousands of dollars ago.

I love my friends. But I’m reaching the point where I can’t afford them. And it really sucks because now the bar has been set and I’m left wondering—do they feel all of this stuff is necessary for my guy and me? Because I think I speak for both of us when I say that we don’t need it.

I just want my family and friends to come to the wedding and drink the booze, eat the food, dance to the music, sweat and have a good time. If we don’t get a new toaster out of the deal, it’s not the end of the world. We’ve survived thus far with the old one.

Big-eyed people, we must band together.

“I love how you blink.”

Once upon a time (or a few years ago), I was told that very thing. And once upon a time, I was very confused about that thought.

How do you love the act of blinking, I asked. Especially one person’s blink over the next?

My reaction to this strange compliment only resulted in a small gathering of people staring at my eyes and waiting for the next time my lids dropped. Someone responded that my blink was very deliberate. Very slow.

Of course it is. My eyes are big. It’s only natural that it takes longer to blink, right? The lids have a longer distance to travel. If I blinked quicker, I don’t know, I’d end up sanding my pupils or something. Right? RIGHT?

The whole on-display situation brought back horrible memories of middle school where similar events were all too common.

“She does weird things with her eyes,” one girl delightedly squealed to her friends. Before I knew it, an anxious crowd of way-more-popular-than-me preteens were ogling my poor eyes, waiting for them to do “that weird thing.”

That weird thing? A nervous twitch. Which was exaggerated by my oversized orbs of eyes. On anyone else, the motion would probably have gone unnoticed.

I’ve conversed with other big-eyed females. And I’ve discovered that my bizarre stories are (bizarrely) not that unique.

My sister, who has the exact same eyes that I do (thanks, Mom), is told that she has salamander blinks. My friend (also named Veronica, oddly enough) has also been told that she’s a slow winker and blinker—which gets her confused for a slow thinker.

All three of us are proud of our large, brown doe eyes. They’re sparkly and beautiful and many women would kill for them. But all three of us have to sporadically put up with awkward conversations about our unusual eye habits. Or how when we glance to the side, our eyes seemingly go completely white and we look dead. Or how with the wrong makeup, we look almost alien because or eyes take up two-thirds of our faces.

It doesn’t take much to accidentally convey the wrong emotion when you have large eyes, either. Surprise easily looks like shock. Happiness can appear demented. Anger just looks hilarious. And a little sadness looks like suicidal depression. Sometimes, I really wish I could constantly wear sunglasses at work because when you have two round billboards on your forehead, a poker face just isn’t possible.

I wouldn’t change my big eyes, though. They’re uniquely me and I adore them. Even if they occasionally attract uncouth reactions from time to time.

It's 2:10.

Once upon a time (quite literally a time), I saw on VH1’s Pop Up Video that all clocks and watches in magazines and in stores are set to 10:10.

The reason being that 10:10 makes the clock smile and look happy.

Over the years, I’ve always made sure to take notice of the watches and clocks I see. And sure enough, they’re always at 10:10. (The question remains as to whether it’s AM or PM, but I digress.)

What I want to know is, what’s wrong with 2:50? I mean, it’s the same look---slightly upturned hands that mimic a smile. A warm feeling at knowing what the time is. A cheeky intended-to-be-subliminal message to get you to buy buy BUY!

So I’m stating here and now that if for any reason I ever get to photograph a watch, I’m moving the hands to the 10 and the two, as most art directors would, only with my timepiece the little hand will be at the two and the big hand will be at the 10 and no one will argue.

Even as a vegetarian, I find this awesome.

I can't explain it. But upon hearing about the McGangBang--a McDonald's McChicken sandwich inside of a McDonald's double cheeseburger--I laughed until my stomach hurt.

It's been twenty minutes and I'm still laughing.

Apparently, it's become such a phenomenon, that if you order it at McDonald's, the employees know what you're talking about.

As the Queen of all that is Awesome, I dub this super-extremely-turbo awesome.

Please, meateaters, for vegetarians everywhere, go order a McGangBang and eat the McFuck* out of it.

*Adding the Mc to my favorite F word is compliments of my lovely McFiance.