For Jacob

I have recently fallen under criticism by my eldest nephew for not having anything -ahem- "funny" on my blog for quite some time. Well kid, this one's for you. Here's a funny video to annoy your mom with for a couple hours.



Just giving the fans what they want.

(Also, if you're an adult you probably don't want to watch it because you will be humming it to yourself for three straight days.)

I probably should have stopped listening to this band in college.

I was listening to an old Ben Folds CD this afternoon.

Now I'm feeling all angsty and misunderstood.

I'm so sorry, Stephanie Meyer.

Okay roommates, I know we all swore not to ever tell anyone what we did last night. I know we made a pact that it would stay between the three of us, but I can't help it: it's too funny.

Last night my roommies and I went to a private screening of Twilight. (I know! I know! I hated all the hype. I disliked the books. I stoutly refused to get involved in the craze. And yet, there I was at the Gateway last night.)

After the movie I gave Liz my concise Twilight review: I think the only thing more painful than an actual vampire bite is watching that movie.

Guys, it was so bad. Ridiculously bad. It was reminiscent of a Provo-style, made-for-BYU-film-class type movie. (Sorry to everyone who made a movie for a BYU film class. I'm sure it was great!) Britni and I irritated all the enraptured girls sitting around us because we physically could not stem our laughter after the first 20 minutes. During the closing credits, when I audibly wondered that the movie could possibly be any worse than the books, I was struck with a death glare from a middle-aged woman seated nearby. Seriously, I think there are people who really believe that Twilight is the single greatest love story of our time. Like our generation's Romeo & Juliet or Pride & Prejudice.

People, this has got to stop. Let's be clear. As a fantasy-based, chick-lit book directed at the tween-to-teen crowd, it works. Not great, but it works. And the movie, as a low-budget (I don't really know if it was low-budget or not, but I can hope) movie, again directed at the teenage audience, it was fine. Like a made-for-Disney-channel movie. In fact, if it was on TV on a Saturday afternoon, I'd probably watch it (or at least Tivo it).

But ladies, it's not the greatest book or movie of our time. Not by a long shot. Let's, as a society, move on.


Dear Stephanie Meyer,
I'm sorry I didn't like your books. From their wild popularity, it's evident I am on the smaller end of the spectrum. I know the exhaustive effort of writing, the laborious task of taking the swirling words and images in your head and forcing them into structure and sense. I know the feeling of proffering your written work to someone, exposing not a completed task but a part of your very heart, your baby. You are absolutely not devoid of talent; I liked that other book you wrote, the one about the aliens. That was pretty interesting. Don't take me seriously. I don't like reading Faulkner either, and he was a freakin' genius or something.
P.S. How old is that guy who played Edward? Is he at least 21? Basically I'm asking if it's okay for me to be lusting after him. He's not one of those 17-year-old prodigies is he? Cause, gross.

Spellchek

I have my work email account set up so it automatically fixes any typos before sending mail out, thereby avoiding the old typing-too-fast-and-leaving-out-or-transposing-letters shame. This morning I sent an email out to a colleague with a question about a pdf. Of course when I sent the email, “pdf” was an unrecognized word and automatically changed.

So my co-worker gets an email from me that says, “I need a little help working with a puff. Could you give me a call when you get a second?”

Half a minute later I got an email from him saying, “Daddy or magic dragon?”

Nice.

Best Shopping Trip Ever

I was at Wal-Mart* tonight and I was flat-out ring-checked in the cleaning aisle. Guys, I haven't been ring-checked in ages. I started giggling when I saw what he was doing and grinned the rest of my shopping trip. And then later in the frozen food section I got a full up-and-down check-out by a guy examining the selection of Popsicles. And in the baking aisle, an obliging young gentleman got a box of cornstarch off the top shelf for me and then winked at me as he handed it over.

I called my roommate on the way home and said, "Uh, in case you were wondering, I've totally still got it goin' on."



*Okay, before you start lecturing me on "evil empires" and "impact on the local economy" and "sprawl" just remember it was for my non-profit school that helps little children learn to read and stuff and can't afford to pay its incredible teachers enough anyway, so just chill.

Sweet Baby James

My little brother James crossed the MTC threshold today. He is now an official full-time missionary for the LDS church. I love that kid and I’m so proud of him but I’ve been slightly forlorn all morning. This is Jimmy, sweet little Jimmy. Who am I going to call for all things computer and car related? Who will call me to vent about bad calls and missed shots after Mavericks games? Where am I going to find someone who’ll watch cheesy sci-fi movies late at night with me?

I know these two years will fly right on by, but I’ll sure miss him in the meantime. He’s such a good kid whose ultimate aspiration is just to be nice and helpful and friendly. He’ll be a great missionary. See ya, Jimmy. Have a great time in Mexico. (Don't drink the water.)

Oh by the way, a primo spot just opened up on my speed dial. Anyone? Anyone?

Just a thought . . .

If Mark Cuban goes to prison for insider trading, does that mean Rick Carlisle can go away too?

AJ, I miss you and your squeaky little voice.

Picture Perfect Monday

I headed out yesterday afternoon to spend some quality time with my dad & brother.

You'll never guess what they wanted to do.

I was fairly put out.

After dragging James away from the lull of technology, he shot me the famous "Blue Steel" scowl. (That's how he gets all the ladies!)


Dinner followed at Five Guys . . .

where James and I got different memos on the faces to pull for the camera. "Okay Kim, now look really crazy like you're going to stab someone, okay good, and James, uh, just look drunk. Awesome picture, everyone. Yep, frame this sucker."

We headed to Amy's for FHE after dinner where Sandra took dilligent notes,

Jake colored contentedly,

James got attacked by a bunch of babies,

Amy demonstrated how Moses parted the Red Sea,

and Dad just sat there lookin' sly.
It was a great Monday.

Lesson One: Eye Contact

The other night the family was out to dinner at a local Mexican place. After dinner, my grandmother reprimanded me for not flirting with the waiter.

"He was clearly interested and you were not even slightly more than polite!" she said.

"He so was not interested," I argued. "He was just being a good waiter."

Later I found out that, unable to convince me I should have "turned it up a notch," she enlisted my brother to teach me how to flirt. Yes, my little brother. My two-days-away-from-the-MTC brother. Teach me? How to flirt?

Okay, granted I could use the tips. I think most of the time I attempt to flirt, my flirt-companion is either baffled, offended, or wondering if I have special needs. Fine, G-Ma. You win.

James, whaddya got?

I am not a blue blood.

My family is in town. Did I tell you that? Yep, Dad and little bro Jimmy and little sis Sandy are here hanging out for a week or so.

I come from a family of storytellers. We love to hear stories and don’t mind sharing a few of our own. The other night we were sitting around my sister’s kitchen table playing cards and taking turns sharing a memory or two.

That was all well and good until my dad pulls out this story: once upon a time my grandfather was out on the porch drinking beer as he was wont to do. He tossed his beer can out in the backyard and somehow it got caught high in a tree. The rest of the family sat around the rest of the evening trying to shoot the beer can out of the tree with bottle rockets.

As Dad was relating this story, I came to an ugly realization: we are total rednecks. Oh man, you can’t get more redneck than the whole family shooting explosives into a tree to dislodge a beer can.

Hey, I love my family. All I’m saying is my husband better be one classy guy to counteract all the hick genes I’ll be pouring into our kids.

Sir, I am very sorry about that.

Have you ever accidentally hit a prospective client with a rubber band during a meeting?

I know someone who has.

Hint: It's me. (Note to self: stop playing with office supplies in meetings.)

Close, but no cigar.

The nurse put a Band-Aid on my arm today after she gave me a flu shot. The only problem is she put the Band-Aid about a ¼ inch above the actual injection site. Which means my arm has a trail of blood running down it. And a superfluous bandage.

Very funny, nurse-lady, very funny.

Kim is a Junkie

My sister Amy tagged me, but since I've totally already done this, I decided to list 6 things that I love to excess. And I tag: Mom. (Oh, look at you Ms. I'm-Too-Cool-To-Have-A-Blog, looks like you're going to have to start one.)

Here we go: 6 Things Kim May Love a Little Too Much

1. I am a history junkie. Nothing excites me more than learning about how a civilization, a religion, a person developed and formed. Even when I hear a new word I wonder, “What is the etymology of it? Where did it come from?” I have an insatiable appetite for knowledge of origins. I love biographies. I love reading about war. I love the History Channel. I just love it.

2. I am a music junkie. I simply can’t start my day unless my iTunes is pumping something. Just this morning I was dancing around my room to Frank Sinatra before work (and yes, I tripped over the three pairs of heels that were scattered about my floor and yes, I have a bruise.) Lately I’ve been listening to hymns in my car as I’m driving. I find it cuts down on road rage. (It’s hard to call someone a “gormless weasel” to the accompaniment of “Nearer My God to Thee.”) There’s something about a really, really good song that makes my insides (figuratively) swell.

3. I am a nature junkie. I love outdoors. I’m not an accomplished skier or biker or kayaker, I just like to walk around and see what I see. I like to feed the ducks, watch the leaves turn, and listen to the crunch of snow under my feet. There are a few vistas here in the valley that bring on the twinge of tears faster than any chick flick I’ve seen.

4. I am an alone time junkie. I don’t know if it’s a cause or an effect from my status as a Singleton, but I really enjoy being by myself. I like to go to movies alone and try out new restaurants alone. Last year I took a gourmet cooking class by myself and it was really, really fun. I do love to spend time with my family and friends (shout out to my girls: Holla!) but, almost as much, I like to be at a table for one.

5. I am a girlie stuff junkie. My whole life I’ve been a pretty casual jeans-and-t-shirts type girl, but a few years ago, I got all girlie. It’s so weird. As I’m typing, I look down at my pink (yes, pink!) cashmere sweater and pinstripe skirt, smell a faint wave of floral perfume, feel my hair pulled into a sleek bun and think, “Who is this girl?” I haven’t gone completely over to the pink side, but I enjoy putting on make-up, I enjoy doing my hair, and I enjoy being a girl.

6. I am a kids junkie. A product of having 8 younger siblings is you just really like kids. I interact with kids daily in my work and have officially been dubbed “the cool aunt” by my nephews. (Amy, it’s okay. They still like you. I’m just a LOT more fun.) There is something magical about seeing a child's eyes light up when something finally clicks, when they can finally write their name or when a joke finally makes sense. The triumph in their expression is incomparable. I love being a big sister. I love being an aunt. I love being a teacher. I cherish these roles as much as I will cherish being a mother someday.

Miscommunication

This morning, someone was talking to me at length about D'Nealian. I was really confused for most of our conversation until I realized she wasn't talking about the car in Back to the Future.

Don't do it.

You should probably not click here.

It will make you freakin' crazy.

Winner, Winner!

We Americans sat with bated breath and white knuckles tonight, glued to our TVs, hoping and praying for a victory.

That's right.

The Mavericks won tonight! By 17 points! Yay!




Oh, and also, we have a new president or something.

My second favorite part of voting?

The sticker.

Why I can't pay attention in Sunday School.

I get distracted pretty easily.

There was a bald guy sitting a couple rows in front of me in Sunday School yesterday. I was trying to pay attention but, uh, there was a bald guy sitting in front of me.

So my train of thought ran thus: "His head is really shiny. I wonder if he puts something on it to make it shine. Like oil? Do people oil their heads? Maybe it's just naturally shiny. I wonder if he washes it. He must wash it. I mean, gross if he doesn't, right? What does he use? Probably not shampoo cause there's no hair. Just soap? Does he use the same stuff that he washes his face with? I would use body wash to wash it. I mean, it is part of the body. I wonder if he uses a loofah. Do guys even use loofahs? I think I would use a loofah if I had a bald head. It's actually pretty funny to think about washing your head, isn't it? That'd be weird if I were bald. I hope I never get cancer."

Yes, I spent several minutes in church thinking about some guy's head. Which is why I should probably always sit on the front row. Unless the teacher has a moustache. Or some kinda mole.

Fax Pas

To replace the ink in my fax machine, I have to lift the top up and keep it open while I swap out the cartridge. There is a little arm that holds the top open while I change the ink but that arm, like everything useful, has broken. Well, no prob. When I need to change the ink, I do what every red-blooded American does: I improvise. Improvise in the form of a three-hole punch as a fax top prop arm.

I’ve been doing this for several months but I didn’t realize how dumb I look until my coworker paused outside my office door today, watching as I, an adult, opened up my fax machine and stuck a three-hole punch inside.

“Uh, Kim?” he said, “That’s not exactly how to use that, you know.”

My comeback? “That's not how you use . . . the . . . thing . . . shut up.”