And then I rolled my eyes.

This morning, a coworker and I were discussing a few books we've recently been reading. Another of our colleagues walked by and sighed condescendingly, "Oh, I wish I had the time to read for pleasure."

Pleasure. Humph. As if that's what reading is for.

Art Lesson

My roommate, Liz Frampton, has an interest in photography and several of her pictures are framed and hanging in our living room. One night, as I was scrambling for my checkbook, I invited the Pizza Hut guy in out of the cold. He rocked on his heels in the entryway as he peered around our home.

“This is a nice place you got here, ma’am,” pizza guy says.
“Oh, thanks,” I respond.
“I like all these pictures you’ve got up,” he continues.
“Yeah?” I say, “You know, they’re all Frampton originals.”
“Whoa,” he mutters wide-eyed, clearly impressed.

I don’t know if anyone thinks this is as funny as I do.

The business of being cool.

It's that time of the year again. New business card time! I have been playing around with a few designs and I came up with one that looks great. I might have to change one part, though. You see, right under my name I put the words "Pretty Awesome."

I think it looks good, but apparently someone else thinks "that wouldn't be appropriate."


Some people just don't know what cool is.

"C" is for cookie. And also for child predator.

I love Girls Scout cookies. The money goes to a good cause and they’re delish. What’s not to love about Girl Scout cookies?

Only problem? You have to buy them from a Girl Scout. I remember going door-to-door in our neighborhood as a GS to hawk my baked delights but no Brownies or Juniors are coming to my door. And it’s cookie season, is it not? Where are the cookie-sellers?

I was ruing my cookielessness to a coworker today and she suggested (I’m so not making this up) that I go to a local elementary school and find a Girl Scout to sell me some cookies.

“I’m sorry. Are you suggesting that I go hunt down a Girl Scout outside her school like a child predator?” I spluttered.

“Not a child predator! A cookie predator!” she exclaimed. “Much less creepy.”

“I’m pretty sure I would still get arrested for that.”

I can picture it now:
Me skulking around a playground.
School Administrator: Can I help you with something?
Me: Uhh, uhh, no. I’m, uhh, just looking for a Girl Scout.
SA: Yeah, I’m going to need you to leave now.
Me, muttering: Gotta get me some cookies. I need those cookies!
SA: HI-YAH! (karate-chop sound) Somebody call the police! We’ve got a predator-situation! I’ll keep her down by standing on her face.
Me, being dragged off by several cops: You don’t understand! I haven’t had Girl Scout cookies in a really long time. I need those cookies!
Police car speeds off with me in tow.
All the children cheer.
SA, wiping the sweat from her brow: Just making the world a safer place.

Seriously, do any of you know a Girl Scout? I really need some cookies.

New Age? No thanks.

My boss is driving me crazy (don’t the best stories start out this way?).

She has a new CD player for her office (Fine. It’s my fault—I bought it for her) and she’s been listening to Soothing Sounds of Nature CDs for weeks. Her office abuts mine and I “get” to hear Soothing Sounds of Nature, too! What fun!

The new one is a medley of bird songs.

Yeah.

Bird songs.

Bird.

Songs.

Arrgh. I mean, I like nature and all but it’s a little perplexing to be concentrating on a project in front of me and hear “ch-chirk, chirp, chirp” in the background. Or the one that goes, “kee, kee, KEE” over and over. That one’s pretty sweet. It’s especially fun when I answer the phone just as “caa-CAW, caa-CAW, caa-CAWW” rings out.

Losing. My. Mind. Over. Here.

It’s ridiculous. At least it’s better than—shudder—that panpipes CD she was listening to before. (Did you know people actually listen to panpipe music? On purpose. And they like it.) I’d even take back that Ocean Shores one from last week over this bird crap.

Ridiculous.

What happens when you leave books lying around for kids to find

The morning after a snowstorm, when all the tree branches are pristine white and heavy with snow, I always wake up and have a fleeting imaginary thought that I’m exploring some magical world ruled by tree-elves or ice-fairies. Something like that snowy level of Super Mario. Except there were no elves in that, were there? Anyhow, that’s not the point. The point is most grown-ups do not walk around in the snow thinking about fairylike elf kingdoms, do they? No.

See, Mom? This is what comes from giving your kids The Chronicles of Narnia, Bridge to Terabithia and Roald Dahl when they’re young. They grow up and imagine freakin’ miraculous worlds of fairies.

And you want to know something really, really sick? I’m saving those books to read to my kids someday. And they’re going to be completely wacko, too.

The Secret of Kim, aka What is Wrong with Me, aka Why I Was Awake at 3AM Today, aka A Really Weird Post, aka I’m Turning into a Lunatic

There is something wrong with me.

Picture this: I’m in a diner, head bowed over my notebook as I write, occasionally scratching out a word or line or tearing the page out to expose a fresh sheet. The discarded paper joins the other debris on my table: three empty glasses, a half-eaten chicken-something growing cold with neglect, an iPod (for inspiration), sunglasses (it’s always sunny when you’re cool) and half the contents of my purse that I displaced whilst searching for a pen. I’m concentrating solely on the task at hand, looking up only to murmur a quiet “thanks” as the waitress brings me yet another Diet Coke (if I get cancer from the aspartame, I’m suing her as an addiction enabler). At times I mutter something to myself, trying out the cadence of a phase before recording it my notebook.

Interruption comes in the form of my cell phone crooning Hungry Eyes at me; it’s a good friend and I pick up. A quality conversation ensues and I begin to tell him about how I must look to other patrons at this diner: a crazy woman scribbling in a notebook, throwing back soda and talking to herself. I stopped myself halfway through my thoroughly entertaining description because I became a bit self-conscious of how accurately I was describing how a person might act after severe head trauma.

After hanging up, I chided myself on exposing too much of my quirkiness to people because “I don’t want them to think I’m weird.” After that, I chided myself again for hiding parts of myself that are less palatable to the unwashed masses because “that’s part of who I am and I shouldn’t be hiding my bushels in a barrel or whatever.”

So, after reflection, I’ve narrowed it down to one basic problem: I hide much of who I am to others because I fear people won’t approve of parts of myself that I really like.

Big idea: fixing this problem.
Baby step: blogging about it.


P.S. Keith, I don't think you're part of the "unwashed masses." More of a "too cool for school" type thing. Ya feel me?

Why I Love Kindergartners

In recognition of yesterday's remembrance and today's events, my class and I discussed civil rights and equality this afternoon. After reading a book together about MLK, one boy asked, "Kim, why did someone shoot him? He was just a nice guy."

A small black girl said, "Because some people don't like people like me."

Another girl said, "But they're wrong! People like you are just the same as people like me. We're all just people. And that's what counts."

The first girl snuggled up to me and said, "I like Kim and she's different than me. And that's okay."

"Yep, babe," I answered, "that's okay."

Cars Cars Cars

My dad’s sister (also my favorite aunt) got married this weekend so Dad came out to Utah to celebrate. Friday night, Dad, G-Ma, Amy & co., and I headed to the Utah International Auto Show to check out all the cars and, as far as the boys were concerned, to sit in every single car in the whole building. My dad is an official gearhead and has instilled his love of all things auto in his kids and grandkids. We had a great time looking at the new models for '09 and '10 (It's not a car, it's a mobile device) and I have fallen in love once again. About a year ago, all I could think about was a cute little Nissan Versa Hatchback. I’m glad I never gave into the waves of temptation, because I now don’t think I can live another day without a Toyota Matrix. Seriously, how cute is that?

We also tried out a Smart Car (roomier than I imagined but then again I’m 5'3") and lusted after a sleek Maserati GranTurismo and a beautiful orange '66 Pontiac GTO (Dad was salivating). Unfortunately, I left my camera at home and Amy’s is somewhere at the bottom of Lake Powell so we don’t have documentation for our auto adventure. (You can go here and see my friends there and just pretend it’s me.)

Too Much Free Time

I'm thinking of starting a t-shirt design company.

Here's my favorite so far:

Don't worry. Something for the fellas, too.

(The above is inspired by my dear friend Jeff and his recent conversation with the Bishop.)

Have I ever mentioned I'm not really a morning person?

Alarm Clock: beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep

Me: What is wrong with you? Are you retarded? Don’t make that kind of noise while I’m sleeping!

AC: beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep

Me: It’s cute that you’re still doing that. You think just because you make a noise I’m going to jump up out of my bed? You think you can tell me what to do?

AC: beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep

Me: YOU DON'T KNOW ME! YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE!

AC: beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep

Me: I hate you and I wish you would die.

--------Twenty minutes later------------

Me, stomping off toward the shower: Now I’m gonna be late for work! Thanks for nothing. Stupid clock.

AC: Sad whimper

Some things I think

I think Love of a Lifetime by Firehouse is pretty much a great song.

I think a person is thoroughly entitled to exuberantly sing that song.

I think, if you hear someone singing that song, you could say, "Hey, I love this song," or "What great taste in music you have!" or even "Oh man! For real, dude."

I think you should not say, "Kim, you probably should get back to work now."



For real, dude.




P.S. I think I need to stop using the word "dude." I'm averaging about 4 a day.

It's the end of the work day . . .

and I still feel like this:

because my in-tray still looks like this:

Whatever, dude. I'm outie.

Some Kinda Misunderstanding

We were sitting around tonight watching hilarious videos when we realized how late it was getting.

"Stupid YouTube!" Karen exclaimed.
"What did you say about Jews?" Liz yelled.
Karen yelled back, "I didn't say anything about Jews!"
"What do Jews have to do with rice in China?" Liz inquired.
"The price of chocolate? What are y'all talking about?" I jumped in.
"RICE! RICE!" Karen yelled.
"Does anyone want a speckled banana?" Liz asked from the kitchen.
"A WHAT!?!?!" Karen, Gretchen and I wondered loudly.
"SPECKLED BANANA!"

That set off a discussion about teenage pregnancy, Liz's first grade circus (with demonstrations), and "chesties muscles" that lasted late into the night.

Gretchen giggled so hard she got wheezy, Karen lost her balance and writhed with laughter on the stairs and Liz did a Chinese fan dance for us.

And that's pretty much why we're all gonna be tired at work tomorrow.

Forever Young

Sometimes, as a Singleton, you feel “old.” All your friends are getting married and having babies and the kids you used to babysit are getting married and having babies and your younger siblings are getting married and having babies. And you’re concerned with your IRAs and your retirement benefits and picking up the dry-cleaning and should I take my car into the shop and fiber and other grown-up things and you just start to feel a little old.

But then, some things make you feel really young. Like when you watch Saturday’s Warrior on Cheesy Movie Sunday and then get into a tickle fight with your roommate.

That’s when you feel really young.

High on my pet peeves list . . .

are those people that quote the scriptures under their breath along with the speaker in church or teacher in Sunday School.


I mean, what is wrong with those people?


Seriously, folks. Stop. Doing. That.

The others within earshot are not impressed with your righteousness. They are, rather, impressed with their own ability of not smacking you in the back of the head.

Basically what I'm trying to say is that girl today narrowly escaped a hymnbook to the jugular.

For Brad

I apparently struck a tender nerve in a previous post and one of my very favorite people is feeling a little reluctant to forgive me. So now I just want to go on record and say I think BALD MEN ARE EXTREMELY ATTRACTIVE and that I actually have a crush on really like most baldies. In fact, my roommate has told me several times that bald men are reportedly more virile.

So there we go. Brad, ain’t no hatin’.

Seriously

Not to be overly-dramatic or anything, but if DeAnna messes things up for Jason and his MMIH* I will seriously die.




*Match made in heaven (in case you didn't go to junior high)

Mark the Mormon

I have a cousin. Well, actually I've got a few, but I only have one named Mark. Mark is a fascinating individual and he recently wrote an absorbing (like paper towels) little something that I enjoyed and wanted to pass along. You can read it here.

Disclaimer: It is totally about Mormons and Jesus and stuff, so if you're not "into that kind of thing" you could go here instead and look at funny pictures of cats that are (probably) not Mormon.

And also, I hope Mark will forgive me for linking to him without permission. I don't know if he's "into that kind of thing."

A slap in the face to Raynor family traditions.

I can't believe I went the whole Christmas season without watching Cool Runnings at least once.

This situation must be remedied.

Yo Utah

Why you gots to be so cold?

Fo' sheezy.