My Life

Is it bad the highlight of my weekend is Saturday morning waffles?


They're awfully tasty.

The Goods

This post has its origins here.

Comment on this post and I will make you something. With these here hands. All for you. And I get to choose what I make. And you HAVE TO LIKE IT, BUDDY! Just kidding, you might hate it. But no take-backs, k?

The possibilities of the world are open to us. Me and you. The maker and the getter. It could be anything. I could make you a storybook, or knit you a checkbook cover or invite you over for a three-course meal. Pull up your socks, cause they're about to get blown off.

Here's the dealio, Joe: You'll have to repost and make stuff for someone else. Fun, huh?

So Mark did five which is a nice number but my version of the rules has always been a little off . . . so, I'll do five totally awesome creations for the first five and anyone who comments after that gets something pretty cool (unless I get lazy and just send you a piece of cardboard that says "You just got pwned, sucka!"). And I'll let you decide how many people you'll get all creative on.

Oh, and the getting of the goods will be as such: If you live in Salt Lake or thereabouts or somewhere I might be visiting in the next little while, I'll bring you (hand-delivered!) whatever I make. If you're far away, I'll send it to ya. Deal?

And if you leave an anonymous comment, I'll just make something and give it to a homeless person.

Okay, I am hereby ordering you to comment. Now. (Just do it. You know you want to.)

My Brain Shuts Down at Eleven

I'm here laying in my bed doing a little late-night reading, right? I'm all ready for sleep: fuzzy pjs, hair in the signature messy ponytail, contacts out and glasses on. Whilst reading, I notice my glasses are rather smudged and could use a good cleaning. Of course, here I am cozy in my bed with absolutely no intention of getting up to get a cleaning wipe for these bad boys. A few minutes pass but, ugh, they're really starting to bug me. All I need is something wet to use to wipe them off.

Hey. My tongue is wet. I actually pull my glasses off and have them halfway to my mouth when I come to my senses.

WHA--what the hell?! Was I about to lick my glasses?

Oh. my. word. I need to go to sleep. Right now. Who knows what other crazy stuff I'll do in my sleep-deprived state? Geez. I might even yank out my laptop and document this ridiculous behavior. For posterity.

Licking my flippin' glasses. Seriously, why?

On Happiness

My boss said to me yesterday, “Kim, you are always so cheerful. You must be one of the happiest people I know.”

“I guess I just figure it’s easier to be happy than to be miserable,” I replied. “And,” I added, “I’m pretty lazy so, you know, always looking for the easy way out . . .”

“Well whatever it is, it’s sure nice,” she told me.

This got me thinking. What are some people so unhappy? I don’t get it. Doesn’t everyone realize how much energy is drained by a melancholy attitude? It’s so much more effortless to be happy.

Aren’t we Americans always looking for shortcuts and time-saving options? Well here’s one, folks: Just be happy. It’s not that complicated.

Back when I was full of teenage angst, my mom would tell me, “Choose to be happy today.” And I’d always say, “Okay, Mom! Sounds good!” Just kidding. I was a total brat from age 13 until 18 or so. So I probably stomped my foot at her and said something sarcastic. Because that’s how I rolled. Man, it’s a good thing I grew out of that whole “snarky” thing.

Luckily, I eventually realized my mom was right. She’s always right! You just have to make a decision to be happy. You get up in the morning and tell yourself, “This is going to be a great day.”

And then you make it happen, Captain.

P.S. Thanks for the advice, Mom. Love you.

P.P.S. Do you ever look back and want to apologize to everyone you knew during junior high? Something like, “Sorry you had to experience that whole period of my life. I’m pretty cool now. So, good news, looks like the angst wasn’t permanent.”

Anyone else?

Sometimes when I walk through the doors at Wal-Mart, I think I can feel a little piece of my soul dying.

But you just can’t beat those prices! Holla!

My coworker makes my brain hurt.

Yesterday I had one of the part-timers at work help me set up flags from various countries for our International Night. She asked me if I knew from which countries the flags were. I replied that I didn’t know.

"Well, what do you think this one is?" she persisted, holding up a black, red, and yellow banner.

"I don’t know. Ethiopia?" I hazarded.

"It looks more like the African flag to me," she argued.

I bit my tongue and patiently explained that Africa was, in fact, a continent, not a country and consequently did not have her own flag. The countries and regions, I explained, have flags but there isn’t an official "African flag."

"What? Africa doesn’t have a flag?!?" she asked.

"No," I said slowly, "That would be like saying 'the Asian flag'."

"Hang on . . . Asia doesn’t have a flag?!?"

Sigh.

Later, she wrinkled her nose during my (amazing, I might add) rendition of "I Think I Love You."

"Not a David Cassidy fan?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Are you kidding? David Cassidy! He’s a singer . . . he was in the Partridge Family," I explained.

"What’s the Partridge Family? Is that like American Idol?"

I looked at her for a long minute. "I have no idea how to talk to you," I said and walked away.

For the sake of cuteness.

My mother has the cutest run I've ever seen. When we play kickball as a family, I love it when Mom is up at bat. When she runs, I practically die of cuteness. She puts her hands up (think "jazz hands") and prances off to first base. It's darling.

Speaking of cute, I interviewed a girl yesterday that also had an adorable idiosyncrasy. The tip of her nose wiggled every time she spoke. I was enchanted. I actually wanted to offer her a job just so I could continue seeing her little nose twitch every day.



I wonder if I have a charming quirk.

Why Kids are Cooler than Adults

#1: Kids are more fun to talk with. Children’s use and appreciation of language is so inventive. I love the way children can skip in a single conversation from what they had for dinner last night to what they want to be when they grow up to asking why the grass grows up instead of sideways. I love the way children giggle when they hear a word that is unfamiliar. “Oklahoma?” they shriek, “What’s an Oklahoma?” I think we, as adults, get tired with our language. We hear and use the same words over and over and conversations can become monotonous. But kids haven’t been exposed to enough language to get tired of it. They greet every encounter with speech as a new adventure.

#2: You can be much sillier with kids. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a proclivity for lightheartedness. Kids never tire of this. In fact, I’m pretty popular with the under-8 crowd. With adults, you’re expected to be serious. A lot. You have serious meetings and serious conversations and serious phone calls. No wonder adults look haggard! Where’s the silliness? Where’s the levity? Case in point: I met a three-year-old named Matilda last week. Upon meeting, I swung her up on my hip and danced in circles with her while singing “Waltzing Matilda” in an exaggerated Australian accent. She laughed and we became instant friends. You can’t do stuff like that with adults. Well, I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just saying you shouldn’t.

#3: Kids are more lovable. Some of my students drive me absolutely bonkers. Real live tear-your-hair-out want-to-cry insane. But at the end of the day, I’m crazy about these kids. I’ve been working with children for a long time and have seen hordes of kids come and go, and after it all I can say in sincerity that I have genuinely loved every single one of the kids I’ve worked with. Some more than others, mind you, but every one has held a little piece of my heart. Right now there are 54 kids enrolled at my school and there isn’t a single one that I wouldn’t miss if he went away. I don’t think I’m unusual. Kids just have a natural magnetism; you can’t help but love them. Adults? Well, that’s another story . . .

The highlight of his Sabbath.

Yesterday I offered the opening prayer in Sacrament meeting. While walking back to my pew, I saw my roommate grinning at me. So I did what anyone else would do in that most sacred environment: I pulled a seductive kissy face and winked alluringly at her.

Unbeknownst to me, the guy sitting in front of my roommate was also smiling at me. And he was somewhat alarmed that, in response to his innocent smile, I practically threw my virtue at him. In church.

I’m just glad I didn’t mouth, “You know you want this, baby.”

Because that would've been somewhat awkward.

Proof I shouldn't blog before I'm fully awake.

Just a few minutes ago, while I was perched on the bathroom counter swishing Listerine, I was thinking about alcohol. Listerine is chock-full of the stuff (which is why you're not supposed to drink it) (unless you're my grandpa).

So the alcohol kills the germs in your mouth. Yeah, I know that Listerine tells you it kills germs with essential oils from eucalyptus and the like but I'm not buying it. Otherwise koalas would have beautiful healthy teeth and perennially fresh breath. I haven't spent a lot of time around koalas, but I can imagine. So if the alcohol kills germs, do other types of alcohol do the same? Like, could I keep a bottle of whiskey under my sink and swish with that twice daily? And if you're drunk do you have less bacteria in your mouth than someone who's not?


You know how they say a dog's mouth has less bacteria than a human's? Well what about a drunk? Where do they fit in the scale? Is it dog, drunk human, regular human? Or do drunk people surpass dogs? What about drunk dogs?

I'm just saying.

Way to waste time on a dateless Friday night. And to giggle yourself silly.

Q1: Type in “[your name] needs” in the Google search.
Kim needs to take off the gloves.

Q2: Type in “[your name] looks like” in Google search.
Kim looks like an adult-sized Cupid of an indiscernible gender.

Q3: Type in “[your name] says” in Google search.
Kim says, "You can't put your arms around a memory."

Q4: Type in “[your name] wants” in Google search.
Kim wants nuclear-free peninsula.

Q5:Type in “[your name] does” in Google search.
Kim does not know the rules.

Q6: Type in “[your name] hates” in Google search.
Kim hates the Biggie Biopic.

Q7: Type in “[your name] asks” in Google search.
Kim asks the right question.

Q8: Type in “[your name] likes ” in Google search.
Kim likes beautiful revolutionaries.

Q9: Type in “[your name] eats ” in Google search.
Kim eats microwave oven.

Q10: Type in “[your name] wears ” in Google search.
Kim wears short shorts.

Q11: Type in “[your name] was arrested for” in Google Search.
Kim was arrested for public intoxication.

Q12: Type in “[your name] loves” in Google Search.
Kim loves vintage costume jewelry.



P.S. Only some of these are true.

My Friend Pablo

You guys know all about Pablo, yes?

Wednesdays are my favorite days because that's the day I get to go kick it with Pablo for an hour or two after work. Pablo never fails to make me laugh so hard it hurts and his mother Galina always chides me for not constantly eating at their house.
A typical conversation with her runs:

Galina: Hi, Kim. You want food? What I should make for you? You like sandwich or nice apple, maybe?

Me: Oh, no. I'm fine. Really.

Galina: No, I will make little somethings. You like the salads? I make for you salad, yes? With the, uh, the tomato?

Me: I'm not hungry but thank you so much.

Galina: You want a refreshment? A Dr Pepper, yes?

Me: You know what? I'm okay. Really.

She bustles out and back in a few minutes later with a bottle of water, a package of cookies, two sandwiches and a bowl of fruit.

Galina: Here is some food for you. You eat.

Me: Okay. Great. Thanks.

And Pablo just laughs and laughs. He tells me, "You better eat before you get in trouble."

One day, about a year ago, I walked in to see Pablo wrapped up in a blanket. I said, "Pablo, you look like a burrito!" And the nickname stuck. He always wants me to call him Burrito now. And he never calls me by name, it's always "my dear." Last night, when I called him sweetie, he whirled his head around to ask, "Sweetie? I am Burrito." And with a sly smile he added, "Or you could call me Sweet Burrito."

And that set us off. We giggled about Sweet Burritos for almost twenty minutes. That's the way it is with the two of us: we keep merriment close at hand.

He's such a charmer, that Pablo. He told me once, "I love two things: good-sounding opera and good-looking women. You are one of those."

I love spending time with my hilarious friend.

Test of a True Friend

Karen and I were on the couch watching TV the other night when I turned to her and asked, "If you were dating Hugh Jackman, would you let me make out with him one time?"

"Oh, yeah. Because I'd be secure enough in our relationship and all," she replied.

"Really? Me too," I vow.

"Of course."

And thus we see the secret of our friendship. We would totally let each other make out with our imaginary hot boyfriend.

It's perplexing.

Most of you have probably heard me mention my big sister, Amy. She’s pretty cool. Amy is the type of person people just always like. She’s friendly, talented and wonderfully witty. The people who don’t like Amy are probably the same people who cheered in the theatre when Bambi’s mom got shot and then went home and punched a kitten. Read: not cool people.

Anyway, Amy’s assets are many and her faults few so she will perhaps forgive my teasing her on this one small thing?

The way she answers the phone always amuses me. She just sounds so bewildered. “Hel-LO?”

You almost imagine her asking in response to a phone ringing, “What is this? A phone? Oh, I’ve never used a phone before. How do you make it stop? Hello? Oh, you pick it up first? Hel-LO?”

It’s just so funny. I’m giggling to myself right now as I think about it. I’m actually tempted to give out her phone number just so you can all experience Bemused Phone Amy.

But I won’t.

Because she can totally beat me up.

Probably the weirdest thing anyone has ever said to me in Albertson's.

I bumped into a friend at the grocery store today. We had been chatting in the produce section for a few minutes when he took a step back, looked at my butt (Yeah, you read that correctly. He full-on looked at my butt!), and said:

(Are you ready for this?)


"Girl, you shore know how to fill out a pair a' jeans."

WHAT?!

I don't . . . I have . . . no words . . . What do you say to that?

I did my famous I'm-nervous-and-have-no-idea-how-to-respond laugh and finally managed a "Gee, thanks."

So, in case you were wondering, I can fill out a pair of jeans.



Wait. That was a compliment, right? Wasn't it? WASN'T IT??

Geez, now I've got a complex about my butt. That's really all I need.

You can't help but snicker at this.

marriedtothesea.com

Happy Birthday, Abraham!

I love Abraham Lincoln. Quite a bit. Just take a look at my bookshelves. I have volumes recounting his war, his Presidency, his life, his lexis, and his legacy. I just love the guy.

So now, on the 200th anniversary of his birth, I'm celebrating. I DVRed Lincoln: Man or Myth? on the History Channel a few weeks ago and I'm just itching to watch it. Anyone care to join me? Come on, you know it sounds fun. We can talk about how much I love Honest Abe . . . I'll make popcorn.

Yes, I am easily amused by Microsoft Paint.

All in the family

I’ll admit to being a little absent-minded at times. I maintain that I’m just preoccupied with more important things. (Like inventing a diet soda bong for my car so I don’t have to let go of the wheel while driving. Admit it. It’s a good idea.)

Anyway, I’ve always been apologetic for my forgetfulness. I talked to my mom recently and she relayed two very interesting stories which assuaged my feelings of culpability.

Story #1: Driving home from Baltimore Monday afternoon, Mom was lost in thought and accidentally drove up the exit ramp of the freeway. And almost got hit by another car. And almost died. I guess those big red “Wrong Way” signs didn’t catch her eye.

Story #2: My 6½-year-old brother Matt went over to his friend’s house the other day sans underwear. Apparently, he forgot to put it on that morning and hadn’t noticed all day.

HA! It’s not my fault I’m absent-minded. It’s in my blood! Look at these freaks I’m related to.

There's no place like, uh, whatever.

I’ve been here in Utah for about 4½ years. Within that time, I have moved 5 times. (What can I say? I get antsy sometimes.) As a result of moving so frequently, I live light. I don’t own much and the stuff I have is pretty portable. I don’t feel like I’ve ever put down roots here in Salt Lake.

On top of that, my parents left my hometown in Texas a few years back and moved to a tiny little town in rural Maryland. (That's weird because, before they moved there, I don’t think I’d ever thought of Maryland as a real place.) So when people say, “you can’t go home again,” they really mean it; I can’t go home again. Because there’s someone else living in my house.

Maryland doesn’t feel like home to me because it’s not my home, it’s the place where my family lives and I go visit a couple times a year.

All these things culminate in my mind to a sense of general displacement. I don’t feel like I have a home in the connotative sense of the word. Sure, I “have a home” in that I “have a place where I keep my stuff and sleep at night” but that’s my current home, not my home home. So I’m left feeling rather detached from any physical place. Over the past 4 years my life had changed a great deal. Most things haven’t remained constant.

Except . . . (shudder) . . . my job.

This place is very familiar and (dare I say?) homey for me.

Yeah.

The one home that I have here is the very place that is slowly sucking away my soul.


How sick.

Reverently, Quietly

I try so hard to be reverent in church. I really try so hard.

But I am afflicted with attention-span issues.

And roommates.

This became a problem yesterday when my roommate flicked me with a rubber band right in the middle of Sacrament meeting. I could not let her challenge stand unanswered. I slipped that band on my finger, aimed peripherally, and let it fly. Yeah, except Liz wasn't exactly where I thought she was and the perfectly flicked rubber band sailed right across the aisle. In horror we watched as it pegged someone in an adjacent pew, and then in unison we bent over with uncontrolled, yet silent, laughter. In response to the look we received I said quietly, "What's her problem? Be nice, lady. We're in church."

About 20 minutes later I started to get fidgety again and whispered to my roommate, "Hey, do you think she'll give us back the rubber band?"

"No!" was her response.

"Will you just ask?" I pressed.

"No!"

Some people are just no fun.

Common Mistake

My dad, while telling me about a book he'd recently read, couldn't remember the novel's name. He assured me that I would be able to readily identify the book as he described the plot and characters. He then recalled, "It was written by Gene Wilder."

Throughout his summarizing, I grew more and more confused until I heard my mother in the background say, "You mean Jane Austen, dear."

Yes, Jane Austen was the author of Persuasion. Not Willy Wonka. But in truth, they are so similar, I'm surprised more people don't confuse them.

And happy Friday to you, too.

I had a hard time concentrating at work today. Well, because it's Friday. And maybe this had something to do with it:

Did you count 'em? Four, baby. And that was just before 3:30.
This afternoon on my way boring conference call, I was a bit distracted and not-paying-attentionish. And so I had a little lookie at the Internet. Specifically, a hilarious blog.
And that's where I read the words, "raging case of B.O. from a three mile jaunt in a monkey suit."
Honestly, I tried to hit Mute on my phone but I can never remember where the darn button is.
And that's why the other three people on the call heard a huge guffaw and wheezing that I tried to pass off as a coughing fit until I located Mute.
That'll teach 'em to invite me to a conference call on a Friday afternoon. Sheesh.

Flippin' Anxiety

I'm having job anxiety.

No, not that I might lose my job because, let's face it, this place would shrivel up and die without me here and that's the truth.

Now I could spin you a sweet little tale on how I feel about practically running this place while the person who makes three flippin' times what I make spends the majority of the work week still trying to figure out how email works. I could do that, but my mom told me I should not say swears on my blog because it makes me seem "low class" so I will not talk about that particular element of my job right now.

No, that's not it either.

Here's what is giving me job anxiety:

My desk.

I like my desk clean. I like it organized. I like everything put away. I don't like this. It's making me brain-hurty. And it's making me unfunctiony. And it's making me anxiousy. And it's making me ADDy. And it's making me blogging-instead-of-workingy.

Only, how cute is my brother, right?

James is now in Mexico and lovin’ it! He keeps his family updated through the magic of email. (The “e” stands for “entertaining”) Here are some excerpts from the past few emails that are just so James.

You don’t have to worry about us being robbed. I don’t have any money.

So I do not know what we are going to be doing today and, even if I was told, I would not really understand.

We turn our water heater on every morning for our shower. The first day we actually heated our water with our iron because we didn’t have any gas.

A funny thing about our ward is that no one can sing the Hymns and, to make it worse, if no one knows the Hymns on the piano, the chorister sings the first line and then everyone imitates that for the song. It’s quite painful to listen to.

Well, I hate to say it, but American Mexican food actually tastes a lot better than Mexican Mexican food.

I spoke in church on Sunday. I read Alma 5:45-46 I think and then maybe talked about it. I don’t know; it was in Spanish.

Time goes pretty fast here, even though the people don’t.

James, second from the right, confirms suspicions that he is just as weird in foreign countries as he is in the USA.

The band that plays down the street from James's house.

If you’d like to write to James, email me and I’ll send you his address. I’m sure he’d love to get mail from los gringos.

Surely she didn't mean that. Did she?

Do you ever stumble across an old email and find a treasure from years ago? I was searching for something my sister emailed me and instead found a message she sent Sunday, October 8, 2006 at 10:03 pm.

The subject line reads, "The perfect poem!"

And the message:

Abstinence sows sand all over
The ruddy limbs and flaming hair,
But Desire Gratified
Plants fruits of life and beauty there.
William Blake, 1787

Okay, okay. I have no clue concerning the context of this email. It could have been referring to something completely innocent and normal . . . BUT it's pretty funny to imagine what caused my upstanding elder sister to send me a poem about *snicker* desire gratified *snicker* with the assurance that it's "perfect".

Any conjectures? Ames, do you remember what this is all about?

I need to stop thinking about it. I'm giggling to myself much too often these days.