The Truth

I tell people I wear heels a lot because I'm so short, but really I wear them because they make me feel powerful.

Who da ho?

I headed out on the wide open highway this weekend. Destination: Idaho. Reason: baby shower.

Living on the edge, folks.

The dullness of the drive was assuaged because I had this chick with me, a steady supply of Big Gulps, and 80's music until our ears bled. I think by hour six Melissa was thinking, "Seriously with the Whitesnake again?" (P.S. If you don't know Melissa, just imagine a skinnier, blonder version of me, but, ya know, actually funny.)

My enjoyment of the shower was augmented by the inclusion of delicious chicken salad sandwiches, of which I consumed 4 or 18. But my personal favorite part of the entire weekend was when Melissa told a tiny child, "Get a life, baby," which is probably the best thing I've ever heard.

It was lovely to see my old friends and I was, once again, reminded why I am so glad Corrine married Kristofer:

a) he recognizes the white gummi bears are the best flavor and he knows the Haribo brand is the only kind worth buying anyway

b) he made meatloaf & mashed potatoes for dinner (while I napped on the couch--double score!)

c) he bought me a pina colada sno-cone

(Yeah, I just realized all those have to do with food. There are other reasons why I like Kristofer, like the time he totally ring-checked a cute guy for me, but I was just really hungry this weekend.)

Next road trip: Boise in July. Anyone care to join me?

A decade later, I'm still living it down.

I spotted a red Ford Aerostar on my way to work today and it brought back memories of the red Aerostar from my youth.


The van we took along on countless road trips.

The van the kids dubbed "Big Red."

The van that shuttled me to and from junior high every day.

The van I crashed into a toll booth when I was 15.


And let me tell you, my parents were thrilled.

Morning Tasks

Get up----check

Enjoy lavishly warm shower----check

Dance around in underwear to Night Ranger----check

Leave for work----check

Engage in philosophical debate with cashier at 7-11----check



Just another Wednesday.

I like movies to be plausible. I know, I know . . . I love sci-fi movies (and fantasy movies but please do not tell anyone--it's so embarrassing) and it seems contradictory that, with such tastes, I expect movies to be actually feasible but hey, I'm a pretty contradictory girl. That's why my roommates won't watch Top Gun with me; I keep spouting off about how "there's no way they would get away with that," and "that is so factually inaccurate!" Another of my catch-phrases is "While that isn't impossible, it's not very probable." Ah, they love me.

Hand in hand with that, I hate when movies portray people who are confused by their death. Like in The Sixth Sense, I hated that the guy didn't know he was actually dead. And in Ghost, it was awful that Sam was scared and confused and alone. I hate it because it's so inaccurate.

Now, I'm not saying I know what exactly happens when we die. I don't know what it feels like, I don't know what it looks like, I don't know what the experience is like. I don't know.

But what I do know is God is in control and God loves us. Even when we don't recognize Him, He loves us. I know that He is with us always and He will not abandon us at the end. And while I couldn't tell you everything about the afterlife, I can tell you this: we won't be confused and we won't be alone.

Last night I stood by helpless and wordless as a friend wept over her passing father. I wished I had the right words, I longed for the eloquent phrases to come but I remained inarticulately mute.

Even now, I have nothing for my darling friend except this: He was not alone. He is not alone. And neither are you.

Comments off

Silly Ol' Dad

Ah, the Father's Day post. But where, oh where to start?

I could tell you how funny my daddy is. How he has the best Chicken Dance I've ever seen, yet sadly, the general populace will never see it for he insists, rather forcefully, of being so incongruously normal in public. Thankfully, the rest of us make up for it. I could tell you all about his "late-night-mania" that strikes every night at eleven and finds him laughing uproariously at just about everything. I will pay you a thousand dollars if you can get him to say "feckless shoehorn" late at night with a straight face. I could tell you about the time he tried to convince my potty-training-reluctant brother that underpants were cool by putting them on his head and running around the house as "Underwear Man."

I could tell you all that, but that's not all that Dad is.

I could tell you how kind my dad is. I could tell you how he'll drop anything to help a friend. I could tell you about the time he lent the family car to a single mom until she could get back on her feet. I could tell you about the million chairs he's set up at the thousand church functions he's attended. I could tell you about all the little gifts he would bring home from his business trips through the years: books and dolls and cookies and such.

I could tell you all that, but that's not all Dad is.

What if I told you about how good Dad is? Would you really know who he is if I told you about how faithfully he's held callings over the years? How he loves everyone he serves with, how he wants--really, really wants--to help others be happy and to try harder, how faithfully he honors his priesthood. I could tell you about the year he was my early-morning seminary teacher and how he would gently urge all the sleepy-eyed, belligerent teenagers to a better understanding of the gospel. Would you really know him then?


Well, what if I told you how strong he is? I could tell you how much he strives to protect his family. I could tell you about the long hours he's spent working on his Master's degree, just to be a better provider to his little (and big) ones. I could tell you about how he was at my brother's funeral--Mom was a mess and us kids were in shock--and there he was: so strong, even when you knew he just wanted to break down. But he didn't. He didn't. But that's not quite all he is.

I could tell you how manly he is. How he loves cars and can fix practically anything. How he can make a steak that just melts on your tongue. Melts, people! How he's just a guys-guy, but retains such chivalrous manners. Oh, such a gentleman! Opening doors and the whole bit. (Are you starting to see how he's ruined me for all other men? I mean, how could they even compete with this guy?)


Oh, what about how comforting he is? I could tell you about the time I called him in tears after a hard breakup and he sounded like he would rip that guy in two if I only asked. (And I still believe he would have.) I could relate what kind of Driver's Ed coach he was for me. How, when I would get frustrated or overwhelmed, he would just say softly, "You got this, girl." Would you know him if you knew I still hear his voice when I'm upset saying, "You got this, girl"?

Do you have an idea of who he is yet? I don't know if I've even done him justice.

What if I told him about the time I flew down to my parents' home after living in Utah for several months, only to find he was away on business? How I sat on the couch brimming with the most inconsolable misery? Or another time I flew out to visit and he met me at the airport with flowers--I just flew into his arms and whispered, "Oh, daddy, I'm so happy to be home!" But I really meant, "I'm so happy to be with you. Oh, how I've missed you!"


And, no matter where I go or who I become, he will always be my daddy and I will always be his girl. I love him. I always, always will.

Why I got a scholarship to art school.

The ladies and I caught a fantastic production of Oklahoma last weekend. (P.S. If you didn't pick up on the fact that I love musical theatre by this point, well, you're just an idiot. That's right, I'm talking about you, punk.)

It was fab and, even better, we got to see our very own buddy Jacob as Curly. In an unfortunate turn of events, my camera was unable to make the show so here are a few supplementary visuals so you can really feel like you were there. (Because, ya know, I ne'er shy away from a public display of my AMAZING art skills.)

Opening scene:


Before the feminist movement:


Ending:

Curtains.

I wish I could give you a transcript of the running commentary between Liz and I but most of it would be inappropriate to repeat and had to do with Jake's jeans and the tightness of such. (Oh, man. He is so gonna punch me next time we meet.)

Here's just a sampling of what was thought/said during the show.(Yeah, Karen, I don't know why you look like a deranged toddler in this picture. And Gretch, sorry about how giant your head looks.)

Kim: I think it's completely appropriate to sing along to all the songs.
Gretchen: It's not. Trust me.
Kim: I'll just do it quiet.
Gretchen: No.
Liz: Do you smell smoke? Is there a fire?
Karen: I am the girl who can't say no!
Whitney: How did I get roped into going out in public with these people?
Kim(singing): . . . with fringe on top!
Gretchen/Liz: SSSHHHH!



Aahh, too bad you missed it folks. It was a night to remember.

Alls it takes to melt my heart is a white Stetson and a pair of Levi's. A soft drawl can't hurt, though.

So I think I need to move out of the city. There simply are too few cowboys here and how the heck can I accomplish my life goal of marrying a cowboy if I'm here in the middle of the suburbs? Huh? Huh?

Have I told you folks about my thing for cowboys? No? Well, I have told my entire ward. Over the pulpit. That's right folks--I keep things classy.

Anyway, I guessed y'all could figure it out since I fell in love for the first time with Christian Bale* when he sang Santa Fe and, I don't care that he's got a kid my age, I will love George Strait 'til the day I die. (And, don't tell anyone, but I just might have this hanging in my bedroom.)

And, seriously, have you heard Big Green Tractor? That's like the love song to my very soul.


____________________________________________________________________
*Dear Christian Bale,
I know you've got some anger issues but, if you're up for it, you should move to Utah, join the Mormons and make an honest woman out of me. And if you talk to me in your Batman voice I will make it worth your while, if you know what I'm sayin'.
Yours, Kim

I repeated the following at least eight times last night.

"Bu-bu-bu-bu-but-but-but------I LOVE ED."

Sniffle.

Computer-Generated Pat on the Back

I was setting up an account online recently and was surprised by an unexpected and satisfying bit of personal validation.



I have a Good password.

Why, thank you website. That means a lot.

I could give you the context of this, but I think that would just make it worse.

From conversation with bro-in-law:

Shipping body parts is risky business, but it is doable.

That "Ah-ha!" Moment

The other day I found myself in Wal-Mart and, walking around, I thought, "Wow! These prices are great! Why don't I shop here more often?"

And then I saw a man spit on the floor as he was walking by and I was like, "Ah. That's why."

What it's like to be me:

Ninety-five percent of my life feels like I'm caught in the basal struggle between doing the responsible, adult, mature thing and doing what I'd really rather be doing.

I won't tell you which part wins more often but I will tell you that I got up in the middle of the night (on a work night!) to bake toffee-crunch brownies because I really wanted one. So . . . .

Just one more reason I'm going to hell.

Sometimes in church I find myself thinking, “Wow. I really hope there are no investigators* here today.”

I had this thought yesterday in Sunday School when we had the most disjointed lesson . . . and the poor guy teaching—oh you could tell he was nervous and maybe a little unprepared so I was trying to be nice and supportive, but he pulls out this story about ULTIMATE FIGHTING and this guy with a mohawk and some “paunchy” guy and letmetellyou I don’t know who was dishing out the crazy before the meeting but everyone seemed to be following along with his tie-in to the gospel and the Plan and what have you and I felt like the only one silently screaming, “SERIOUSLY, DUDE?”

Because it didn’t. really. make. sense. and kind of sounded like it was just a ploy to talk about ULTIMATE FIGHTING in church. But let’s face it, who hasn’t tried the old bizarre-metaphor-just-to-mention-a-cool-experience-in-a-lesson? Huh? HUH? That’s what I thought.

I texted my friend in the middle of the story (yeah, I know, FOR SHAME!) with “What the hell is he talking about?” She guffawed a little because apparently you’re not supposed to say swears in church or even type them.

So we finally get to the chapel later and halfway through Testimony Meeting the guy (you know, the Sunday School ULTIMATE FIGHING guy) stands up and walks to the podium. I whisper to my friend, “Remind me later to tell you the crazy story he told in Sunday School.”

Turns out I didn’t need to because blesshislittleheart he gets up and tells THE EXACT SAME STORY in the EXACT SAME WORDS. Oh, but this time with more detail and extra nonsensicalness. I could hardly bear it. I say to my pew-mate, “I want you to stab me. Please. Just make it stop.”

I glanced around to see if maybe everyone was getting the deep doctrinal points found in ULTIMATE FIGHTING and I was just the crazy sinner who was missing the whole thing. Then I saw practically everyone who sat through his lesson listening with a barely-concealed smirk and I was comforted that I was not the crazy one. You have no idea how much reassurance I need on that issue.

Anyway, it was awesome and I’m terribly sad I didn’t tape the whole thing for you folks at home. Here’s a little sampling of what you missed: “And the guy had a good 18 pounds on him and just starts sprinting, ya know. And he was going fast, like how fast can you sprint? Do you know, Brad? Anyway, it was fast and the other guy was cut, I mean seriously, and he had a mohawk** and everything. I bet you’d like a mohawk, huh, Bradley? And I thought for sure it was over because, I mean that guy was a serious fatty.”



This blog post brought to you by the makers of Kim is a Jerk and Makes Fun of People With Abandon and Without Thought of Repercussion


_______________________________________________
*Did you know we Mormons call non-members who are interested in the church “investigators”? Isn’t that a cool title? What a way to impress the ladies, huh? “Hi. I’m . . . . an investigator.” God help us if we ever need to report a crime. Someone will tell us, “You can go explain everything to the Investigator over there,” and we’ll all go, “Ooh, do you want some pamphlets?”

**Because mohawks are the source of all physical power, don’t ya know?

Effectively lowering this blog's standards

As a rule, I avoid publicly shaming and humiliating my exes. Ya know, cause I'm classy like that. But the following story is gold and I just can't help myself sometimes.


A few years ago the guy I'd been seeing for a handful of months tells me he has a surprise for me.

Ooo, yay. I like surprises. He had written me a poem. (all the ladies go "aw" now, please) Looking deeply into my eyes, he began to recite.


Oh.


My.


Word.


I must've looked something like this:


because the man actually made mention of my "good hygiene" and brought up the fact that I am "well-groomed" twice in his amorous rhyme. He also said several times that I smelled "irresistible."


Seriously? You're smitten with my grooming habits?

Gentlemen, I wouldn't pursue this avenue of affection if I were you. Trust me . . . I have great hygiene. (At least that's the word on the street.)

And it came to pass Kim was amused and did snicker exceedlingly, yea, she did even disrupt the chapel and the quietness therein was torn asunder.

Have I ever mentioned I love when people paraphrase scripture using modern-day language?

This recent gem tickled my funny bone.

Actual scriptural text:
And I beheld that [the fruit] was most sweet, above all that I ever before tasted. (1 Nephi 8:11)

As quoted over the pulpit:
And Lehi said, "Golly! This fruit is yummy!" (member of bishopric)

First Sign of Summer

One of these:

+


a little of this:


=

one fantastic morning commute


Yay for summer!!




(What? You don't eat popsicles for breakfast?)