Christmas in New York is like Christmas other places. Just dirtier and with a lot more people.

Oh, and it has a bigger tree.

Christmas in New York? Oh hells yes.

Archie and I are having a quiet little Christmas here in the city. We've put together a Christmassy little living room complete with handmade knit stockings, baked (and eaten) a lot of cookies and cuddled up to watch several Christmas favorites like Celebrity Rehab and The Biggest Loser.

We're meeting some friends tonight for Christmas Eve dinner and then going to midnight mass here. I'm having a blast celebrating with my honeybunch.

Oh, wait, what? You wanted to see our cute faces? Ok, fine.

 

It's hard being this good looking but we make it work.

 Merry Christmas to all!

Christmas tress, glitter and other such nonsense.

Buying a Christmas tree in New York City is quite the experience, I tell you what. The steps are thus:

1. Walk by the Christmas tree place a dozen times over the course of a week. Sniff the air in an unseemly manner as you pass. Hum "Jingle Bells."

2. Take a walk with the boyfriend. Point to the tree and declare it the "cutest tree ever grown!"

3. Once tree is purchased and wrapped, watch boyfriend heft said tree upon his shoulder and set off toward the apartment. Melt a little because, okay, does anyone else have the lumberjack fantasy just a little? I mean, seriously. The man is carrying a tree. How can you not?

4. Prance after him and attempt to take his picture but, by george, he keeps turning his head away from the camera. Continue to prance down the street and prattle away about silly Christmasy things. Sing "Jingle Bells" for good measure.

Congratulations! Now you have a real New York City Christmas tree!

When I moved here from Utah, I got rid of most of my Christmas decorations and ornaments so the boy and I decided to make some for the tree. A batch of salt dough, a little paint and a lot of glitter later we had some fine baubles for the tree. 

And that's what's been going on here. Just kicking it with the two cutest guys on God's green earth.

City Shoes (and feet!)

These are the shoes that took me all the way to Battery Park one day and plopped me right in the sunshine so I could think about things. Because the combination of sunshine and bodies of water is practically an invitation to be pensive, is it not? These shoes were the shoes for my pensive day.

These are the shoes that took me to the Upper West Side for a job interview and then clicked happily down 65th Street to a bench on Columbus Avenue where I sat and watched the traffic and hoped. These were the shoes for my hopeful day.

And these are my unshod feet that paced the bedroom in Morningside Heights while I called and accepted the job offer. And then these feet waltzed me over to the window where I looked out at the city and smiled. Because, gosh, I've got a fancy job and a fancy apartment and a fancy boyfriend--you'd smile too, I bet.


So that's where we are. I'm slowly finding my place here in this big, crazy city. But, you know what, things are looking pretty good.

    

This is called having an awesome life.

Very sorry for telling you a little bit of a life-changing love story and then dropping off the planet for two entire weeks.

It's just that I've been busy being terribly happy and all. 

Saying Goodbye

The final walk though the house was hardest.

The goodbyes weren't bad. A few tears shed, some long hugs, but they weren't too bad. The last day of work was okay too. Even the packing was fine. Taking all my things off the walls wasn't fun, I'll admit. Vast, lonely, blue walls were left where colorful, happy pictures once hung. But, surprisingly, most of the process was okay. I even had a little fun with it as I called out "This is the last time I'll mop this floor!" and "This is the very last time I'll change the toilet paper roll in this house!" at various points during this last week.

But that walk through the emptied rooms was rough. The furniture gone, the walls empty, the floors freshly vacuumed. In the kitchen I smiled at the memories of that one night's citrus fight and all our house parties over the years. The basement reminded me of last Halloween's spontaneous mini-rave (complete with glow sticks!). I laughed at the smudge of blue paint on the ceiling of the bathroom from our late-night bathroom rejuvenation. The bedroom was last, and I paused as my hand hovered over the light switch and looked around the room one last time. So many nights spent here, so many blog posts typed as I sat cross-legged on the bed, so many phone calls made as I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling, so many mornings doing my hair for work, so many spontaneous dance parties, so many memories, so much happiness.

I pulled the front door shut and slid my key into the lock one final time. The lock clicked and I descended the steps to my car. As I pulled away from the house and watched it grow smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror, the tears fell freely. I wended out of the familiar neighborhood and noted how darling this little community is. Has it always been so lovely? But even as I mourn the end of one life, I know that this is no longer my home. My dear townhouse with so many memories isn't home anymore. My home is already with a couple of guys out in New York and I can't wait to get there.

The house on Ellerby stands waiting for new occupants and new memories. But once it held a silly girl with a head full of Bob Dylan songs and a heart full of hope who left that home and found a new one far away. In about five hours this girl's going to point her car east, step on the gas and never look back.

These are the important conversations you have to have when merging two lives, by the way.

me: So do you like toothpaste-paste or toothpaste-gel?

hot hot man of my dreams: Uh, what?

me: Like do you like the kind that's see-through jelly-type gel? Or the kind that's the thick pasty stuff?

hhmomd: I don't know. I use whatever. I couldn't tell you for sure. 

me: Oh....because I only use the pasty kind.

hhmomd: Ok.

me: The gel kind is gross.

hhmomd: Ok.

me: It's kind of a big deal for me.

hhmomd: Ok.

me: Like, if the paste kind is all gone and I have to use the gel kind, it's....awful. Just...awful.

hhmomd: We can have separate toothpastes*, Kim.

me: Yeah, that might be good.



*Turns out he doesn't like people squeezing the tube in the middle! As if there's another way to do it.

This is a true story probably, I think.

So, you know when you make peanut butter toast for breakfast but you use leftover french toast from Sunday for the toast which you heated up in the microwave a little too long so when you put the peanut butter on, it melts and turns into peanut butter soup and you're running out the door so you don't have time to let it cool off and re-solidify so you go and you're driving with your knees as you're trying to get the toast in your mouth without smearing peanut butter soup all over your face and it's really drippy and you're afraid that it will drip on your shirt and it can't drip on your shirt because you have a meeting with your boss' boss and you can't go to a meeting with your boss' boss with peanut butter drips on your shirt so you get all panicked about the peanut butter and all its drippiness so you start to eat the peanut butter off the top to remove the danger but it's all melty so really what you have to do is lick off the melted peanut butter and you're still driving down 7th East at this point but thankfully you're at a stop light and a car pulls up next to you and the driver happens to glance over at you and sees you licking your peanut butter soup off your too-hot leftover french toast and you see them look at you and they see you see them look at you and suddenly it's all you can do not to roll down your window and shout "Ha! You see, I'm just licking off this peanut butter because it's all melty and I don't want it to drip on my shirt because I'm on my way to work and I'm a professional, after all, and it's not like I'm crazy or anything!" because you still have this insatiable need to explain to perfect strangers exactly why you act the way that you do because, deep down, you really just want everyone in the whole world to like you?


Well, I know how you feel. 

Sneaks

Boss's Day is next Monday so I'm sneaking around making plans for a surprise mini-party for my boss.

My last day of work is next Friday so my boss is sneaking around making plans for a surprise* going-away party for me.


And this is why we never get any work done: we're sneaking around making plans in a perpetual state of sneakiness.

---

*As in, it would be a surprise had she not asked me to make the invitations.

Is this is a kissing book?

This is the story of a boy and a girl.

This boy and this girl were dear friends. They spent some fun years together where they laughed a lot and kissed a little. They held hands and shared secrets and were happy.

But life happened as life often does and, well, that's kind of a long story. They kept in touch for a bit but—you know how these things go—after a while they didn't talk or see each other. But deep down in her heart, the girl missed her boy and she still loved him. And you know what else? That boy missed his girl, and loved her back.

A very long time went by and these two kept living and growing and loving other people. They had really happy times and very sad times. They became smarter and stronger and better people. But both of them knew something was missing in their hearts.

And then one day, quite unexpectedly, that boy reached out to his girl and said “Hi. We haven't talked in a while but I would like to be friends again. Also, I miss you.” And that girl, do you know what she did? She said “OH MY GOSH, I MISS YOU TOO SO MUCH AND YES! YES! I WANT TO BE FRIENDS AGAIN!” Because that girl is a little nutty, if I haven't mentioned that before.

And suddenly it was like all those years apart dissolved and they were young again, doing all sorts of laughing and kissing and sharing secrets. Pretty soon that girl realized she didn't just love that boy; she LOVED him. And the boy realized he LOVED that girl right back.

And, guess what! This story gets even better because that boy also has a beautiful, wonderful thing called a son. And that son, oh goodness, he is spectacular. That girl thought her whole heart was filled up with the boy she loved so much but then it turns out her heart grew and stretched and was big enough to fit that son right in. And she loves that son more than she ever knew she could. That boy and that son fill up the girl's heart with so much love she feels like she might burst sometimes because, wow, how is it possible to love people this much?

But that silly boy moved to one side of the country and that girl still lived on the other, and that is what they call “sucky.” That girl lives way too far from that boy and that son she loves so much. They all want to be together, that boy and that girl and that son, and make a little family filled with laughter and love and happiness and lots and lots of kissing.

So this is the part where that girl packs up her life into the trunk of her car and drives and drives until she gets to that boy. And that girl might feel a little sad for the life she's leaving behind but she's also so excited and scared and happy for the life she's going out there to get. And when she finally makes it way out there to that boy, she's going to grab him and kiss him right on the mouth.

And that boy will take his girl by the hand and they'll take that son and the three of them will go build a beautiful life together.

Chicken pot pie and other terribly important things.

I prepare my dinners in advance and portion them out into Tupperware containers for the week. Do you do that? When I get home from work, I pop one in the microwave and I’m set. It’s all very industrial. I even eat right out of the Tupperware because I have this thing about washing dishes and the thing is I don’t like to do it. 

Now, I would like to have chicken pot pie for dinner tonight. Not just any chicken pot pie. I want this chicken pot pie. In my mouth. Tonight.

But I can’t have chicken pot pie for dinner because I already have my Tupperware dinner ready for tonight and it is brown rice and steak and spinach. Brown rice and steak and spinach. But who would want brown rice and steak and spinach when you could have chicken pot pie, I ask you? I would guess nobody.

The thing is, guys, here is the thing: I cannot have chicken pot pie tonight. Not just because I already have brown rice and steak and spinach ready, but because chicken pot pie is about 85% pure butter. And that kind of butter-laden foodstuff has no place in a Tuesday night. Perhaps a Sunday (because do you guys watch what you eat on Sundays? I have always thought that Sunday calories don’t mean anything on account of it being a holy day and all. Please support, if you will.) and I just remembered that Sunday nights are the perfect nights to cook chicken pot pie and also my sister will be in town and I think that calls for a little buttery celebration. Now I am satisfied because I know I will have chicken pot pie soon even if tonight I will only have brown rice and steak and spinach.


And, while we’re on the subject, how good are pancakes? Someday, when I am a gazillionaire, I will hire someone to bring me fresh-off-the-griddle pancakes every hour, on the hour. Not that I will eat them every hour, mind you; I would just like to have the option.

September

The past few mornings, as I've stepped out the front door, I've scrunched up my nose at the chill in the air and said to my rosebushes, "Well, it seems that September's upon us again, huh?" And those rosebushes bob their little pink heads back at me sadly because, you know, September means the end of roses. September is the end of a lot. September is the end of sno-cones. September is the end of summer. And I love summer. Sometimes I wish summers would last forever and ever.

But summers don't last. They can't. Because if summer lasted forever pretty soon we'd all get tired of swimming and sno-cones and fireworks and school would never start so we couldn't ever get new school supplies and also we couldn't have things like pumpkin soup or cocoa or molasses cookies.

Despite all my heartbreak over the end of summer, I find I deeply love September. It's simply the most beautiful month, isn't it though? It's warm enough that you don't need a sweater but just cool enough that you could wear a cardigan if you wanted. (So help me, I love cardigans.) Target's shelves are stacked with bright yellow boxes of Crayola markers and shiny notebooks. All the fall decorations come out in September, too! The oranges and the yellows and the leaves and the gourds. I love decorating in the fall. And fall is exciting because it's just the beginning of all the fun: harvests and pumpkin carving and Thanksgiving and also PIE. September is the end of a lovely summer, but also the door to a beautiful and wonderful and magical time.

I've reached a September in my life. One happy summer is closing and a beautiful fall is waiting for me. And though I see that this fall is everything--exactly everything--I want, I hesitate for a moment and indulge my ache for one more simple summer day. One more sunny afternoon, one more baseball game, one more popsicle.


But then a scrunch up my nose, wink at my poor roses and run out to meet my September. 

People I Love

Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator. 

But among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.

-W.H. Auden

 

Is there anything better than a road trip with your baby sister?

 

Or going out to dinner with your favorite brother?

Or being in love with a total goofball?

Nope. There's nothing better than that stuff.

What this girl puts up with . . .

One time I got a new shower curtain liner but before I hung it up I wrapped myself in it mummy-style and staggered into the living room giggling, "Gretchen, Gretchen! What movie am I from?!" (stagger, stagger)

Gretchen sighs and looks up. "I don't know, Kim." 

"Nightmare on Elm Street!" (cue my maniacal laughter, Gretchen looks back to her computer without a word)

Then I went upstairs to hang it and I fell into the tub.

I was trying to be quiet because let's not make things worse but there are some things that cannot be done quietly and falling into the tub is one of them.



And that's pretty much what it's like to live with me. 

And now for something serious. Ha! Just kidding! This one is ridiculous, too.

I usually make it a point not to talk about gentlemen friends* here because that's kind of personal and I never overshare on the blog.


(crickets)


Um, yeah, except there's this boy, you know what I'm saying? And I, well folks, I got it bad for this boy. Because this boy is a dreamboat. A real-life Adonis.

 (Not appropriate, Kim.)



But you want to know something mind-boggling? He is a grown-up. Not like a should-be-grown-up-by-now-and-therefore-does-marginally-adultlike-things-occasionally grown-up (and we don't know anyone like that, do we?), but like a real, live grown-up. He's got prospects. He's bona fide.**


And guess what you do when you're in a Grown-Up Relationship?
-talk about stuff
-share a donut
-smooch
-never, ever tell him that you think sandwiches are "fancy food"
-hit him with a pillow
-embarrass him in front of his step-mom
-other stuff too


Also, did I tell you that he pinched my bottom the other day?

(That's how you know it's true love.)
 
And then I giggled like a madwoman because, I mean, what would you have done?



(Yes, that is an example of an overshare. Thank you for playing.)


The end.

---

*Unless it is hysterical.

**Please tell me you get that reference. (You have to imagine me saying it in a Southern accent.)

Making Connections

Sometimes when I'm reading in the Book of Mormon, I say to myself “Oh! I remember this part from Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites!”


And all I'm wondering is, well, is that bad?

Deeply Embarrassing Confession #61

I saw Moulin Rouge seven times in theaters. Seven.

I've been holding onto this information for a decade.


 
I feel like we've accomplished something important here today.

Yes, I *am* getting older. Thanks for pointing it out, June. Thanks a lot.

So, it's my birthday again. And I had a post all ready about how I'm getting old, and how this birthday is one I've been dreading for a while, and then I was going to link this song and talk about how I'm pretty much elderly and decrepit now and I'm probably going to die alone.

But then perspective came along and I realized I'm young and hot and awesome.

At least that's what I thought until I examined the receipt after I bought some dry ice the other day.

Oh hell no you did not just age verification bypass me.

And don't you argue with me.

I'm going to believe that all those people staring at me in the grocery store today couldn't take their eyes off me because of my breathtaking beauty, easy elegance and general hotness.

I don't think they even noticed the smear of toddler snot on my shirt.



That's what I'm going to believe.

Mawage, that bwessed awangment.

We live in a strange world. A world where it's fashionable to be cynical and pessimistic. A world where everyone always expects the worst, where trying really hard to make something work is laughable.

But the truth is sometimes nice guys finish first, and sometimes it all works out in the end, and sometimes people do the right thing.

And you know what else?

Sometimes true love really does last forever.

Happy 30th Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

I love you.

That song remains my power, my pleasure, my pain.

No matter how many times I've heard it, every time "Kiss From a Rose" plays on the radio I am instantly 14 years old and swaying awkwardly with a sweaty boy in the school gym.


Man, I love that song.


Also, let's explore the radio presets I have in my car, shall we?

1) 89.1: classical station
2) 90.1: NPR
3) 94.1: oldies station
4) 100.3: soft hits station
5) 101.5: country station
6) 106.5: lite rock station

So the question is, am I a billion years old?

(And, yes, the stations are set in increasing numerical order. Everybody does it like that. Right? Right?)

The first rule of Math Club is you do not talk about Math Club.

You know that one moment right after your plane takes off when you look out the window and see the city spreading out and you can see all the roads and the miniature houses and the tiny cars scooting around?

I hate that moment.

Well, I don’t hate that moment but it makes me very anxious. I see the houses and then more houses and more houses and I think, “Holy cow! How many houses are there in the world?” and then I start to think about how all those houses have people in them. People who have pots and kitchen tables and hand towels and forks and I think, “And how many forks are there in the world?!” And that’s the moment I hate: trying to comprehend how many forks are in the world. Because big numbers make me anxious. And really big numbers make me really anxious. And I’ll bet the amount of forks in the world is a very, very big number.

I’ve never been able to handle numbers well. In first grade when we started doing math using abstract numbers rather than counters (as in 2+2 instead of 2 apples+2 apples) I got most overwhelmed. I would look at a worksheet covered with numbers and see nonsense. In order to stave off my math-induced anxiety I began seeing numbers as living things. They’re numbers, not people, but they have specific genders, personalities and relationships. For example, 6 is a very kind female who 5, a male, looks up to enormously but 7, a male and 6’s boyfriend, is savagely protective of 6 and keeps her isolated from 5 and 8, another male who is extremely well liked by all the others. 1 is a gender-neutral baby, 2 is male, 3 is male, 4 is female and 9 is also female and a bit of a bossy jerk. 2 is nice, 3 is terrible, 4 wishes to be more popular and her desperation is off-putting to the others. I can’t remember exactly when I started thinking this way because, to me, 2 has always been and will always be male. I didn’t make up the 5-6-7 story, that’s just how it’s always been.

I read in a book a few years back there is a name for seeing numbers as genders or colors and it’s actually fairly common. That’s really irritating. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was some remarkable child and turns out I’m just a big nobody.

With all their drama, each number has a specific value. When I see 6, I see "6-the-kind-female" and remember she equals 6 units. And knowing that "2-the-kind-male" equals two units, I can see 6+2=8. But I don’t see in my head “six plus two equals eight,” I see, “six-the-female brings six units and two-the-male brings two units and their units together make eight units.” To this day, I don’t see abstract numbers in my head. I see each number bringing their units which are, as I picture them, horizontal red ovals. The picture in my head of each number and its value is so instant that I can see the number 10 and visualize ten equaling ten red ovals and say, “Oh, that’s ten,” as fast as other people can see a 10 and think “That’s ten.” But I wasn’t always so fast at figuring out numbers and I spent much of my elementary school days re-teaching myself math using concrete units rather than numbers. I’m pretty good at visualizing even large numbers, probably up to about 4,000. Anything more than that is too high for me to visualize and if I can’t see it, I get anxious.

Junior high and high school had ever-harder math classes and  I had to spend even more late nights at the kitchen table pouring over numbers and reviewing lessons. Then, my junior year, I decided to join Math Club. Why? Heaven only knows. I had to get a recommendation from my math teacher who eyed me warily when I asked for it as she saw me in tutoring at least weekly.  I went to my first meeting, recommendation in hand,  and guess what they do in Math Club?

LOTS OF MATH.

I also learned that Math Club meets to practice high-level math to prepare for the end-of-the-year Math Competition and the famous Math-Off against other schools. Also, they went to Math Camp.

Math-Off?  Math Camp?

My first Math Club meeting was also my last Math Club meeting and my math teacher, bless her heart, never mentioned it again.



And that's why it bothers me to think about how many forks there are in the world. Because I couldn't go to Math Camp.

I have officially run out of interesting things to talk about.

Everyone who has vanity plates should be required to also have a bumper sticker on the back of the car explaining what the vanity plate means.  Because I spend entirely too much time driving around going, "Batbul? BAT-bul? Bat-BUL? Buh-AT-buh-UL? Be-at-be-you-ell? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"


Also, can we talk about how I yelled at my date the other night? Because that's what people do, right?

Adventures in Dating #34

Dear single men,

Actually, no, it's not flattering when you compare me to your mother multiple times during our date. What it is is creepy. And it also makes me wonder how you disposed of the body of the last girl.

Just fyi. 

I've forgotten how to write a blog post.

I wish I had a really fun and exciting excuse for why I haven't been around lately like I've been in Bermuda having a passionate love affair with Aaron Eckhart or something but the truth is I've just been a little bit tired.

And my excuse for being tired is that I've been going to work stupid early lately which is ridiculous because I used to go to work stupid early every single day and that was when I was working two jobs and going to school and plus I had a gentleman friend back then which meant lots of late-night phone calls consisting mostly of “No, I miss you more,” and so I think my point is that I have no excuse to be tired or something. I'm not sure. I kind of zoned out during those last few sentences. Also, I have another point and that is called No One Cares If You're Tired, By The Way. Is it just me or does it seem like every other status on Facebook is something like “OMG! I'm sooooooo freaking exhausted!! When is naptime? LOL!” And I'm thinking, dude, welcome to adulthood because everybody is tired. If you have a career or a kid or are a productive member of society at all, chances are you're tired at least most of the time so get over it. Don't you love that I started this paragraph telling you how tired I am and ended telling you how much I hate when people complain that they're tired. But I think one of the signs of fatigue is diminished rational thought. And general crankiness.

“General Crankiness.”  *salute*



Also, you know that Foreigner song I Want To Know What Love Is? Oh my gosh, does that song not speak to the very depths of your soul?


So . . . this was maybe not a great day to start blogging again. 

You guys are into these rambling things, right? I'll take your silence as a yes.

I bought some ant traps on Amazon yesterday because did I tell you we have ants? Yeah, that is why I was in the kitchen at 1:30 am the other day with rubber gloves on, clutching a bottle of 409, screaming "Why won't you just DIE?!?" But now my Amazon recommendations are insecty things which makes me inexplicably uncomfortable. Like I'm afraid someone's going to see my Amazon page and I'll have to be all "Oh no, I'm not particularly into bug poison! I'm not like a weirdo or anything." Which I think might illustrate just how desperate I am for your collective acceptance.

And have you seen that McDonald's commercial for smoothies with that rapper? I'm no hip-hop expert but I think that if you go around the 'hood singing "When I say 'pineapple' you say 'mango'!" you're liable to get a cap busted in your you-know-what.

And, do you listen to Science Friday on NPR? It's my favorite. I love the call-ins. Last Friday someone called in and asked if, given that people are getting chips implanted in their brains (which, really?) and hackers are so prevalent now, could hackers take control someone's brain and turn the person against himself? And, by the way, then I laughed for a hundred years.



Speaking of laughing, have I ever confessed to you my secret crush on David Mitchell?

I mean, good grief, how could I not?

No, the pictures don't actually *go* with anything. It just needed some pictures is all. Geez, everybody's a critic now. You know what, just shut up and read the dang post, okay?

Guys. Can I tell you something? I do not actually like being out of my element. This I have learned by working out of boxes for the past two weeks. Turns out, when everything is slapdashedly strewn about my desk in mismatched and random piles, I know exactly where to find everything. With everything neatly packed up in boxes with color-coded labels, I'm lost. I'm working 50-60 hours a week and 40% of that time is spent trying to find something. This is making me particularly cranky.

Also, I can't even believe how many times a day the staff at work come to me and tell me so-and-so is bothering me today and I don't like working with her or can I switch my schedule so we don't have lunch at the same time and oh my word, ladies and gentlemen. I'm not sure what they think I should do about this? Magically make everyone in the world agreeable and lovely? Fire any irritating people on staff? Well, guess what, that would mean I would fire you because you are annoying the coleslaw out of me today. (Ha. Coleslaw.)

Some days I have to be to work at 6:30 and some days I start at 8:00 and some days when I go to work at 8:00 I forget to change my alarm the night before so I still wake up at quarter after 5 because I'm awesome. This morning that happened once again and, lying in bed at 5:15, I wondered if perhaps I should go to the gym because I had a good hour and a half before I needed to get ready for work. And then I chuckled to myself because, I mean, I really am quite funny sometimes.

Speaking of me being awesome, did I tell you that I got up in a church meeting to read a passage of scripture and on my way to the podium I knocked over the big display in front of the room? Because of course I did.

Also, Wii boxing. Have you done it? Lizzie and I did it this weekend and ouch, by the way. But isn't it a little fun to punch your roommate in the head without being arrested? Kim says yes.

And can we discuss hot dogs for a minute? I don't particularly like hot dogs but then all of a sudden I'm craving hot dogs every day and I think I may have eaten about a gazillion in the past month. In fact, I had one for breakfast today. I know, right? A hot dog with mustard and a Diet Coke which actually was my roommate's Diet Coke but do you ever look at your roommate's Diet Coke and think “That should be my Diet Coke”? Don't worry, I replaced it from the Coke machine today but can we talk about 75¢ for a Diet Coke? Highway robbery, I say. Have you had Nathan's hot dogs? Right? So good.

I'm speaking in church this Sunday which is a little unfortunate considering every time I sit down to write a talk I end up with something . . . well, a lot like this post, as a matter of fact. (Ha. I just wrote “a matter of face” which should be a phrase I think.) This distresses me.


This should be saved in the drafts folder along with all the other incomprehensible posts.



PUBLISH.

Oh yes we did.

"This is a group of castaways and they are now champions." -Mark Jackson

As a Mavericks fan, you get used to losing. Sure, there are lots of wins and cheering during the season but, when it really counts, you expect the loss. You accept it. They're still your team, you still love 'em, but you know the loss is coming.

And that's what being a fan is all about. Win or lose, you love the team. You love the game. You love the last 12 seconds of the game when it's all tied up and your team has the ball and you're jumping on the couch screaming "Take the shot!!" You love the recaps, the highlights, the articles on espn.com the next day. When you're a fan, you love the game. No matter what.



But . . . I gotta say . . . it feels good to win one.  

And, no, I *didn't* cry through the trophy presentation.

Water is great, except for when it comes from a sewer and it gets all over you.

1: sewage pipes that cracked and leaked in the hill above my school this week
5: inches of raw sewage that seeped rained down into my office
4: times required to wash my hair until it no longer smells of feces after coming in contact with raw sewage
15: minutes I had to clear my office of anything I wanted to keep before the cleaners started knocking out my drywall and ripping apart my furniture
1: pairs of shoes that were thrown out because they were (sorry, Mom) really shitty
46: children that needed to be evacuated because our classroom floors were covered in poo-water
3: times my boss said "how could this get any worse?" until I told her to stop because, guess what, it gets worse every time you say that!
2: big red "DANGER:KEEP OUT" signs I ignored when I sneaked back into the school after the hazmat team descended and locked down the building 
7: Hazmat worker guys I ignored when they told me I couldn't go back in my office because I left a picture of my nephew in there and plus I needed my stapler
2: toxic materials found during the demo of my office

Dear builders of the 1970s,
Thanks for the asbestos and lead paint! You are awesome!
Love, Kim 

1: archive box I would not allow the cleaners to throw out even though it was covered in excrement because I really, really need the paperwork inside it
3: different locations I'm trying to run as we piece together extra classrooms for our 63 children who suddenly have no classroom  
Eleventy billion: number of phone calls and emails I've fielded from upset parents, staff and maintenance workers in the past 2 days in my new office

P.S. Here's my new office:

What's that you say? It looks like it's in a high-traffic hallway 2 floors away from the nearest bathroom?  

Oh, that's 'cause it is*.

0: times I've cried this week even though I really wanted to except I did cry once but it was over a basketball game so it doesn't count and I just remembered I cried over that one commercial where the kid gives that black lady her purse back on the bus but that one doesn't count either
3: sleepless nights I've had worrying over this stupid poo-problem
70: percent chance I think I have of dying from exposure to lead, asbestos or poo from this week which is my own dang fault, but still
4-6: projected weeks until we can get back into our classrooms and offices
100: percent chance I will have a nervous breakdown before then





*Not that I'm complaining or anything because it's like 15 feet from the Coke machine

A Treatise on Exactly How Much Teenagers Suck, Also the Revealation That I Am a Big Ol' Prude, And A Bonus Photo of Poop.

If you know me well, you'll know that I really dislike 3 things: mushrooms, dishonesty, and teenagers.

(Not regular teenagers, though. I'm talking about teenagers.)



So there's this park, you see, about a mile and a half from my house and it has a path around it and I like to run there. But also teenagers like to hang out there. Yeah, just hang out. Like sit around. I never thought I'd be one of those crotchety old people who complain 'bout kids these days but, seriously, do any of them have jobs or homework or anything?


Sidenote: Have you ever driven by a group of teenagers and felt the frantic desire to roll down your window and yell, "Get a job!" at them? Because, really now.



Anyway, these teenager punks hang out at the park and talk about things that they shouldn't even know about at fifteen. I often have to quell the desire to march up to them and demand, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" a phrase I was often mortified by in my teenage years thanks to my own mother. In fact, I have to bite my tongue often to keep from giving these kids quite a piece of my mind. Pieces of my mind include:

• Girls, you do not need to talk that way and dress that was and be generally skanktastic for these boys. These boys are dumb and that's that. 
• Boys, try forming a sentence without using the f-word six times. It will be a new and exciting challenge!
• I'm not sure what your purpose is of talking about doing very bad things when there are clearly several adults within earshot. Perhaps you think it makes us think you are cool and grown-up? Well, here's the deal: we don't think you are cool and grown-up. We think you suck.
• We all know you use the bathroom at the park to smoke pot. We are okay with this. But please, please stop pooping in the sink.

But I don't tell them any of this because someday they'll grow up and be embarrassed by their dumb teenage selves, just like everyone else has before them.

So I just turn up my Lady Gaga (don't even act like you don't) and keep running.

These are the things that make me say "What the crap, man?"

Last night I was flipping back and forth between the Mavs/Thunder game and The Bachelorette and all I can say is "What the crap, man?"

So, guy who got drunk on the couch halfway through the cocktail party, what the crap?

And, Mavericks, are we not getting rebounds anymore? What the crap?

Hey, guy wearing the creepy Batman mask so you can "connect on a deeper level," what the crap?

Oh, and ref who called the foul on Terry when Westbrook clearly tripped over his own feet, what the crap?

And, ABC, really? Are you really sure the majority of these contestants are straight? What the crap, unbuttoned-shirt guy?

Dear Dirk, what the crap? I mean that in a good way. It's not even funny how you move on the court. You rock my world. Seriously. What. the. crap.

Rapture and other words that make my roommate giggle.

You've probably heard that the Rapture is coming this weekend.


As we were talking about it last night, my roommate Jules asked what exactly the Rapture refers to. I gave a fairly in-depth explanation about what happens during and after the Rapture.
 
After I was finished, I noticed she was trying hard to keep a straight face.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she chuckled. "It's just . . . you said . . . . BOSOM!" And with that she burst into a fit of giggles.

"The bosom of Christ! Not, like, a . . . bosom," I said.

Still laughing, she whispered, "You said it again!"



I swear, she and I were separated at birth. Love that dork girl!


 

A Short List of Things of Which I Do Not Approve

I do not approve of people wearing flip-flops to church.

I do not approve of people calling hot dogs "wieners".


I do not approve of my boss asking me if I've accepted Jesus as my personal Savior. (True story.)


I do not approve of my neighbors letting their kids play unsupervised in my driveway right behind my car when I'm trying to leave the house.

I do not approve of people over the age of 9 saying the word "barf."



That is all.

Stuff like this happens to me literally all the time.

You know when someone comes up to you and is all, "blah, blah, blah," and then you're all, "whatever"?

Yeah, that totally happened to me the other day.


It was nuts.

Love you, Momma.

 

“And so, my dear young women, with all my heart I urge you not to look to contemporary culture for your role models and mentors. Please look to your faithful mothers for a pattern to follow. Model yourselves after them, not after celebrities whose standards are not the Lord’s standards and whose values may not reflect an eternal perspective. Look to your mother. Learn from her strengths, her courage, and her faithfulness. Listen to her. She may not be a whiz at texting; she may not even have a Facebook page. But when it comes to matters of the heart and the things of the Lord, she has a wealth of knowledge. As you approach the time for marriage and young motherhood, she will be your greatest source of wisdom. No other person on earth loves you in the same way or is willing to sacrifice as much to encourage you and help you find happiness—in this life and forever.”

-M. Russell Ballard

My family is actually awesome and kind of rocks my world.

Last week my mom and sister flew out to hang in Salt Lake for a while and my dear little brother tore himself away from texting cute girls and tracking down free pizza to chill with us. We had an excellent time going to Gourmandise (a few times), playing Canasta, shopping until we wanted to die and eating fish tacos.


I'm sorry, but is there anything on this planet that is as satisfying as a good fish taco?

No, there is not.

 

This picture is called "I will never be as stunningly gorgeous as my little sister and isn't that a bit of a shame?"

This one is called "Mom and her two daughters, and a strange man lurking behind them."

I'm so glad they could come out! We had a blast!

Not having good social skills doesn't mean you can't have fun at parties. You can always talk about murder and robots.

I was recently talking to this guy at a party about online dating.

I told him I'm not really into it because I'm pretty sure everyone on the internet is trying to kill me. He told me that he tried online dating once and ended up meeting a really cool girl.

After a pause he added, "But then I killed her."


Then we talked about robots for about 20 minutes. It was awesome.

What do you mean "Most adults don't have special compartments for gummi bears in their desk drawers"?

Because, holy wow, how do you get through Wednesday afternoon without gummi bears?



It's not just me, is it?

It can't be just me.

*Somebody* talked about the Easter story this weekend.

Overheard on the playground today:

Boy #1: C'mon, Robin, we have to go catch the Joker 'cause he's a bad guy!

Boy #2: What did the Joker do, Batman?

Boy #1: I think he killed Jesus!

It's Friday! (Partying, partying YEAH!)

Have a partying weekend!

Weekend Roundup (Now With a Super-Fancy Rating System!)

Empirates/Lunatic Show
Friday night I went with a few friends and my kid brother to see Empirates (the lead guitarist is a friend from back in Dallas) and The Lunatic (one of the guys in this band played guitar in my living room one time so we're pretty much best friends now). Usually when you go to a club or bar to see a band play, you pay the cover and they stamp your hand so you can come and go as you please. Well, this venue was super-classy and didn't have a hand stamp so they just wrote "DS" on the back of our hands with a pen. The "DS" stands for "Deathstar" which is the name of the place so, yes Mother, I did take your fresh-off-the-mission son to a rock concert at a place called Deathstar and, yes, for a moment there I did think that maybe we were going to be involved in some sort of ritual animal slaughtering or something because everyone there was dressed in black and all weird looking and there were holes in the walls in the shape of human heads which was odd and I'm sorry, Mom, okay?
Rating
The show: ★ ★ ★
How responsible of a role model I've become: ★
The fact that I know all these rock stars and am practically the coolest person on the planet: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★


Maple Bacon Sundae at Denny's
If I could just make one slight adjustment it would be less maple, more bacon. But it was pretty spectacular.
Rating
The sundae: ★ ★ ★ ★
Anything with bacon: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★


Miles Traveled
Gretchen and I have been celebrating the warmer weather by spending more and more time outside. She's hiked practically every mountain in Utah and I've been hitting my regular running route with much more gusto. Saturday I ran 4.93 miles and clucked about it to pretty much anyone who would listen (my sister, my roommates, the guy at 7-11, the waitress at Denny's) and then Sunday our after-dinner stroll turned into a 4.12 mile walk because we found a pen of goats and then had to go home and get our other roommate to show her their precious little knobby heads and tiny hooves.
Rating
How proud I am of myself: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
How grateful I am that people still congratulate me even when I'm annoying: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
The fact that my roommates won't let me get a baby goat: negative infinity stars


Other Stuff
My mom is coming on Friday!: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

$3.99 movies at Target: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The fact that none of my roommates yelled at me when I was standing on my bed belting out all the songs from Moulin Rouge at the top of my lungs on Saturday morning: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Seeing our dear Karen again even though we've lost her to the Smug Marrieds: ★★★★★

 Having good friends and pretty much an awesome life: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

(But I still want that pet goat, actually.)

White supremacists don't build roller coasters. Well, maybe they do. Who knows? They might love roller coasters! I actually don't know either way. But anyway that wasn't my point.

My parents live just a stone's throw from one of the major headquarters of the Klu Klux Klan.

Isn't that horrible?

Mostly because everything the KKK stands for is repugnant and obscene.


And also because you want your parents to live near something awesome like Six Flags so every time you visit them you can go on a roller coaster or get some cotton candy or something. You know what you can do at the KKK headquarters? Nothing.

Next time my parents move, they should find a cooler thing to live near. Something with roller coasters.

Do you ever try to be cool?

I tried to be cool today.





It did not actually work out.


It started with me walking into Subway today in my cute new flats and gray cardigan (and you know how I am when I'm in my gray cardigan--I could rule the world in this cardigan), keys and bracelet jangling, oversized sunglasses perched on my head, purple Blackberry clutched in my hand, turquoise purse slung over my shoulder, fat Dostoyevsky paperback tucked under my arm (cause I'm smart and all) . . . . and I thought, "Man! I bet I look cool right now!" (<----- does not happen often)

And it ended with me knocking over a cardboard display and being chased out into the parking lot by a Subway sandwich artist because I accidentally grabbed some lady's sandwich along with my own as I was walking out.


Because I am most sincerely cool.

But I'm not talking about you, of course. Or you either.

It's always a little unnerving when someone I don't know very well comes up to me and says, "I've been reading your blog! You are so funny!" because:

a) I'm so not funny in real life. Or even very interesting.

b) If your only exposure to me is through this blog, there's a 98% chance you think I'm a moron. In fact, a more appropriate name for this blog would be "A Collection of Accounts of Kim Being Petty, Ridiculous, Simpleminded and/or Acting a Fool."



But that doesn't mean that I want people to stop.


Because super-super-secretly (just between us) I love. it.

This is probably the most important blog post you will ever read in your whole life. I'm totally serious.

Presh. 

P.S. If you say you can look at those cheeks and not want to nibble them to bits than you are either (a) a liar or (b) dead inside. 

P.P.S. No offense.

I feel enormously proud of myself when I accomplish simple tasks without looking like an idiot.

My car was in the shop recently so I had to arrange alternate transportation to and from work that day. My roommate, Gretchen, drove me there in the morning because she is the kindest and most obliging of souls and, after crawling into bed in the wee hours of the morning, there is nothing she'd rather do than wake up at 7:30 to drive me halfway across the city. Yah, she's pretty cool.

But, when considering how to get back to the car place at the end of the day, I realized something: I am twenty-mumble years old and it's high time I start being self-reliant and learning a few life skills. And so, y'all, I took a BUS to the TRAX station and then took a TRAIN down to Murray and then I walked two blocks to the shop. All by myself!

And, because I get overly excited about very mundane things, I:

-giggled to my boss and told her I was "going on a public transportation adventure" and then she told me to make sure my cell phone was fully charged, wear a coat, not talk to strangers, wash my hands when I got home and call her if I got lost. Because she's my work-mom.

-printed off a map of the bus route and put a smiley face sticker on my destination

-called my sister and bragged to her answering machine about how I totally know how to take buses

-texted my roommates saying, "Taking the bus like a friggin' grown-up!" and a few minutes later, "On the train now like an ADULT!"



With gas prices inching toward four bucks a gallon this might become a regular activity for me.

And someday I'll stop broadcasting every time I do something marginally adult-like.

Hey, soul sister. (Also real sister.)

I just wanted to give a quick shout-out to my big sister, Amy.

 

We've always made quite the pair.

   

And I can pretty much handle anything as long as she's got my back.

 

Amy, you're the bomb. Glad I'm your sis.

Dear Spinach Salad,

You's about to get all et up. 

 

Love, me

P.S. Blogging from Wisconsin for the next few weeks, but don't you worry! I got some stuff lined up for you. 

It's gonna be rad.   

A list of things that happened yesterday and whether I think that thing was awesome or lame.

Alternately titled:  "Enough run-on sentences to make your eyes bleed."

I took my car to the shop (LAME) but they were super nice to me (AWESOME) but then they found a problem (LAME) but they can fix it (AWESOME) but they're going to charge me $1500 for it (REALLY LAME).

I was downtown during the day (meh) and I tried to give a homeless lady a dollar but I pulled out a $100 bill instead and then had to do that awkward oh-wait-that's-for-me-you-get-this-old-crumpled-one (LAME).

I knocked the paper towel dispenser off the wall of the bathroom at work (HILARIOUS) but then I had to call Maintenance and tell them and they were like, "How did THAT happen?" and I was like, "Uh, it just . . . fell . . . off the wall," but they didn't really believe that and then everybody laughed at me and the Director over my whole department called me specially just to tease me which is funny because I didn't even know he knows who I am but he apparently does and he also knows that, in my spare time, I like to destroy company property (AWESOME, but in a little bit of a sarcastic way, you see).  

I went to a Seventh-Day Adventist praise meeting (AWESOME) with Liz (AWESOME) and everyone was awesome (AWESOME) and it was so fun (AWESOME) and they fed us (AWESOME) and it was some of the best food I've ever had (AWESOME). (AWESOME) (AWESOME) (AWESOME).

Then I came home and ate chocolate cake (AWESOME) and got ready to watch The Bachelor (AWESOME) except, guess what, it didn't get recorded (LAME) so I watched Headlines on Leno instead.

Did I tell you that Gretchen is working the swing shift now (REALLY LAME) and we never see each other anymore (LAME)? So about 11:30 at night I usually start getting crazy ideas like "When's the last time you toilet papered someone's house? Don't you want to go toilet paper a house right now?" or "Man, I really want some Hawaiian Punch!" (I would say LAME, but really, my late-night ideas are usually AWESOME) and Gretchen's always the level-headed one to talk me out of doing stupid things except she's not around at 11:30 anymore (LAME) and there's no one home to talk me out of doing stupid things and basically that's why I have bangs now.


Because watching three how-to videos on cutting your own bangs makes you a bang-expert.  

This is the story of how I forced someone to be my friend against their will and then I drank Hawaiian Punch out of a candy dish on his birthday.

This is Jeff.

He's a musician. Like a real career musician, singer/songwriter, composer, producer, studio guy. He's basically a really big deal. You can even buy his CD on Amazon. Or you can find him on iTunes. I'd put a link up but, c'mon people, you are all capable adults out there. You can go on iTunes and find him yourself without me holding your hand through the whole process, right? (Also, that is code for I Don't Exactly Know How To Do That.) And his newest CD should be out soon. Well, at least that's what he told me but he's been telling me that for about a gazillion years so who really knows when it will be out. You know how musicians are.


Jeff and his crew came over to play for some friends and eat good food and do other awesome things for his birthday.

There was a moment during one of the songs when I looked around the room full of cool people listening to cool music, sipped my little drinky-drink demurely and thought to myself, "Oh my gosh, I feel so fancy and grown-up!"*

After kicking out the last few stragglers of the night, Gretchen and I settled in with Jeff for a little late night chit-chattin' and reminiscing. That's when Jeff recalled how the two of us had met: that I'd marched up to him at some social gathering and practically demanded that we be friends and then wouldn't stop pestering him until he finally relented because he's nice like that and that's how we wound up eating chocolate birthday cake on my couch last night.

I agreed that's probably what happened because it was his birthday after all. But, just between you and me, I think he was being a little dramatic. I mean, that doesn't sound like me at all, does it? 


And later I drank Hawaiian Punch** out of a candy dish.



The end.

---

*Does that ever happen to you? You're doing something and then you realize, "Wow! This is like what real adults do! I'm almost like a real grown-up!"

**Hawaiian Punch? I forgot that it is nasty.

I don't know if standing outside your workplace shouting a stream of expletives that would make Melissa Leo blush is, in fact, the *best* thing for your career but sometimes you just have no other option.

Me: "You know, as much as I claim to hate the snow, it's really not that bad. I kind of like it. A little."


Approximately 65 hours later:

I hate you.

Thanks weather.com for your "1-2 inches of overnight snowfall". You are dead. to. me.

The moment I realized my snow scrapers and snow boots were in my trunk under half a foot of snow was a special moment for everyone.

(And let's not get into how my normal 30-40 minute commute morphs into a 1-2 hour event every. flippin'. time it snows. Let's just not get into that right now.)

Can I take a moment to thank all the snow-plow operators who get up early all winter and make the roads safe for me and all the other idiots out there? Y'all are awesome. You rock my world. This is not about you.

Because the snow-plow operator who does my work's parking lot is a grade-A moron. He plows straight down the middle of the rows (the drive-y part) and doesn't touch the stalls (the park-y part). Which is great if you're wanting to make a quick loop around the lot but not if you want to actually park in the PARKing lot. And when I had an SUV I never figured out why everyone complained about snow in the parking lot. Now that I have a car, let me tell you something: it BLOWS.

We don't actually need to get into exactly how long it took me to get into a stall (20 minutes) or how many trips to the ER I needed* (1) or how many expletives I shouted (lost count), do we?


Happy f'ing Tuesday, everyone.




*Shovels are sharp! And blood shows up really well on freshly-fallen snow!

I don't know how anyone is expected to stay indoors on a sunny March afternoon.

"It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is.
And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want,
but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!"

-Mark Twain

This is what is called Diverting Attention Away From Me and My Problem

Me: Guess what! I have good news and bad news.

Gretchen: Okay. What is it?

Me: Actually I don't have any good news. I just have pneumonia.

Gretchen: What!?

Me: Let's go get ice-cream! My treat!

Gretchen: Okay!


If she didn't go for the ice-cream thing, I would've tried showing her this picture which has made me laugh for approximately thirty-three hours so far.

I'm pretty sure it still counts.

I observe Meatless Mondays by ordering my cheeseburger without bacon.

Is this the most morbid thing you've ever seen?

Plus, doesn't the hole in its head look like a gunshot?

I love Valentine's Day. (This might be because I base my love of holidays on how cute they are and Valentine's Day, after all, is by far the cutest of days.) 

I love, in particular, the kitschiness of it all. I mean, it's pink and red and glittery and doily-y and terrifically garish. What's not to love? I delight in the cloying sentimentality which is saying something for a girl who, as a rule, avoids sentimentality in general. I like that, as a society, we all agree that on one day we will act like elementary-schoolers and exchange silly cards with silly poems, eat red and pink candies and be dorky. 

My favorite things about this year's Valentine's Day:

1. 69¢ Love Songs on iTunes (the 60's R&B Love Songs playlist? I own. I love.) 

2. the Justin Bieber cards I'm passing out to all my coworkers (and the straight face I'm trying to keep while doing it)

3. my ever-fun roommates who are always supportive of super-dorky Valentine's decorations and parties

4. the Dove Promises wrappers that told me to be my own Valentine and, if that fails, reminds me that chocolate will *always* be there for me 

(Not that I ate like 12 of these in one sitting the other day or anything.)

5. this precious wreath I made with my own two hands and is practically my favorite thing on this planet right now

Justin and I wish you the happiest Valentine's Day ever! 

Like baby, baby, baby, oh.