I wonder what I would've said if he'd actually wet himself.

Did I tell you that my beloved little brother is back in Utah and just living a measly 45 minutes away? (!) Isn't that a wonderful thing? I dearly love being a sister; last year was a decidedly wretched year with no siblings nearby to be sisterly to. What a delightful gift it is to have him here.

Last week we had dinner together and he mentioned he'd been in a little fender-bender. Well, not even a fender-bender. It was like a fender-teenylittlescratcher. A few days later I was on the phone with my dad and asked, Hey, have you talked to Jimmy lately?" After being told they'd spoken the day before I said, "Oh, so you know about the accident."

"What accident!?!" my father thundered.


DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!


"Oh, nothing," I lied, except I am an exceptionally bad liar and I'm sure I wasn't convincing, what with my voice being three octaves above it's normal range.

"What happened, Kim?" the old man gritted and I had no choice but to feed him a story.

"Um, no just he had an accident . . . in class . . . he, uh, . . . wet his pants."

"What?!"

"Oh, yeah, weird right? He's like totally embarrassed about it so don't mention it to him. Like ever."

Because, in my mind, my father would rather learn that his 21-year-old son lost bladder control during a college lecture than know that there is a half-inch long scratch on his 15-year-old Buick.

Yep.

And maybe this should stand as a reminder to all my siblings: if you are keeping something from our parents you have to tell me not to say anything because, when backed into a corner, I might come up with a story that's much, much worse.

On Being Sick and Also Never Mopping the Floor

One of the most precious moments for an early childhood teacher is when one of your darling little ones climbs into your lap, wraps his arms round your neck, gazes into your eyes and says, "I love you."

Much more commonly, a child will climb into your lap, wrap his arms round your neck, gaze into your eyes and then sneeze directly into your open mouth.

AND, once this happens to you at least once a week during every cold and flu season for several years in a row, you probably won't even bat an eye. In fact, you'll probably just rinse your mouth with soda and call it good. (I'm pretty sure Dr Pepper is a dentist.)

Young children won't share toys without a fight, but they're generous with their mucus.


Those who interact with these lovable little carrier monkeys tend, until their adaptive immune system kicks in, to be forever sick with something. Usually something gross. Luckily, I've been exposed to enough germs to last a lifetime and usually only get knock-down sick once or twice a year. Last week was my one allotted illness for the year. A couple weeks ago I was at the receiving end of a terribly slobbery toddler-kiss; the kisser was diagnosed hours later with RSV. Awesome.

I didn't mind the fever, the croupy cough and the general achiness but I hated losing my voice for over a week. (For someone who talks as much as Kelly Kapoor, loss of voice is tantamount to loss of limb.) In fact, I still haven't quite recovered and if you call me you can hear firsthand what my roommate is calling my 1-900 number voice.

I took a couple days off work to recover and OH MY GOSH ARE SICK DAYS AWESOME OR WHAT? I totally forgot being home sick is pretty much the best time ever. And also? How long are days? I couldn't believe it. When you're rushing around with work, church, family, chores and whatnot the days never seem long enough. But when you're in your sweats watching Law & Order: SVU and eating a grilled cheese sandwich? They are niiiiiiice and long. (Speaking of grilled cheese sandwiches, is 3 in 24 hours too many??)

Every once in a while I would get up and pad around the house in my slippers but seeing the unmade bed in the bedroom, the unwashed hair in the bathroom mirror and the atrociously unmopped kitchen floor would drive me back to my blanket cocoon and dreamy Elliot Stabler.

HELLO!

Oh, but that kitchen floor. It is perfectly horrendous. I used to be really on the ball with the floor mopping. Every other Saturday, plus whenever we had company, plus whenever anything spilled, I was all over it. But lately? I don't know. It's just not happening. Not to mention I can't find the mop anywhere. Or the bucket, come to think of it. I may have accidentally maliciously destroyed them in my sleep. I've done the whole Swiffer WetJet thing occasionally over the past couple months (did I just admit to the Internet that I haven't properly mopped my kitchen floor in a couple months?) but usually I look pointedly away as I walk into the kitchen with the idea that if I can't see the floor, it doesn't exist and therefore ne'er needs a mopping.  


But that's the beauty of sick days. It's the best excuse for everything. The floor is dirty? Too bad. I'm sick. I shouldn't be eating so many butter-laden carbs? Well, I'm sick. I'm allowed. (Wait--I have a cell phone picture to go along with this . . . )

Homemade whole-wheat bread, enormously pretentious cheese and a week's allotment of butter? Yes, please. 

I really need to do this more often.



(Just checked with HR; I have 165 hours of sick leave accrued. Oh, I am starting to get some ideas . . . )

Ummm . . . . is this bad?

Happy Friday, everyone!

I think it's official.

Being white trash is one of those things that's hard to define, but you know it when you see it.


And I think I see it.


In myself.



Reason #1: The sheer amount of time I spend at the Walmart is alarming. And the fact that I call it "the Walmart". A quick search of the ol' blog shows I've mentioned that horrible store 7 times. This far surpasses my mentions of a non-WT store:

(Well, I guess there's one now.) Any given week I'd say I'm at the Walmart at least two times. And that's a modest estimate.



Reason #2: I love sweatpants. I have about a dozen pairs of black or gray sweatpants and I don one each night within minutes of my return home. My very favorite pair are so soft, it feels like you're wearing pants made out of rainbows and babies. They have pockets, too! Do you even know how hard it is to find sweatpants with pockets? This particular pair is black but once I dripped a little bleach on one of the legs BUT THEN I colored in the little spot with a Sharpie. And you can hardly even tell. 



Reason #3: this is what my feet look like 95% of the time I'm not at work:

Oh, I love flip-flops! They are certifiably trashy but, oh, do I love them!




Reason #4: I cannot bear to throw something out if it still works. That's why I've never owned 2 working cell phones in my life: the phone must be completely inoperable before I will consider shelling out for a new one. And I don't know if any of you saw the Rodeo in her final days but, seriously, that baby was finito. And then one time one of the legs on my coffee table broke off and I super-glued it back on. Therefore many of my belongings are in various stages of deterioration and I'm okay with that. Call me a cheapskate but I can't live with the idea of filling up landfills with stuff that still totally works!

Gotta Love Her

One of my favorite friends and I were out shopping the other day. As we were leaving the store, we passed a small girl who looked to be about two years old. I grinned at her as we walked by, taking in her charmingly chubby cheeks, her hot pink coat and miniature boots.

My friend turned to me and said, "You know, whenever I see a little kid like that . . . "

"Yeah?" I responded to my dear friend and mother of three, expecting some profound words on mothering or commentary on the magic of childhood.

She continued, "I just think how funny it would be if I knocked them over as I walked by. You know, like just like 'BAM' they hit the floor and I keep walking." She jerked the jug of laundry detergent we'd just purchased up and pantomimed whacking a toddler with it. "Like that."


After I laughed for about a hundred years, I told my friend, "I'm so . . . happy you say the things you say."

I have a crush . . .

. . . on the UPS guy.



Is it his cute little brown uniform?

Or the mad dolly skills he's got?

Or maybe the way he slides the tablet-signy thing onto my desk?



Either way, I just can't wait for shorts weather to come back.

Confession #381

Sometimes I get "Ayatollah" and "Iacocca" mixed up in my head. Then sometimes I'm a few seconds behind in conversations about Iran and/or Chrysler.


(Does this mean I'm dumb?)






(Don't answer that.)






(But really, does it?)




</insecurity>

More and Less

Resolutions freak me out a little. My brain just doesn't do well with them. I just can't do specific, quantifiable things. I might say, "This year I will be better about going to the gym," and I'll be fine. But if I say, "This year I will go to the gym three times a week," something in my brain will snap, stress will overtake me, I will throw up emotional blockades left and right, I won't accomplish anything and when I realize I've failed my resolution, my soul will collapse upon itself like a dying star. Don't get me wrong, it's entertaining to say the least but, unfortunately, a bit counterproductive.

After years of trying to retrain my brain to actually, you know, be normal, I've accepted to ol' thing for who it (she?) is. And now I know to word my goals very specifically as to not induce any panic attacks. So here we go.



In 2011, I will be more loving.
I will be less annoyed.
I will be more compassionate.
I will be less worrisome.
I will say more nice things to others.
I will think fewer snotty things about others.
I will accept more.
I will judge less.
I will make more soup.
I will drink less caffeine. (That one is kind of a joke, you see.)
I will be more concerned with being kind.
I will be less concerned with being right.
I will be more patient with my roommates.
I will be less worried about how tidy the house is. (Well, at least I will try.)
More smiles.
Less eye-rolling.
More Conference talks.
Less In Style.
More service.
Less downloading games on my phone and playing them during Sunday School.
More willingness.
Less whining.
More parties.
Less Redbox.
More temple.
Less Target.
More phone calls.
Less texting.


2010 pretty much kicked butt. Here's to a just-as-awesome 2011.

And now back to your thoroughly-caffeinated, alarmingly-ridiculous regularly scheduled programming.

Guys. Seriously. What. is. up with . . .

a) having to go back to work?
b) Christmas? Is it over?
c) having to be an adult?
d) me not blogging for two weeks and getting exactly zero fan letters telling me their lives are an endless pit of agony and despair without my darlingness? Ahem.
e) all of the above?


Sigh.



For real, y'all.



So, what have you been up to? Actually, enough about you. Let's talk about me!

I went here: 

 

for this:

 Marvelous times were had by all! Do you know that my family is totally rad? 'Tis true.

 Here's my dad cooking some bacon! Isn't that a wonderful sight? Is it wrong to like bacon more than you like most people? I don't know.

My little brother should know better than to fall asleep when I have a marker in my hand.

I was afraid my crotchety old dog wouldn't welcome me back home after I cheated on him with two other dogs (oh the scandal!) so I picked up a large bag of ham jerky before I arrived. For the next several days, he was constantly at my side with those pleading eyes saying, "Oh, Kim. Would not you like to fill my mouth with that hammy deliciousness? Mightn't I trouble you for a small bite of ham? Please, sir, may I have some more?" That is, unless I wanted to take his picture. Then he would lay motionless on the carpet as I repeated, "Teddy! Teddy! Look at me, Teddy. C'mon, boy! Teddy." If I persisted for more than a few minutes, he might lazily open one eye and glare at me for a few seconds before his eyelids would droop closed again and he would pass gas in my general direction and then I would promptly evacuate the room and he would go back to sleep. A clever one, he is.

My little brothers have not ended that whole "getting taller than me" thing. I spent much of my time standing next to the guys and marveling at the longness of each. And then they would take turns giving me noogies.

We spent some time in the Inner Harbor where I realized it was high time I started buying some Baltimore souvenirs after visiting the place annually for five years running. Also, I think I saw Candice Bergen in the bathroom at Barnes and Noble. But maybe not.

Dragon boats? Man, this place does have everything!

Other trip highlights include:

• The whole family got hooked on the Bed Intruder Song until we were all sick of it and when we finally got it out of our heads, someone would go "You don't have to come and confess," and the whole room would respond, "We lookin' for you. We gon' find you. We gon' find you." Have you ever seen 18 people do a gangsta head-bob simultaneously? Surely it is a sight to behold. 
• My dad built a potato launcher for my bro-in-law. Like a genuine Dwight Schrute-esque spud gun that shoots potatoes at 60 pounds per square inch. Can you imagine if he were deranged?
• Speaking of shooting things, my two brothers-in-law discovered the cache of Nerf guns in the basement which means that you couldn't walk into a room without getting hit in the face, neck or head region with a Nerf bullet. After several days of this tomfoolery I lost it and yelled at one of them, "Stop it! Stop! You think you're being funny? You're not! You're just being really annoying! Stop hitting me!" At which point he roared with laughter, took aim, and shot me again. At which point I stuck out my lower lip and stamped my foot. Because we are both adults over here, by the way, in case you didn't know that.    
• The lake near my parents' house froze over and we had a pick-up soccer game on the ice until my mother's worrisome hollering that we'd all die if we didn't get off that ice right now because she could hear it cracking from all the way over there brought us back to shore. 
• Two years ago Donny and I were see-sawing and he went down too hard, making me fly over the handle and smash my face on the board. We were out see-sawing again and I was all "Hey, Donny, remember when I totally smashed my face on this very see-saw?" Literally three seconds later I'm clutching my face after flying over the handle and smashing my face on the board. This New Year's Resolution: stop see-sawing with Donny.

 Obligatory group photo:

Okay, now that I'm done, what have you been up to?

Arthur! It's a YULETIDE!*

*If anyone knows that reference, I will certainly die of happiness. Indeed, I will.



GUYS! CHRISTMAS IS COMING! IT'S PRACTICALLY HERE!

Do you know that I love Christmas? Do you know that I love decking the halls and baking and singing and ho,ho,ho-ing? Do you know that I love Christmas sweaters? Did you happen to know I love mistletoe and poinsettias and White Christmas? Have you heard how much I love blasting Elvis's Christmas album in my car? Did you see the wreath on my door? And on my car? Did you see my three Christmas trees? Do you know how I delight in the Christmas movies? Especially the ridiculous ones? Do you know how I love the ribbons? The wrappings? The tags and the tinsel? The trimmings? The trappings?


But guess what is my very favorite of it all.


I desperately love giving presents. I love buying them. I really love wrapping them. And, most of all, I love not being able to sit still for days and days because I'm so excited to give them. Every year I tell myself that I'm going to keep everything a secret until Christmas so people are surprised but then, two weeks before Christmas, I find myself sending texts reading yelling "I JUST GOT YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT AND IT IS SO AWESOME AND I CAN'T WAIT TO GIVE IT TO YOU AND CAN I COME OVER NOW PLEASE?"


(Have you heard that I am sometimes a little dramatic?)



This year, because I like to torture myself and because I am a perennial over-achiever on things that don't matter and under-achiever on everything else, I've decided to do 100% homemade presents (well, 98% homemade because I don't know how to make nail polish and that gift simply needed it).

It was so much fun because I got to be off-the-walls excited three times: when I decided what to make, when I made it and then when I had to wait impatiently to give them away. It. was. awesome.

Here are a few that I've been super-excited about:

Lavender and gardenia soaps for the ladies at church.

Bath salts for friends.

Peppermint fudge for the neighbors.

Energizing sugar scrubs for the roommies.

A fleece Dodgers blanket for a friend.

Cake pops for my Visiting Teachers.

Treat bags for the staff at work.

What's this? A book?

Not so! It's a totally awesome secret hiding place for stuff and also bonus gifts inside!

Recipe books for the ladies at work.

A set of totally kick-a playlists* for Dad.

I'm having way too much fun**. Who else is insane this holiday season? Anyone?

---

*Benji Hughes, Bright Eyes, Pavement, Menomena, the Old 97s, The Head and the Heart, God Help the Girl, The Cure, Coconut Records, Bob Dylan, The Explorers Club and Wilco? And the award for Daughter of the Year goes to . . . 



**Interesting conversation with roommate this week:
Me: Aww! This is so cute! Come look!
Her: Geez! Every time you make anything you're like 'Come look at this! It's cute!' Are you really that starved for attention?
Me: Oh. I'm sorry. I'm just really excited.
Literally 30 seconds later . . .
Me: THIS IS SO CUTE! YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!!