Reason #29 Why Kim is a Very Useful Friend

I know the meanings of gang/prison tattoos.

The other day my roommate and I were out shopping (at Walmart, where else?) when we passed a guy with several tattoos.


"Omiword!" I whispered, "That guy has totally killed someone!"

"What?! How do you know?" she asked.

"Um, look at that tattoo. You only get that if you've whacked someone!"
 

She didn't entirely believe me until we went home and looked it up on Wikipedia (ha! nerds). When I was proven correct, she awed at my extensive street knowledge. I didn't mention that the only reason I know this stuff is because I've seen Con Air like 20 times.

But still—valuable information to have, amiright?

Birthday Week!

Isn't is sad that as one gets older, one is expected not to make such a fuss over one's birthday? And one is expected to just let is pass without much fanfare except maybe a passing, "Oh, it is my birthday." And when one demands special treatment for one's birthday one is seen as a lunatic, to say nothing of demanding it for an entire week month.

Well, one can't always do what is expected, can one?

I think I'm about the luckiest person in the world because I live with Gretchen who happens to own the birthday the very day before my own. And so I am at liberty to suggest outrageous things to do all the while claiming, "But it's for Birthday Week!" and then in a confidential whisper, "It's what Gretchen wants to do." And I get away with doing whatever I want while appearing like the very soul of charitableness and long-suffering as I sacrifice my birthday for Gretchen's. It's quite alarming how much I enjoy this!

"You said what now?" Gretchen demands.

Birthday Week this year included:

A date with Lizzy!

Turkey sandwiches with mustard! 

(Have I ever mentioned my deep and undying love for this delicious yellow substance?)

A food processor which has been formally dubbed Sir Reginald Choppington III! (Thanks, parents!)

Riding around in an automobile! And making pig noises!

Dinner with the roommies where I accidentally elbowed our waiter in the crotch and then he "forgot" to bring me another Diet Coke!

Game night where we played my very favorite game and through which I discovered that all my friends are really smart and they don't let me win. Not even on my birthday.

A couple of my favorite guys cementing their place into my All-Time Favorite People Ever by giving me a giant box of butter for my birthday! More on that later, be assured,  because it is my belief that the gift of a giant box of butter deserves its own post. And who could disagree with that?

And what could a girl ask for more than this, I wonder?

Summertime Blues

Does this summer seem to be slipping away before it even began? It's August, y'all. And I haven't even lain by the pool and read People once! How is that even possible?

Where are my lazy summer days? School starts in two weeks and I haven't even begun to relax yet! I demand a re-do! I call "interference"! I want my summer back!





One more time, Chandler Bing-style: Could this summer BE going any faster?

I Believe

My boss and I discuss religion regularly but I think she gets really frustrated with me. I can tell she tries to goad me into an all-out battle-of-the-denominations but I'm not having it. (Pretty odd because I'm certainly feisty about everything else.)

See, she's a Bible-thumping, cross-wearing, Praise-the-Lord!-saying, true-blue valiant Christian. And I'm a Mormon. (Can ya tell how fun it is here? Can ya?) She loves making little passing comments about my faith and then reminding me that if I ever want to "really know Jesus" I am always welcome to her Bible study group. I nod and tell her that sounds interesting and then I change the subject. I think to a lot of people that looks like a cop-out on defending my faith and a missed missionary opportunity.

But guess what?  




(Are you ready for my big confession?)





(Really?)




I don't care who's Mormon and who's not. I don't care if you're Jewish or Muslim or Buddhist or Unitarian or whatever. (Yeah, I guess I'm not cut out to be a missionary.) I don't care if you believe in Prop 8 or global warming or that Spongebob Squarepants is real. I don't care if you believe in magic or ghosts or lolcats. I don't care what you believe.

I really love Dan Brown. One of my favorite of his books is Angels & Demons where you'll find this:

"Skepticism has become a virtue. Cynicism and demand for proof has become enlightened thought. Is it any wonder that humans now feel more depressed and defeated than they have at any point in human history?"

I hate that we've become so resistant to faith. Why is it now unfashionable to admit we actually have something to believe? Why do those of us who are religious squabble amongst ourselves about who believes the right way or the right things? Why is it more socially acceptable to scoff at an idea than to believe it?


And this all comes back to my assertion that I don't care what people believe. I just want them believe in something. And that's why I don't argue religion with my boss. Because I'm just glad she has something to believe. I wish everyone believed something as strongly as she does.

My name is Kim and I believe in something.

I believe in Jesus Christ.
I believe in being nice.
I believe that a pair of heels and a little dab of perfume can make your whole day.
I believe science-fiction is one of the greatest media of all time.
I believe in buying generic.
I believe in babies.
I believe in harsher punishments for child abuse perpetrators in the state of Utah.
I believe that good literature can change your life.
I believe that sweatpants are the finest achievement in the history of textiles.
I believe in lazy weekends.
I believe in prophesy from God.
I believe in air-conditioning.
I believe in compassion.
I believe in second chances.
I believe in modest and well-regulated social programs. 
I believe in loving yourself.
I believe that bringing chocolate-chip cookies to your new neighbors is the only way to truly welcome someone to the block.
I believe in angels.
I believe in different strokes for different folks. 
I believe in making someone's day.
I believe in buying the world a Coke. 
I believe in placebos.
I believe that someday (someday!) I will master the art of making risotto.
I believe in reflexology.
I believe that you must learn magic tricks if you wish to be labeled a "cool aunt". 
I believe in using your turn signal.
I believe in forgiveness.
I believe in human beings' capacity for good.
I believe in myself. 
I believe in you.



Tell me, friends, what do you believe? 

Jersey, pizza and also some mobsters.

(This post may offend an organization I will not name but I will give you a hint: it rhymes with "The Bafia".)

My mom took her girls on a tour of her hometown this summer.

After we visited her childhood home:

and her school:

"How'd you get to be so awesome?"
"Duh. I went to High Cool."
(Mom jokes are great.)

we went to lunch at Vesuvio's Pizza

an appropriate decision as we had only eaten pizza 37 times the previous week.

PIZZA!

PIZZA!

PIZZA!

PIZZA!

We were all excited about the garlic-and-onion pizza my mom extolled repeatedly but we I was even more intrigued to know the place was run by a well-known member of the Bafia.

It's a great thing that the pizza was excellent as you can't buy pizza anywhere else in the area, according to my mom. Years ago there was a rival pizza joint on a nearby corner but it wasn't open very long. It's apparently hard to stay in business after your restaurant mysteriously explodes.  

These are the stories my mom tells about her childhood. It's never, "One time my dad took all us kids to the zoo." It's stuff like, "One time my dad had a disagreement with the mob and they shot him right in the arm and my mother had to pull the bullet out with tweezers." This story was usually preceded by one of us kids crying about some triviality and followed by the admonition to "come to me when you're in real pain."

As we ordered and ate at Vesuvio's, my mom chatted easily with the men there. (You know, the ones in the mob.) She recalled all the time she and her sister spent there as teenagers. Guys, she has shared memories with the Cosa Nostra!

As we walked along the shore (no Snookie!), I saw my mom in a new light. She comes from a world so unlike my own, a place foreign to my white-bread life.

She *knows* people in the Bafia!

I guess what they say is true: you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can't take Jersey out of the girl.

(Do not cross this woman. Because she probably has a knife.)

---

Despite the lack of photographic evidence, Amy actually was in attendance on this trip. She just a little camera-shy I guess. Or maybe she just doesn't like having her picture taken while shoving pizza in her mouth. Whatever.

Don't even get me started on Mark Paul Gosselaar

Wings has been off the air for thirteen years. 

Still haven't gotten over my crush on Steven Weber.

Sometimes I'm kind of like a dog

(source)

One time a friend of mine commented, "Kim, you are like the happiest person I've ever met." 

Which I took to mean, "Kim, sometimes you act a little retarded."

But I really can't help it. You wouldn't believe the running dialogue going on in my head when I get up in the morning. I talk like I'm in an infomercial. It goes a little something like this: 

Ah, morning! My bed feels so good! This is seriously the best bed in the world! Oh and the sunshine? That is so awesome! That's the best sunshine of my life! This shower feels so nice and that soap smells so good! And these jeans are the best jeans ever! I love these jeans! And this straight iron is awesome. Oh my gosh I love this thing! And on and on and on . . . .

I wish I were kidding.

When people ask me how I'm doing I always answer, "So good!" in my peppy, cheerleader voice. I think people assume I'm joking but I'm not. I really am doing so good! (That is unless I am PMS-ing. That's when everything is lame and stupid and I hate it and I hate you and why don't you all just go to hell?)

I feel like I walk around all day with my head spinning over the fact that the world could possibly contain so many wonderful things specifically designed to make my life awesome. It's perfectly astounding!

Here are some things that make my life awesome:

1. The newspaper. I get the newspaper delivered every day and I love it. My favorite thing is the letters to the editor. And I also read all the obituaries and wonder about the people who've died. I wonder what they were like and if we would have been friends (because I have an ever-present need to be liked, even by dead people). And every night I curl up in bed with the crossword puzzle and I'm not allowed to go to sleep until I finish. And then the Cryptoquip too. Getting the newspaper makes my life awesome.

2. Basically every voicemail my sister Amy leaves for me like ever. They are the highlight of my life. I'm sometimes tempted to ignore all her calls just so I can get another hilarious voicemail. (But I wouldn't do that, Amy. Never.) The last one I got was pretty short and simple:

"Kim! Do you know anything about catching wild turkeys? Please call me back. I need you!" 

Amy's voicemails make my life awesome.

3. The "90's Hits" channel on DirecTV. I listen to it every morning and it puts me in the best mood. There's something wonderful about putting on your make-up to the same music you put on your make-up to when you were in junior high. And bonus! I know all the words to all the songs so I get to sing along. And it doesn't even get annoying to my roommates. Nope. They love it. 90's music in the morning makes my life awesome. 

4. Pie.

What makes your life awesome?

Maybe auto makers are just really pessimistic.

How come when something lights up on your dashboard, it's always bad? It's things like "Check engine" or "We're kind of about to break down" or "Seriously, how is this thing still running?"

I think they should balance the bad out with a few good messages. Things that say "Good driving!" or "Everything is working fine!" or "You smell nice today!"

Then I probably wouldn't say so many curses to my car.

Maryland Folks

Going to visit my parents is such a trip (joke) because as much as they protest they "live right outside a big city!" they are definitely out in the sticks. When you have to drive through a pasture and honk at a cow to get home, you know you're in the backcountry.

But once you get used to the winding two-lane highways often blocked by dawdling tractors, the air heavily perfumed with livestock, the shock of how dreadfully out of reach Target is, well, it's nice. It's really nice.

It's playing pick-up baseball with the brothers in the field off to the side of the house. It's slurping grape popsicles at dusk on the porch swing while the kids run all over the yard after fireflies. It's driving down the road with your arm resting out the window to raise it in that casual two-fingered salute neighbors exchange as they pass each other. It's getting directions based on barns and bridges rather than street names. It's the sweet smell of grass that never washes off.

One lazy day out there my brothers and I decided to grab the kayaks and head down the Monocacy.

We slithered our way down the river easily, splashing and goofing and paddling along. We had no schedule to keep, no pressing appointments, no nothing. It was just us in the sunshine, the somnolent cawing of birds periodically breaking the stillness of the day, and always the slow plops of our paddles hitting the water's surface. 



When we were halfway through our leg of the river three gunshots rang out in quick succession, shattering the quiet and raising a veil of birds to the sky. We looked around confusedly and spotted this:

near the shore. 

An elderly, shirtless man in a fishing boat with a shotgun.

We continued down the river giggling, reminded once again that we are in hick-country. But I think I'm okay with hick-country. I think I'd fit right in.

Capital City

We ladies decided to drop into the city for a bit of history and culture.

But then we got distracted . . .

Because wouldn't it be a riot to pop in and surprise Dad at his office? And maybe convince him to ditch work and take his lovely wife, daughters and granddaughter out to lunch?

"SURPRISE!" we shouted. "AND PIZZA PLEASE!"

"Okay," says Dad because he's heard how stubborn Raynor girls can be. And because he enjoys having his picture taken with his mouth full of food.

We went to CiCi's Pizza, the best pizza value anywhere! Oh, I love CiCi's! I'll be straight with you folks: it's not the best pizza in the world but we used to go there as kids and you know how you love food you ate growing up even if it's not really that great?




*cough*In-N-Out*cough*




PLUS you get to ring the bell if you have great service! Who doesn't like to ring the bell at CiCi's? That is what I'd like to know.


Our tummies satisfied, we made our way to a very damp D.C.

We went to the Library of Congress where I gave into my seizures of happiness. They have a Gutenberg Bible, y'all! And Thomas Jefferson's personal library! And books also!

Rules for Viewing the Gutenberg Bible:

1. No taking pictures of the Bible.
2. No touching the glass.
3. No drooling a large puddle in front of the display.
4. No open weeping.
5. No arguing with Security.
6. Really. No drooling.

It cleared up so we headed over the the Botanic Gardens which was fun. I was in raptures over the gardenia bushes everywhere. I love gardenias and rue the aridity of Utah which prevents them from surviving here.

So lovely!

"Quack!" the ducks said in parting.