I thought we were friends, Reader. Apparently I was wrong. I mean, I would tell you if you spilled ketchup on shirt, or had mascara smudged under your eye, or if your new haircut made you look like Steve Buscemi. If you were really my friend, you would have told me that I had lopsided Buscemi-esque ankles. Because that's what friends do, Reader. They tell each other when they look like Steve Buscemi.
But no. Instead of hearing it from a friend, I had to discover my freakishly mismatched ankles on my own. After years of wondering, I finally figured out why my left sock never stays up. There's no other logical conclusion. It must be because my left ankle is a startlingly strange and unprecedented shape for an ankle to be.
I guess I can't really blame you, though. A ketchup stain is one thing, but pointing out someone's genetic deformity is not a conversation most people are entirely comfortable engaging.
I can't believe it took me so long to figure this out. I mean, you don't often get a good look at both of your own ankles a the same time unless you're really into yoga, but all the warning signs were there. My bum knee? On the left. I get migraines sometimes, always on the left. And, most obvious of all - I'm right-handed. Right-handed. Because my left hand just isn't up to the task.
I must have yanked my left sock up forty times today. The right sock? Nada. Not once. Not necessary, because my right ankle doesn't object to its cozy little cotton home. But ol' Lefty? A vigilante. Lefty likes to live on the edge. Lefty likes the feel of chafing against my shoe over and over and over again. At least that's what I used to think, before I discovered I had Buscemi ankles.
I'm trying to look at the positive. Maybe having a Buscemi ankle isn't all that bad. Sure, it will never fit in with society's standards of "beauty," but despite its obvious speed bumps on the road to success, it could make a critically acclaimed career for itself in thought-provoking independent films. No one will be able to deny its raw talent, or the tenacity with which it throws itself into its gutsy supporting roles.
For all these years, I've been harboring potential ankle greatness, and you never told me? I thought we were friends.
Friday, November 30
Thursday, November 29
... About FreeRice
They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. So, here it is:
Hello, my name is Kristen (Hello, Kristen!), and I am a FreeRice addict.
Like most other addictions, this one originated somewhere else, long ago. It all started when I discovered I was a hippopotomonstrosesquipedalianist. That's a very long word that means "I like big words." Occasionally my friends have a hard time understanding why. For example, Katie got very annoyed with me the other day when I referred to myself as an anglophile. I had to stop myself from explaining to her how you can break the word down into two parts ("anglo" referring to England; and "phile", from the Greek "philos" which means "beloved", meaning "to have love for") for fear of her smacking me in the face. I am not a smackedinthefaceophile.
I suppose we could stretch me out on the couch and discuss where my affection for lexicon originated, but that will be another post for another day. Suffice it to say, I like knowing what words mean. I like learning new words. I like proving to myself (and, admittedly, others) that I know these words and how to use them properly.
Anywho, so then along comes FreeRice. Let's play a word association game:
Hello, my name is Kristen (Hello, Kristen!), and I am a FreeRice addict.
Like most other addictions, this one originated somewhere else, long ago. It all started when I discovered I was a hippopotomonstrosesquipedalianist. That's a very long word that means "I like big words." Occasionally my friends have a hard time understanding why. For example, Katie got very annoyed with me the other day when I referred to myself as an anglophile. I had to stop myself from explaining to her how you can break the word down into two parts ("anglo" referring to England; and "phile", from the Greek "philos" which means "beloved", meaning "to have love for") for fear of her smacking me in the face. I am not a smackedinthefaceophile.
I suppose we could stretch me out on the couch and discuss where my affection for lexicon originated, but that will be another post for another day. Suffice it to say, I like knowing what words mean. I like learning new words. I like proving to myself (and, admittedly, others) that I know these words and how to use them properly.
Anywho, so then along comes FreeRice. Let's play a word association game:
FreeRice is to hippopotomonstrosequipedalianists,
as
_________ is to crackheads.
a) crack
b) crack
c) puppies
d) crack
I could literally spend hours FreeRice-ing if I wasn't afraid of getting fired. Not only do I get to take a never-ending vocabulary quiz, but every time I get a word right the website donates food to starving people. It gives me an incredibly satisfactorily false sense of accomplishment. Not only did I learn what a sommelier is, but I've donated 2,640 grains of rice to starving people!
It's a daily struggle. I know that this addiction is taking over my life, and that I have to stop. I can't keep - WOO-HOO! I just beat Vocab Level 45!
My name is Kristen, and I am a FreeRice addict.
http://www.freerice.com/
It's a daily struggle. I know that this addiction is taking over my life, and that I have to stop. I can't keep - WOO-HOO! I just beat Vocab Level 45!
My name is Kristen, and I am a FreeRice addict.
http://www.freerice.com/
Wednesday, November 28
... About Snow
Somewhere, buried deep in one of my family photo albums, is a picture of Maren and me when we were about seven and five years old, respectively. Knowing my mom, she probably took the picture not so much out of maternal pride, but because she wanted to look back at it and laugh at us years later. We're all bundled up in our mittens and hats, our little faces flushed red from cold and hard work. We're glowing with pride as we stand next to the fruits of our labors - a beautifully lumpy and mis-shapen little snowman. Let's call him Mack. He's only about eighteen inches high, but we probably used every snowflake we could find in the yard to build little Mack.
What a thing we had accomplished! We had made a little man out of snow! Or at least we made a mostly vertical pile of snow out of snow. All we needed was some magic in an old silk had we'd found, and life would be golden. Little Mack would prance around our ankles and we'd have wonderful miniature adventures until he melted, but we would know that he'd be back next year. Our little hearts would glow warmly with the antcipation of seeing him again.
Snow was such a rare and fleeting thing when I was growing up. It was never more than an inch thick, and rarely lasted more than a day. I remember going outside to have snowball fights that only lasted five or so minutes before we ran out of ammunition. There was a huge snowstorm in Utah one year, and I remember my grandpa sending us a photo of the massive pile of pristine white that covered his driveway. When we moved to Utah in November of 1994, I expected to see snow like that regularly. In my mind, winters here were like something out of a Rankin Bass movie, complete with a claymation Fred Astaire mailman.
Then I stepped off the plane, and guess what? NO SNOW. At least not pretty snow. There might have been some of that old grey stuff shoved in the gutters, I don't really remember. What the heck? Where's the sparkly white snowdrifts? The children ice-skating on ponds? The life-size snowmen with carrot noses and rosy dispositions? Where's bloody Fred Astaire?!?!
In thirteen years, I have rarely seen "snow" worthy of the name. It snowed yesterday, but it wasn't pretty fluffy Rankin Bass snow. It was wet and gloppy and slippery. I had to buy new shoes so I wouldn't fall down walking up the hill on campus. I hate scraping my car windows, I hate that the salt on the sidewalks stains my jeans, and I hate how that huge glop of heavy wet snow on a treebranch always waits until the precise moment you are walking under the tree to fall. Every time!
And yet, for some reason, every time it snows I get a little twitterpaited. A part of me still hopes, still yearns for that perfect soft frozen blanket of joy. Even though snow has disappointed me time and time again, and even though I find it hard to like it sometimes, I still love the idea of snow. I'm still genuinely excited whenever winter finally rolls around.
So yesterday's snowstorm was a bust, but it's supposed to snow again tomorrow. Maybe this time, just maybe, it will be the perfect Rankin Bass kind of snow. I'll wake up to find Fred Astaire in my front yard, adding the finishing magic touches to little Mack. Then the three of us will trot off, hand-in-hand, and find a perfect little pond where we can spend the day ice skating. We'll have a race, and Fred will win, but only because he cheats. Then we'll get hot cocoa, which will make little Mack melt away, but we'll have a chuckle about it because it's okay; we know he'll be back next year.
Oh, please, snow! Don't disappoint me!
What a thing we had accomplished! We had made a little man out of snow! Or at least we made a mostly vertical pile of snow out of snow. All we needed was some magic in an old silk had we'd found, and life would be golden. Little Mack would prance around our ankles and we'd have wonderful miniature adventures until he melted, but we would know that he'd be back next year. Our little hearts would glow warmly with the antcipation of seeing him again.
Snow was such a rare and fleeting thing when I was growing up. It was never more than an inch thick, and rarely lasted more than a day. I remember going outside to have snowball fights that only lasted five or so minutes before we ran out of ammunition. There was a huge snowstorm in Utah one year, and I remember my grandpa sending us a photo of the massive pile of pristine white that covered his driveway. When we moved to Utah in November of 1994, I expected to see snow like that regularly. In my mind, winters here were like something out of a Rankin Bass movie, complete with a claymation Fred Astaire mailman.
Then I stepped off the plane, and guess what? NO SNOW. At least not pretty snow. There might have been some of that old grey stuff shoved in the gutters, I don't really remember. What the heck? Where's the sparkly white snowdrifts? The children ice-skating on ponds? The life-size snowmen with carrot noses and rosy dispositions? Where's bloody Fred Astaire?!?!
In thirteen years, I have rarely seen "snow" worthy of the name. It snowed yesterday, but it wasn't pretty fluffy Rankin Bass snow. It was wet and gloppy and slippery. I had to buy new shoes so I wouldn't fall down walking up the hill on campus. I hate scraping my car windows, I hate that the salt on the sidewalks stains my jeans, and I hate how that huge glop of heavy wet snow on a treebranch always waits until the precise moment you are walking under the tree to fall. Every time!
And yet, for some reason, every time it snows I get a little twitterpaited. A part of me still hopes, still yearns for that perfect soft frozen blanket of joy. Even though snow has disappointed me time and time again, and even though I find it hard to like it sometimes, I still love the idea of snow. I'm still genuinely excited whenever winter finally rolls around.
So yesterday's snowstorm was a bust, but it's supposed to snow again tomorrow. Maybe this time, just maybe, it will be the perfect Rankin Bass kind of snow. I'll wake up to find Fred Astaire in my front yard, adding the finishing magic touches to little Mack. Then the three of us will trot off, hand-in-hand, and find a perfect little pond where we can spend the day ice skating. We'll have a race, and Fred will win, but only because he cheats. Then we'll get hot cocoa, which will make little Mack melt away, but we'll have a chuckle about it because it's okay; we know he'll be back next year.
Oh, please, snow! Don't disappoint me!
Tuesday, November 27
... About Starting a Blog
The other day I mentioned something about blogs to Chelsey. "You should write a blog!" she said. I laughed it off, but then in church blogs were mentioned again. Twice. Both times she gave me a meaningful glance. Then, once again, on the way home, Chelsey insisted that I start blogging.
One problem, Chels. I have nothing important to say.
"So what?" was her clever retort. "I could totally see you writing a blog about everyday life."
I took that as a challenge. And as you know (or perhaps you don't), I never back down from a challenge. Unless it's something extremely dangerous that could result in the death of myself or those around me. Or if it involves eating something that is considered a "delicacy" in a third-world country. Or if it's something I really just don't feel like doing.
So, this is it. My first post. I will never again have a very first post in my blog, so I should make this one something special. Here I go. I hope you're bracing yourself, because you're about to be blown away. Strap yourself down, Sonny, we're heading into the greatest blog in the history of mankind! Are you ready? Are you sure? Here we go:
There you go. Whew! I almost can't believe I'm getting away with this. I can say absolutely anything I want. Blogs are amazing! They're like the love children of the First Amendment and the Internet.
In gratitude for your readership, I pledge to bring continued excellence to my blog. I want every entry I write to have the same level of emotional, social, and physiological impact as this, my first entry. I promise that every time you visit this blog, Reader (oooh, I like that. May I call you "Reader" from now on? Of course I can, it's my blog! bwahahaha!), you will be treated to a thought-provoking entry. Each will be something special. Something profound. Something bold. Something that will make you sit up and say, "Hey, this girl's got balls."
Just wrap some bacon around those and you've got yourself a delicacy in a third-world country.
One problem, Chels. I have nothing important to say.
"So what?" was her clever retort. "I could totally see you writing a blog about everyday life."
I took that as a challenge. And as you know (or perhaps you don't), I never back down from a challenge. Unless it's something extremely dangerous that could result in the death of myself or those around me. Or if it involves eating something that is considered a "delicacy" in a third-world country. Or if it's something I really just don't feel like doing.
So, this is it. My first post. I will never again have a very first post in my blog, so I should make this one something special. Here I go. I hope you're bracing yourself, because you're about to be blown away. Strap yourself down, Sonny, we're heading into the greatest blog in the history of mankind! Are you ready? Are you sure? Here we go:
... About Bacon
This morning when I woke up my house reeked of bacon. And I mean reeked. The air was thick with it. My eyes literally started watering, and I could feel the grease permeating my lungs as I breathed. I felt woozy.
It's all part of my dad's current diet. Every now and then he decides it would be a grand idea to consume as much meat in as short a time period as humanly possible. Our fridge is full of more animal by-product than any one fridge has ever intended to hold. Sausages, ham, roast beef, rib-eyes, t-bones... If our fridge could talk, it would say "moo."
There you go. Whew! I almost can't believe I'm getting away with this. I can say absolutely anything I want. Blogs are amazing! They're like the love children of the First Amendment and the Internet.
In gratitude for your readership, I pledge to bring continued excellence to my blog. I want every entry I write to have the same level of emotional, social, and physiological impact as this, my first entry. I promise that every time you visit this blog, Reader (oooh, I like that. May I call you "Reader" from now on? Of course I can, it's my blog! bwahahaha!), you will be treated to a thought-provoking entry. Each will be something special. Something profound. Something bold. Something that will make you sit up and say, "Hey, this girl's got balls."
Just wrap some bacon around those and you've got yourself a delicacy in a third-world country.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)