Tuesday, December 23

... About 2008

Hey, look! It's time for my year-end review!

Here, in no particular order, are ten of the major events, random moments, and memorable incidents from this last year that I will probably remember for at least another little while. You know, I should really look into getting something that will improve my memory. Like a memory-improving device. Or substance. Does green tea improve your memory? I hope not, because that stuff's pretty nasty. What about St John's wart? Because I really don't want to have to put some dead guy's wart inside my body. That wouldn't be kosher. Or is it? Are herbal supplements kosher? Any of my Jewish friends know? Do I have any Jewish friends?

What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah. 2008.

Numero One: AAAAAAHH! ARE YOU SERIOUS? DID THAT SERIOUSLY JUST HAPPEN?!?!

Like most of America (and possibly the world), Bailey and I were watching Michael Phelps' seventh race on August 15, and as it drew to a close we were fairly confident that the Serbian was going to keep Phelps from his goal of 8 gold medals. Then they turned into the final stretch.

"He's catching up! Wow, he's really flying. Is he going to do it? Is he going to do it?! HOLY CRAP, HE'S GOING TO DO IT! HE'S GONNA WIN! GO! GO! GO! Ohhhhh.... so close, he was so - wait! HOLY FREAKING CRAP! AAAAAHHH!!!"

I'm not going to lie to you, Reader. I was pretty surprised at the amount of screaming and shouting that poured out from Bailey's and my mouths. Until that moment, I don't think I realized how emotionally invested I was in his quest, or appreciated how invested the rest of the country was. In all seriousness, I really think that's what the Olympic spirit is all about.

Numero Dos: Movin' on up to the east side

Finally. Bailey and I moved into our apartment at the end of May. Ah, the joys of apartment life. The neighbors who get in screaming fights, the neighbors who like to pretend they know how to play the drums, the neighbors who park in our assigned spot.... the TV that would work great if we could turn it on, the dishwasher that spews its soapy innards, the heater that sounds like the rolling thunders of Armageddon when it first turns on..... bliss.

Numero Three: Day Tripper, yeah

2008 was the year of the stay-cation. I kept my travels local this year - up to Bear Lake and Logan, down to St. George. I felt the itch to get away for a day, so I took a Saturday a while ago and drove myself down to Sanpete to get a look at my old stomping grounds. It's remarkably the same, although I've realized that I am not. Funny how that happened. Somehow I guess I expect the places that matter to me to change right along with me.

Numero Four: $1.99, are you out of your mind?

It worries me a little bit just how excited I get when I drive past a gas station now. The first time this summer I filled up for less than $4 a gallon, I called people to tell them. When it went under $3, I got a rather excited voicemail from Maren telling me exactly where I could find it 'cheap'. When the gas station near my work slipped under $2, I took a picture with my phone and sent it out to half my address book. The other day I filled up from fumes for less than $14, and here I am blogging about it.

I know it probably won't last for long, but thank goodness it's here at all.

Numero Five: What a crazy random happenstance!

Last year, my favorite little random internet gem was the Potter Puppet Pals (although, admittedly, Charlie the Unicorn took a close second). This year, while the writers' strike shut down Hollywood for months and stopped my favorite shows short for the season, it did bring me one of my new favorite things: Dr Horrible's Sing Along Blog! I love this show. I love NPH. I love him. Watching Dr Horrible inspired me to visit Hulu.com and watch Doogie Howser in its entirety, a venture I would highly recommend for all of you.

Numero Six: Hey, Nessa? I've got something to confess-a... I don't have a camera...

My dear Nessa got married this September and asked me to do her wedding video. I was more than happy to oblige - it was like I was actually putting all those years of education to use! How novel! Luckily I had a new Mac that I could edit on, but I still haven't bought a video camera (I'm way too picky, and have very expensive taste). It was a long day, and a long week or so of editing, but it was really fun. I'd forgotten how much fun filmmaking really is. So thanks, Ness! And thanks to your sister for letting me use her camera!

Numero Seven: Goodnight, My Angel

On July 5, I lost a friend and the world lost a treasure. I still think of Craig often, always with a smile (and occasionally an eye roll when I happen to think of his "reducing the viscosity of the synovial fluid in our joints" dance), and I think I'll be forever grateful for the influence he had on me. He wasn't just one of the good ones - he was one of the best ones.

Numero Eight: How does Siggy always know?

I love the Discovery Channel. Not only does it bring us the glories of Shark Week every summer (Shark Week!), but it also brought the unequaled luminescence of "Planet Earth". Bailey and I became a little obsessed with the series. They showed it in mini-marathon form on Sunday evenings and we DVRed it to enjoy later. And enjoy we did. If you grew tired of me excitedly spewing out stories of cave-dwelling glow worms and manta rays with a 20-foot wingspan (20 feet!), than I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have no sense of wonder or curiosity, and I'm sorry you're so lame.

Numero Nine: Civic Duty

I feel like I should say something about the circus that we called an election. But what can I possibly say that hasn't already been said? I'm glad it's finally over, and I'm glad we're finally going to move forward. But I am still trying to recover from CNBC over-exposure (it has symptoms similar to frostbite - loss of feeling, open sores on the extremeties, that sort of thing).

Numero Ten: The Write Stuff

As you know, Reader, I'm a real fake journalist. This year I joined the staff of the Regal Seagull and contribute occasional articles to help fill the massive "Let's Make Fun of Utah!" void on the internet. It's been a lot of fun - I've met a few new people, I've been able to put my 'work' out there and have at least four different people read it. Plus, it forces me to keep my skills sharp (although, admittedly, some of my articles are way better than others). It's kind of like this blog, but with something resembling a focus.

Anyway, the Seagull took a brief hiatus following the election to recover from the loss of SUPERDELL. But we're back now, and are looking forward to bringing you all the newsiest fakest news in 2009.

Numero Eleven: That's right, Eleven. I'm a rebel.

Reader, remember up there ^ when I said that I realized I'm not the same person I was five years ago? Or is your memory as poor as mine? Need some St. John's wart? Anyway, I think this year will go down in my personal history book as the year I really put an effort into learning about myself. And I found out some stuff that surprised me. And some stuff that would surprise you, Reader. For example, did you know that I hate Oprah? Oh, you did? Yeah, me, too.

So that's 2008! I hope all of you have a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah (I swear I must have at least one Jewish friend), and a Joyous New Year!



Listamania!

Movies Kristen Saw and Liked (* = Loved) that were Released in 2008 (so far)

Wall-E*
Wanted*
Get Smart
Baby Mama
Charlie Bartlett
The Foot Fist Way
The Kite Runner*
Penelope
Chicago 10
Horton Hears a Who!
Ghost Town
Run, Fatboy, Run!*
The Dark Knight*
Young @ Heart*
Son of Rambow*
Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist
Seven Pounds
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button*
Frost/Nixon*
Changeling*

Movies Kristen Still Wants to See that were Released in 2008

Revolutionary Road
Doubt
Milk
Australia
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
Rachel Getting Married
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People
The Duchess
Burn After Reading
The Other Boelyn Girl

Music Kristen Listened to A Lot in 2008

The Kooks
The Hymns
David Cook
Justin Nozuka
Eric Hutchinson
Glen Hansard
Josh Woodward
Jason Mraz
Jon McLaughlin
Spoon
Sondre Lerche
The Shins
Eels

Books Kristen Read and Liked in 2008

Into the Wild
The Road
The Last Days of Socrates
The Lovely Bones
Anna Karenina
The Memory Keeper's Daughter
Me Talk Pretty One Day

Thursday, December 11

... About Blogging

So I've been racking my brain for the perfect idea for today's post, Reader. I've been trying to come up with something that'll make you laugh, make you cry, make you think, and maybe even make you crave some of those cinnamon roasted almonds like they have at the mall.

I wanted to write something that you wouldn't just read once and never think of again. I wanted to write something that would stick with you, that would change the way you see the world, even to the smallest degree.

My goal with this blog is to enlighten, inspire, or infuriate. I don't care if you agree with what I say or not, or even if you understand my point of view. I just want you, Reader, to feel something when you read this blog.

So I wanted today's post to be special, a reflection on the times we live in and the lives we lead in our own time. I wanted it to be set apart from the rest of the world by its wit, its insight, and its ability to reach deep into the souls of those who read it and find that little piece of them that is longing to try something new.

Reader, I wanted this to be the best blog you've ever read - maybe even the best thing you've ever read, period.

But I've got nothing.

Except a craving for some of those almonds...

Tuesday, December 2

... About Somethin' Bad In Your Neighborhood

Why is it all the best stuff happens to us when there are no witnesses that can vouch for the awesomeness of said stuff?

Reader, I kid you not - on my way to work today, driving northbound on I-15 from about 4500 South to 3300 South, I was a mere one lane away from the Ecto-1 (a.k.a. the Ghostbustersmobile).




It.

Was.

AWESOME.

It made me want to go out and buy an old 1959 Cadillac ambulance, give it an orange racing stripe, and catch ghosts for the rest of my life. *sigh*

It seems I see the best stuff when I'm alone in the car. Like that guy who very nearly biffed out on a Segway. Or the giant inflatable bow on top of the new hospital. Or that UFO. The worst part is, I can never convince anybody that these things really happened, or at least convince them that it was as cool as I make it out to be.

One of these days, Reader, you're going to be with me when I run into something spectacular and unexpected on the road (well, hopefully not "run into"; rather "encounter" or "see" or "don't run into").

I mean, seriously! The car from 'Ghostbusters'! Okay, so maybe it wasn't the actual car from 'Ghostbusters'. Maybe it didn't have the logo painted on the door or the high-tech ghost catching equipment strapped to the roof. Maybe in actuality it was just an old 1950s-style ambulance that happened to be white with an orange stripe that just vaguely resembled something that could have once in a former life been the car from 'Ghostbusters'.

Geez, honesty is such a killjoy.

Reader, the point is, someday maybe I will see something as amazing and inspiring as the real Ecto-1 cruising down the road. And when that day comes, who'm I gonna call?

Monday, November 24

... About the Ways the World Should Be

Reader, remember how when I'm independently wealthy I'm going to take my multiple screenwriting Oscars and go build my own country? I've been planning it for a while, and let me tell you - this place is going to make Utopia look like Poo-topia. It's gonna be AWESOME. And not just 'awesome' in the colloquial way that we've manipulated the word to mean. It's actually going to inspire SOME AWE.

Now, Reader, no doubt you have considered what it would be like running your own country as well, and odds are you've found the task a bit overwhelming. Do not despair! It's not that I'm more qualified to run my own country (although I am). It's not that I'm more intelligent than you (although I am). You probably just went about the whole creating a country thing in an amateur fashion.

I'm willing to bet that your biggest mistake was in allowing yourself to wonder about how the government would be set up. Trust me, Reader. In the long run, it doesn't matter. Democracy, monarchy, fascist dictatorship - myeh. That will all work itself out. What's really important to figure out is the details. It's all in the details. Issues like the way all roads in my country are going to be built with a solar-powered interterranial network of super-enforced heating pipes to completely eliminate the need for snowplows, and also reduce cold weather related driving accidents.

Usually, inspiration for these details comes from my day-to-day experiences. They stem from my desire to fix things that are wrong with the world. For example:
  • At restaurants, electronic touch-screen menus built into the tabletops will replace the traditional laminated menus. Think of how much paper, plastic, and ink they'll save in the long run, especially in restaurants that change their menu seasonally! There will be a photo of every item offered, as well as nutritional information, and patrons will always have the option of ordering a smaller portion of any meal at a reduced price.
  • Teachers will get paid more than professional athletes. Well, at least more than baseball players. Because, you know, seriously.
  • Before graduating elementary school all students must demonstrate that they know the difference between their, there, and they're, and be able to do basic arithmetic without a calculator. In order to graduate middle school they must know how to properly use a semi-colon and have a firm grasp on human biology. Once they hit high school, students will have a strong base in practical knowledge and will be able to pursue the courses they choose. Those who enjoy math will be encouraged to take calculus and statistics and what not, but the resources will not be wasted on those who will never use anything beyond the basic arithmetic needed to balance their checkbook (do you know how many tax dollars were wasted trying to get me through 10th grade chemistry? And for what? So I can look back now and remember that I learned something about riding a mole bus. What the crap is a mole?!). Emphasis will instead be placed on teaching high schoolers about a wide range of cultures, thoughts, philosophies, and ideas - things they'll actually have to use later in life.
  • There will be no reality TV shows involving washed up celebrities. Or vain and stupid women trying to earn their 15 minutes by becoming the skankiest skank in all the skankdom. Or vain and stupid men trying to get it on with the skankiest skank in all the skankdom. So pretty much no reality TV.
  • And no David Hasselhoff. Children should be able to grow up in a world where they never have to know about David Hasselhoff.
  • Anyone caught cruising at or below the speed limit in the passing lane will be deported. As will anyone who habitually forgets to use their turn signal. Along with those who speed up and refuse to let anyone get in front of them simply out of spite.
  • National holidays will be spread out so everyone gets at least one day off per month. No more dry spells from March through Memorial Day.
  • Anyone who uses 'chatspeak' will be deported. This includes, but is not limited to, the use of any word of phrase commonly found on an lolcat. Which reminds me - no lolcats. Seriously. Those things creep me out.
  • Oh, and Bailey says there should be a law against Speedos. Good call.

Tuesday, November 18

... About Frivolity

So I was thinking about what to write for this post, and I'll tell you what, Reader. It turns out, I have NOT been in the mood to tell anybody What I Think lately. Mostly because the thing that has been on my mind is guaranteed to offend some of you, likely to disappoint some of you, and possibly inspire some of you. But whether you understand where I'm coming from or not, it's sure to incite arguments and riots, and I just don't have the energy to go looting right now. Although it would be a great way to get my hands on that camera I've been coveting...

Hence the shallow posts as of late. And hence the lack of comments on any of your blogs. And the mismatched socks I'm sporting. Although it's possible the socks thing is just a coincidence.

The point is, Reader, until I get to a place where other, more blog-worthy thoughts occupy my mind (I'm pretty sure that place is on a mountaintop in Nepal... or possibly Malibu), you're going to be stuck with more of these cursory posts. Like this one. Hooray for puerility!

Remember how I'm a moviequoteophile? Yeah, that's right. Check me out, making up my own words and such. How's that for deep?

Anywho, I'd like to reward you for getting this far in this insipidly boring post by giving you a little game to play! Yea! Here's how it works: I'm going to post a few obscure quotes from some of my favorite quotable movies. I'll only post the first half - your task, Reader, is to complete as many of them as you can and put the answers in my comments.

You don't even have to know what movie it's from! AND, if you don't know the answer, MAKE IT UP!!! You'll get points for being right, but you'll get TOTALLY ARBITRARY BONUS POINTS if you're creative!

Please, don't cheat. Not only do cheaters go to Hell (and my hand basket is already going to be pretty full with all the treats and DVDs Kenna and I are planning to pack), but it'll also be so much more fun for me if you get them wrong.

I'll put the answers up in the comments to this post in ONE WEEK, at which point I will also announce the winner. What becomes of the winner, you ask? Bwahahahaha..... Let the fun commence!

1) "Okay, she is deranged. ____________________________."

2) "The only serious relationship I've been in ended in a broken collarbone and _______________________."

3) "I cannot get married in your mother's dress! She and I are not built the same way." "We can have it altered." "__________________________!"

4) "Watch it, bud!" "Who you calling bud, pal?" "Who you calling pal, friend?" "______________________________?"

5) "I think it's a mail plane." "How can you tell?" "___________________________?"

6) "Only the meek get pinched. ___________________________."

7) "I was hoping she was expelled, ___________________________."

8) "Only one thing in the world could have dragged me away from the soft glow of ____________________________________."

9) "You leave little notes on my pillow. I told you 158 times I can't stand little notes on my pillow. __________________________________. ________________________________________________!"

10) "I'd say I'm a pretty darned good father. My father tried to eat me. ________________________________________!"

Tuesday, November 11

... About Having Some 'Splaining To Do

Saturday morning, I was in my bathroom getting ready for the day when I heard Bailey out in the dining room. I'm not sure exactly how to spell what she said, and spell check is not being helpful, but my best guess is that it's something like: "Uergh!"

I opened the bathroom door to see what she was uerghing about and saw her standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at the floor. "What?" I asked. "Uergh," she replied, pointing. I walked out to see what the problem was and, low and behold, my kitchen floor was coated in a thick layer of water and soap suds. It appears our dishwasher elected to stop draining properly and instead spew its soapy innards all over our linoleum.

Bailey grabbed the mop and I grabbed a towel from the linen closet, and we proceeded to soak up the mess and deposit it into the kitchen sink. At one point during the cleanup, while chasing the rogue bubbles that had wandered underneath the fridge, I commented, "This reminds me of something out of 'I Love Lucy.' Only... not funny." Bailey concurred. We were like cheerless versions of Lucy and Ethel, wiping up the evidence of some unfortunate and misguided shenanigan in a very ho-hum kind of way.

This worries me, Reader. Why wasn't it even remotely funny? Lucy and Ethel would have turned our little leak into a riotous adventure. Heck, even the Brady kids would have gotten a well-deserved chuckle or two. Leaking water and oozing soapsuds are practically guaranteed comedic fodder! And yet, during the cleanup and while talking about it later, we pretty much emoted... nothing.

I don't get it. Bailey and I both have senses of humor. It wasn't a huge mess - it took less than ten minutes to clean up. We weren't angry or upset or overly concerned about the dishwasher exploding - we'd just call our apartment maintenance to come over and fix it. It was a Saturday morning, so it isn't likely that we were in particularly caustic moods. We should have been able to see the humor in the situation. I mean, we laugh at things that aren't funny all the time. Like the fact that we both instinctively overanalyze that stupid Skittles commercial every time it comes on. And the danger of sitting in our uber-comfortable but nearly-broken recliner. And Katie.

Than why not laugh at this, which actually has potential to be funny? Is it because we're... *gulp*... 'mature'? Or, even worse, could we be... BORING?!

Ay, me! Oh, how it hurts to even entertain the possibility!

We're not boring! Are we? Do boring people get sucked into the glories of 'Planet Earth' and watch for hours on end? Do boring people leave their apartment to hang out with friends at least twice a month? Do boring people make themselves the same thing for dinner practically every night for a week? I don't think so, Reader. Our lives are rich and full and highly entertaining. Average Joe and Jane would consider it a privilege to be the proverbial flies on our wall, to get to witness the hilarious antics of our day-to-day lives!

Just picture it, Reader! Imagine getting to sit back and watch me go to work every day! You could laugh along as I spent hours on the phone making futile collection calls. You'd have to stop at catch your breath as I processed incoming checks. And don't even get me started on the hilarity that would ensue as I sorted credit card receipts! You'd be in stitches to see me come home and microwave a chicken pot pie.

Oh, my, Reader! Can you imagine how awesome it would be if they actually turned my life into a TV show? Think of the possibilities! Laugh track, shmaugh track - a sitcom of my life would make the world drown in real, honest-to-goodness mirth! Ha! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha HA ha ha ha!

...uergh.

Monday, November 3

... About Doing My Patriotic Duty

Take a gander outside, Reader. The leaves are almost gone, there's a crisp chill in the air, passersby are bundling up in scarves and sweaters. You know what that means: it's time for you to start thinking about what you're going to buy me for Christmas-slash-birthday!

It's a wonderful time of year.

But you know what's even MORE wonderful about it? I know, I know, it's hard to conceptualize anything better than hunting for my perfect Christmas-slash-birthday present. Except maybe hunting for my perfect Christmas-slash-birthday presents. But really, Reader, there's something else we can all look forward to.

In just 36 short hours, this damn election will finally be over.

Sheesh, I thought this day would never come. I'm sick to death of the attack ads, I'm sick of the angry opinion-slinging, I'm sick of the news coverage that reports the same nothing over and over and over and over again. I'm sick of the magazines with their oh-so-insightful opinion headlines about why Obama won't win because he's black, or why McCain won't win because he's old. I'm sick of the billboards trying to get me to vote for some guy for city councilman just because he was stupid enough to slap a twenty-foot high picture of himself wearing a football helmet over the highway.

Don't get me wrong, Reader. I'm a fan of democracy. I'm all for elections and freedom of choice and all that hooey. What I am not a fan of is being sandblasted with all the worthlessness for the past two years. I don't CARE if Obama's former minister is a jackass. I don't CARE if Palin's teenage daughter is pregnant.

I don't CARE if SuperDell.

I think it's one of the biggest faults of our electoral system that they allow campaigning to begin so long before the election. Maybe if these people running for office had to actually focus on their jobs as senators and governors a bit more and left the campaigning until just MONTHS before the election instead of YEARS, there wouldn't be time for such mudslinging nonsense and the American public could actually get a bit more information on the nominees' political stances.

It actually makes me miss the days of high school politics. The kids running for Junior Class Secretary or Student Body Vice President stuck to the issues. They were direct with their point. Their campaign slogans were things like, "Eric For VP - No Battle!" or "Vote for Whitney - the Guy with the Girl's Name". I was sitting in The Commons one time when a kid walked up to me and asked for me to vote for him.

"I'm running for President," he said. "It's easy to remember because it rhymes with my name."
"Your name is Brandon," I reminded him.
"Yeah."
"That doesn't rhyme."
"No, but now you won't forget it, will you?" he quipped.

Well played, Brandon. Well played. McCain and Obama could learn a thing or two from you.

So tomorrow, I'll head over to the public library and stand in line to cast my vote. I'll gather with fellow Americans who have had to sort through all the garbage to figure out which candidate they believe will be best for the country. I'll take part in this election because it is my right and my privilege as a citizen of this great nation. I'll stand proud as I add my voice to the millions that are speaking out for democracy and freedom. 'Cause I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free, with purple mountains majesty from sea to shining sea.

Wow, that's AWESOME of me. Keep how awesome I am in mind when you're shopping for my Christmas-slash-birthday presents.

Thursday, October 23

... About Floating Fetuses

Reader, I'm going to hell. There's no avoiding it. I've pretty much picked out my own hand basket, lined it with fluffy pillows, stocked it up with Dr Pepper and Cheetos, and am just patiently waiting to be carried off.

Now, anyone who knows me well knows that I make this proclamation quite regularly. Like every time I play a joke on someone, or use the phrase "That's what she said" in an inappropriate fashion, or throw things at homeless people. But this time I mean it. And I have evidence. May I present:

Exhibit A:


Visit the Regal Seagull


Reader, please don't take offense, but that floating fetus in a bubble that you post on your blog or website to show me how far along your pregnancy is totally creeps me out. And by that I mean it gives me the heebie-jeebies. I just don't feel like I need to be privy to that particular aspect of your blessed event. If I were a tweenager I'd probably say something along the lines of "TMI!"

I mean, congratulations on your pregnancy. Please don't show me your fetus.

It's not just your fetus, or even just fetuses in general. I pretty much want to look at your face and your clothes and not have to know about anything that's happening underneath that. You know that Body Worlds exhibit? Bailey tried to talk me into going, but I refuse. Why would anybody want to look at human bodies with their skin taken off? That's sick. That's Hannibal Lector sick.

Oh, yeah, sure, it's educational. So is a trip to the toxic waste facility, but you don't see people lining up to do that and then posting a widget about it on their blogs. There's a reason why God made our bodies opaque (and I'm sure He'll have an opinion on this soon). We are not supposed to see what's going on in there.

I'm sorry if that makes me a jerk, but.... well.... sorry, it's just so hard to sincerely apologize when your fetus is showing. D'ya think you could just put that sucker away for a minute?

So the bad news is, as you can clearly see, Reader, I'm most definitely on the fast track to hell. I obviously have no respect for God or His miracles. I don't think the Big Guy's going to be too thrilled with me about that. The good news is, as a proprietor of my blog, you're most likely coming with me. Don't worry - I'll save you some Cheetos. Have you ever noticed how a Cheeto kind of looks like a little orange fetus?

Friday, October 17

... About My Commitment Issues

Reader, remember a while ago when I told you about how I like to jot down ideas or things that I find amusing so I can use them in stories later? Well, I have an email in my drafts folder that is designated specifically for that purpose.

I've found that it's wise to save it in my email, because I can access it anywhere and I can't lose it. I used to jot stuff down on Post-Its or scraps of paper and put them in my pocket - more often than not my grand ideas would end up in the wash cycle a few days later and dissolve into nothingness. Occasionally I'd put them in one of a dozen half-filled notebooks I have lying around my room, but then they'd inevitably be forgotten until I happened to stumble upon them weeks or months later.

But the email method has been working fairly well. It's easy to keep track of, easy to alter, easy to find again. So now I have literally pages upon pages of little gems, one-liners, outlines, and quotes saved up in my drafts folder, most of them for this story that's been bouncing around in my head for a while. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to put them down into any kind of coherent form.

I don't think it's 'writer's block', per se. I know pretty much exactly what I want to say. I run scenes and situations through my mind over and over, tweaking here and there until I'm fairly happy with how they're turning out. But when it comes time to actually sit down and put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), I just lose all enthusiasm for the project. I just don't wanna anymore.

This is hardly a new development, Reader. I think my inability to commit explains a lot about me - why I can never choose a restaurant, for example, or why I've never held the same job for more than 18 months. Or why I seem to be constantly turning down marriage proposals. I know, I know, those types of commitments are hardly consequential. But an inability to turn my story ideas into something solid and permanent could have dire effects on my future!

You know, there was a time when I was forced to swallow my commitmentphobia - my screenwriting class. If you didn't bring pages in to read, Paul wouldn't give you a big R! And ooooh, how my fellow students and I coveted those big R's... if we failed to collect enough of them by semester's end we wouldn't pass the class. So every second or third Tuesday for the entire school year I had to hunker down and punch out fifteen or so pages to keep Paul satisfied and keep the big R's a-flowin'. And for the first time EVER, I ended up with a complete story! It had a beginning, an ending, even one of those dastardly 'middle' things!

Unfortunately, the more I looked at it the less I liked it. I decided it needed some major tweakage, and that after a brief break to I'd go back and polish it up with fresh eyes. I have yet to begin that process.

I think my problem, Reader, is that I don't suffer any IMMEDIATE consequences from not buckling down and making progress on these things. Plus, I used to finish my pages for my screenwriting class at work, but I don't have a job with that luxury of time anymore. Even this short little blog has been written one or two sentences at a time, when I felt like I could spare a minute.

It's pretty clear that I need some stronger form of threat motivation, Reader. Maybe you can help! What could you hold at arms-length until I follow through and get those ideas out of my email and onto a page? What kind of prize can you offer me that is comparable to a big R? What do I want that you could potentially give me?

Maybe this would actually be a good idea, Reader. But then again, maybe not. I don't know. There are good and bad things about it. What do you think? Oh, I just can't decide.

Monday, October 13

... About Siggy's Extraordinary Mind-Reading Capabilities

There are so many amazing things and places in the world, and I want to see as many of them as I can. So it's no surprise that I have a bit of a weakness for home décor with a 'travel' theme. My favorite acquisition thus far is a set of antique world map prints, and I'm always on the lookout for a good deal on an old-fashioned globe in a stand. In our apartment I've put out things that represent some of the different places I've been. Out in the living room are big framed prints of rainy days in New York, London, and Paris, as well as knickknacks I bought there - an Eiffel Tower statuette, a jewelry box from Westminster Abbey, a blue vase from Bath, etc.

My bathroom is Mexico-themed. I have an Edward Martinez print on one wall, and on the shelf sits a Mexican doll that Taylor bought me in Cancun for my birthday, a terracotta Mayan calendar, and a bunch of shells. My favorite of these shells is a nearly-perfect sand dollar; it's missing just a small bit of one side, which actually helps it to sit up better.

Do you know how I got that sand dollar? A giant starfish, about three feet across, extruded its stomach, wrapped it around a flat urchin on the bottom of the sea, liquefied its soft parts, sucked them off, and left behind the skeleton. Then the skeleton washed up on a beach in Mexico where I found it, packed it in my luggage, and now proudly display it over my toilet.

It EXTRUDED ITS STOMACH and LIQUEFIED the SOFT PARTS! How freaking amazing is that?!

And that's just one of the myriad of amazing things Bailey and I learned from watching 'Planet Earth' last night! Did you know that a baby humpback whale drinks 130 GALLONS of milk EVERY DAY?! Or that Deer Cave in Borneo is home to a 300 FOOT HIGH MOUND OF BAT GUANO?!?! Did you realize that baby musk oxen are actually REALLY REALLY CUTE?!?!

Siggy did. In fact, just as I was opening my mouth to express how surprisingly adorable I thought the musk ox really was, Siggy chimed in with her narration of the show, saying, "The calves are cute." Bailey and I laughed, but we were quite impressed. And it just kept getting more and more impressive! A few minutes later, as we watched some polar bears sliding down a snow-covered hill, I said, "That looks like fun."

"It looks like fun," echoed Siggy.

"I just said that, Siggy!" I said. But she ignored me and just continued explaining about how the bears would survive in the harsh conditions of the Arctic. A while later, Bailey wondered aloud why there is such a variety of species in the reefs of Indonesia. Without missing a beat, Siggy chimed in with an explanation: "There are so many different types of animals in these reefs because they are right at the convergence of the Indian Ocean and the Pacific Ocean."

Bailey and I just stared at the screen, slack-jawed. How did Siggy KNOW?! How could she possibly time her narration to match up with exactly what we're thinking exactly as we're thinking it?! Of all the wonderful and surprising things about our world that we learned last night, perhaps the most mind-boggling of all is that Sigourney Weaver is a genuine psychic!

Remember on 'Ghost Busters' when she was possessed by Zuul the Gatekeeper? I think that might have something to do with it.

I must admit, Reader, I've always been skeptical about the validity of psychics. But I have about 7 hours of 'Planet Earth' on my DVR that make me think it could be possible. I mean, if there can be a cave entrance deep enough to engulf the Empire State Building, and dolphins can hydroplane up to the beach to catch fish, and half-inch seahorses can have territorial disputes involving head-butting, and people will voluntarily eat a chunk of hardened bird saliva and call it a delicacy, isn't it reasonable to believe that Siggy could be a psychic?

One thing's for sure - telepathic or not, Siggy has existentially multiplied my desire to go around the world and see all the amazing things it has to offer! I want to be able to decorate my living room with a piece of gypsum from Lechuguilla Cave, a photo I'll take of a flying great white shark off the coast of South Africa, a vial of melted ice from Antarctica.

I wonder how hard it would be to transport that 300 foot mound of bat guano to my apartment?

Tuesday, October 7

... About 45,905,911,510 Grains of Rice

Reader, one of my earliest entries on this blog was about my addiction to the website FreeRice (read the post here). Well, today is FreeRice's one-year anniversary! Woo-hoo! According to their website, FreeRice patrons have donated 45,905,911,510 grains of rice to the UN World Food Program over the past year.


Let's do a little FreeRice math, shall we?

45,905,911,510 grains of rice = 956,373,156 grams of rice*
956,373,156 grams of rice = 2,108,441 pounds of rice
2,108,411 pounds of rice = 2,390,933 daily rations of rice



That's nearly a quarter billion people fed through the efforts of the FreeRice website. That's pretty impressive. But guess what, Reader? The UN estimates that there are over 850 million people in the world that do not get enough food every day to sustain a healthy life. FreeRice hit its donation peak in December of 2007, just a couple of months after its launch. Don't get me wrong - I LOVE the fact that my late-November blog entry inspired thousands of people to visit the website and therefore donate nearly 7 billion grains of rice in a month. But shortly after that the numbers dropped, and the average monthly donation is about half that.

Here's what I have to say about that, Reader: What gives?! I've made it pretty easy for you. The FreeRice link has just been sittin' pretty on my sidebar for almost a year now. And we both know you visit my blog six or seven times a day. But you can put your dependency problem to good use! Just think, Reader, if one of those times you said to yourself, "I'm going to make a small sacrifice... instead of re-reading '... About Running My Own Country' for the thirty-seventh time, I'll just click over to FreeRice and feed some starving people."

I know what you're thinking, Reader, and you're wrong. It wouldn't offend me in the least if you decided to forgo memorizing my past posts in favor of visiting FreeRice. Well, maybe it'd hurt a little bit. But trust me, the offense is minimal, and somewhere deep down I have a soul, possibly, and that soul knows it's probably worth it. Besides, the improved vocabulary you'll develop from playing FreeRice will probably help in your highly admirable efforts to be more like me.

Now, Reader, I do realize that not all of you get your jollies from taking a never-ending vocabulary quiz like I do (although for the life of me I do not understand WHY that wouldn't bring you endless joy! *sigh*). So good news for you - FreeRice is not just a vocabulary quiz anymore! There are now a whole bunch of new subjects to try, like multiplication, Spanish, the Periodic table, and famous paintings. I'm on a geography kick right now.

My name is Kristen, and I'm still a FreeRice addict.



*According to Dr Google, there are approximately 48 grains of rice per gram. Go ahead, check my math. I dare you. Except it's probably wrong. In which case, I don't want to know.

Wednesday, September 24

... About, Seeing As I Am a Highly Intelligent Person

Reader, I'm probably the smartest person you know. I'm definitely smarter than most of the people you DON'T know. This is not exactly new information. I mean, all you have to do is read this blog to know that I'm some sort of savant. Heck, I'm so smart I can even throw around fancy-sounding French words like 'savant' and get away with it! So if I'm as smart as we both know I am, explain to me how something like this happens:

This is, of course, the results icon from an internet IQ test I took yesterday. The test was obviously flawed. You would think, wouldn't you, that with my embarrassingly high level of intelligence I'd be able to determine the correct answers without the necessary 'idiot chore' of reading the questions? Turns out, Reader, you'd be wrong in that assumption. I'm NOT smart enough to simply pick all the right answers at random!

This is a crushing blow to my ego. According to Dr Google, an IQ of 34 puts me about on par with either a highly intellectual piece of limestone or a mentally disabled tree frog, and just a notch above Courtney Love.

The worst part, Reader, is that now I have to wonder how well I really know myself. If I was wrong about my intelligence, what else could I be wrong about? Could it be that I am a totally different person than I think I am? Am I actually a hippopotomonstrosesquipedalianist with Buscemi ankles, or was that all in my head? Are Ronnie, Dom, Gael, Matt and James my indubitable Top Five, or have I just been kidding myself? Do I really like grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato, or am I wrong about that, too? Who am I?

Who am I? (2-4-6-0-1!!!)

I'm counting on you, Reader, to help me through this, my latest identity crisis. In the comments, post one thing you know about me. It could be a personality trait, a favorite something, my shoe size, whatever. EVERYBODY POST! Last time I asked for people to leave comments I only got a few, and it made me sad.

At least, I think I was sad. But I guess I don't really know anymore.

So here I am, Reader. On my knees, soliciting a measly little bribe comment from you. Are you going to be the one to disappoint me? Do you really want that on your conscience? And please, don't neglect to leave a comment because you feel pressured to be witty or clever. I have an IQ of 34, how much pressure can that possibly create?

Thursday, September 18

... About the Awful, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

About three o'clock this morning I woke up with a sharp twitchy pain in my inner left elbow. Crazy muscle spasm! Unfortunately, these things wake me up fairly often, but they're usually behind my knee. Until this morning, I never would have thought I'd say this, but I'd take one of the knee spasms any day. Those hurt like hell. This hurt like hell but with the added bonus prize of getting stabbed in the inside of your elbow with a hot stick and then having it twisted around.

As I writhed about on my bed, clutching my arm and gasping, "Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Shunt! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Pisscrap! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Damnit! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! (Insert Your Favorite Swear Here) Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!!!!," I realized that this was probably not going to be my best day.

I didn't ever really get back to sleep. As you know, Reader, I'm a tad bit violent when I'm sleeping. I toss and turn and flop and krump and throw pillows and wrap my blanket around me in knots. Every time I started to doze off, I'd inevitably shift position somehow, and every single one of these movements sent a shockwave of pain through my sore arm that woke me right back up again. It actually caused some muscle injury: it was twelve hours ago, and I'm still all sore and I can't straighten out my arm all the way. Even just picking up the phone is an exercise in my creativity.

At lunch today, they gave me a Coke when I had clearly ordered a Dr. Pepper. I was contemplating taking it back when the tomato from my sandwich squeezed out and landed smack-dab on my white shirt. Sigh. Luckily, I remembered that a while ago I bought one of those Tide pens. I opened up the glove box and tada! There it was! So I popped off the lid and was vigoriously rubbing it on the stain when all the sudden an overwhelming odor struck my nostrils.

Here's a hint, Reader: If you buy one of those Tide pen things, don't leave it in your car and forget about it until you need it. The heat will chemically alter the stain-fighting ingredients to smell very strongly like vomit. Unfortunately, I had already rubbed it on my little tomato stain. So I smell like puke for the rest of the day.

And the stain didn't come out. Shunt!

Here's to tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 16

... About My Dependency Problem

Reader, I'm sure you've often heard me gripe about people who are totally dependent on technology. Like people who don't know how to use a phone book and instead rely on yellowpages.com. Or people who communicate with you exclusively through email, even when you're only sitting a good spit away from them. Or people who are so dependent on their cell phones that they bring them to inappropriate places. Like the movies. Or church.

Last week, somebody's cell phone went off in sacrament meeting. During the sacrament. THIS SHOULD NEVER HAPPEN. I can't stress that enough.

You know those little reminders they do before the movie to ask people to please turn off their phones? I'm betting that before long, bishops are going to have to start doing the same thing from the pulpit at the start of meetings. Pathetic, but probably true.

Unless you're a doctor on call, or the only person with the code to stop an imminent nuclear air strike, you shouldn't even BRING your cell phone to church. Or to the movies. They're both sacred and spiritual events. And if you do happen to be the only one who can prevent an international catastrophe, put it on silent. Not buzz - SILENT. You can discreetly whip it out and check for missed calls every couple of minutes, if you're really that concerned.

THE HUMAN RACE HAS SURVIVED FOR TENS OF THOUSANDS OF YEARS WITHOUT CELL PHONES. YOU'LL LAST THREE HOURS. Besides, if you're in church (or Movie Church) when the world blows up, no worries. You'll get into Heaven.

As I'm sure you deduced, Reader, I have strong feelings about this. Hence all the CAPITALIZED, BOLD, BRIGHT RED TEXT.

That said, my DVR has been out for two days and I'm going insane! How can I be expected to watch TV without being able to pause, rewind, fast-forward, or record my favorite programs? It's like living in the frickin' Stone Age. For example, last night Bailey and I were chatting when Jon Stewart came back on, so we missed a joke. And we couldn't rewind to hear it again!

How can people possibly be expected to survive without a DVR? It's like we're being punished or something! Like the universe is conspiring against us, taking away everything worth living for. What kind of sick, twisted hell is this?!?!

Isn't it bad enough that our TV requires several minutes of gentle coaxing and careful timing to even turn on? No, Reader, we can live with that. We can live with sitting on the floor with one finger on the power button and another on the plug, working a carefully-adjusted rhythm over and over again (plug in, press the button, wait for the 'click' as it turns itself off, press the button again, unplug, repeat. Plug, press, 'click', press, unplug. Plug, press, 'click', press, unplug) for five or ten minutes until the TV decides to stay on and let us watch it.

But asking us to live without a DVR? It goes against the very essence of the life we've become accustomed to!

I know what you're thinking, Reader, and you're wrong. I am not a hypocrite. Clinging to your cell phone like your last strand of hope and clinging to your DVR like your last strand of hope are sompletely different. People lived for tens of thousands of years without cell phones... but if my DVR doesn't get fixed in time to record the season premiere of 'House' tonight heads are gonna roll.

I'M TALKING ROLLING HEADS HERE.

Thursday, September 11

... About Short-Term Memory Loss

Guess what, Reader? I'm a marvel of modern medicine. I'm a wonder of science. I am the first ever recorded case of a person growing an extra appendage in adulthood.

No, no, it's not a third arm or something freakish like that. It's pretty much like an extra toe. Only it's coming out of my eye.


.......My boring old eye...............................................My new and improved toe eye!......

Awesome, huh? I mean, seriously. How many times have you thought to yourself, 'If I could only grow an extra toe out of my eye, life would be golden'? Please try to keep your jealous rage to a minimum, Reader. I didn't ask for this. God's blessings are mysterious.

Anywho, I went to the clinic yesterday to get my toe eye officially documented (for science). The intern who checked me in did all the regular stuff - blood pressure, asked about medications, etc. Then he asked me how tall I was. "Five-six," I said. He clicked the end of his pen to write the measurement onto my chart, but before he wrote anything down he paused.

"How tall?"

"Five-six."

"Five-six. Sorry, I must have some kind of short-term memory loss." He lowered the pen to the paper, then stopped and gave me a pained expression.

"Five-six," I said again.

"Got it."

A couple minutes later, he asked what I was coming in for. I would have thought it obvious, but I just pointed to my new toe. "That's.... yeah, that's pretty big," he said. I could tell he was impressed. When he handed me over to the PA, she took one look at my toe, then my chart, and called him back in the room and asked him if he gave me an eye exam. "Whoops," he said. "I forgot."

If my purpose for being there was about my eye, I'd be a bit concerned about the fact that this person who forgot to give me an eye exam is providing people with medical care. But since I was there about a toe that just happened to be in the general eye region, I'll let it slide.

Now, Reader, I'll be the first to admit that I have a terrible memory. I was scanning through a bunch of old home movies lately to put something together for Mom's 50th birthday party, and I remembered pretty much nothing from the videos. None of the vacations, none of the parties, none of the concerts. I know these things happened, but if you wanted me to describe any of them to you with any kind of detail, you'd be short on luck.

And a lot of them weren't even that old! I was watching videos of me taken while I was in high school, at college - and I remembered almost nothing. My room used to look like that? My hair was that long? I wore that jacket on purpose? Sometimes, when I do have strong memories of things, I have to wonder how accurate those memories actually are.

There was a movie out a few years ago called Final Cut. It starred Robin Williams as a film editor - only the films he edited were composed of footage shot on tiny camera implanted into people's brains. When they died, he'd put together a highlight reel of their memories. In the movie, the brother of a deceased man commented on a scene of the them fishing as children. "Did you change the color of the boat?" the man asked. "I remember it being blue."

How is it that I remember a random scene from a weird movie I only watched once years ago, and I can't remember the title of my favorite childhood book that I read at least a dozen times? If my memory is this bad now, how much worse will it get as I get older?

Why do people keeping walking by and giving me funny looks? Oh, yeah. Maybe it's because I have a toe eye. I forgot.

Monday, September 8

... About Getting More Edumacated

Reader, you know I'm a fan of the learning. I like knowing stuff. And I love school.

It's been really hard on me this past year, not having school to go to. I drive by the elementary school on my way to work every day, and when I see all those little kids with their giant backpacks I feel jealous. I want a giant backpack! With books in it! To take to school!

As you may or may not be aware (depending on whether or not I told you), I've considered grad school. Part of me knows it's just not very logical at this venture in time - I don't have nearly enough money saved up to go back to school full-time, I'd have to go to some expensive city far away (like L.A. or New York, or I-get-so-excited-thinking-about-it-that-I-don't-even-want-to-let-myself-get-my-hopes-up-but-how-cool-would-it-be-if-I-got-into-that-program-in London?), and in my goal profession an advanced degree is not really a benefit.

But still, part of me thinks about it all the time. How great would it be to be back in school, to have classes to go to and assignments to finish and classmates to outperform - I mean, interact with?

Why does school have to be so expensive? I've often said that if I had unlimited means, I'd just go to school for the rest of my life. And I mean it.

So if any of the readers of this blog are lonely old spinsters out there on their deathbeds, sitting on a pile of cash with no friends or family to give it to, who would just like a little company, someone to read their favorite James Joyce to them in soft green tones like the rolling hills of Ireland and hold their hand as they slowly draw their last breath and expel it with a tender, "I'm leaving you my fortune," in the presence of several acceptable witnesses, give me a call. Please. I'll bring the Ulysses.

But until that happy day comes, Reader, that joyful day when some sad and lonely widow kicks the proverbial bucket, I'm going to have to make do with another form of eduction. Namely, a guitar class through the Granite Peaks Lifelong Learning center. That's right, Reader. I'm taking a guitar class. One evening a week for 8 weeks, starting September 22.

Now, I know what you're thinking, Reader. 'But Kristen, you don't need a guitar class! I've heard you play! You're a virtuoso! You already know chords G, D, A, and C! I've even heard tale that you can play E minor, if you think about it long enough!'

While technically, Reader, you're right. But despite my obvious talent for playing those four and a half chords, carefully pruned over the last 7 years since I got my first guitar, I still believe that there are things left for me to learn. I can only hope that my teacher is up to the task of teaching these things to me.

So wish me luck! In just two short weeks I'll be back to school. I hope that's enough time for me to find myself a giant backpack.

Tuesday, September 2

... About My 50th Post!

My, how the time has flown.

Reader, I've been doing a lot of thinking about this post, which (contrary to what the title of this blog may suggest) is not all too common. Usually I just type whatever happens to be floating around in my head at the moment. But I wanted this, my 50th post, to be a bit more... special. One of the things I considered doing was making a list of 50 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me.

I could only think of 12. And three of them involved freckles in places you don't need to know about.

Then I thought I could make this like a special recap edition, like when they do clip shows on sitcoms. But then I remembered the commitment to excellence I made on my very first post, and decided it's about time I honor it. Besides, it would have taken FOREVER to read through all 49 of my previous posts and whittle them down to just a few highlights. How do you separate greatness from even greaterness?

Now I'm stumbling around inside my own head, searching for that third (and therefore, by the indisputable law of 'Third Time's the Charm', ineffable) idea. What should this momentous post say? What precious jewel of wisdom should I bestow upon you, my Reader, today? What do I think, that you must know?

...

(three days later)

I've got nothing.

How can that be? How is it that I've managed 49 effortlessly brilliant posts, but when I get to the magical number 50 I suddenly freeze up? Have I run out of things to think? Have I already told you everything?

Is this it? The end? Am I washed up, worn out, a has-been?

No, no! It can't be! *gasp, pant* It's getting hard to breathe. The walls are closing in around me. I feel like I'm fading, like I'm just slipping away... I see a bright light up ahead...

Why are so many commercials so lame? Like the one where the six-months' worth of laundry comes rolling through the yard.


Or the one where the guys are in that lab with the gloves-in-the-glass-box thing and they squirt that disgusting-looking Starburst thing and "have to get in there"?
Super !

But easily the most asinine of all are those stupid phone commercials that they try to make look like movie trailers. I can't decide which one I despise more, the 'action-crime-drama' one where the chick buys a purse with her phone as they're fleeing the police, or the 'sappy-chick-love' one where the girl is afraid to love... her phone.
Spectacularly !!!

Commercials used to be good. They used to be funny when they were supposed to be funny, or thoughtful when they were supposed to be thoughtful. They used to make sense. It's like the standard of excellence has just plummeted down the crapper. And since they now show more commercials per hour than they used to, it's like we're being overwhelmed with junk! Don't people care about quality anymore?


Wow, Reader! I made it! I pulled through! I've come through the darkness to the other side. My blog will live on. I'm so glad we got through this together. We hit a rough patch for a while there, that's for sure. But we'll be all the better because of it. Why, my blog almost went under today! This near-death experience is just the kind of wake-up call I needed.

My next 50 blogs will be even MORE spectacular, even MORE thought-provoking. They'll be jam-packed with 30% more mind-boggling blogginess!

So enjoy, Reader! Here's to 50 more!

Thursday, August 21

... About Muffins

Reader, the greatest scenario possible just happened to me. I don't think anyone could possibly think of any situation that would be better than what I just experienced. Of all the luck! It was one of those things that makes you just think, 'Whoa, did that seriously just happen?' It was like something out of a movie, only better, because in a movie it would never happen quite this perfectly:

I openly mocked somebody, and he responded with a promise to give me muffins.

I love muffins. And I love making fun of people. It's like the two great loves of my life all rolled up into one delicious baked good! With ridicule-flavored blueberries!

I wish all the people I made fun of would reward me with muffins. In that perfect world, Brent Hunsaker would totally owe me my own personal muffin cart by now. And you, Reader.... you'd be hard at work building me a muffin palace. By George, I would make fun of Starbucks ALL THE TIME. They have some of the greatest muffins I've ever tasted. In fact, I'm pretty sure their Pumpkin Cream Cheese muffins are imported directly from Heaven.

*sigh*

You know, Reader, I'm kind of surprised that mockery and muffins haven't crossed paths before. Both making muffins and making fun of people are art forms that must be practiced until perfect. They both make me feel all warm and happy inside, and they both give off such a sweet, homey aroma. And they're both difficult for some people to digest.

Why, they're practically the exact same thing!

No one ever gets angry when you give them a muffin. As the great philosopher Laura Numeroff once said, "If you give a moose a muffin, he'll want some jam to go with it." Yet if you make fun of someone, they don't ask you for jam. No, Reader, they simply don't understand that making fun of them is uniquely parallel to giving them a muffin. If they did, they'd be grateful for my derision! "Pass the preserves!" they'd say.

But alas, it's not to be, Reader. I don't think the world will be very open to my Mockery For Muffins philosophy. Just like you weren't very open to my ideas about running my own country, or attacking potential robots with dentist drills, or adding 'sompletely' to the vernacular. Maybe one day I'll just have to make a movie about a world that embraces my ideas and ideals. It'll be full of comedy, drama, action - it'll make you think, 'Whoa, did that seriously just happen?"

Perfect.

Friday, August 15

... About My New Toys!!!

Reader, I am composing this blog on my new macbook!  Woo-hoo!

Whoever said "stuff" can't make you happy never had an ipod touch.  McKenna, I finally understand what you've been saying.  Pure glee.

Until I figure this thing out - adios!

Tuesday, August 12

... About When I Don't Have Anything New to Post

Reader, I kid you not. My life is in peril. The largest mosquito in the history of the planet just tried to eat me. It flew away before I could kill it, and now it's just waiting... somewhere... biding its time until it attacks again. But I won't fall victim again, Reader. Next time, I'll be ready. Next time, I shall have my revenge.

I know what you're thinking, Reader. "You are such a NERD." Well, I happen to know that N.E.R.D. stands for Not Even Remotely Dorky, so I thank you.

By the way, you know those plastic-covered paper clips? I hate those.

Bailey and I were watching the Olympics last night. She said how it was too bad Michael Phelps was peaking so early in life - if he gets even the tiniest bit slower as he gets older, even if he's still competing well, all people will say is how good he USED to be. I said that I bet he'll still dominate for a long time. In fact, I bet that he'll be the first person to win 100 Olympic medals. She just stared blankly at me. "100?" "Yeah. He got 8 last time, six gold and two bronze. And he's going for 8 more this year." "Yeah, but he'd have to compete in 10 Olympics, and he'd still only get 80." "Not if he takes up winter sports. He could start curling!" She rolled her eyes at me.

You know those slide puzzle games? I have always sucked at those. I mean, really sucked. It's kinda pathetic, actually. Well, I have a little digital one on my desktop at work and every now and then when I need a break I'll play around with it. The other day I finished it in 48 seconds! Go team! Well, not so much "team" as "me." Go me!

Sometimes, when I encounter stuff that I find amusing (awkward situations, random things people say, etc.), I put them in a folder on my email or text it to myself so I can use them in a story later. But then by the time I look at them later they're often a bit confusing. For example, I just read this little gem: "I've been doing a lot of Ethel Murman mixed with Katharine Hepburn lately."

I don't like to hang up the phone when I'm done talking to people. Instead I always push in the little button to disconnect and then wait a minute before I actually hang up the headset. I don't know why.

Why is it that no Mexican restaurant has realized the greatness of the crunchy chicken taco? I made some for dinner last night, and they are wonderful. But unless you want to make a special order and annoy the waitstaff just enough to spit in your food, you just can't get them when you go out. Just once I'd like to be able to order chicken tacos at a restaurant and not get some soggy, under-stuffed soft-shell disaster.

My elbow itches. I bet it was that blasted mosquito.

Tuesday, August 5

... About Being More Whimusical

I must admit, Reader, that as a kid I always had a bit of a crush on Doogie Howser. It's one of those great TV shows that I remember watching with my family. And now, grown-up Kristen still has a soft spot in her heart for grown-up Doogie. I suppose I always will. After all, he's smart, he's cute, he's self-deprecating, and most importantly, he invented The Blog.

Remember how at the end of every episode, Doogie would contemplate the life lesson he learned in the last half-hour and record it on his computer diary (always with an adorably thoughtful little smirk)?:

Thus The Blog! And I think we both know that without wonder that is The Blog, I would never have achieved the kind of accolades and recognition that I revel in today.

So of course, when I heard that the Doogster was starring in an internet blogging supervillian musical movie sensation, I was stoked. If you haven't watched it yet, I would strongly advise that you click the link and give yourself a dose - STAT! It's the perfect way to invest the next 42 minutes of your life.

I won't even be offended if you interrupt the reading of this blog until you've seen it. It's just that good. Go on. I'll wait.

...

Oh, the joy! The rapture! The [evil] genius! Well played, Doogie. Well played. And once again, you chose to document your adventures in blog-form! And you're a doctor! You must've used your Freeze Ray, because it's like we're just picking up exactly where we left off so many years ago!

I wish my life were a action-comedy-musical so I could record it on this blog and make people happy like the Doog has made me happy. *sigh* But alas, it isn't meant to be.

...Then again...

Why not? If Doogie can do it, so can I! Go on, Reader, name me one thing that Doogie Howser has done that I can't do. Besides graduating from college at age 10. Or being a doctor. Or starring in the original Broadway cast of "Rent."

Okay, so maybe I can't make my life a musical. But I can certainly make it more whimsical. Right? More fun? More... interesting? Hmmmm.... see, the problem with increasing my life's interesting-o-meter is that it doesn't matter how high your fascinating factor is; if you multiple zero by anything it's still zero (let's see teenaged TV doctors handle THAT kind of highly advanced mathematical logic).

So I guess I'll have to start small. I'm going to shoot for one adventure a week. No, no, Reader, not THAT kind of adventure. I think we all know I don't have enough limbs to take on a challenge like that. I mean a nice, quiet, manageable kind of adventure. Once a week I'll do something that is out of my routine, my comfort zone. Like introduce myself to someone new. Or raise my hand to comment in class. Or kill a drifter with a hammer.

Oh, think of the possibilities! With just a few minor tweaks, soon my life could be WORTHY of being an internet blogging supervillain musical movie sensation! And at the end of every adventure I will come here, to my faithful blog, and share the valuable life lesson I have learned with you, Reader. Always with a thoughtful little smirk.




p.s. Have you seen that new Old Spice commercial starring Doogie? I cracked up. "I would know, because I used to be a doctor for pretend." Glee!

Wednesday, July 30

... About Avoiding My Fifteen Minutes

I'd like to think that I was not the only one rolling my eyes in the Radium Stadium yesterday as a hoard of young women (and a few men) screamed out highly articulate phrases like, "MARRY ME, RYAN! " and "WOOOOOOOO! ".

Nothing against Seacrest, personally. He seems like a nice enough guy - maybe comes across as a tad arrogant, but certainly personable and likable enough. It's just the whole sycophantic notion of people throwing themselves at the feet of celebrities for no better reason than that they're famous. I think I must have some kind of mental block in that area, because obviously the rest of America gets it. That's the only reason why people like Paris Hilton or the Kardashians exist.

Now, I know what you're thinking, Reader. I obviously do appreciate celebrity to some degree - hence my Top Five. And it's true. Sometimes it's fun to watch or read about famous people, especially good-looking famous people. But I'm far more interested in what their next film role is, or book they've written, or song they've released, than who they're supposedly dating or what rehab they're visiting. Their private lives are not nearly as fascinating to me as the actual work that they do that is deserving of fame. And I really don't understand why people are so willing to proclaim their undying devotion for such celebrities en masse and in public.

Do they really expect that the sentiment will be returned, that George Clooney is going to see them in the fanatic crowd, fall instantly in love and sweep them away to his Lake Como villa? Or that Brad Pitt will suddenly abandon Angelina and their 247 children and let them whittle away the hours tracing the contours of his cheekbones with their fingertips? I have to wonder if the women screaming out how much they loved Ryan Seacrest yesterday ever show the same intensity of passion for their loving boyfriends or husbands.

There were even girls getting all giggly and wanting to snap photos with Justin Guarini, who was wandering around outside while we waited in line. Seriously? For the life of me I can't figure out why he'd be there, and especially why he'd still be attracting "fans". Because if they were fawning over him just to make fun, that's pretty cruel. Funny, but cruel.

So, anyway, while Maren and I were sitting in the stands for about sixteen and a half trillion hours waiting for our turn to audition, she was surprised to discover that I don't really WANT to make it on American Idol. I wasn't trying out to, you know, try out. I was just going along for the ride and figured, why not? "I tried out for American Idol" makes a much better story than "I didn't try out for American Idol."

But even if I did have the pipes for it, (and trust me, I'm not one of those people delusional enough to think I do, or that even without the voice my winning personality and neon-blue chicken suit will suffice) I wouldn't want to be on the show. In fact, in a world where it would somehow have been possible for me to make it to the next round of auditions, I doubt I would have gone. I just don't crave the spotlight, the attention, the airtime - in fact, I'm rather opposed to the idea.

Yes, Reader, I realize that the career I'm aspiring to is very much involved with fame and fortune. But that doesn't mean I have to actively participate in it. Yes, I want to win an Oscar someday - but for screenwriting, not for acting. And my acceptance speech will likely just be, "Thanks, everybody." That way no one can say I left them out and I can do my part to keep the show on schedule. And at the end of the day, no one will remember who I am, and that's fine with me. Seriously. Name me five screenwriters without using IMDB. Not famous actors-turned-screenwriters or book authors-turned-screenwriters. People that make their living writing movies. Betcha can't do it.

Now name me five people who are in the tabloids but have never made a movie, written a book, or had a song on the radio. Much easier, isn't it? And that's what I'm talking about. I'm not opposed to having my time in the spotlight because I want to hide from the world - not entirely, anyway. But what's the point of being famous anymore? The rules of the game have changed - people aren't famous for accomplishing anything. They're famous for making out with Flava Flav on national TV (who isn't even famous for a good reason himself).

So my inevitable fifteen minutes of fame are up for grabs, Reader. Go ahead, take them for yourself, and see if you can get some use out of them. I'm perfectly content to just sit back and shine the spotlight on somebody else. That is, until I'm working on a movie that stars Matt Damon, and we meet at a pre-production meeting and the sparks fly.... then you can kiss me good-bye. But I'll be sure to thank you, Reader, along with all the other little people who got me there.

I love you, Matt Damon! WOOOOOOO!

Monday, July 21

... About Risky Business

When I got to work this morning, I had a voicemail from Super Dell. He told me that he had a friend who was using advanced technology to run his weed-whacker on water, but that the government wouldn't tell people about it because they're Socialists.

Well, thanks a lot, Government.

I'm not going to lie to you, Reader. It scared me. This was obviously a personal attack, a direct result of me publically questioning Super Dell's right to exist a month ago. He tracked me down! Blast! The LAST thing I need right now is to be a blip on Super Dell's radar. I mean, the man is a total loon, with a history of waving guns around and threatening to shoot people.

So it's official. I've crossed over into the realm of journalists who put their lives at risk just to get that golden story. I am Daniel Pearl in Pakistan, 2002. I am Geraldo in Iraq, 2003. I am Dan Rather in Manhattan, 1986 ("What's the frequency, Kenneth?!").

When you're scared for your life, Reader, there's only one logical thing to do. Cruise eBay for body armor. Like this:


Yup, that should do nicely. As long as they don't shoot me in the face.

So then I was thinking, it's a good thing I'm going to be wearing body armor full-time now, because boy, could I use it. It's too bad I didn't realize I was Super Dell's mark before this last weekend, because it could have protected me from the many dangerous pitfalls awaiting me in the Provo River.

Katie decided that for her birthday, she wanted to get a group of us together and go ride down the Provo River on tubes. I know what you're thinking, Reader, and you're right. I do have a tendency to fall off of things such as rafts, jetskis, snowmobiles, Razor scooters.... My mom says it's probably a good idea for me to avoid any high adventure activities. But I figured this would be totally different. This trip was going to be just like that time we took that peaceful float down the river at Xel~Ha, with the only difference being that on the Xel~Ha river I fell out of the tube. I mean, it was Mexico, so it doesn't really count.

Turns out, the Provo River float was nothing at all like the Xel~Ha float, with one minor exception - I fell out of the tube.

Now, wait. I don't really think it's fair to say I "fell out". More like I was "coerced" out. By a tree with a highly convincing argument. And then some rocks who were likewise persuasive.

Had I been wearing full body armor, this would have been a very different adventure. Not only would I be spared numerous bumps, scrapes, and bruises, but I would have won the fight with that tree by a landslide. I could have taught that tree a lesson it would not easily forget. I could have walked away from that river with dignity, and without exposing any of my pasty skin to harmful UV rays. How have I managed all these long years without it?

So I'm off to find me some good ol' American-made body armor to protect me from the likes of Super Dell, passive-aggressive trees, and Socialists.

I hope it comes in red.

Monday, July 14

... About Good Intentions

Turns out, Reader, I'm not what you would call a "highly motivated" individual.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying I'm lazy. Although I am. But that's not what I'm talking about here. What I'm talking about is... iuhno. I lost my train of thought. But I think it was something along the lines of... like... goals? Accomplishing them, or not accomplishing them, or something.

I mean, I want to do stuff. I really do. I just don't want to actually do anything about it. Basically, what I think I'm saying, is that all the things I want should just happen without me having to put forth any kind of effort.

Is that so unreasonable?

I think my real problem is time management. I always manage to convince myself that I have a lot more time to get stuff done than I actually do. I remember being at an age where I thought it was funny when adults said things like, "This year has gone by so fast," or "The years just keep passing by quicker and quicker." As a kid, I knew they were wrong. Time didn't go faster when you got older! Now, all of the sudden, I realize they were right. It wasn't very long ago when time still moved at the right speed, and yet it was forever ago. That probably has something to do with Einstein's Theory of Relativity, which basically says this: The kid version of me got in a spaceship while the adult version of me waited on Earth... and then Donald Duck showed up and did something about a pool table? Thank you, all my junior high teachers who relied on educational Disney videos!

Anywho, last January, instead of making New Year's Resolutions, I made "Things to Do Before I'm 25" Resolutions. Which is basically the exact same thing, but I thought it'd mean more to me if I personalized it. I mean, anybody can have New Year's Resolutions, but only 3,712,136 people in the U.S. are turning 25 this year. That makes me feel a bit more special. And I like being special, Reader.

But now here I am, less than six months away, and I'm discovering that even the magic birthday deadline hasn't motivated me. Which is not to say that I've done nothing toward my goals; I just haven't come as far as I should have. I have managed to complete at least one major one, so props to me on that. But the others... eh, not so much.

I know what you're thinking, Reader. I shouldn't set such rigid timelines for myself, especially on big life-goals. They'll happen when they happen, blah blah blah. That's just crazy talk, Reader. Question: If I don't set a deadline for myself, how will I know that I'm a failure? Huh? Answer me that. Answer: I won't. I won't know that I'm a failure. I won't know that I'm not accomplishing anything with my life. And then I'll just be wandering around all willy nilly thinking I'm awesome all the time.

No, Reader. That is not the way.

You can't fault me for trying, though. Sometimes I get really ambitious. I make mental charts and diagrams and lists, I plan out exactly how I'm going to get something accomplished. But then I usually fall asleep and forget all about it by morning. Or afternoon. Depends on when I fall asleep. Either way. But all that trying is just exhausting, Reader. It seems to get me nowhere. Like Homer said (in Odyssey, I believe? Or was it Iliad?), "Try is the first step to failure." Wise words to live by, Homer.

But the best thing about resolutions, Reader, is that we always get another shot! So, yeah, instead of having one year to finish my remaining goals before I hit the big dos-five, I'll instead have 131 days to finish them! And really, if you think about it, that's a lot of days. I'm feeling really motivated right now, Reader! I should work out a plan, put all these ideas down in a chart of some sort... maybe I'll make a cool little spreadsheet to track my progress! Yeah, that's the ticket! I'll even color code it.

Of course, it'll take a little time to get all these visual aides put together, and that just eats into the time spent actually working on my goals. I should really get cracking, then. Later today. Or maybe tomorrow. No need to stress about it. I still have plenty of time.

Tuesday, July 8

... About Craig

I realize that for outsiders, yesterday's post was a bit cryptic. I wanted to post SOMETHING, but I didn't know what to say. So today I'll explain a bit. On Saturday, July 5, my friend Craig Decker jumped into Utah Lake to retrieve an oar from his boat and never came back out.

Craig has always been one of my favorite people on the planet. He's one of those people that could always make any activity more fun. Anyone that ever knew him loved him instantly.

The lyrics I included with the picture of Craig and me yesterday are from Billy Joel's "Lullaby (Goodnight My Angel)", and there's a reason I picked that song. Back in high school, Craig decided he wanted to learn the song, so he asked me to accompany him in the practice room sometimes. That's one of my favorite memories of Craig, sitting at the piano with him, playing "Lullaby" while he hummed along. He then borrowed my (Mom's) sheet music and lost it, and bought me (her) a new copy and stuck a bow on it. The sheet music is now buried in Mom's piano bench somewhere, but I'm pretty sure the bow is still there. That song has always reminded me of Craig, so I thought stealing a few of the lyrics would be appropriate.

Of all of Craig's talents, my favorite by far was his incredible backrubs. We used to trade them off - I'd give him one just so he'd owe me one, and vice versa. I put him to sleep with one once, which is how I managed to steal his brown sweater and kept it for a week.

Another of my favorite Craig memories was the time we went up to Idaho for a band competition. We stopped for lunch at a shopping center that had a few fast food options, but Craig and I decided we'd rather go to the Albertson's across the street and buy real food. Once we hit the produce section, Craig proclaimed that we would be remiss if we didn't buy a souvenir potato while in Idaho. So we did. We named it (although I can't remember what) and made it the mascot of the competition.

Once a big group of us went up to Donut Falls for a hike. A few people decided to climb up to the top, Craig and I among them. We had to cross the river over some boulders. Craig was giving me a hand up on one of them when my foot slipped a little, and for whatever reason CRAIG LET GO. Which means I went tumbling down into the river and got soaked. The water was freezing, but not quite as cold as the time we spent all day playing in the snow and tried to thaw out our toes in front of the Starr's fireplace.

I feel so blessed that I had a chance to have Craig in my life. When it seemed like the world was falling apart, I often thought of him and it made me feel better. As long as there was someone like Craig in the world, things couldn't be all that bad. His contagious smile, his unfailing optimism, his quirky sense of humor, his glowing love for his family, friends, and faith - these are the ways he impacted my life. These are the things I loved most about him, the ways he made me want to be better, be more like him.

The picture yesterday was from a trip we took last summer up to Bear Lake. Moments after I arrived he sat beside me, grabbed Jacey's camera and snapped it. I loved that, because he didn't care that we hadn't kept in close touch after high school anymore than I did. To Craig, once you're his friend you're always his friend.

And he'll always be mine.

Monday, July 7


Goodnight, my angel.

Time to close your eyes,

But still so many things I want to say.



You should always know

No matter where you go

No matter where you are

You'll always be a part of me.

Tuesday, July 1

... About Courtesy

One of the fun things about my job is that I get to answer the phones. Yippee! There's nothing better than being constantly interrupted by people I don't want to talk to. Usually, it's just a matter of transferring the phone call to somebody else, or looking up some account information, or something equally mundane. Occasionally you get someone who isn't sure why they're calling, or who they want to speak to, or what they need help with, and are generally unwilling to help me help them figure it out. Or, they know exactly what they want, but don't realize that I am unable to read their minds and further explanation would be helpful. Like the conversation I had yesterday:

Me: Good morning, Hy-Ko.
Guy: Hi, do you have showering stuff?
Me: I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Do we have what?
Guy: Showering stuff.
Me: ...(long pause)... In what context?
Guy: Showering stuff. You know, it gets rid of hard-water stains.
Me: Oh. Um, no.

Then there are the chatters. These are usually people who I imagine would talk to a wall if it gave the slightest indication it was listening - i.e., it didn't run away. Most of them are fairly benign, but occasionally I get a crazy. For example, one day a few months ago I sat and listened for a good ten minutes while a lady told me she that she was allergic to her plastic dental work, and it had melted into her skull and was now oozing out of her hair.

Right.

Now, Reader, I'll be the first to admit that sometimes the most memorable phone conversations I have with complete strangers are my own fault, and not that of the person calling in. Like this little gem from last week:

Me: Good morning, Hy-Ko.
Guy: ...(long pause)... What?
Me: This is Kristen at Hy-Ko, can I help you?
Guy: Did you just say 'good morning'?
Me: ...(long pause)... Maybe.
Guy: It's, like, four o'clock in the afternoon.
Me: Sorry, force of habit.
Guy: That's okay, it just threw me off. Good afternoon.
Me: Good afternoon.
Guy: ...(long pause)... (laughs)

You know, Reader, of all the random people that I have to talk to on the phone every day, there is one type that really gets my goat. They're the worst. Seriously. I'd like to find a way to lure all these people into the same place at the same time and drop some Napalm. Lots of Napalm.

I'm talking, of course, about people who think they're funny.

No, not people who think they're funny and are actually funny. Those people are A-OK in my book. I mean the people who think they're funny and are very, very, very incorrect in that assumption. Like the dozens of people every day who are convinced that they are the first person to ever come up with the oh-so-clever joke to call me 'Hy-Ko' as if it's my name ("Good morning, Hy-Ko, can I speak to Ron?"). Guess what? You're not the first. And that guy who WAS the first? He wasn't funny, either.

Bailey has just IM'd me a great example of one of these characters:

Bailey: HKS, this is Melissa, how can I help you?
Guy: Can I talk to Russ?
Bailey: He's in a meeting right now, would you like his voicemail?
Guy: Go tell him the most important guy he's ever going to talk to is on the line.
Bailey: ...Okay...
Guy: No, I'm just kidding.
Bailey: Ha...ha.
Guy: I'm really not that important.

Yeah, I could have told you that, buddy.

Seriously, what is wrong with these people? And it's not just people I talk to on the phone at work, either. They're everywhere! It seems like I'm constantly coming in contact with people who think they're funny.

You know what the worst part is, Reader? It puts people like me in a tight spot. I mean, I have to offer a courtesy laugh or else I'm just being rude, right? But by laughing at these not-funny people, I'm encouraging this type of asinine behavior. And doesn't that really hurt them in the long run?

Is it better for me to be discourteous now in order to save them from the humiliation of being 'that guy' for the rest of their natural existence? Or should I give them a courtesy laugh and hope that someday a close friend will sit them down and gently say, "Dude, you're not funny. Seriously. Stop trying," before it's too late? Do I have a responsibility to these people - nay, to all of mankind - to stop the cycle of lame before it gets out of control? Or am I overstepping my bounds?

You can see this is an important issue to me, Reader.

Deep down, I feel like it would be better if I didn't give people courtesy laughs. But I know that unless I could get more people on board with me about this issue, it wouldn't make much difference. As long as there are enough people out there who are just throwing out courtesy laughs like melted candy at the 4th of July parade, my efforts will make little impact on the world. It's a discouraging thought.

But still, Reader, I think I have an obligation to try. If EVERYBODY simply said, "Little ol' me won't make no difference," we'd have quite a problem on our hands. First off, there'd be a lot of people using terrible grammar. And second, nothing would ever get accomplished.

So this is a call to arms! The next time somebody makes what they think is a joke, stand your ground! Resist the urge to be kind and give them a courtesy laugh. It may seem cruel, but these are measures we have to take. Think of all the good you'll be doing for the future! Think of the children! Together, we can end the destructive forces of courtesy laughs in this country, and someday, the world! They may take our laughter, but they may never take our freedom!

Oh, come on, Reader. No laugh for that one? That was funny. That was totally funny.

Wednesday, June 25

... About Being Easy

Here's something you may not know about me, Reader: I'm kinda pasty. My skin is very fair and freckly and doesn't tan at all. I blame my British roots. It's cloudy over there, so we're not accustomed to prolonged sun exposure.

It doesn't really bother me. I don't mind being Whitey McWhiterson. What I mind is when perfect strangers walk up to me and ask, "Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale." Usually this problem goes away during the summer - I get just enough sun that my skin takes on a kind of off-white hue which most of society deems somewhat acceptable. Unfortunately, my "tan" is inconsistent at best. My fair British skin is too stubborn to settle on a middle ground - it's either the white cliffs of Dover or Redcoat crimson.

Which is why when I get a sunburn my legs end up looking like a Jackson Pollack painting.

Remember last year when I went up to Jacey's cabin at Bear Lake and came back with stripes on my shins? Yeah, this year was not quite as visually entertaining, but splotchy and confusing all the same. We spent only two hours at the lake, and I used waterproof SPF 50, and yet somehow the contrast of red on white against my legs is reminiscent of a Rorschach test.

I should be studied.

Despite the awkward sunburn, it was fun to get away for the weekend, do something a little different from the norm. I've gone up to the cabin for Jacey's birthday every June for the last three years - it's a nice little tradition. This year it was girls-only, though not on purpose. All the boys Jacey invited ended up bailing out for one reason or another. And while it's fun to have a girls' night every now and then, I've been having nothing BUT girls' nights for quite some time now. So I was a bit disappointed. I miss hanging out with guys.

I said something to Bailey about that, how it would be just that much more fun if there were boys going. Her response? "You're kind of a slut." I then told her how a few of my old roommates down at Snow thought the same thing just because I - dun dun dun! - held hands with a boy I didn't even like. "Well that just goes from slut to easy," Bailey replied. The conversation quickly evolved into a discussion about Richard Simmons (you have to get up pretty early to keep up with our wit), but you get the basic premise, Reader. I am a harlot. A jezebel. A streetwalking strumpet.

You agree with them, don't you, Reader? You're taking sides with my roommates, team members, sister, friends, and other associations who have called me skanky! Well, you're wrong, Reader. Dead wrong. Normally I would just brush off those kind of asinine allegations. But because it seems to be a recurring theme, my trampiness, I thought it deserved a little bit of inner reflection.

So I started making a mental list of my "harlot-y indiscretions." And while compiling this list I found nothing major - just a little snuggling here, a little spooning there. Sure, I've been known to flirt with, cuddle, even kiss boys that I had no romantic feelings for whatsoever. But that hardly justifies the scarlett letter that's been pinned to my chest. I like boys! I like boys even when they're not boys that I like! Is there something so wrong with that? I think not.

So I take great umbrage at your accusations, Reader. I think the real reason you're lashing out at me is because you have some sort of underlying psychological issue with men. Maybe we need to figure out what's really bothering you. Freud would have a field day with this one. We should just lay you down on the couch and discuss this.

So here, Reader: look at my leg and tell me what you see.