... 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?

... 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.

... 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.

... 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.

... 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.

... 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!