when will you people learn, I am never wrong.

Here's an excerpt from a recent conversation I participated in:

Mom: "Dear favorite child, clean out the fountain."
Kristen: "No thank you. I didn't dirty it up."
Mom: "Remember last Tuesday when you invented that game called 'throw an entire bag of colored marshmallows into the fountain?'"
Kristen: "I have no response to that."
Mom: "Don't make me hurt you."
Kristen: "Oh, that fountain."
Mom: "Chop chop."

20 minutes later: Kristen is still scrubbing what appears to be a coat of half vomit half diarrhea (sorry friends...it's the only way to convey to you the vile-ness) with little to no success. Enter mother.

M: "Here's a bottle of Clorox...have at it."
K: "Have you lost your mind? And I'm serious this time."
M: *the look*
K (shielding eyes): "Remember how you like to watch birds drink out of this fountain? Last time I checked, robins don't like bleach."
M: "Just rinse it out really really well when you're done."
K: "Please don't make me become a birdie murderer."
M: "They will be FINE. Scrub."

(I believe this is where we began with the British accents, which of course led to me speaking like an Indian. No not Native American...red dot on the forehead Indian. All my attempts at being a foreigner leave me giving a riveting impression of Apu Nahasapeemapetilon. However, I will now stop killing you slowly with this tangent and save my language woes for therapy.)

K: "I declare madam! The fowl shall surely perish!"
M: "Peasant! I did not pay 4 shillings for a complainer! Thine life shall be my bidding!"
K: "Yur veeshous mie comehand."

And here we rejoin you one week later. What do you know, Kristen was right again and is in fact an avian assassin. Surprise!

just another day in the life of yours truly

I just walked directly into a closed door and actually hit my face on it. As in, face smashed in door = me. Try not to be too jealous.

Running into things is not uncommon to me. Once in junior high I was actually defending myself after being called clumsy when I walked into a chain link fence. I lost that argument.

This is bringing back semi-painful memories of another incident from my hooligan days (okay fine, it was like 2 years ago). One ordinary day (don't worry it becomes extra-ordinary) I was running (to be clear...sprinting) from the kitchen to the office (I've just acknowledged my obscene overuse of parenthesis), most likely in an attempt to escape from a 10-minute clean up.

Our house looks like this:

This is actually the blueprint we used for building. Let me explain the markings. The yellow dot represents my dear father sitting in a chair, silently thumbing through a book. The red line represents me, running quite swiftly. Please notice that this red line does not end in the office. It ends at the wall. To be precise, the wall which I hit at 77 miles per hour. The wall which knocked me off my feet and left my face planted firmly on the floor. Wait, here's the kicker. This is the point in the story where I think I have run into a human and am feeling bad about that fact. Still eating carpet, I begin to throw out my deepest of apologies. "I'm so sorry! Oh my gosh, I didn't even see you there! I just rammed right into you! I'm so so sorry!" And here's where previously mentioned parent looks up from his studies, pauses for quick analysis of the situation and then calmly let's me know, "Yeah...I'm pretty sure it doesn't care."

Thanks Dad. Way to take away my last shred of dignity.

enemies list

Sometimes when I'm having an especially glorious day I just feel like listing things I like. Counting my blessings, so to speak. Today is a bog-of-eternal-stench day and my attitude is less than glorious. It's allowed, so bite me (unless your name is Shirley Kidman because your response to that statement is just shy of publicly acceptable and left a mark on my arm for 6 hours). I believe The Pretenders once poetically and prophetically sang, "If you're mad, get mad!" And I say to that, "Okee-dokee. Sounds like a plan." So here we go...

(Pause: You may want to choose a somber song for this read. Might I suggest something along the lines of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" or the theme to Titanic.)

My Enemies (not to be confused with Enemas):

1. Enemas
2. Ants (real ones and the movie)
3. Pepto Bismol - You might as well eat Life Savers. They taste better and will probably cure your heartburn, nausea, indigestion, upset stomach, and diarrhea more effectively and without causing a lame song and dance routine to waltz through your head. Reading this blog has the opposite effect...for both the recollection of said song, and your gassy innards.
4. The sound of fingernails being filed
5. Cancer
6. Science (class)
7. Boy bands
8. Long fingernails (on me)
9. Long toenails (on anyone)
10. Whole milk- which sometimes cleverly goes by an alias...Vitamin D. Don't be fooled. The D stands for Disgusting.
11. Being cold
12. When someone starts a text conversation in the middle of the one you are attempting to have in real life. One word: URLAME.
12. Purple
13. Decisions (Anything ranging from "Do I want a small spoon or medium sized spoon with which to eat my Cocoa Puffs this morning?" to "What should I do with the rest of my life?")
14. "Because I Have Been Given Much"...I have an explanation, but not one that will satisfy you.
15. When people let grotesque verbage such as "LOL" and "OMG" actually escape their real life mouths and vocal chords.
16. Cat food commercials
17. Velvet (this applies to any and all surfaces including, but not limited to: furniture, windows, and humans.)
18. Treadmills
19. Slow or broken computers (namely PCs)
20. Bad perfume
21. Anyone who is getting annoyed with my overuse of lists lately
22. The time I discovered a song entitled, "Be Less Rude" and didn't like it, because need we kid ourselves? That's the raddest and baddest song title in all of history. Thank you to the Frightened Rabbits for wasting a good name on your craptastic singing. That was rude of you. Also,

BAD singing + good song NAME - 'singing good song' = Frightened Rabbits.

Get a pen and paper...don't forget to show your work.
23. I'm sorry, was that rude?
24. Crunchy peanut butter
25. I-15 construction
26. Redundancy
27. Redundancy
28. Sad attempts at cleverness
29. Bad writing for which people are being paid. (I'm not getting paid, so just suck that comment right back through your lips.)
30. PMS (no Jared, not the tea.)

THE END

growing up is poop

I'm having a hard time deciding what to be when I grow up (also known as now). I realize this is something I should have had at least semi-planned out like 13 grades ago, but guess what? I didn't. Get over it Paco. Actually, I take it back. That statement is not entirely true. Here's a little tidbit I found this morning from first grade art class:
So, yes. I had dreams and plans. No, they did not so much work out for me as crash and burn. (Although I just want to say that had the fire of desire within me to be a BYU football player been kept aflame, I am fully confident I would be on the team right now.) Also, if anyone has any ideas as to what appears to be the filmer's beaver tail might be, I'm still working on it myself.

Since I feel like I'm going in a backwards direction, I've decided to float with the flow and solve this problem backwards-ly. Instead of drawing up continuous blanks when asked what I want to be, I'll go ahead and list the things I know I do not want to be and why. (And let's remember to not get offended if you are say, a plumber or lion tamer).

1. plumber-duh
2. artist- please refer to above depiction
3. manicurist-the sound of files makes me want to eat my own fingers
4. keeper of the dog- :) oh that's right, I'm Hi-larious.
5. eye doctor - eyes are gross and i'd rather not blind anyone
6. dentist- this noise: "bzweeeegaaakakakaa!!!"
7. nanny- kids are mean and know good pranks
8. hairstylist- people care more about their hair than their children.
9. contortionist - click here
10. teacher- see #7
11. lion tamer - head + body + still attached = super
12. flight attendant - have you honestly ever met a flight attendant who didn't give you the heeby jeebies?
13. chef - the 3 times I've attempted homemade macaroni and cheese, the result was this:

In case this Rembrandt leaves you unconvinced...for breakfast this morning I had "pancakes" - also known as "a piece of bread with syrup on top."

I'm striking out all over the place. Feel free to drop your suggestions in the comment box below.

ready or not...here i come!

I spent a large portion of the afternoon playing hide-and-go-seek with Mer's kids. I'd have to say the 12 and a half minutes I spent zipped up in a suitcase were the least enjoyable of the day. But all is well (minus a ghastly headache)...I won. At least I now know I never want to be a contortionist. Check that off the list.

the postal service(s)

Bless the Postal Services. Both the United States one and the musically inclined one. (click here then down arrow...you know the drill.)

I would like to publicly apologize to UPS for a certain occurrence that took place a few days ago and for all the resulting pain said situation may or may not have caused. This apology is especially intended for the woman with whom I engaged in an undisclosed number of rather heated phone conversations, the likes of which possibly (likely) led to a serious hive break out. My deepest to you Madam.

Dear UPS,

I am so very sorry that I put you through what some might call "an experience not unlike an un-novacained root canal" the other day by making you search for a package for a number of hours I would rather leave anonymous at this point. I am so very sorry indeed that even after I realized, midway through your search that UPS does not in fact stand for United (states) Postal Service, I was too embarrassed to admit my faults and let you stop searching. So on you hunted like noble....mountain men for the box that was on it's way to my doorstep via the other postal service, namely the real one. I have pride issues, for which I do apologize most sincerely. In my defense, I forgot to wear my CTR ring that day and one always needs a visual.

Yours Truly,
Me

P.S. So sorry.

for k & e

Thank you for the best birthday week of my entire life. I'm sorry the blog has not been graced by your presence until now... it most definitely was unintentional.

Here are my top 10:

1. Meeting Mermo, He-nry, Lulie, and Goop. Thanks for sharing.

2. Royally catered meals. Thank you Martha.

3. "Julie caught a Jelly(fish), Minnie caught a Minnow, Roy caught a (Sting) Ray, your Boss caught a Bass, and Tina caught a _______" ..... SHARK!

4. "In lieu of flowers... please send candy"

5. "Portly" and "Cuddly" oh yes, and "Unbalanced"

6. This conversation:
K: "Maren, you know how there are different kinds of beans?"
M (the 6-year old): "Oh you mean like Kidney Beans, and Chili Beans, and Garbanzo Beans, and Pork and Beans, and..."
K: "Chili Bean!!! That's a GREAT ONE!!!"

6.5 (it correlates). "Where oh where has Freshly Picked String Green French Cut Been?"

7. This moment at the Playmill:












(all rights reserved. Love, Picasso)

8. This conversation:
Kristen: "How old are you turning?"
Patrick: "Uh....Eight."
Some girl in the corner: "Duuuuhhhh."

and this one too:

K: "Mawen, yoh sce-wy."
Maren: "Why do you talk funny? You said sce-wy, and you should say sce-wy."

9. "And they don't take insurance!"

and last but CERTAINLY not least:

10. When someone accidentally may or may not have hit a certain other someone in the forehead with a certain colorful suction ball.

Wait, can I have one more? Okay.

11. "Look! A triangular shaped pile of dirt!"

Oh shoot...and also the chocolate milk. Thank you I.F. cows. You beat out all 11. Point 5. You are the most favorite.

GRASSSSYYYYAAAASSSSS. Love you two stink pots.

exercise

Here are my thoughts on the matter: Exercise is weird.

I'll explain. Close your eyes and picture this......... Okay, now that you've re-opened them to read what you are supposed to be picturing, just keep them open and we'll fix that glitch by imagining with our eyes open. Or you could just close one if that helps. Close your eye and imagine you are an alien. It's hard, but try. You are an ambassador from Vortex 8 and you are on a mission to learn more about these creatures called "humans" on this planet called "Earth". You are to observe the daily life of the world's inhabitants and write up a report of your findings. I can see it now: "These extraterrestrial beings are highly advanced technically, medically, ethically (sometimes), culturally, and every night they jump on conveyor belts and run themselves into a state of complete and utter exhaustion."

When I watch a person run on a treadmill I get profoundly confused. Picture it. (I'm really into the visualizations today)... Imagine someone sprinting on a treadmill (someone ridiculously good-looking if that helps you stay focused, or not so hunk-ish for the same reason). Now keep watching this person run, sprint, push their heart to its absolute limit, oh the pain! Sweat drips down this person's face, then flies off his luschious head of hair as he flings his noggin from side to side in slow motion...FOCUS! Come on people, stay with me! Now ask yourself this question: "What on planet Earth is said human doing?"

I've read the studies, I've studied the readings....I know the answer. I know that our bodies were made to get a days work done and I realize that a days work has changed from having to chase down a cheetah, wrestle it into a headlock, kill it with your bare hands, hoist it onto a tree you have just cut down with a cheetah tooth and roast it for the kiddies' dinner to...sitting your hiney on a cushioned chair and using all stored energy only to lift your finger to a keyboard and click that enter button (you can do it!), with the occasional trip to the nearest restroom provided you forgot your depends that day. But what I'm really trying to get at here is this: Aren't our bodies these incredible machines that can adapt to anything and evolve over time to meet the needs of our environment? And if so, is it really that hard to just accustom yourself to one's sedentary ways and still be healthy? Come on, it can't be that hard....really. Bodies withstood the fashions of the 1980's, and nothing can be much more difficult than that. We altered the course of the world and ended up having to compensate for being more efficient than neanderthals. I mean evolution has been great for the whole opposable thumbs thing, but I think we got the short end of the stick on exercise.

In conclusion I would like to first apologize for the length of this post and pray that you have not actually read the entire thing, being as how it is simply a rant I have somehow embarked upon. Secondly, I would like to say that I actually do like to exercise (usually) and that I think it serves useful purposes (aka endorphins), and with that being said I have now made this entire saga of streaming thoughts completely and utterly credit-less. Welcome to my brain. Actually...one thing is excused from the pointlessness and that is the part where I express my deep rooted hatred of the treadmill. Please go run SOMEWHERE and see SOMETHING.

Amen.

p.s.

It's back! And along with it my one and only perfected talent: Mary the Judge impersonations. I don't claim many sensational abilities...but oh baby can I hop on the hot tamale train.

fried hair and chicken

The most absurd ideas pass through my brain constantly. I can't seem to stop them and each time they leave I think, "Hmm, that is something I have never thought nor will ever likely think again." Today as I curled my hair, this one meandered through: "Wow, the outermost layer of my hair is just like pre-cooked chicken nuggets." It's true. Reasoning please? Okay. The top layer of hair on my head curls so much more quickly and nicely than those underneath and the only explanation I could come up with was that they have been fried more (from being colored) and therefore are like unto pre-fried frozen meat. They curl faster when they are fried by the iron, just as pre-cooked meat fries faster than raw when placed in the microwave. Kapish? (Also my hair was a tiny bit greasy today....but ssshhh, don't tell).

What are your random thoughts? Or is it just me?

colorblind

This is the most amazing improv I have ever seen in my life. How you can just make movements like this up as you go, let alone run and throw yourself onto someone else with no prior planning is beyond me. Talk about TRUST.

Muirhead Survivor

Michelle and I are currently in the middle of a game I just invented. It's called Muirhead Survivor.

Here are the rules:

1. You must enter "the dungeon" (a 2.5 x 14 ft., unfinished cement room in our basement) with only the clothes on your back and three items of your choosing.
2. These three items must be selected and prepared in a 5 minute time period.
3. All doors are closed securely.
4. After 5 minutes....lights off.
5. Last person to leave the room wins the PRIZE!

Pictures to follow... I did not choose a camera as one of my items.

Michelle has selected:
1. LARGE water bottle
2. Sleeping bag
3. Yarn (It was bread at first, but I was merciful and told her she'd want some entertainment.)...Although...yarn? Really? Whatever floats your boat I guess.

I have chosen:
1. Small water bottle (thank you small bladder)
2. Computer (already losing power)
3. A nice big comforter

We have been here 5 minutes and the drama has already begun.

Drama one: Michelle: I have to pee! (as she takes a sip of her 64 ouncer)
Drama two: Michelle sitting directly on a spider.
Drama three: Kristen yelling "Oh my gosh!" just for fun...Michelle not appreciating that.
Drama four: Michelle can't think of too many things to do with a ball of yarn. Duh.
Drama five: Michelle: I still have to pee! (betcha wish you would have kept that bread...and baggie. :) )

Ssshhh...now she's trying to sleep. I'll let you know how this all goes down.

pray for my lungs...yes you

Okay fine, I do not have lung cancer but I seem to have contracted the second worst thing. It's diagnosed as "I signed up for a marathon and I run akin to the strides of young Forrest Gump." Well that's the medical term anyway. But really... a mile's pushing it. Pretty hard. Let me be clear...in the story of the Tortoise and the Hare, I am the slug slash monkey. The slunky. You know, the character that is slower than the tortoise, but has a worse sense of direction and shorter attention span than the hare? The one who decides she is a runner, goes a few steps, but then sees a banana and finds herself so delighted in her new discovery that she forgets she should be running. Or wait, was she?

Anyway, I don't know what spawned this new endeavor but it should be a laugh for all. Please, by all means, indulge yourself in my ridiculousness. Let's just call it a short bout of insanity...which I am really really REALLY excited about. And scared to the point of diarrhea. But maybe that's just the bananas.

BUT. At least I still have these treasures. (Although I never got around to painting the second one and it does seem to prompt unwanted stares and comments from strangers)

Please click here to meet my beautiful and talented running coach/cheerleader/amigo extraordinaire who is really just something else. She is hoping to break 4 hours. I'm aiming for under 6. Mostly because that is when they close the finish line and start dissembling the bleachers, and I'd really like to go ahead and finish with all structures in tact.

Hey. Did I mention I'm really excited?

Also, P.S. to dear Natalie, I love you for doing this (and some other reasons too). Do not panic. I am IN. Oh, and excited.

shoot a pilot

My last post about our near and dear national airport system just reminded me of what may quite possibly be my favorite story of all time. Years ago (do I sound like I'm 82?) Well, back in the day when I was just a youngin'... my dad was traveling with a film crew during the production of a television show they were working on. You know how when you venture abroad the agent who checks your passport asks the purpose of your travel? Well, when a co-worker of his was asked this question he answered without too much thought (obviously), "We're going to shoot a pilot." Agent: "Excuse me?" Co-worker (slowly, and with added enunciation so as not to be mistaken again), "We are gooooing to shoot a piiiiilot." (Just in case you are not up to speed with film industry lingo... Shooting=Filming, Pilot= First episode of a television series). You can imagine how well that went over with the TSA, known for their loving gentleness.

LAS to LAX = LAM(e)

Last weekend I took a trip to not-so-sunny California to help my dad and brother photograph a wedding. It may or may not have been the most difficult traveling procedure of my life. But fear you not, I have survived.

Step one: Kristen prepares her luggage and loads up old rusty trusty Cracker (the beautiful Corolla) for their excursion to lovely (ba ha ha) Las Vegas. As she walks out the door of her apartment, Abbie (the roommate) offers an interesting bit of information about a time zone change somewhere in between herself and the airport.

Step two: Kristen spends the next 20 to 30 minutes calculating whether or not this means she has an EXTRA hour, or a MINUS (word help please) hour. She has lost an hour. No, she's gained an hour. No lost. Wait...gained? Gained. She definitely has an extra hour. But not really, because she just wasted it debating about the loss/gain of said hour, so she technically has neither lost nor gained...simply broken even. Time to go!

Step three: Thanks to her slight speeding disorder, Kristen (now half way to LV) is making swimmingly great time and might even get to the airport before her anticipated arrival time. Good thing too, because she may or may not have forgotten to take a potty break before leaving the house an hour ago.

Step four: 30 miles from airport Kristen hits massive and ridiculously exacerbating traffic. No worries, we are still ahead of schedule.

Step five: We are not ahead of schedule. We are behind schedule, due to the fact that I have not moved even an inch since step four.

Step six: Arrival at airport. Signs are of no help. Lost trying to find economy parking. Find it, miss shuttle, take next one.

Step seven: I get to the ticket counter and see a line of at least 60 individuals. Laughing slash crying, I approach the nearest uniformed person in my line of vision and beg for sweet mercy. She directs me to a self-check in computer which asks me for a confirmation number I cannot find on my piece of paper. I return to previously mentioned woman who looks at my paper and replies, "Honey, that print's so small I don't think God could read it." I beg to differ, although I don't press the issue. I return to self computer (which now of course has a 4 person line...I wait.) and enter the confirmation number I have miraculously found. "We're sorry. You are too late to check in for your flight." I check the clock..."Like H-e- double hockey sticks I'm too late! I still have 15 entire 60 second minutes!" I yell at the screen. The British man behind me looks away, pretending to not be paying attention. I return once more to said worker (she's loving me at this point) and announce my disapproval at her technology's non-compliance with my schedule. She tells me I must be at the airport one hour before departure to keep my seat. I tell her exactly what I think of that and leave to get back in line, print off my ticket for the next flight (they want $50 to confirm), and run to my gate, which lo and behold...has been changed.

Step seven and a half: Because this is getting long, let's just say security was a war zone. I was selected for the "strip search" but somehow was let off the hook. (Lins: I didn't even ask what his flashlight thing was for this time!)

Step eight: I pass a bathroom and my bladder yells at me, "Listen sister! I promise that I will pee your pants if you don't let me go!" I yell back, "Do it. I dare you. I am NOT missing this flight!"

Step nine: I find my gate. Over the intercom I hear "Last call for flight blah blah!" I see a line of approximately 10 stand-by fliers, begging to be put on the plane. After waiting a moment behind them, my mean side (I call her Katrina) comes out and I walk to the front of the line and tell them I have a ticket for this flight. "We're sorry, you weren't here in time. We've given your seat away." Intercom: "The gate will be closing in 30 seconds...29...28." I look over and see the hinge begin to move. Me: "Excuse me. I am not too late. I still have 27 seconds." Employee: "Well, I can't get my printer to work, so I can't print you off a ticket. I'll put you on the next flight." Katrina (you know, one of those people you are embarrassed for...): "No! You will put me on this flight because I bought a seat on it 6 weeks ago and I paid for it and I am here and the airplane is still on the ground! Look! See it out there? It hasn't even moved yet!" Desk agent: "We do have a seat in the rear of the plane reserved for an oversized package." Katrina: "I am a HUMAN! That is a bunch of CARDBOARD! Put it in the bathroom! Because so help me if you give my seat to a BOX."

Step ten: I am on the airplane, walking to my seat. All plane occupants' eyes are fixed on me as the flight attendant picks up her phone and in a sweet as ever voice says, "We do apologize for the delay, but we had a little issue and it's all taken care of and we are ready to leave." Again...all eyes on me. I almost yelled out an apology, but was a little too distraught.

Step eleven: We are airborne and the fasten seatbelt sign is turned off. I have to pee like a racehorse. Too bad the drink cart is right next to me (well, technically it is right next to the German, who is right next to me, who is asleep.) I wake him up and Katrina tells the flight attendant that she's gonna need to move her cart immediately if she doesn't want me to pee on her seat cushion/ flotation device. She is hesitant to comply, but my angry eyes convince her in the end.

Step twelve: The German on my right and the Singaporian on my left engage in heated, bad-breath debates across my lap for the next 45 minutes, both leaning in for emphasis. "Yo cuntree hahs no mercee foh meestahks." "Eh?" "YO CUNTREE EES MERCEELESS." "Vaht ah yu sayeeng?" etc. etc. etc. I interjected translations when I could, for my own sanity.

I hate flying with all the passions invested in my being.