Grand Adventurous Schemes for Adventuring and Stuff

When Roommate and I were in college, we had these grand adventurous schemes. Well, really, Roommate had these grand adventurous schemes for adventuring and also going on adventures and I would stand next to her, nodding along while silently thanking sweet baby Jesus that we had neither the funding nor the time to accomplish any of them. Adventurer, I am not. This is why Roommate and I are so good for each other. She pushes me to be brave and I keep her from finagling her way onto the roof of the science building and possibly getting killed or worse, expelled.

I remember once idly commenting that the fountain in the middle of the quad would be really fun to play in, since its bowl was just a sunken portion of the quad with no barriers, and that maybe someday we would sneak out of the dorms late at night and run through it (because I was pretty sure there was a rule somewhere that you were not to play in the Fountain of the Holy Spirit or at least it was REALLY frowned upon by the priests who ran our school). Roommate's eyes lit with a fanatical gleam and I instantly cringed, because I knew one way or another, I was going to end up in that fountain. And sure enough, amid the stress and worry of studying for our last set of finals of our Freshman year, Roommate suggested the perfect way to blow off a little steam.

And oh. my. god. It was SO cold. I spent much of it worrying we were breaking eight million rules and possibly angering God Almighty and also there was a random creepy dude who was definitely not a student sitting in the shadows of the quad watching us, even though it was well after midnight and no members of the public should have been anywhere near that part of campus, GOOD JOB PUBLIC SAFETY. But it was, hands-down, my favorite memory from that year. In fact, the picture of Roommate and I dripping wet and shivering afterward with my patented Uncomfortably Close and Awkward hug remains one of my favorite pictures of us in existence.

It became a tradition--on the Monday of Finals Week (which never had a final and often had your last class of the quarter, even if you were scheduled to take the final for that class the next morning and there was no way you would be learning anything new that day because sometimes my school was ridiculous), when the clock neared midnight, we would drop our books and scamper to the quad and, with muffled shrieks of glee and oh-my-God-that's-freezing-why-do-we-even-do-this-to-our-selves, we would fling ourselves in and out of the fountain, trying hard not to impale our limbs on the abstract sheet metal flame-ish things that were meant to represent the fire of the Holy Spirit (OR SOMETHING I WAS NOT AN ART MAJOR) or stub our frozen toes on the strategically placed fake boulders that were supposed to represent man's Earthbound flesh (I'm completely making crap up don't trust a word I say). And also avoid the lurking creepers who kindly offer to take photos fro you so that you don't end up with what will later be dubbed the "selfie."

Sometimes, we took friends with us. Sometimes, we went just the two of us. We NEVER went in Fall Quarter when, much to Roommate's chagrin and my everlasting gratitude, the school shut down the fountain to avoid the FROZEN LAKE METAL SPIKE DEATH TRAP that would inevitably ensue in the Pacific Northwest in December. We took pictures in the fountain in our robes on graduation day. The night before we handed over the keys to our apartment and went our separate ways, we waded through, opting not for the rambunctious shenanigans of our "younger" days, but for a more sedate and placid good-bye (OKAY I HAD A TUMMYACHE because I moronically refused to "waste" the leftover food in our fridge and spent our last days EATING IT INSTEAD WHAT AM I NEW?).

Oh my God, Elise, that wasn't even the point of the post. The point of ALL that was to say that Roommate makes me brave. She is so very good for me. But when she gets that gleam in her eye, the introverted play-it-safe line-toer inside of me just quakes. Because I know it's going to be awesome, but it's going to push me out of my microscopic comfort zone. And most of the time, it's not even anything dangerous or illegal or even scary to anyone who is not a chicken (*cough*me*cough*).

And the whole point of THAT is just to intro my ACTUAL topic for this evening, OH MY GOD STOP TYPING. So. Roommate has schemes; she makes me brave; I spend a lot of time praying her schemes never come to fruition because I am a big fat fraidy cat. Twenty-eight words. 28. Seriously, me?

Anyway, during our junior year, when we were living with Liar in our Ghetto Palace, Roommate suggested we take a road trip. And I smiled encouragingly, thinking it would be like that time we drove from [Prominent Pacific Northwest City] to [Prominent Non-United States City] for a three day weekend, except without as much Vicodin and I would remember to wear pajamas. Oh God, I want to leave that sentence as it is and just let you guys wonder, but I am terrible and being mysterious and also I'm a truth-teller (it goes hand-in-hand with being a line-toer) so I will divert this post a SECOND TIME to tell you the really lame story of our trip to the Great North (which is NOT Far North, but IS Far North Adjacent). [If you'd rather live with the mystery and just get on with this post, meet me at the next paragraph.] We had planned it for months for the first long weekend of the term. My friends wanted to go drink somewhere it was legal to do so at age 19 (as if they didn't take the copious opportunities to drink illegally right where we were, but whatev) and I wanted to see some place new. But right before we went, my friend broke her hand playing rugby and had to have surgery. But since we were using her car to get us there and we'd already paid for the hotel, she came along hopped up on painkillers. Oh, and I forgot to pack pajamas. Nothing bad actually happened to my pajamas or myself without them (except I had to sleep in my jeans or nothing at all in a shared bed in a cheap motel). That's all. You would have been better off with the mystery, huh? Sucks for you that I have Chronic Honesty And Truth Telling Effusive Reaction (or as the professionals call it: C.H.A.T.T.E.R.).

And we're back. So I'm thinking, fun day-trip! Maybe a weekend in Eastern [Name of Pacifically Northwestern-most Pacific Northwest State]. At best, something out of state, maybe to her hometown a couple days' drive south. Nooooo. That will not DO for Roommate. No, she has GRAND adventurous schemes, remember? One day, she comes home with a map of the US and a box of stick pins (you know, the kind with the colored plastic ball at the end that you see in cop shows to mark the places in the crime scene photographs where they found evidence? Those ones). So we cleared a wall of the office (Ghetto Palace, remember? We totally had an office. Or a really tiny, oddly shaped third bedroom that no one wanted so Roommate and I ended up bunking together. Literally. With bunk beds. We were sooooo cool.), put up the map, and began marking the places we wanted to see. I got the red pins. She got the yellow ones. And blue were for... God, I can't remember. Towns with funny names? Yeah, I think that was it. Towns with ridiculous names that we wanted to visit sight unseen, just based on the name alone. Maine had some really spectacular ones, if I remember correctly.

And we began to plot our course. We were going to graduate college and immediately get our dream jobs. Mine would be on the East Coast, because that's where my industry was based and all the best graduate schools were there and of course I was going to have the time, money, and drive to work full-time AND go to school. Sure! Hers was in England. So we were going to drive across the country together with all of our stuff in the back of the car, making our way through sights and tourist traps and WORLD'S LARGEST WHATEVERTHINGAMABOB and crazily named towns. Eventually, we would end up in the [Insert Major Metropolitan City and Seat of Power on the East Coast], where my dream job would be waiting for me. Like, literally, they would have been waiting two months while I drove across the country at a leisurely pace, taking breaks for adventures wherever they found us, as Corporate America is more than happy to do for inexperienced new grads with no references and bad interviewing skills. From there, Roommate would board the next available flight across the Atlantic with only the possessions she could fit in a carry-on and take off for the British Isles, where HER dream job would be waiting, but not before she stayed in a few hostels and really roughed it for a few weeks, probably meeting a punk rocker who also played professional football (or as we stupid Americans call it, SOCCER) and falling madly in love.

It was, in short, pure fantasy. And it was SO fun to dream about these things, especially for me, since I put very little stock into our ability to accomplish any of it. I could dream and put pins in our wall with abandon, knowing they didn't constitute anything more than a flight of fancy. A few months later, we moved out of the Ghetto Palace (partly due to the financial tomfoolery of Liar and partly due to the encroachment of the ghetto into our palace and the gunfire that became a common feature of our evenings).

We carefully took the pins out of the map and unsuccessfully tried to refold the map into its original impossible 9"X4" rectangle (DAMN YOU RAND MCNALLY). We had grand plans of putting it up in the new place, but we never got around to it. As graduation loomed ever nearer, we realized there would be no "perfect jobs" and actually, thanks to the credit crisis and the economic downturn, there may be no jobs at all. We were both moving home to our respective hometowns to mooch off our parental units until we could scrape something together. The road trip had died.

The plans for the last hurrah shrank in some ways and expanded in others. Instead of several months, we chose a week. Instead of just the two of us, we included three of our close friends. Instead of across the country, we crossed part of an ocean, staying in Roommate's uncle's beach house on the North Shore of Oahu. And it was perfect. And as you might have guessed, I had to be talked into even THAT small of a plan (see also: CHICKEN). The five of us made a pact that no matter where we were in life, we would come back in five years. Next summer will be five years. I don't think many of us thought we would have spent the last five years the way each of us have, but for better or worse, at least four of us are going to make it back to that beach house next year. I don't care if I have to sell a kidney to make it happen. What? I've got two. I bet I'll barely miss the other one.

While I was in Far North, Roommate didn't really bring up the road trip. It's just too hard to even find time to fly to one another, let alone drive anywhere. But now that I live in Texas, Roommate has that gleam in her eye again. She has new grand adventurous schemes for NOLA and Nashville and Graceland and the Grand Canyon, using my place as a home base. And this time, I'm actually considering it. I don't have a map or pins yet, but I think I might be brave enough to buy some soon.

Oh Fishsticks!

I am currently curled up on my couch with a glass of sweet red wine, type-type-typing away on my novel. I need to complete a minimum of 5,000 words today and tomorrow each to get finished on time. I just crossed the 43K mark, so I still have a lot of work to do. But as much as I hate my novel right now, I cannot imagine getting to midnight on Thursday morning and realizing I failed NaNoWriMo with less than seven thousand words to go. That would be ridiculous.

However, getting to the same time on Thursday and realizing I failed NaBloPoMo by only two days would also be excruciating. So, I'm taking a break from typing that to type this. You're welcome? Probably not... Anyway, I thought I would tell you the sad sad story of Lola Betty, the Betta Fish and her true love Marty Allen, the Bluest Betta.


Lola Betty was my beautiful magenta betta fish... Wait, I should back up.

It was the summer between Junior and Senior year of college. Roommate and I had just moved into our new apartment, finally escaping Liar and the financial havoc she had inflicted. What with the move and finals and jobs and LIFE, we had kind of skipped over Roommate's birthday. I mean, we went to dinner and celebrated, but I hadn't had time to get her a super cool awesome present. Okay, who are we kidding? I am an awful gift giver. They are rarely super, cool, or awesome and are most commonly books.


Anyway, after ages of struggling to figure out what to get her, I just asked. I said, "Roommate, tell me what you want and I will take you out and buy it for you and hand it to you outside the store. And you can just pretend I was thoughtful and also that I wrapped it." Because I am an awesome gift giver.


It was around this time that we had been (half-)joking about getting a puppy--Roommate is not big on cats. But we knew our apartment wasn't really set up for either kind of pet. Plus we had no money and not a lot of time. And? Roommate had never had a pet (I know, right?!), so she was leery of starting with something so complicated. So I would say, "Let's get a kitten!" and Roommate would say, "No cats. How about a puppy?" And then I would say, "We have no money and no time!" and she would say, "Maybe a fish?" So for her birthday, I offered to buy her a fish.


She wanted a goldfish, but I had heard that they were actually rather finicky and died easily and you had to clean their bowls a lot. So when we got to the pet store, I steered her towards the bettas. I knew they were pretty hardy, so she was less likely to kill her first pet, which would be traumatizing and might ruin her for all pets in the future (hint... hint...). We also toyed with the idea of getting a plant first and seeing how it went, but I had great faith in her. So we looked at all of the teensy-tiny cups of bettas.


And look, I know they say bettas need very little space, but I think we go a little crazy with that concept. It's just mean! There were quite a few dead in those tiny cups and others looked nearly there. We wanted to rescue them all. But, like I said, we had very little money. So I ended up picking one for myself. A beautiful magenta female, with long flowy fins. Roommate kept wandering over to the goldfish and I kept telling her, "I'll buy you whatever you want, but I'd rather buy you something that won't die right away." Because I am an excellent gift giver.


Finally, she settled on a dark blue male betta. We carefully picked out glass bowls, rocks, plants, and decorations. I got glow-in-the-dark plastic rocks and a plant that we later discovered (in a very sleepy and strangely terrifying incident) also glowed in the dark. Glew in the dark? No. Glowed in the dark.


When we had everything we wanted, we took our fish and I paid for it all. And right before we got out of the store, we saw that there were some visiting shelter puppies up for adoption. I almost returned the fish--I'm just being honest. On the way home, we discussed names. We couldn't pick just one favorite name and they ended up with middle names. Which is a lot for such a little fish. She had Marty Allen and I had Lola Betty.

Because bettas tend to fight, we set them up in separate bowls. But we had this elaborate and ridiculous (and we knew it was ridiculous, but we thought we were hilarious anyway) story about how they were husband and wife, their love forever hindered by two pieces of glass and four inches of counter space. Sometimes, we thought they might even be communicating, since they would gravitate toward each other, watching through the barriers of their bowls. I'm not sure how often we leaned down to the counter and made stupid fishy-kissy faces at them, but it was a lot. They probably thought we were morons. 


We took great care of those fish. We had a feeding schedule and everything. We took turns feeding them. We had a whole system for marking that one of us had fed them. It helped my flaky brain and satisfied Roommate that she wasn't going to kill her first pet. Our friends used to mock us, saying we were like a married couple with kids. "Did you feed Jimmy breakfast?" "Who's picking Sally up from school?" We didn't care. We loved those fish. And we both agreed it was nice to come home to something living at the end of a long day of work, school, and junk.


We had them for almost six months. Then Christmas rolled around. We were both leaving town for two weeks to see our families. It was the first time we were going to be away from the fish for more than two days. We went out and bought vacation feeders for them and Roommate arranged to have a local friend check on them halfway through the break. We finished finals, packed last minute (like always), and headed out of town. In the flurry, we forgot to give the friend a key. "Oh well!" we thought. "They have fresh water and vacation feeders. They're bettas. They'll be fine!"


There were two things we did not take into account. First of all, we had turned down the thermostat to save money while we were gone. Second, a huge storm hit our normally temperate city. The entire city was shut down for over a week due to snow and ice. Roommate's friend couldn't have gotten there to check on them anyway. In the end, all of the details conspired against us. When Roommate got home, she found their bowls covered in a thin layer of ice.

Lola and Marty were no more.


I felt incredibly bad for Roommate, who did everything she was supposed to do as a first time pet owner. We were so worried about forgetting to feed them or not cleaning their bowls often enough. I don't think either of us expected them to freeze to death. And I feel even worse, because when she called me to tell me, I think I made her think it was her fault. I was pretty much only mad at myself.  Sorry, Roommate. You were an excellent fish parent. Don't ever doubt that.


It's kind of depressing to think of them slowly dying in the cold water. I imagine Lola shivering and Marty reassuring her that we would come home soon and rescue them. And even though it might be cruel to laugh at the expense of the pet I killed, I have a strange brain. All I can imagine of their last days is an epic, Titanic-style death scene. Freezing slowly, calling out their love for one another. Saying sappy things like, "I'll never let go!" I imagine few of those musical fish from that song on The Little Mermaid probably played a tiny string quartet as the water got colder. Lola wishing she was a salmon and built for this kind of water, Marty wishing he had a tiny fishy door to put Lola on...


Wait, I think I took the metaphor a little too far. I think NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo have broken me.Anyway, that is the Tragic and Totally True Tale of Lola Betty and Marty Allen, the Well-Loved and Very Loving Frozen Fish. The end.

Terrible Twos & Things Roommate Should Already Know

Godson is over today. His mom works in retail, so her hours are variable and his regular sitter can’t always take him. So, when I’m unemployed, I take him about once a week or so. Today, she brought him over a few hours earlier than her shift so that we could hang out and eat lunch together.

However, Godson is having a week of the Terrible Twos. This is especially odd because he is usually such a well-behaved, sweet little boy and usually is content to play near us or sit on a lap while we catch up. Not so, today. Since he arrived at 11:00 am, he’s had two time outs, a quick swat (what my mother always calls Shock Pops, since they don’t hurt at all, are very quickly administered, and serve merely as a warning and a redirection of attention), and is now napping, earlier than usual. We're into the whole bending-the-knees-refusing-to-stand-failing-to-listen-defiant-and-grumpy-and-clingy phase. I think it might be a growth spurt or a flu bug, but it doesn't really matter. We've still got to deal with the behavior. Which is not always fun for Auntie Elise (all of you moms out there are laughing at me and rolling your eyes. I can totally see you; don't think I can't!). I’m hoping to get this post done before he wakes up and we go for Round Two. We’ll see.

Yesterday, I posted Roommate’s answers to my Sunday Meet & Greet Survey, which I hope served as a good introduction to one of my favorite people. Today, I thought I’d attempt to answer at least some of the questions she posed. It all depends on Godson, really, and today is probably not the best day to test that. Oh well. Here we go:

My questions to you (whenever you feel like it, add your reasoning behind your answers)

Question the first: Out of the states that you have yet to visit, which is your favorite?

This is a ridiculous and silly question, but I will answer it as best I can. Since I was a little girl, I have always loved Colorado. Except that I have never been there. I think it’s because one of my childhood friend’s had relatives there and would go visit and have a great time and came back with wonderful stories, so I always wanted to go. Also, I think the Carolinas hold a certain appeal. But to be honest, I would love to visit most of the states I have never been to. With the exception of maybe Kansas or Arkansas, because I’ve been told all kinds of (probably stereotypically untrue) things about how boring those places are.

Question the second: What is your favorite spot in the entire world?

I’m kind of in love with Roommate’s Uncle’s beach house that we stayed at in Hawaii (minus the tiny ants that I went all ninja on). But more than likely, if there was any place in the world that I could choose to be at any given time, it’s tucked into the corner of my awesome purple couch with a good book and a blanket. Although I am rather partial to being tucked under my Papa’s arm on my parent’s couch watching educational TV. It’s just so… soothing? comfortable? It’s just so right.

Question the third: Coke or Pepsi?

Pepsi. Diet Pepsi, actually. But definitely Pepsi. In fact, Roommate… I’m kind of offended you even had to ask…

Question the fourth: What is your single favorite memory from college?

Funtain Diving, hands down. Someday, I will blog about Funtain Diving. But every time I try to write it, I can’t quite capture the essence of the ceremony and tradition. That's just the favorite, though. I really enjoyed the rest of it, too. Especially the times we lived together (without Liar). Those were pretty awesome times.

Question the fifth: What is your favorite flower?

Alstroemeria? Or maybe Crocus? All I know is that I love flowers, especially colorful and good smelling ones. I’m not really picky about which ones, as long as they are beautiful and arranged nicely. This will either make it very difficult or very easy for my future husband. Maybe someday, I’ll develop a favorite…

Question the sixth: Orange or black?

Orange. Again, I am a little annoyed you’d have to ask. ALWAYS COLOR! Especially the warm colors like reds, oranges, and yellows.

Question the seventh: Give me your best explanation as to why the sun is yellow (your answer is encouraged to not be scientifically sound).

The sun is yellow because God knew that we would all be looking at it every day to judge time, to seek light, to find warmth, and to produce food for us. He understood that yellow is one of the most pleasant colors he had created and wanted use to enjoy everything about the sun. He’s also a very good designer and knew that the yellow complimented the blue of the sky, the reddish-brown of the earth, and the green of the plants. It’s all about coordinating colors, you know.

OR! The sun is really made out of molten nacho cheese and that’ why it’s yellow. Because really hot nacho cheese is yellow, not orange. This whole “the moon is made out of cheese” thing is just plain ridiculous. Wallace and Grommet got it wrong. The moon would be a very dry, crumbly, dusty, yucky cheese that smelled bad. If it were made out of cheese. But it’s not. We ALL know it’s powdered sugar. Duh. So yeah. The sun is yellow because it’s made of nacho cheese. Is that non-“scientific” enough for you, Roommate?

Question the eighth: What is one place outside of the United States that you have never been that you would like to visit for three months?

Costa Rica. If I wasn’t allowed to be an American anymore (which would be a really interesting set of circumstances, since I’m such a law-abiding line-toer and everything), I would move to Costa Rica and build a bungalow in the jungle and drink wine and salsa dance and eat slightly spicy food on the back deck every night for the rest of my life.

Question the ninth: who decided the order of numbers?

I’m going go with either the Romans or the Martians. Either way they were friggin’ brilliant. What I have ALWAYS wanted to know is who put the letters in order? I mean, the order of the numbers has ACTUAL significance because of, well, you know, the COUNTING part of numbers. But the letters? Their order only matters when you put things in alphabetical order and even then, it’s only alphabetical because someone SAID SO! Who was that???

Question the tenth: was that person brilliant or just finding a way to ease his or her OCD?

I have no answers for this. I mean, yes, brilliant. Probably also OCD. But maybe it’s because of the combination of brilliance and mental disorder (can you call an compulsive need for order a mental disorder?) that makes this so hard to answer. Because if I were making up a way to count things that had to start from scratch and put them in order, it would never get done because I would not know where to start. So, yes? Hmmm…

And there’s the murmur of a wakeful toddler. I’d better go get him before he decides to climb the bookshelves or something. I mean, he’s never done it before, but he’s having an off week… No crashes yet, though. So I guess that’s a good sign.

Until next time, remember to spay and neuter your pets. No, wait, I think that’s someone else’s line… Anyway, have a nice day or something, okay?

UPDATE: Godson is still asleep. But I swear I heard him. Either I’m going crazy (likely), he woke up and fell back to sleep (highly irregular), or he murmurs in his sleep (unknown). But now I have time to fold that other load of laundry and maybe even empty the dishwasher. Look at me, being all domestic! 

UPDATED THE SECOND: Satan's Cat just climbed a high shelf and dumped an entire box of her toys all over the floor. A box of jingle bells and rattle balls and Mylar crunchie things. Which of course made a giant crashing noise loud enough to wake the dead, let alone a toddler. While I was silently running after her to grab her and tell her a very stern but quiet "bad kitty," I stomped on one of the jingle balls, busting it in a raucous fashion, injuring my foot, and almost swearing loudly while toppling into other furniture. So much for that laundry getting done (I mean it! I can totally see you mothers snickering with glee! Knock it off!)... 

I Haven't Died; Here's My Roommate

I could offer all kinds of excuses about why I suddenly fell off the map for the lat few weeks (they might include extreme laziness, crappy Internet, TV on DVD, lack of things to day, or a combination of all four), but I think we all recognize that the reason doesn't really matter. But I am back. I promise! I think. As long as the Internet service holds. And I don't get sucked into another episode of LOST. Or Psych. Or The Office. Or Castle. No, DANG IT! I'm back. That is all. Forget the rest, will you? Moving on.

Since I'm so out of bloggy practice, I thought I would take this opportunity to use someone else's words as a cop out introduce you to a friend of mine. You've heard me talk about Roommate, right? I've done it occasionally... Okay, she has her own label. But that's only because she's so awesome.

Well, Roommate has started her own blog, where she uses her real name (GASP!) and talks about family and soccer and life in general. She calls it Cleats and Flip Flops. I think it's a brilliantly clever title. And it's not because I'm biased or anything... Anyway, Roommate was catching up on this here blog the other day and sent me her answers to my ridiculous survey. I thought her answers were funny and interesting and--

Hold on, I'm eating really crappy cereal and it's getting in the way of my typing. Just give me a sec... Okay, I'm back. Blech. That as not really what I needed. But now I have a cup of coffee, so things are looking up. Wait, where was I? Ah, yes. Roommate.

As I read Roommate's answers, I realized it sounded a lot like a get-to-know-you interview. And what better way to introduce you to my bestest friend in the whole wide world than to use her own words against her?

Okay, so I asked permission before I posted this. But it's more fun to think about it the other way. Anyway, without further ado... 

Roommate:

1. Are you married or single? Or even trying to be married or trying to be single?
Single but trying to be married…kind of…
2. Do you have children? If not, are you planning to? If yes, how many do you have and do you ever want to give one or more of them away? (I may or may not be in the market)
No children yet…planning on having them some day…not planning on giving any of them away…unless they prove to just be too annoying
3. What is your favorite day of the week?
My favorite day of the week is Friday because I have a chance to feel productive. There is a shared it’s-almost-the-weekend mood in the office and Fridays hold all the promise and opportunity of the upcoming Saturday and Sunday.

4. Tell me one obscure thing about you--something that makes you unique or special or different or weird.
I am freakishly obsessed with soccer. But you knew this already.

5. If you could change one small thing abut the world, what is it and why? Not like "world peace" or anything. More like "I wish every body always brushed their teeth" or "I would eliminate all dryer lint."
In addition to a test to get your driver’s license, there should be a test to prove that one is not stupid. This will be a practical test, not a written test on which you can cheat. Topics covered will include but are not limited to: when not to ride your bike into oncoming traffic (an actual event will be put in place where one will have to make this decision under pressure) and when to cross the crosswalk of a major expressway against the signal at 10 o’clock at night wearing all black clothing (again, non-stupidity under pressure will be tested)
6. Who is your favorite blogger? (I'm not fishing for compliments here, I'm looking for new material and/or getting to know your taste) Also, do you blog and am I reading you? Because I should be.
YOU are my favorite blogger! Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are the only blog I read besides sports blogs…
7. Tell me your BEST childhood memory. OR? Tell me your EARLIEST childhood memory. Or both.
Best and earliest childhood memories are two VERY different things. My earliest memory is on my 3^rd birthday where I apparently ate too much cake and threw up all over my entryway hall (luckily it was tile and not carpet!) 

I had a very good childhood so I will choose from a veritable bank of good memories. My “BEST” childhood memory would be when my mom would give me a bath and shampoo my hair and shape it into a cone on my head! My hair was very long.

8. Do you tweet? Do I follow you? Do you follow me?
Yes. I think so and I think so.

 9. What do you value most? This is vague on purpose.
Playing really well in a really good soccer game.

10. When you fold your hands, which thumb is closest to you, left or right?
My right. Does that have some kind of secret meaning? For example, am I going to die earlier than those who have their left thumb closest?

* * * * * *

My questions to you (whenever you feel like it, add your reasoning behind your answers)

Question the first: out of the states that you have yet to visit, which is your favorite?

Question the second: what is your favorite spot in the entire world?

Question the third: Coke or Pepsi?

Question the fourth: What is your single favorite memory from college?

Question the fifth: What is your favorite flower?

Question the sixth: orange or black?

Question the seventh: give me your best explanation as to why the sun is yellow (your answer is encouraged to not be scientifically sound)

Question the eighth: what is once place outside of the United States that you have never been that you would like to visit for three months?

Question the ninth: who decided the order of numbers?

Question the tenth: was that person brilliant or just finding a way to ease his or her OCD?

Tune in next time when I attempt to answer all of Roommate's questions. Oh, and totally go visit her blog. She's pretty awesome and your life would be better for it. Promise.

Music Speaks to the Soul (Noses Only Speak to the Brain)

It's 7:30 pm. I am seriously considering going to bed right now. I have had a pretty stressful and craptastic week. I think things will radically improve in my life in a few weeks, but for now, I'm living on the edge of two not so great realities with the Sword of Damocles hanging above my head. Does this make any sense to you? Probably not. But that's okay. These last few sentences have been more therapy for me than information for you.

What you need to know is this: I'm having a hard time lately, I'm pretty stressed, I'm not sleeping well, and I want to hide in a hole from everything obnoxious in my life. This leads to the urge to tuck into bed at 7:30 on a Friday night. And if it weren't for Satan's Cat and her unpredictable ways, I might attempt it. Instead, I'm going to blog for a little, both to relieve stress and to make the evening go faster. And I'm going to eat some Starbucks Java Chip Frappuccino Ice Cream. Have you eaten this stuff yet? Because seriously, amazing! Go try it now. Seriously. I'll wait. Actually, while you're off running to the grocery store, I'm going to pry the sleeping cat off my legs, run to the kitchen, and pull my pint-o-awesome out of the freezer. Be right back.

Okay. I'm back. And I've got the ice cream. Delicious! Next, to turn on the music and come up with a blog topic. Yep, I'm doing it again: 250 words in and I have yet to talk about anything remotely resembling an cohesive theme. My high school English teachers are clutching their heads in pain right now, I'm sure. I guess I should get on with it and starting saying something useful or entertaining before you all stop reading. But before I do, can I just tell you how difficult it is to type with a spoon in your hand? Riddi9culusly digficul;t...

Anyway, today's topic: noses and music. Wait, what? Just go with me for a second, okay? They say that nothing can bring back memories more quickly and more vividly than our sense of smell (I don't know who they are exactly, but I've heard this many places). You've probably all experienced it at one time or another. Catch a whiff of a scent and you're suddenly back in your grandmother's house as a small child, at a county fair, or in the embrace of your high school love. Sometimes, scents don't even evoke any images, just a sudden rush of emotions you can't quite identify. Anyway, they (whoever they are) say that our olfactory nerves are the greatest link to our memories.

If scents are the best link, then music is the second best. I have absolutely no scientific data to back up this idea, but I have a lot of anecdotal evidence. And since this is my blog and I needed something to write about today, you get to hear my anecdotal evidence.

The first piece of evidence I have is this: Sister knows all of the names of all of the countries of the world. Is she a genius? Maybe. I've never checked. But her IQ level has little to do with it. It's actually due to a cartoon show called Animaniacs (Do you guys remember them? They were awesome and hilarious.) She learned the countries of the world from this song here. Plus, Sister-In-Law remembers everything from her 4th Grade year, because her teacher taught everything with a guitar (she even remembers non-school stuff and she claims that it's all linked to the songs).

So, that's kind of evidence. But maybe more evidence of learning with music that music bringing back memories. But it goes to the point. Here's my second piece of proof: I cannot listen to *NSYNC's first album without immediately feeling insecure, inadequate, and faintly depressed. And it's not just because of their over-highlighted hair, their incredibly baggy pants, or their femininely high voices. It's because it was the very first CD I ever bought myself and I listened to it practically every day of 6th Grade. And 6th Grade was a bad time for me. In so many ways, I cannot count them (I'm probably not unique in my middle school experiences and don't claim to be, so can we all agree it was bad? Thanks.). Because I don't like to go back there or feel like that, I don't listen to that CD. Or Ricky Martin's Livin' La Vida Loca. Because no.

You need more? Okay. Today, I was listening to my Josh Kelley station on Pandora (I love him and if it weren't for Katherine Heigle, I would be having his babies right now). When Roommate was in town, Sister and I introduced her to Josh Kelley (His music, not him personally. Because I don't need any more competition, thankyouverymuch) and she loved him almost as much as I do. So when his song came on my iPhone, I was immediately in the car on the way to the glacier, the sun shining and Roommate in the seat next to me. Then Michael Bublé came on after him and I was again with Roommate, this time studying (okay, dancing really) in our tiny dorm at college at midnight. These two experiences right after one another almost killed me, by the way. Because Roommate is not here and will not be within at least 500 miles of me for about a year. Musical memories can do that to you.

Music is so powerful, it can make use recall memories that aren't even really ours. Yes, I just reread that and it doesn't make much sense to me either. I work better in examples: I'm listening to a Lifescapes album while I type this and I feel like I'm starring in a Jane Austen adaptation. I should be writing a letter to an unrequited love with quill and parchment instead of blogging to a readership that is likely composed entirely of robots. Music can change our moods instantaneously, even if we have no memories associated with the particular song. Because music speaks to our souls, not just our brains (take that, olfactory senses!). I know in my life, a good angry rock song at the end of a bad day can lift me out of my funk, but put on something mournful or balladish and I may finish the day in tears. Even actors listen to specific kinds of music to get emotionally ready for difficult scenes, because they know that music offers a window into the human experience.

So, I have a question for you, because I have to ask you a question at the end of posts like this to make you think I have put some kind of thought and planning into it and also to make me look really philosophical and crap. Here goes: How does music affect you? Do you find memories linked to music? Can a song change your mood? Is it the lyrics or the instruments that impact you? Tell me about your musical experiences, will you?

P.S. Hey look! It's 9:30 pm. I might be able to go to bed without feeling like a complete loser. And also, the cat may not eat the flesh off my bones at this hour. But she probably also won't let me sleep in tomorrow morning. Luckily, Sister gets home Monday morning, so only three more sleeps until I don't have to fear a feline death.

P.P.S Did your mother ever count days in "sleeps" when you were little? As you can see, mine did.

My Life Isn't Interesting

So, over a week ago, I posted a really obnoxious survey. And at the end, I promised to answer any questions you might ask as a reward for completing that ridiculous questionnaire. I got a lot of awesome answers, but only one question. So I put off posting the answer until I got more responses. Then I realized that this was all I was going to get. Then I forgot to upload the photo. Then I got home last night and watched a not-so-great movie and forgot to post it. So, here we are, over a week later, on a Tuesday (this fact is not relevant or important, but I like the word Tuesday), and I am finally posting it.

And by the way, this photo as taken right after I saw the question, so I'm following your rule, Kim. I'm only late in posting, not in taking the picture. This is my nightstand (or as some call it, bedside table):

And here is my nightstand with number labels so that I can inform you about how not interesting my life is. Ready? I thought so.

      1. My lamp. I have had this lamp since the sixth grade. It has been dropped and broken, so it has a crack that has been sealed with some kind of clear glue. Also, it has one of those new eco-friendly light bulbs in it that's all funny shaped. And the shade of this lamp is supposed to attach to the bulb, so the shade teeters and slips all the time. Yes, I know you can buy them to look like regular light bulbs. NOW. Now I know that. Where were you before, huh? Geez! Oh, and the light bulb buzzes, which is kind of obnoxious. Interesting, no? No. Alright, moving on.

      2. My super cool insulated cup from Walmart (Let's just get this out of the way right now: yes, I occasionally shop at Walmart and no, I don't care who knows it). It kind of looks like a Starbucks cold cup, but it's covered in lime green polka dots and has a matching straw. Which is awesome! I also have one with red polka dots. I usually keep a cup with a lid next to my bed, since I get thirsty at night and I live with Satan's Cat.

      3. A small glass of water. Because sometimes I like to live dangerously. Except it's here because I was too lazy to go find my cute cup when I was thirsty, not because I'm particularly risky (I should have known the cute cup was by my bed, since that's where I keep it...). This cup sat here for three days. Also because of my laziness. Which is not notable. But the fact that the cup remained in this position for three days with the water remaining inside the cup for all of those days is a testament to the capriciousness of Satan's Cat. It's actually still there, more than a week later, since I'm sleeping in Sister's room right now. Watch, I'll post about this and then Satan's Cat will spill it all over the place tonight.

      4. My iPhone charging cord. Which I only just plugged in near my bed for reasons that even I just don't understand. I used to keep it across the room... And then someone would text me at night and I would have to go get it to text back or make it stop buzzing. I think it may have been an outlet-space issue. But really, there's no excuse for this kind of ridiculousness. So now it's next to the head of my bed and I can text or tweet long past the time I should have been asleep.

      5. The remote to my SkullCandy Pipe that I got for Christmas last year (thanks, Mom!). And yes, that does sound vaguely like drug paraphernalia. Okay, more than vaguely. And the website kind of plays into that. But really all it is, is a speaker system for an iPhone or iPod. So I dock my iPod and can then control my music from the rest of the room. Which is sweet! The remote is on my nightstand because I listen to my lullaby every night. What is my lullaby? I'm glad you asked. My lullaby is an instrumental song by Josh Kelley called 23 on his album To Remember, which you can preview here (I tried to find a better link for it, but this was the best I can do. But go listen. It's totally worth it! I mean, I listen to it every night, so it's gotta be good, right? Right.)

      6. A book called Finally Thin! by Kim Benson, a woman who lost 212 pounds with WeightWatchers. It was given to me by a friend who knew I was already doing WeightWatchers (so it's not like they were calling me fat or anything). It's basically a description of her journey, not a weight-loss plan or anything. It's actually really funny and also kind of eye-opening, so I encourage anyone who's struggling with weight issues to read it.

      7. Another book, Young Adult Fiction this time. It's The Throne of Fire by Rick Riordan (he's the guy who wrote the Percy Jackson books). It's the second in his Kane series, which is about a brother and sister who have just discovered they're descendants of the gods of ancient Egypt and have magical powers. It's pretty good so far. I liked the first one, too, so if you're looking for something new to read, check it out.

      8. A metal bookmark with cute charms hanging off of the end. My father made it. Now would probably be a good time to tell you that my mom and dad own a very small jewelry business, which is more of a hobby from which they sell their creations. They order the semi-precious stones from various companies and then design necklaces, bracelets, and earrings to sell at craft fairs and small weekend markets (no soldering involved, just stringing and crimping wire). For Christmas a few years ago, my dad made a my sister and I each a bookmark. He chose the charms himself--different ones for each of us. It was very sweet and it makes me smile every time I look at it (which I think may have been his nefarious plan). Mine has two different butterflies, the Statue of Liberty, a little girl praying, and a colorful strand of beads. I don't remember what Sister's has, but I'm pretty sure none of it means he loves her more than me. Because we all know he loves me best. Right, Papa? Right?

      9. Two issues of Women's Health Magazine. One of them has Julianne Hough on the cover not wearing enough clothing (tiny denim shorts and a bandeau bikini top). The other has "Glee's Heather Morris" on the cover not wearing enough clothing (a hot pink bikini and a jean jacket--Why a jean jacket? I have no idea...). One of the magazines claims to be a "Special Weight-Loss Issue!" but I have to wonder which issues of Women's Health aren't about weight-loss... Anyway, Roommate gave me a subscription for Christmas and I haven't been near my post office box enough to have read much of them (my job makes me relocate for a quarter of each year and also: Sister and I are terrible mailbox checkers). But I totally plan to read them, because it was a nice gift and I could use the advice. I just kind of resent the tiny, half-naked girls on the cover...

       10. A cute gift bag filled with ridiculous dollar items from Sister. You see, after I got home from living with Crazy Boss Lady and was so...damaged..., Sister did everything she could to cheer me up. And to make me feel loved and safe. What better way to do that, than to get me a gift bag filled with squirt guns, pinwheels, coloring books, crayons, a magic wand (that lit up and sparkled!), a pull string disc launcher thingy, and a notebook with a Schrute Buck for a cover? No other way! I laughed so hard when I opened it and we had a lot of fun playing with all the stuff (especially the disc launcher, which drove Satan's Cat out of her mind). However, you may wonder why this bag is still next to my nightstand over a year later. Well, what does one do with a bag full of things like this once one has sucked the fun out of the marrow of each item? Like you, I have no idea. Plus, I'm lazy, so that's where they live until Godson or some other child visits and I realize I need some age-appropriate toys. Which is handy, let me tell you!

      11. This is a crate of Play-Doh that was also in the bag. It is unopened, which is sad. But I've never really had a good opportunity to break out the PlayDoh. I'm not sure why I need a good opportunity for Play-Doh, but I've been waiting for it. Maybe tonight's the night. Except Sister is still out of town and it is kind of sad and pathetic to be a 24-year-old playing with Play-Doh alone on a Tuesday night (again, I'm pretty sure it's not relevant or important that it's Tuesday, but... Umm.... It's my blog so there. HA!) [I'm not quite sure why I linked to Play-Doh, or even why it's spelled "Play-Doh" (I keep doing the Homer Simpson "Doh!" every time I type it), but it is trademarked, so I thought it might be wise...]


So, there you have it. That's my nightstand as it looked one Saturday earlier this month. I hope you've realized just how interesting my life is (read: not interesting at all) through this process and I encourage all of you to take pictures of random surfaces in your home and give an inventory to strangers on the Internet. It's actually kind of liberating. Liberating from what kind of bondage, I have no idea. But people seem to be feel liberated a lot and I think this might be what they're feeling. Either that, or I'm hungry. It is 8:30 pm and I haven't had dinner yet. But we'll say liberated. Sure.

The Faces Find Me

I see faces everywhere. I have since I was a small child. Mostly smiling faces, but other faces as well. No, not human faces, attached to human bodies, as part of human beings who surround me. I mean cartoonish smiley faces in obscure places, like food or plants. I don’t know if it’s because I have a vivid imagination, a sign that I’m lucky (like finding a four-leaf clover), or that I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Recently, I’ve been documenting this phenomenon. I would say this is to prove I’m not crazy, but really I just enjoy the faces and I want to keep them around for awhile. But since I have them at hand, I thought I would share them with you all and see if you think I’m crazy or if you see it, too. Please tell me you see them, too…

These are in not in chronological or even logical order. They are in an order that I determined had the best artistic and evidentiary effect.  Let’s begin.

This is a chip. A joyous chip. I pulled it out of the bag like this. This is an obvious one, right? I guess maybe a normal person would have just eaten it without examining it. Or maybe their eyes wouldn't have registered the face-potentiality unless they pulled it out of the bag at exactly this angle. But maybe they would have seen it, too. Or maybe I'm just crazy.

I opened my pudding one day at lunch. There was a ghost staring back at me. I choose to believe he is a friendly ghost, sent to brighten a hectic and lonely day. I named him George. I'm sad for you if you go through life without finding things like George.

Sometimes, the faces are more obscure, like this cereal muppet monster (And yes, I usually see the faces in my food... maybe this is why I eat so much? Because my food is so friendly?)

But sometimes, they're very obvious. It's like some good Samaritan came along before me and turned this ash pile into a friend just for me. Is it sad that I think of these faces as friends? Because I have real friends, too. I do! I swear. They may be on the Internet, but they're real. Unless they're robots. Or alligators in disguise...

Then, some of the faces are not smiley. Sister's dashboard is evil. And it doesn't like me. You see the angry air conditioner, right? Right? Anyone?

And then there's Roommate, who gets me on a level no one else does and sends me this in a text message. It was in response to my text that said, "I miss your face. In my life. Every day." She later sent me a picture of her actual face, but this one was cute, too. (And yes, I'm that kind of needy, almost-stalkery friend who tells people she misses their faces instead of just telling them she misses them...)

These six (poor quality iPhone) photos are just a small cross-section of the last six months of my life. A life filled with faces. Most of them smiley, some of them evil air vents. Please tell me you see the faces, too...?