A to Z, part 3

Okay, so it's been a few days since I posted because well, I'm home visiting family and well, Christmas happened so things have been busy. But, here we go. Today is J through M.

J-Jobs. While we were attending the same college, my brothers and I frequently discussed what we called Get-You-Through-School Jobs.

(My brothers and I a few years before college)

These were not the menial jobs we actually had during college, but, rather the jobs we never wanted to be forced to have if we opted to drop out of school and forego an education. See, an education provides choice, glorious choice. For my brothers, Get-You-Through-School Jobs included: construction, roofing, door-to-door salesmen, and anything having to do with manure (shoveling, distributing, burying, hauling, etc.). We had a particularly memorable interchange on the way to school one day in which my older brother declared he didn’t want to have a job that involved pallets in any form: moving pallets, stacking pallets, loading pallets, etc.
For me, it comes down to two main categories of Get-You-Through-School Jobs: Daycare and Sales. Recently, I inserted both feet into my mouth when I made a comment at a social gathering in which I said something like, “You will all know I’m down and out when I’m working at a daycare and selling Mary Kay.” About the time the words left my mouth, I realized that one of the girls sitting there currently does not one, but BOTH of these things. But, as I stammered an explanation that I hoped would lessen the offense I was sure I had issued, I realized this situation just proves the point of the value of an education. She enjoys working at a daycare and she likes selling Mary Kay. She has a college education and is delighted that she gets to do exactly what she wants to do. I have a college education and am delighted that I get to do exactly what I want to do—and I assure you it is not the dream she is living. I love being a speech pathologist. I get to work with people one-on-one. I get to work in education, but with a medical twist to it. I get to learn about science-y things, but not to a crazy detailed extent. It’s the perfect job for me. God bless college.

K-Kittens. See, the problem I have with kittens—although they are unbelievably cute—is that they grow up into cats. We had cats growing up, but they were of the outside-mousing-hissing-scratch-the-heck-out-of-you variety versus the inside-lovable-watch-the-kitty-chase-the-yarn variety. There’s a big difference. I remember one day my older brother and I saw one of the uncatchable kittens (they were all uncatchable kittens) underneath the climbing rope that hung from our swing set. In all of our seven- and eight-year-old stealth, we decided to carefully sneak up on it to lovingly hold it in our arms. We moved ever so slowly towards it, all the more awed as we moved closer and closer without it running away. Feeling pretty proud of ourselves, we observed that the cat’s mouth was open as if it were smiling—like it wanted to play with us. It wasn’t until we got within arm’s length that we first suspected that something was awry with the very still kitty. Even so, my brother reached a finger under the kitten’s paw to give it a jiggle, you know, to wake it up. Upon doing so, the rigor mortis that had already settled into the kitten was quite apparent as it stiffly rose and fell back to the ground.
Looking back, I suppose our response should have been one of sadness, grief and well, at least some emotion. Instead, we both kind of sighed, pronounced it dead, and fetched mom to go and bury it before jumping on the swings and continuing with our play. I’m just not a fan of cats. Maybe this is why.

L-Love. This past August, I moved halfway across the country to go pursue a doctoral degree at the University of Nebraska. A few weeks later, my brother and his wife had a family gathering at their house to have a beard-shaving party (that’s another story…). When my parents pulled up and got out of their car, my brother noted that they were decked out in University of Nebraska garb that they had gotten when they dropped me off at school. When my brother asked my dad if they were now supporters of Nebraska, he replied, “Nope. We’re supporters of Katy.”

(My parents and the two littlest grandchildren-Ben and Emily-supporting Katy.)

M-Mirage. A friend and I were on a road trip to Seattle and the Tulip Festival. As often happens, the conversation turned to the state of our lives and, because she had just had a disappointing occurrence with a particular boy, an aura of discouragement, frustration, and hopelessness had settled over the car. Driving on the fairly deserted road between Hanford and Mattawa, I looked out the window and saw this. Hope. Suspended in mid-air, as if to say, “Hang in there girls, I’m not as elusive as you think.”

A to Z, part 2

Alright, today you get F-I.

F-Festivals. I have discovered that there are festivals for just about anything—Crossworders, Trekkies, Renaissance Faire Enthusiasts, Scrabble-ists, etc. I love attending these festivals as a total outsider and seeing all these quirky people finding others who are quirky in exactly the same way they are. They let go and become quirkier than ever and no one judges them for it. I witnessed such a festival two summers ago when some friends and I went to the International Accordion Festival in Leavenworth, Washington. So much shameless displays of lederhosen, polka, and frilly frocks all in the same place! While we were there, we invented The Accordion Clap. It is done by bringing your hands together back and forth in a very rapid fashion, without your hands ever actually touching, as if you are playing an accordion. It looks like this.

(Kendra, Christi, and Elise giving a spectacular demonstration of the accordion clap)

You should know it’s very difficult to keep from grinning like a fool while accordion clapping. It just makes you so happy.

G- Grasshoppers, Shower of. After I moved to Nebraska, I discovered a bike trail near my apartment that goes through the city and out into the countryside on the east side of town.

(my beautiful trail)

One afternoon, I went for a ride and found multitudes of grasshoppers and locusts sunning themselves on the gravel trail. For several miles, as my wheels crunched the gravel and approached the sunning insects, they would suddenly spring up just like popcorn in a popper. I had never experienced a grasshopper shower before.


H-Haiku. I have developed a habit of writing haiku poetry to vent my frustration, irritation, or annoyance at one particular culprit: The Wind. I do not mind a gentle breeze tousling the ends of my hair, but when it whips around my face, blowing my hair into knots and making my eyes water, it just irritates me. And so I create poetry to distract myself.
The first wind haiku was born on a cold winter day as I walked into my job at Richland High School:

nasty blowing cold
hands are freezing hair a mess
sometimes I hate wind

The second one was created on my walk to church:

Shine! Gloss! Kiss me now!
Hair blows wildly sticks to lips
sometimes I hate wind

The next came about as I fiercely fought against the wind and the waves while kayaking on a should-have-been-calm mountain lake:

waves and rapids wild
wind should not be on the lake
sometimes I hate wind

The fourth one, sadly, I can’t remember entirely but was constructed by my sister and I as we sat on the beach at the Oregon Coast with the wind whipping the sand around us and sandblasting our bare legs. Rest assured you probably know the last line of the haiku already.

And finally, the latest was developed to calm myself while being gloriously irritated by riding my bike into a cold and strong headwind for several miles:

gale forces blow strong

almost knocks me off my bike
sometimes I hate wind

They do make me feel better.

Ice, Scraping of. For an entire winter, while I was in grad school and living at home, my younger brother would scrape his car and then mine before he left for school (every morning). When I came rushing out of the house, late, it always made my day to see my scraped car ready to be on her way.

(my little brother, about 15 years before he scraped my car all winter)

This is Me from A to Z - Part 1

So, a couple of years ago, I was introduced to a new favorite book: Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, by Amy Krouse Rosenthal. For some reason, it totally resonated with me and I highly recommend it. Just a fun read. A few weeks ago, I realized that I was mentally logging particular topics that I would write about, should I ever write such a book. And, thus, this post was born. It is nowhere near the quality of her book, but it is a bit of a random glimpse into the person that is me. Today, I give you letters A-E:

A-Ambidextrous. I have long-wished I was ambidextrous. This desire started in third grade when my best friend and I decided that we were no longer right-handed and, for two weeks, we did all of our class work with our non-dominant hands. That is, until our trusty teacher had, I’m sure, had enough trying to read our quite shaky, quite illegible left-handed scrawls. He kept us in from recess to engage in a memorable interchange. Him: “Girls, right-handed people write with their right hands.” Us: “But, we’re left-handed, Mr. Trautman.” Him: “You are NOT. And you will write with your right hands from now on.” End of discussion. In spite of him, I continued to practice on my own time. And ever after, in slow classes in high school and college and yes, even now, I take notes with my left hand. Although I’m not ambidextrous yet, I’ve gotten pretty good.

(The last two lines on this page were written wiht my left hand. Can you tell?)

B-Bananas. Until we were all in our twenties, neither I nor any of my siblings, were aware that my mom hates bananas. It’s a texture thing for her. I remember the shock I felt when I discovered (in my 20’s!) this startling unknown bit of trivia about my own mother. It was around this time that she made a sudden reference to Alexander the parakeet, a childhood family pet who used to peck at his own reflection in an aluminum ball on their Christmas tree. Nope, none of us knew about him either. Later, my sister and I had finished a scenic jigsaw puzzle, which is something we often do as a family together around the holidays. When mom saw it, her comment was, “Oh, that just looks so bucolic.” She had never used this word and my sister nor I knew what it meant. What the heck? What other mysteries will I yet discover about my own mother?

C-Confession. A couple of summers ago, a friend suggested I give backpacking a whirl. Truthfully, the thought had never crossed my mind because I was pretty sure it would kill me. But, with some encouragement, and the fact that I just wanted to see if I could do it, I consented. So, off we went into the Goat Rocks Wilderness near Mt. Rainier and Mt. Adams and I began trudging up the mountain. Twenty-four hours later, we descended and I was proud of what I had accomplished. The next summer she suggested we go again. I consented because, heck, everyone loves backpacking and I’ve only gone once—I should go again. So, again, we began hiking up the mountain for a 3-day trip. On the afternoon of the second day, I was leaning up against a log while everyone else had decided to go exploring when I had the guilty thought, “I don’t like backpacking.” I remember feeling like I’d committed some unpardonable sin because I admitted (to myself) that I didn’t care for this amazing experience with nature. In time, I began to realize that there is no sin in not liking backpacking. There are plenty of other nature-y things that I have tried and loved. I simply don’t think its fun to climb a million feet in elevation and I don’t enjoy sitting in dirt instead of a camp chair. Ahhh, It’s nice to get that off my chest.

(proof that I did actually make it to the top--I look thrilled, yeah?)

D-Dark, Playing the Piano in the. One of my favorite things to do is to sit at a piano in complete darkness and play and play and play. There’s something magical about creating music out of a seeming nothingness. I don’t need to see the keyboard to know which notes are right, my fingers know where to go and my ears confirm they are correct. And I love the utter silence that comes from a dark room as the last note fades away.

E- Elementary School. I loved Elementary School. I remember it as a very idyllic, sheltered time where I was obliviously to little else besides what was going on in my immediate surroundings. Here is a highlight from each grade:
Kindergarten: I have to go to the bathroom and knock on the door of the in-classroom bathroom although I know it’s Pablo Rivera in there because he is singing—loudly. I knock again, to no avail. I know that my bladder is approaching the point of no return and urgently hope he will come out soon. At the end of his song, he finishes his business and I hurry in, shut the door, and feel my muscles release before I get my pants down. I am mortified and try to decide what to do. I casually walk out to the classroom and sit down at the reading table where my teacher, Mrs. Nichols, is sitting and working with another student. When she finishes, she kindly turns to me and asks what I need. I’m so embarrassed I can’t find the words and say nothing, but look at her with what I’m sure are big, worried eyes. She asks some probing questions, none of which I respond to, before I loudly cry, “I wet my pants!” She walks me to the office, mom brings me dry clothes, and I glare at Pablo for the rest of the day.
1st-grade: My teacher, Mrs. Pfeiffer has a piano in her classroom, which I am very impressed by. Sometimes, she lets me play it—even during class. I feel special because my student number is 6, our class is in Room 6, and I am 6 years old.
2nd-grade: Our class has our first spelling bee, for which I’m very excited because I’m good at spelling. When it’s my turn, my teacher says: “Piece. I want a piece of pie.” I spell: “Piece. P-i-e-c-e. Piece.” “Wrong”, she says. I am aghast. I know I’ve spelled it correctly. At my look of bewilderment, she says, “You spelled the wrong kind of piece. You spelled peace, as in “we hope for peace on earth”.” I start to refute, but she gives me a look that quiets me and I sit back down. This is my first experience with blatant injustice. And the first time I know with certainty that I am right, and my teacher is wrong.
3rd-grade: It is early afternoon just before recess, and our teacher is nearing the end of a lesson he’s teaching. Jenny Warner raises her arms over her head and yawns with a loud sigh. Quite loud, actually. Mr. Trautman turns and yells at her for rude behavior and makes her sit in the hall for the rest of the afternoon. From this point on, I am careful not to yawn too loudly in public settings.
4th-grade: My teacher, Mrs. Mayer, makes the advanced reading group read multiple books I do not like including: A Wrinkle in Time, Summer of the Swans, and A Door in the Wall. I look longingly at the other groups reading Little House on the Prairie, How to Eat Fried Worms, and Ramona Forever and wish we could read the fun books.
5th-grade: I wear a bra for the first time to school, but by about ten o’clock in the morning, find it so itchy and uncomfortable that I go into the bathroom and take it off. I stuff it into my pocket and casually walk back to my classroom past my teacher, Mrs. Mitchell’s desk. I nonchalantly walk past my desk to the back of the room where our backpacks are hanging on clusters of hangers and ever so sneakily pull it out of my pocket and bury it at the bottom of my backpack and move on with my day—feeling much better.

Alright, more to follow...

No joke

It is the end of the semester. How do I know? I took notes on the very last page of my spiral notebook today. I'm out of paper. That's it. I shan't be learning anything else.

I wish it always worked like this.

Thoughts of Home

My sister is coming tomorrow for Thanksgiving. It is impossible to overstate how excited I am about this. Growing up, Thanksgiving consisted of mom making the house smell good with the baking of her fabulous rolls and then bundling up into the car to truck on over to my grandparents' house. A few hours later, with full bellies and visiting done, we would trundle back home to the aroma of rolls still lingering in the air for an evening of movie watching, visiting, etc. This year, I am far from home and will not be part of the crew to visit Grandma and Grandpa's house. In fact, none of my siblings are making it home for Thanksgiving this year.
It is an odd thing to realize that my parents have been promoted to positions of primarily grandparenthood versus parenthood. I fully recognize they are still my parents, and for me, they very much still function in that role. However, when we all come home, they are more "Grandma" and "Grandpa" than Mom and Dad--you know, because of the kids. While I realize this is not earth-shattering news to anyone else, it is hard to think of my parents--my youthful, energetic, busy parents--as playing the role MY grandparents played for me when I was young. Grandparents are old. Grandparents have lots of doctors visits. Grandparents fall asleep every night during the evening news (not late night news. My mother has been falling asleep during the late night news for years...that doesn't count). Grandparents wake up every morning at dawn and eat mush. Grandparents "decorate" for Christmas by switching on the fiberoptic Christmas village that has been on display all year long...for the last 4 years.
The fact that my parents meet the grandparent qualification for 3/5 of the aforementioned characteristics (I'll not be disclosing which three...) reinforces my urgency to declare that I shall not allow it. Mom and Dad. I've had enough of this aging business. I'm not ready yet.

5 Words

5 words I frequently use
Fantastic
Eh
Absolutely
Hunkydory
Chugging
5 words that feel good rollin’ off my tongue
Twitterpate
Calliope
Swashbuckling
Kafluffle
Hebetudinous
5 words I dislike
Roomie
Panties
Weepy
Hottie
Pithy
5 made-up words I love and use. Frequently.
Therapize
Fantabulous
Ginormous
Verbage
Stupidosity
5 words from my childhood
Noseyuk
Dodo
Pooperscooper
Ruffle
Bucolic
5 frequently mispronounced words that make my speech therapist heart cringe
Fustrated (or Flustrated)
Libary
Valentime’s
Punkin
Fith (or Twelth)
(Ugh. Makes me cringe to even type them. Proper enunciation is a beautiful thing, people. Embrace it.)

Ah yes, I LOVE words.

High Achiever

Nearly three years ago, I learned of a New Year’s Resolution I was sure I could keep. A friend of mine did it and I was inspired. Yes, inspired. On January 1, 2006 no matter the pain, hardship, or difficulty, I resolved to eat every Blizzard of the Month at Dairy Queen. There are many perks involved with forging on with this task, not the least of which involves the fact that I legitimately get to eat ice cream once a month. When I first set this resolution, I naively assumed it would be the easiest goal I had ever set to achieve. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to be compelled, because she wrote down a goal, to consume Mint Oreo blizzards, Banana Cream Pie Blizzards, Cookies’N’Crème Blizzards, oh my! It was the perfect Goal.
Then disaster struck in February. In the form of the Chocolate Covered Cherry Blizzard. I could not do it. I was unwilling to waste my $1.85, knowing I would not even nibble at it. I greatly dislike canned or maraschino cherries and the thought of a chocolate covered cherry cordial passing over my lips, in any form—yes even smothered in ice cream—was unthinkable. And so, for the next 2 years, I was thwarted in my resolution because of that cursed Dairy Queen selection every February.
Until this year. February came, and I anxiously approached the driveup menu to see if I was doomed to fail in my resolution for another year. Behold! February’s blizzard of the month was Chocolate Covered Strawberry! Wow, they gave that fruit the boot and replaced it with strawberries! I partook and it was—delicious! Of course. Because it wasn’t a sickly sweet ball of mush slimily oozing down my throat.
I made it past February and on to the bigger and better months of:
March (Kit Kat Blizzard-not my favorite),
April (Tin Roof Sundae-yum),
May (Cheese’quake’ [get it? That Dairy Queen. She’s pretty clever.]),
June (Cotton Candy—yeah, not my favorite),
July (Girl Scout Thin Mint—omigoodness. Amazing.),
August (Oreo—an oldie, but a goody),
September (Banana Cream Pie-eh.), and
October (Pumpkin Pie-yuh-hum.)
So here we are. It’s November. I just checked the Blizzard of the Month and November’s flavor is Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Yessssss! This will work. I think my time has come. I only have one month left. Please let it not be eggnog.

175

175 years ago, John Deere made the first steel plow.
175 months ago, I was dreading the shuttle run in PE and learning Flight of the Bumblebee on the piano for my 8th-grade talent show.
175 days ago, I was emailing my old professors to let them know I had decided to pursue a doctoral degree in speech pathology.
175 hours ago, I was mourning the conclusion of a fantastic vacation in Chicago and trying to assimilate back into normal life, with varying degrees of success.
175 minutes ago, I was eating a quesadilla and chopped veggies (celery and red bell pepper) for dinner.
175 seconds ago, I was listening to my roommate sew our Halloween costumes.

And 175 weeks ago, my life changed when I decided to start walking 5 days a week. Now, 175 weeks and 5 miles/day later, I'm still at it. I am so grateful I had the wherewithal to make that commitment and stick with it. It has literally changed my life.
Here's to another 175 weeks, well let's be honest--here's to walking 5 days a week FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. Oy. 5 miles 5 days a week. Will it ever end??? Truthfully? I hope not.

175!

Ode to Mike

Tomorrow is my brother’s birthday. I’ve been thinking about him a lot this week as he prepares to leave his 20’s for good. Because I’m only 18 months younger than him, I will soon follow. I was always glad to be able to follow in his footsteps, grateful he led the way for me to have the courage to survive many of life’s exciting adventures with the simple reassurance, “Hey, he did this and survived. I can too.” I wanted to be like him in so many ways- academically (he was always far more academically adept than I was…), socially, artistically, intellectually, etc. etc. etc.
I won’t bore you with endless memories of talking together, playing together, being together. But rest assured, I feel lucky to have been thrown together to experience mortality. Despite his dangling my dolls from the top bunk (“She’s gonna jump, Katy! She’s gonna jump!”), hiding the last popsicle in the freezer, kicking the ladder over after he had scurried up the maple tree behind me (he could jump down, I was too scared…), sliding off the teeter totter while I was 8 feet in the air so I could plummet to an evening with a sore rear end, and countless other appropriately “big brother” behaviors, I totally love the guy.
Here’s to many more years of big-brotherness. Happy Birthday, Mike.

My kind of gaming

If you're not aware, I am an avid player of social games. By the term 'social games', I do not refer to noble pursuits such as social mingling or chilling with my chums. Oh no. "Social games" is a carefully crafted term to refer to informal experimentation designed to disrupt social norms and throw people for, what we might call, "a loop". The key to a social game is to first recognize what the "social norm" is for that situation. Then, you wreak havoc with it. I have been doing this for years.
Here are a few of my favorite social games:
Social game #1. When I lived in Washington, everyday I walked along a river trail that had the occasional bench whereupon an introspective person could sit and serenely gaze out at the water. I realized, after some observation, that there was an unspoken, but clearly shared, rule that if someone was sitting on a bench, the social norm dictated the bench was "taken" and you must move on. Even when there was easily room for three people to sit on the bench.
*cue maniacal laughter*
What happens when you sit down on a "taken" bench? What if you sit, not on the other end of the bench, but in the middle of the bench--right next to the stranger sitting there? What if you sit close enough to actually touch hips?! (I know some of your social proprieties are screaming right now...)
Now, some of these benches were actually swings, which clearly adds another element to this little game. If you decide to so rudely sit on a stranger's swinging bench, do you ask them to stop to allow you to get on? Or are you relegated to standing in front of the swing swaying back and forth to the motion before rising on your tiptoes as it swings forward under your rump and you plop into it? And once you're swinging, must you both use your feet to continue to propel the swing, or is it kosher to make the other person do all the work?

Social game #2.
When I was an undergraduate, because I didn't have a car, I relied on the trusty Spokane Transit Authority (the bus) as a mode of transportation. The busses I rode were typically rather filled with students and there was an unspoken, yet clearly shared, rule that dictated strangers did not share seats until all empty benches were gone.
*cue maniacal laughter*
What happens when you board a bus that has very few people on it and instead of sitting on an empty seat as expected, you plunk yourself down on the same seat as one of the other three passengers. Will the person actually get up and move to an empty seat? What happens if you actuall sit close enough to touch hips? What if you lean over them to get a good look out of the window?

Social game#3.
This is one my sister always wanted to try (although it admittedly would be a little more complicated...). If you were to paint a subtle-y (is that a word?) winding trail on a sidewalk, would walkers follow it subconsciously? This reminds me of something my mom actually witnessed when she was in high school away at a weeklong learning program at the University of Idaho. There was construction being done and a piece of machinery was sounding a rhythmic thump. thump. thump. thump. that could be heard from some distance. As she sat in her dorm room looking out the window, she realized that everyone she could see was walking in beat with the thumping.

There's actually a group who has made a name for themselves playing all kinds of social games. Check out their website http://www.improveverywhere.com/ They are the grandmasters of social games.

triumph and irritation

Triumph

I've conquered the mountain with my own little legs.


Irritation

I've conquered the mountain with my own little legs, but now I want to sit down in a chair and I don't have one because that's right, I'm backpacking.

allergy season

In my statistics class the other day, my teacher set a ceramic frog (toad?) on the table we all meet around for class (there are only 8 of us in the class). He proudly announced his 9-year-old daughter had painted it for him in her ceramics class. It was one of those wide-open-mouthed frogs you would use to hold a sponge or a bar of soap next to your sink. But, there it sat, stoicly and proudly on the table at the front of our class.
A few minutes later a classmate, an Asian student whose name I do not know, walked in a bit late and took his place at the table near the teacher. After a few minutes he reached out, took the frog in his hands and turned it so it was facing him which caused my teacher to abruptly stop his lecture. Without saying a word, the teacher looked at him imploringly as if to ask, "Why the heck are you touching my stuff?"
In a halting voice the student replied, “I’m allergic to the spots on your frog.”

As we all sat there puzzled, I think he realized his English lexicon was not satisfactorally explaining himself. This is what I assume he meant to say: "Excuse me, but the light is glaring off of the glazed finish on this beautiful ceramic frog and I'm finding it quite distracting. Don't mind me as I simply turn the frog around so that the light is not shining off the surface so annoyingly."

But, alas, he didn't have the words. Frankly, I like his version better. It has made me wonder what things I could say I was "allergic" to.

I'm allergic to that parking ticket, officer.
I'm allergic to hairy chests.
I'm allergic to stinky feet.
I'm allergic to mean people.

What are you allergic to?

quite the conundrum

Two pieces of advice on the topic of marriage taught at different times by my amazing former Branch President:

1. If you cannot be happily single, you cannot hope to be happily married.

2. A good and righteous marriage brings the greatest happiness you can possibly imagine.

What Katy learned from said advice:

If I cannot go from being unhappily single to happily married AND If I cannot be truly happy until I'm married

THEN

I will never be happily married.

Nice.

I'm just sayin'. ha ha!

p.s. I would feel guilty not including the fact that I absolutely adore this man! I present this conundrum, not because I think he intended for me to interpret his advice in this way, but because I find it funny. In reality, I think this Branch President has done more to put my singlehood in perspective than just about anyone I know. I got a good laugh out of these seemingly opposing pieces of advice...

horror

As I’m putting the facewash back up on the shelf, my arm brushes the handheld mirror which slides and knocks the tweezers off of the shelf and I watch, stricken and helpless, as the tweezers fall end over end and, with a gentle sploosh, into the open toilet below.

Ode to that curly-haired exercise fiend

Last Monday, for family home evening, our ward made an improbable attempt at succeeding in improv comedy for a version of Whose Line is it Anyway? For those wondering whether or not improv comedy is harder than seasoned actors make it look, it is. Having participated in such activities in previous wards, I wholeheartedly believe that their success is dependent on unconditional support for the amateur improv-ians. The operative word here being unconditional, meaning laughing and cheering even when they are not funny. Which, as it turns out, is most of the time.
But I learned something about myself while picking myself up by the proverbial bootstraps and getting onstage. I was part of the game Party Quirks, wherein three members of the team are given a secret “quirk”. The fourth member of the team acts as the party host and must analyze the others’ behavior to determine their particular quirk. My quirk consisted of 2 words: Richard Simmons. Meaning no disrespect to Mr. Simmons, I knew I would have to capitalize on the quirkiest features he possesses in order for our host to correctly identify my quirk. I have exercised along to nary an aerobics video, but thanks to one Young Women’s activity focusing on our physical development for the benefit of our “individual worth”, I had actually participated in a night of Sweatin’ to the Oldies Part 2 where we gathered in the Young Women’s room in our shorts and t-shirts and aerobicized and mocked our jolly host.
Mustering the memory of that Tuesday night long ago, I summoned the courage to enthusiastically jump and bounce on stage to the rhythm of unheard oldies shouting such encouragement as, “And one! And two! That’s right! Doesn’t that feel gooooooooood?!” At my attempt to engage in over the top Richard Simmons-ness, I found the permagrin was not entirely fake, but rather I enjoyed jumping about on stage doing leglifts, then arm circles, and back to leg lifts once again. I could almost feel the curly hair bouncing off my head as sweat glistened across my forehead.
I had been concerned I would feel self-conscious and misrepresent my quirk such that my host would be unable to identify my antics. Turns out, all that was necessary was releasing the Richard Simmons within, and he did the rest.

a new frontier

So, I actually started a blog a couple of weeks ago on another not-to-be-named blogging site. However, this blogging site was recommended to me and after investigating it a little further, I found I could control the settings better here than on the other site. Namely, I could put my quirky picture any old place I wanted it, and not just in the header. So there!

And with that, Katy forays into the world of blogging, to preserve a bit of her identity and sanity.