Confession

(An open letter to right a wrong made some 24 years ago)

To Emily's Mom:

I'm sorry I lied to you when you offered me some peas out of your garden that summer day, circa 1986.  Contrary to what was stated at the time, it is not a fact that I am allergic to peas that are still in the pod but can "eat the frozen kind".

In actuality, your peas in their pods frightened me and I was just too scared to try them.  While I was convinced my bold-faced lie was stealthy and went unnoticed by you at the time, age and experience have convinced me otherwise.  And, rather than let you go on thinking I was nothing but a lying, conniving, six-year-old who was too proud to eat your delicious home-grown garden-fresh peas, I am coming clean now.

I am sorry I was too chicken to try your peas.  Moreover, I am sorry I faked such a ridiculous allergy.  Kudos to you for keeping the straight face. 

With regret,

Katy

On finishing another semester

I just finished another Fall Semester.  I have not stopped and counted the number of quarters/semesters I have attended college.  This is something like the ending of my 26th semester (I'm actually not joking about that.).

This has been a really weird semester, for so many reasons.

-I'm no longer taking classes full-time, but am still a full-time student.

-I passed my comprehensive exams, but have not moved onto a set dissertation yet.

-I have shifted my area of focus and am much more involved with a new advisor, which has required getting-to-know a style of mentoring that is in near-complete opposition to the advisor I have been working with the past two years.

-The research project I'd planned to run, analyze, and finish by now got waylaid for two months and is still in full swing.

-I feel very behind.

-And a friend and classmate completely unexpectedly passed away, which was awful and gutwrenching.  Ugh. 

I am relieved the semester is over.  I do not believe, in fact, that I've ever been more relieved to be done with a semester.

But, ironically, never have I ever felt so completely anti-climactic at the end of a semester. In the past, a semester marked an ending, the promise of a new start with new classes, new projects.  All of the aforementioned tasks just continue on.  Nothing has ended and nothing will start anew as a result of this new semester.  It's just life ticking ever onward.

For now, I relish in the two weeks I get to spend at home away from the end of the semester, away from the start of the semester, just....away.

My plan is to recharge, reorient, and refocus.  That's a lot of re-ing.  Wish me luck.

SkyMall Goodies

So, I recently went on a little hiatus to the Northwest to see some friends (a grand time was had by all...).  While I should have been reading articles, planning lectures, or doing any semblance of schoolwork during those eight hours of flight time, I spent it (much more wisely, I think) perusing the new SkyMall magazine.  There are SO many fabulous products to covet, discuss, and/or mock.  Here is a smattering:

The Magic Showerhead Combo

Are you kidding me?? This fits squarely in the category of products to covet.  Who wouldn't want to take a shower under a dazzling rainbow of changing color?!  Sign me up for it!  Their description is a little dicey as it claims to:  "create an experience that can feel as enjoyable and relaxing as being in a spa." I'm not sure how a rainbow shower is like unto a spa (to be fair, I've never been to a spa...so, maybe there's nothing but spouting colorful water, but...I doubt it), but, no matter.  Yay for the Magic Showerhead Combo.

Okay, item #2:

Orbitwheels

I find these absolutely absurd.  Here's the description:  "A cross between a skateboard and inline skates, but with more freedom and simplicity than either, the Orbitwheels are a brand new concept for wheeled sports. The design is simple: two feet, two wheels... and you're ready to go.  No need to fuss with buckles and flaps - just step into the hoops and take off."

Now, perhaps I just don't understand how this product works, but it seems to me that stepping into two objects that do not actually attach to your feet, can roll in any whichway direction, and make you go sideways is just really complicated.  I don't understand, at all, how these work.  Am I just an idiot? Maybe.  But I think the real idiot is the person who buys these.

And item #3:

Brobdingnagian Sportsman Chair

Yes, my friends, that IS a giant camp chair you see before you. With 6 cup holders.  Designed so as (and I quote), "its 9' sq. seat affords ample room for full-body gesticulations or sharing your prodigious chair with a friend" and "where your feet are free to dangle and sway instead of merely floundering in dirt or sand".

Seriously.  I can't make this stuff up.

I want to own this chair just so that I can casually pull it out of the coat closet when we need extra seating when we have people over.  "Oh, we need another chair?  I'll set up Big Bertha here."

What's your favorite Skymall product?

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

So, once upon a time I mentioned here that a favorite past-time of mine is being a proverbial fly on the wall when specific niche groups convene.  Case in point:  have you ever been to the International Accordion Festival in Leavenworth, Washington??   So many people shamelessly cavorting about in liederhosen and ruffles!  Wow!  Netflix has introduced me to a number of these specialized gatherings.  The International Whistling Conventioners? Scrabble-ists Extraordinaire??  Champion Cross-worders???  Darkon!  Trekkers!   Be still, my heart.

I am not a member of any one of these upstanding organizations but am utterly delighted that in some way or another, they have allowed me a glimpse into what makes them tick.  What is it that I love about these snapshots?  I love it when people find "their people".  Heck, I love it when I find my people.  You've had that experience, right?  You're in a new situation.  You scan the crowd wondering if there's a kindred spirit (a nod to Anne) amongst all these new faces. You make a smirky comment, one random guy turns around, he gives you a sly smile and bam!  You've found "your people".  That's how it works for me, anyway.  Apparently, others find their people by greeting everyone in Klingon or playing a merry tune on the accordion strapped to their chest.

Whatever.  To each his own.

On Saturday, my roommate spontaneously suggested we mosey on down to Kansas City for the Kansas City Renaissance Festival!.  Twenty minutes after she suggested it, we were in the car prepped with munchies and music and on our way to all things Renaissance-y.

The picture just doesn't do the village justice...

Nothing could have prepared me for what we experienced.  Sixteen acres of an authentic Renaissance village complete with wandering wenches, heaving bosoms, village idiots, knights in sort-of shining armor, queens, jolly jesters, etc. 

My word of the day was undoubtedly, "Wow.".  I just couldn't stop saying it.  Wow.  Wow.  Wow.

First off, you must know that it was about 90 degrees and storming while we were there.  This resulted in streets of mud, drenched patrons, mist through the trees, and unquestionably the most perfect atmosphere for the event.

Through the joy of all this people watching, I made a few observations.

Observation #1.  People get really into the whole dressing up thing.  I wish I had some pictures of some of the uber-fancy costumes we saw.  There were women in 5-foot diameter hoopskirts, the aforementioned heaving bosoms laced into ornate whale bone corsets, myriads of pantaloons, and minstrel-hatted folk everywhere.  As an extension of this observation, I must make....

Observation #2.  It takes a very confident man to wear tights.  Strike that.  It takes a very confident anybody to wear tights with no skirt.  But, a sight such as this was not uncommon.

One has to wonder if he ever says to himself, "I am standing here in my yellow tights and an artisan bread-loaf-shaped hat on my head.  Oh yeah...I'm all that."

Observation #3.  I wish I better understood the intricacies of how one selects/receives/becomes their designated character.  It would seem to me that if it is a matter of choosing your Renaissantial (yes, I made that a word) identity, the village would be comprised of only noble knights, damsels in distress, regal kings, and fat'n'happy queens.  Why would you ever elect to be this guy:

Yes, he is sitting in the mud.

Yes, he has a hunk of meat hanging out of his mouth.

Yes, his teeth appeared to not have been brushed for several days (gotta be authentic...).

I just don't understand why... if you're really in to the Renaissance lifestyle and you have a choice of what your economic standing is, because this is not actually, factually the Renaissance...you would choose to sit in the mud all day.

Observation #4.  Somebody needs to save the children.  I do not think it would be outlandish to say that some of the Renaissance crowd, while fully accepted in their medieval circle, have suffered some social consequences in the real world for their devotion to The Cause.  I saw many children of these folks excitedly prancing around with their swords and shields, proclaiming intentions to head out on quests, and pining for the wands/armor/chainmail/weaponry on display at every turn.  And all I could think, when I saw those youngn's was...."This is not your fault." 

Now, do I believe that children have the right to play/pretend/act/engage in good-natured revelry?  Absolutely yes.  But, still.  I can't help but wonder about the social consequences of some of this.  (I said it.  I know...I'm a jerk.)

Observation #5.  Renaissance-ians (yes, I made that a word too) will accept you for who you are, no matter how awkward you are, no matter how eccentric you act, no matter how bizarre your character-interpretation, no matter how uncoordinated your fighting skills.

And no matter how drowned-rat-esque you look because you've been walking on their turf through a 90-degree thunderstorm.

They'll still love you, raise a cuppa ale in your name, and wish you good morrow 'til next time.

Someday my Prince will come...

There are many reasons that it would be nice to someday have a big, burly man in my life.  Eternal life.  Companionship.  Love.  Yadda yadda yadda.

But, prolonged singlehood as a woman has made me all the more convinced that one of the things I look most forward to (seriously, I'm pretty sure it's in the Top 3.) about getting hitched is that I will no longer be the one who has to deal with these:

(photo credit: Google Images)

I hate spiders.  And I don't use that word lightly.  I'm not a hateful person, but I tell you what.  I loathe spiders.  Inside/outside/under things.  *shudder* I just can't stan-'em. (movie line, anyone?)

When I was growing up, I showered in the basement bathroom at my parents' house.  Every morning, every morning, I would roll out of bed and in my morning prayer plead that there would be no spiders in the shower.  Every morning, every morning, I would reluctantly ease the door of the shower open and carefully scan every corner of the shower to ensure it was vermin-free.  The spiders at my parents' house, we later learned, were hobo spiders.  All you need to know is that hobo spiders are big and FAST.  One memorable morning, I flipped the light on in the bathroom and there was a giant hobo spider the size of a dinner plate (I swear) nonchalantly basking on the rug (the prayer was answered--not in the shower.  I learned to be more specific...).  Life had taught me no shoe in my hand is large enough or fast enough to ensure the demise of these spiders, so I searched for another option.  A textbook sat on the table outside the bathroom.  I hovered over the spider, counted to three, and dropped the 10-pound beast of a book to the floor. The book had about 12 inches to fall.  Between the time the book left my hand and hit the floor, that nasty spider zoomed between my legs and out into the family room with dark brown carpet (tangent:  why would you EVER put dark carpet in a basement.  Think of all that must be lurking in that and you can't see it!!!  Gross...).

When she learned they were hobo spiders gracing us with their presence, my mom went out and bought glue traps to put in the basement.   She kept buying and replacing the traps until they stopped filling up (and when I say "filling up", believe me I mean FILLED up).  I looked for a picture on google images to demonstrate how full these traps were but was so grossed out I decided not to subject the rest of you to its nastiness. My brother used to tease that the only reason you'd see a spider in your house is because it meant the walls were too full of them (yes, gross.  I know).  After seeing all those glue traps, I don't think he was that far off.

When I lived alone, I found not one, but TWO sets of mating black widow spiders.  One set in my lawn mower (don't even get me started on the nastiness that is the fact that I was digging at the dried grass with my bare hands before the killer spiders emerged from their lair, not two inches from my vulnerable fingers) and one set on my back door.

And everytime I have another one of these blessed encounters, I remind myself that someday, somehow, I will have a big, burly man who will gallantly abscond with any spiders in my life.  For now, I resort to sleeping with spider spray (my weapon of choice...).

And for those of you who already have your big, burly man and are about to say that you still have to deal with spiders...please.  I don't have much to live for in my life.  Please don't take this away from me.  I need to believe that he will gladly and willingly protect me from these heinous creatures.

A new level of nerditude

I admit it. Every semester when the course catalog from the local community college shows up in my mailbox, I eagerly peruse it and decide which classes I would take for fun were I not presently bogged down in the middle of graduate school. (I told you. Nerd. With a capital N.)

(I've been honing and developing my nerdiness for a long time....as evidenced by this circa 1985 pic--I can explain the potato head pieces. I cannot explain the hair. You'll have to ask/blame my mother for that. )

I've considered instrumental classes (brush up on those guitar skills), amateur photography, understanding the stock market, appliance repair skills (think how handy it would be to know how to troubleshoot washer/dryer issues!), basic car maintenance (ditto!), and about a hundred other course offerings (basketweaving anyone? oil painting? paper sculpting??? Why not?!)

In any case, with this semester's course catalog came the offering of all offerings: Introduction to Beekeeping.


How. Awesome. Is. That.


It's a year-long course taught by a Retired Professional Beekeeper wherein students get to maintain and harvest honey from their own instructional hives!(!!!) I'm not even kidding--this sounds totally amazing to me.


And I'm completely jealous that the $150 course fee and the fact that I live in a 3rd floor apartment and therefore don't have a place to put said instructional hives (am thinking my rinky-dink balcony won't cut it...) and the fact that I'm occupied with 3 research projects this semester (ho hum...) are keeping me from harvesting my own honey this year.


I'm pretty certain I'm an incurable nerd and this is just the bazillionth piece of evidence convicting me. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. :-)

One of a kind

I witnessed this combover while people-watching in an old cemetery in Boston.

It begs several questions....

How is this nobler than being bald?

Is this the look he was going for?

Is it not frightening that those long tendrils of hair resemble tentacles creeping across that noggin' of his?

Is that not the most impressive combover you've seen in a long time?

I thought so.

Maine

So, I recently flew across the country to camp (yes, camp) in the wilds of Maine for a few days.

Let me back up. Long, long ago, before I decided to move myself to the middle of nowhere (i.e. Nebraska) to subject myself to a grueling path of pain and study (i.e. graduate school), I had this lovely thing called a job which provided oh..., it's been so long....how you say?...money... for which to purchase extravagances like food, shelter, clothing. You know, the little things.

Now, lest you think I'm hobbling around in a burlap sack trying to stay warm huddled inside my cardboard box, I can assure you that I'm doing alright for myself. But, it is not an exaggeration to say that, since returning to school, I've had to readjust to life without some "conveniences" to which I had become so accustomed in my few years as a working, contributing member of society.

One thing that has hit the chopping block is the yearly trips my sister and I used to take together during the summer. My sister and I both worked for the public schools and, as such, enjoyed vacations that coincided with each other. We loved venturing up and down the Oregon/California coasts and one year even made a memorable cross-country roadtrip to Chicago and back. These trips were loads of fun. We'd stop on a whim to sightsee, played killer games of 20 Questions, ate cheese curds and muddy buddies, and chatted the whole time. I'm telling you, loads of fun.

Unfortunately, now that I live halfway across the country, no longer work for the public schools, and presently enjoy the monetary standing of a graduate student (perhaps "monetary sitting" would be more appropriate...or "monetary laying on the ground"), it is now ixnay on the awesome ips-tray.

But, this year, we decided to reinvoke the Sarah-and-Katy Roadtrip Extravaganza!

As we considered where to go and what to do--cost was certainly a factor because of aforementioned current socioeconomic standing (mine, not hers...)--we settled on exploring the northern part of New England in Maine, a place neither of us had ever explored before. I was excited to visit an unfamiliar coastline and frolic in the Atlantic Ocean. As we discussed cost-effective alternatives to save on dinero, we talked about the feasibility of camping to save on lodging costs. We knew it would be cheaper, but wondered if the tradeoffs (the absence of consistent showering facilities....having to transport camping gear across the country...) would be worth the gains (camping in Maine!!!). In the end, we decided it was a crapshoot and the only way to know if it'd be a good idea was to give it a whirl. We made some reservations, finnagled gear into our respective baggage, and finalized the plans.

And here is my verdict.

Camping in Maine was AWESOME.

I had just finished a grueling 3-week exam and could not have hand-selected a better place to go to escape school, escape the world, and just recharge. No cell phone service. No e-mail. No TV. Just glorious, glorious wilderness. And my sister.

We made some delicious meals over the campfire. Hot dogs, s'mores (we found using Ghiradelli chocolate squares in place of a Hershey bar is muy bueno), spontaneous tinfoil dinners, roasted corn on the cob, blueberry cobbler (using fresh Maine blueberries, crushed graham crackers, a smidgeon of butter, and marshmallows for sugar), bacon on a stick, grilled laughing-cow ham-and-cheese bagelthin sandwiches, and roasted starbursts (oh my goodness...pure heaven).

We splurged on Maine specialties such as lobster rolls and whoopie pies.

We explored coastline. We drove on beautiful winding roads.

And I recharged.

Would I camp in Maine again? Heck yes, I would.

An Accounting of the Last 3 Weeks

Number of pages written: 108.

Number of references cited: 100.

Number of articles read: too many to count.

Number of "You can do it!" cupcakes delivered: 2.

Number of doc-student-provided lunches: 15.

Number of roommate-prepared dinners: 11.

Number of encouraging Edible Arrangements: 2.

Number of "just because" mix CDs that arrived with perfect timing: 2.

Number of parental "how're things going, honey?" phone calls: 9.

Number of freak-outs: 2.

Number of moments that illuminated how many good and generous and kind and fantastic people surround/support/cheer me on: too many to count.

What am I doing in Mexico?!

So, you're familiar with the delightful little flick called The Three Amigos, right? In said movie, los tres amigos are beckoned to the little village of Santa Poco to rid the tormented citizens of the infamous El Guapo. All is hunkydory for the three (Ned Nederlander, Dusty Bottoms, and Lucky Day) until the moment that they realize that El Guapo and his posse are actual, factual bad guys who shoot real bullets. As the amigos are just actors, they're a little...shall we say...overwhelmed by the prospect of facing certain death.

In any case, there's this moment when Martin Short kind of scrunches his face up (they're all vas klempt...is that how you spell it?) and exclaims, "What am I doing in Mexico?!!" It's a one-liner that manages to say how-the-heck-did-I-get-here-this-scares-the-total-crap-out-of-me-help-me-Rhonda-I'd-just-like-to-go-home-and-curl-up-with-a-good-book-and-not-fight-a-crazy-Mexican-man-named-El-Guapo-today-or-anyday! (watch the clip here - it's worth a watch)

I'm having one of those how-the-heck-did-I-get-here-this-scares-the-total-crap-out-of-me-help-me-Rhonda-I'd-just-like-to-go-home-etc-you-know-the-rest moments right now. Not exactly in the sense that I'm about to face a crazy Mexican lord who has a plethora (yes...a plethora) of thugs who do his bidding.

But, I am two years into my PhD program and started my comprehensive exams yesterday. Two days down. (check. check.)

12 more to go.

A three-week exam consisting of a series of mammajamma papers on every possible topic related to speech perception. It might as well be a crazy Mexican lord accompanied by a plethora of grimy thugs.

Seriously. What am I doing in Mexico.

Wish me luck. Por favor.

My Nightmare

This flyer was on the entrance into my apartment building last weekend.
I cannot imagine a worst day out.

*shudder*

Art imitates life...unfortunately

I wish I could say I have never found myself in this situation...

(click on it for a larger image so you can actually read it. Go ahead, now.)

...twice.

That's right. Twice.

My response was to:

1. Inwardly panic that my advisor had keeled over before my very eyes.

2. Fervently and desperately hope there was someone else in the building who, at 5:30 on a Friday evening, would be more willing than I to give mouth-to-mouth to MY ADVISOR should he heaven-forbid require it (now, now, that's not to say that were it an emergency, I wouldn't buck up and do the right thing. It's just a little...well...disconcerting to think about).

3. Guiltily consider the major inconvenience his kicking the bucket would do to my ability to graduate (an additional two years? I don't think so.).

4. Horrified, remind myself that his life is, in the grand scheme of things, more important than my ability to graduate on time. (It is, right? Heh, heh...of course it is. I was just joking...)

4. Sigh with awkward relief when he jerked his head back up, awkwardly avert my eyes while he casually attempted to wipe his arm across his eyes as if to pretend he hadn't just dozed off in the middle of our meeting, and awkwardly end the meeting with a, "Well, I don't have anything else for today. Have a good weekend."

(I should mention that I have, quite possibly, the kindest, most gentle, most thoughtful advisor ON THE PLANET. Truly, a remarkably intelligent and nice guy. Sometimes we all just need a little snooze...)

A Fear Conquered

For basically forever, I have had an irrational, er, perfectly rational fear of baking with yeast. And for good reason too. For those unfamiliar with the horrific evening I once spent in writhing agony because of a failed baking-with-yeast attempt, let me share some sordid details.

One stormy day, not so long ago (okay, so 2006ish)..…

Katy wants to make cinnamon rolls.

She is unsure how to bake with yeast but is certain it can’t be too hard as she’s watched her mother do this a plethora of times (yes, a plethora).

She lets the rolls “rise” for one hour…two hours…three hours…they don’t seem to be rising much. But, leave them sitting in the pan much longer and sheer exposure is going to turn them into rocks.

She puts them in the oven in hopes they will rise while basking in the warmth of the toasty atmosphere.

No dice. They are browned as if properly baked…note the crucially important “as if”…but are still flat, flat, flat.

Out of excitement for the delicious, gooey, sticky, bun goodness, she forks one out of the pan and begins to enjoy her day’s labor.

Mmm….these taste kinda yeasty, Katy reflects. The flavor is good, but wow, these cinnamon rolls seem a little off. Lest her opinion be marred by a fluke not-so-good cinnamon roll, she tries another.

Eh. They don’t really have the texture of her mom’s delicious cinnamon rolls. Just in case the two aforementioned rolls may be an exception to the rest of a delicious batch, she stupidly tries one more.

About four hours pass.

Katy’s roommate goes to bed, but Katy has a pile of ironing to do. She wanders down to the basement, pops in a movie, goes to the laundry room to sort the ironing. Out of nowhere, Katy’s stomach makes ominous gurgling noise. Short stabbing pain follows immediately. Poised with ironing in hand, Katy assesses her inner state and decides she’s okay…for now.

Katy begins to iron. Stabbing pain is accompanied by beginnings of stomach swelling. She unexpectedly (and delicately, I’m sure) burps. She notes it is eau de YEAST. Several other burps (is there a daintier word for burping?) follow…all just as grossly yeasty.

Stomach continues to swell. So as not to embarrass polite company, we will leave it to the imagination to determine what happened next. In short, the next hour was filled with gaseousness…from both ends…the length and strength of which were never to be duplicated again (I certainly hope…). It seemed as though the yeast, which failed to activate prior to baking and in the oven, wholeheartedly released its gas after bathing in the warm fluids of the stomach.

Oy. It was horrible. Is it not understandable that cooking with yeast has been so terrifying?

This year, I decided to conquer this fear. I started baking bread on a pretty much weekly basis about 10 months ago. My roommate has willingly and patiently helped me consume all of these attempts at breadmaking. I have researched yeast, wheat, and dough enhancers in an attempt to make the most delicious homemade bread.

And, I believe I’ve finally achieved it. Ten months and at least 30 batches of bread later…I give you Exhibit A: Today’s loaves.

Light, fluffy, and yeast appropriately activated.

And here's a close-up...for good measure.

Mission accomplished.

How Academics Rebel

So, I am studying (interpret that loosely...) at the library today. I don't often get here to study because I'm usually holed up in my office in my building on UNL's East Campus. But, I had a class on City Campus today, it is a beautiful day, and I decided I'd rather study with a window at my side instead of down the hall (which, admittedly, is way better than it used to be when my office was in the basement. Remind me to tell you about the thrilling day when suddenly a bunch of visitors came down our hallway off of a hallway in the dark, dank basement. Turned out there was a tornado going on...and I had no idea. Didn't even know it was storming...). (follow the sign...three floors down...to my old office)

In any case, I'm up on the third floor at the University Library, in my favorite nook along a row of windows with other nooked desks. As I sit here with my tunes playing on my computer speakers...not headphones...there is a guy talking on his cell phone...not whispering...and another student who has a baby gurgling, squealing, chatting, and occasionally fussing at her feet (who, as her mother just announced, is "getting her butt changed."). And no one seems bothered or perturbed at the noise any of the others are making.

We are bucking all rules of the library, people. Watch out.

A milestone

So, I got my first pedicure Saturday. This is an historic event.

I would like to say this was done out of utter spontaneity and happy-go-luckiness. In truth, my roommate did spontaneously suggest we get pedicures when we walked into the mall that evening. But, it took wandering around the next hour for me to steel my nerves (read: convince my ticklish feet that it would be hunkydory for someone to touch/massage them...) before I announced I was ready to get a pedicure. With firm determination, I marched off to ye olde salon.

Although I almost kicked the nice pedicure lady in the face when she lingered longer with the lotion on my calves (seriously I am, quite possibly, the most ticklish person I know), it was an altogether pleasant experience.

I don't really know what's going on with the firework-esque tendril things on my big toes, but eh. Next time (and yes, I plan on there being a next time...that luscious foot bath was more than worth tolerating the nearly unbearable calf massage...), I think I'll ask for something a little less abstract (maybe a daisy? a Kermit the Frog? Can they DO that? 'Cause that'd be AWEsome).

A Portrait of a Girl at Nine

Today, while I was out running a few errands, I saw a little girl in Target. She looked about nine years old. She seemed to be right at that age where her independence moves her to try to do her own hair, with less than stellar results. She was wearing jean shorts, rolled to just above the knee and a bright green shirt. And, nestled under her arm, was a well-loved stuffed dog.

As she beebopped through the store, chatting with her mother, looking at other merchandise, that stuffed dog remained in the crook of her arm.

I have been thinking about her ever since I saw her. I wanted to run up to her and tell her what she was doing was right. Nine-year-olds should love their stuffed animals. They should be enamored of their dolls, their stuffed animals, pretending and creating elaborate scenarios for them to exist in. I wanted to wink at her mother as if to say, "Way to go. Your little girl is being a little girl."

But, that would just come off way creepy.

I used to work at an elementary school and some of the conversations of little girls I would hear worried me. When I was nine years old, I talked to myself incessantly, inventing tragic situations that I and my stuffed animals would somehow have to survive (i.e. I was often an orphan, a child of the pioneers, off at boarding school, etc.). The little girls I worked with discussed fashion, cute movie/music stars, and even weight loss. (what?!)

But, today I saw a little girl unabashedly carrying a stuffed dog. And it gave me a little hope.

Now, if she's still carrying that stuffed dog around Target at 14, we'll have a chat. But, for now, it's all good.

April 24th

So, tomorrow is my 30th birthday.

(I don't actually feel freaked out about this fact, but this little picture of 7-year-old me just seemed like a good one to add to the post tonight)

It is an interesting thing to look back over the past decade and realize all that has changed, all that has been accomplished, all that has remained the same.

In the spirit of decades of living, I give you a glimpse into who I am, where I've been, and all that other poetic mumbojumbo. I give you Exhibit A--Katy Turns 10. This is an authentic journal entry from my very own pen...er...pencil. Prepare for greatness. Written two weeks before I turned ten years old. *ahem*

4-10-90

Today, it's excatly 2 weeks untill my birthday and I'm excited. I have a big honkin' list too. Let's see. I want a fanny pack and I want some fabric paints and T-shirts and I also want Olivia and a lot of other things too. Today we also went a little shopping for Andria and we haven't found a present yet. Well my arm is getting tired.

Good Night

We must get just one thing straight: Fanny packs were cool at the time. I swear it's true. :-) And by fabric paints, I meant puffy paints. I wanted the puffiest, neon-ist, sparkli-est puffy paints known to man. As I recall, though I don't have the journal entry to prove it, many of these dreams came true. I did get a fanny pack (it was a neon salmonesque color), my very own set of puffy paints, and Olivia. The stuffed orangutan. Life was very good.

Fast forward ten years. I was about to turn 20 years old.

Although there is a journal entry on my actual birthday that year, it's not terribly interesting. I use the word "anyhoo" no less than three times, too-ta-loo, and seem very fond of the phrase "what in heck am I doing". This was a confusing time in my life for me. I still lived at home and yearned for adulthood yet felt woefully underqualified to be a grownup. Solid, old friendships were changing at a time when new friendships were not abounding in my world. I was nearing the end of my sophomore year in college, ever closer to the ominous end of spring quarter when I would have to declare a major.

That quarter, I was taking a career development class (this was one of two classes in college I had with my brother and we had a delightfully cute little career teacher...what was her name...Carol? I think her name was Carol. I remember she had nervous little mannerisms and was intimidated by things like running the overhead projector). We took personality quizzes that suggested career options befitting of our traits, talents, and skills. I found the suggestion to be a "vending machine repairman" less than helpful.

Although I remember the uncertainty I felt about the future ahead of me, I also remember feeling that surely in the next few years things were going to pan out and someday, somehow I would feel like a real adult. Oh...how cute I was.

And now, here we are. I am turning 30 tomorrow.

Who knows what I will see in me today when I look back in ten years. I like to think I will see a me that despite uncertainty about the future (a me who realizes there is never certainty in the future...), is happy about what lies before her.

And seriously, fanny packs were totally in.

Three Thoughts for Thursday

Okay, so it's not Thursday, but Three Thoughts for Sunday just doesn't have the right ring to it. And, chances are I was thinking about at least one of these things on Thursday, so we'll go with it.

a. I recently learned that some people dream in third person. This has been a shocking revelation to me. I assumed that all people dream like I do--it's basically a bizarre version of real-life consisting of my brain's amalgamation of the events of my life. I dream from my own perspective--just like real life--with the constant stream of consciousness flowing through my mind--just like real life. But, it turns out that some percentage of the population has dreams that play out like a movie, where they watch themselves maneuver through the events of the narrative. I have talked with two friends who do indeed dream in third person (as an interesting side note, both of these individuals remember their dreams with remarkable clarity...perhaps this is why). Do you ever dream in third person?

2. Today I realized that tomorrow is March 1st. Glory be! This winter has been a doozy here in Nebraska...very cold...very snowy...very icy.

(image courtesy nebraskaweatherphotos.com)

For the first time in my life, I dislike snow. I have had to come to terms with the fact that as opposed to feeling giddy and excited about snowfall, I sigh with disappointment and frustration when the skies open and snowflakes fall...again. And again. I'm hoping that a spring, a summer, and a fall can reconcile my relationship with snow and we can be on friendly terms again.

d. My roommate mocks me because I'm not a crier in movies. I'm just not. She says that my heart is cold. It's not that I don't care, it's just that I don't typically get that tied into something that is not real. On the other hand, the Olympics have made me cry more than once this time around. I'm not an athlete. I'm not emotionally tied to these athletes. But there is something so emotionally poignant about someone competing with the pride of their nation on their shoulders. Tears came as the Chinese pairs figure skaters finally won Olympic gold after YEARS of competing together. They're married now and can celebrate this life achievement together. Tears came as the Canadian figure skater who unexpectedly lost her mother two days before the start of her event skated beautifully and at her best whilst bearing the heavy weight of that burden. Tears came as I learned about the Australian snowboarder whose parents managed to travel to Vancouver to surprise her after her gold medal run even when she'd told them not to come so they could save and come to see her get married in the United States instead. Tears came as I watched Canadian mens' hockey team come back from a loss to the United States to win the gold medal in front of their country on their home soil. This is what I love about the Olympics. Yes, there's national pride and all that. But, more importantly the Olympics remind me (and all of us) that, in the end, humanity is the same the world around. Even that thought brings tears to my eyes.

See? I'm not coldhearted.

Confession

I am embarassed to say how old I was before I was straight on which finger was the forefinger.

Let's just say I may or may not have been over the age of 25 before I had that figured out. (In my defense, in childhood it IS almost exclusively called "the pointer" or "the index finger". Forefinger?! Forefinger?! Shouldn't that be your ring finger? That is the fourth finger...fourfinger...forefinger. The confusion well into adulthood seems totally justified. Totally.)

There have been several (and I mean several) other "basic" bits of knowledge that I have failed to pick up on until well beyond one might believe.

Has anyone else been the victim of delayed enlightenment? I'm curious to know what you didn't know you didn't know...before you knew it.

(Seriously...forefinger? So confusing...)

Another reason to love home

My parents have a vat of M&Ms in the hutch in their kitchen.

I don't even really like M&Ms (unless they're peanut butter M&Ms....then that's another story) and rarely do I actually indulge in said vat of said M&Ms.

But, there's just something AWEsome about the fact that you could use a ladle to scoop out M&Ms...if you wanted to. And for the record, no such vat existed while I was growing up. This vessel of M&Ms showed up about the time my parents had their first grandchildren...

But, so long as we're on the subject, here are other things I think my parents should have vats of in their kitchen:

-the creme inside Krispy Kreme glazed creme-filled doughnuts

-the chocolate peanut butter frosting from Babycakes (in Kansas City)

-Red Robin's Campfire sauce

-my Dad's homemade fudge (but not the maraschino cherry fudge....gross...)

-almond and/or cashew roca

-rolls and cinnamon butter from Texas Roadhouse

What would you put in the vat?

Go Team Go

Every New Year's Eve, there is an annual cutthroat hockey matchup celebrating the bitter rivalry between the Tri-City Americans and the Spokane Chiefs. While I am not a diehard fan for either team (I've spent about the same amount of years living in both cities), I do enjoy watching me some good hockey. Last New Year's Eve, some friends and I wanted to attend the aforementioned festive New Year's Eve event, but the tickets were sold out (boo...hiss.).

Long about October of this year, I woke up thinking, "I want to go to the hockey game in the Tri-Cities on New Year's Eve." And, not to worry, we got tickets. (phew...)

I went with my friend Kendra.

We found our seats, looked around in dismay, checked with the guy in the row behind us (he and his wife were 25-year season ticket holders), looked around in dismay again and sat down. Our seats, Section B-Row 3-Seats 5 and 6, were directly behind the Americans' bench. Directly behind. I have only watched hockey games from crazy nosebleed seats. I have never sat near the ice and have never sat near the team. This is what I learned whilst sitting there:

1. Hockey players swear a lot. While this shouldn't surprise me, I suppose, it did get old. Sheesh, be a little more creative yeah?

2. Those hockey guys are babies. Seriously, the vast majority are valiantly trying to suggest the peach fuzz clinging to their upper lip and chin is bonafide facial hair. It's not. I assure you, it's not.

3. For real, there were a lot of potty mouths on the team. Although, thanks to the indestructo plexiglass, we couldn't really hear it. But, as a professional-grade lipreader, I knew what they were saying and did wonder if they kissed their mothers with those mouths.

4. The backup goalie has a bum deal. I don't even remember his name. The poor guy got all suited up for the game (who knows how much that gear weighs) and he stood there at the door of the box and opened it for the players coming off of the ice. The whole game. Open the door, shut the door, open the door, shut the door. He practices with the team, does the drills, suits up, and is relegated to the job of door opener for the entire game.

5. I am a pansy. One guy, this guy, Lazo,somehow got injured and was gushing blood out of his chin and kept playing. It wasn't until the blood was dripping all over his jersey that they pulled him out, took him to the locker room, butterfly bandaged him up and then sent him back out on the ice. I have never gushed blood out of my chin, but I'm pretty sure if I did the rest of my day would include lazing around on the couch while sipping a smoothie. It would not include heading back out into an icy foray to be pummeled again, and again, and again. I'm still trying to decide if I find his courage admirable, or just plain stupid.

6. Watching the fans is just as fun as watching the players which is just as fun as watching the game (maybe more fun....). There we were before the game enjoying the luck of our seats when a rowdy man came down the aisle bellowing that we were in the wrong seats. Huh? After showing him our tickets ("That's no proof! You can't prove it!"), talking in a soothing, calm voice ("aazhhhhh, aazzhhhhh, daddy be home soon."), and with the additional cajoling of the 25-year-season-ticket holders, he conceded that we were not the devil's spawn sent to take his seat and sat himself down next to Kendra. Ray, it was apparent at 'hello', had some cognitive disadvantages.

So, we watched the game with Ray. He was a wealth of information. He chatted it up with the assistant coaches and water boys throughout the game which is how we got the updates on the player who was hit in the ear with the hockey puck ("He's laying down because he's really dizzy still!"). He yelled with appropriate fan passion when he disapproved of a call (his favorite phrase being, "What game are you watching?!"). At the end of each period, he jumped up out of his seat and declared, "It's walking around time! I love walking around time!" Although we were slightly concerned when he meandered back up to the aisle at the beginning of the third period with a hard lemonade (Should cognitively impaired individuals ingest substances that would further impair their cognition? A deeply philosophical moral dilemma...), Ray turned out to be a fun addition to the game-watching. Although, Kendra found his staring a little creepy.

Happy New Year, everyone.