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.