INTRIKATE

Shakespeare Was a For Real Dude

2008-07-15T08:17:00.002-06:00

I know so many of you are as fascinated and entranced with literature as I am. And I'm sure all of you spend countless hours lying awake at night contemplating the Formalistic nature of the poetry of William Wordsworth or the complexity of Ophelia in Hamlet or the joys of Shakespeare's iambic pentameter. Oh I just know you do. Well, if you don't, at least the people on National Public Radio do.

The other day, I was listening to NPR and they were discussing the validity of Shakespeare. For a long ole heap o time (literary phrase), scholars have debated whether or not Shakespeare was an author of plays or (gasp!) whether or not he even existed. Well, for my purposes, it's just easier to believe that he was who we all think he was mainly because I honestly don't give a flying Falstaff either way.

There was a gentleman on the broadcast, however, who had some very strong feelings on the subject and he adamently argued Shakespeare's validity. At one point, I got so emotionally invested in his argument that I raised my hand in triumph at least twice. And then he said the following: "Not believing that Shakespeare was a real author is about as ludicrous as not believing in Evolution." When I heard that I sort of just sat there confused like when you stick your hand in scalding hot water and for the first half second you think it's icy cold. But then you instantly realize OW! That's scalding hot water!

Anyway, I didn't really invest much attention to his argument after that because I was too busy coming up with other responses that I felt would have been similarly perplexing to my psyche:

"I don't believe in Shakespeare"
"What?! Not believing in Shakespeare is as ludicrous as not believing sun beams shoot out of my butt!"

"I don't believe in Shakespeare"
"What?! Not believing in Shakepseare is about as preposturous as not believing that Paris Hilton is the epitome of morality and decency!"

"I don't believe in Shakespeare"
"What?! Not believing in Shakespeare is so dumb! About as dumb as not believing in a tooth fairy covered in skittles!"

Anyway...you get the idea...

Updates A La Katy

2008-06-11T12:19:00.003-06:00

Well, I figured it was time I let you all know about what has been going on in my life lately. Seeing as how I don't really like to get toooo personal in my blog (do I? maybe I do?), I'm just going to inform you all of my latest and greatest points of interest and excitement.

1. I am currently collecting all the Happy Meal toys for the Kung Fu Panda movie. Most of you are fully aware that I am heartily invested in any meal in which a definitive emotion is displayed in its description (i.e. Happy Meal, Wacky Pack). But what you might not know is that I convey more expressions of joy and excitement over a free toy/meal combination than I do when, say, gas prices fall from $63.72 a gallon to $58.94. It's just that wonderful to me. So, Brian and I have been steadily acquiring them these past few weeks. We each have three. We are going to get them all and then go see the movie. Yes, we will probably take our free toys with us and set them up proudly at our feet.

2. I now know how to make Chili's salsa. Again, many of you who know me are fully aware that, if I am ever close to death, all I ever really want is for someone to hook me up to an IV that freely flows the deliciousness that is Chilis salsa into my veins, so that my transition into heaven will be all that much more blissful. I love it. Well, Brian Googled it the other day (seriously have no idea why it never occurred to me to do that...) and found the exact recipe. Within minutes, we were on our way to the grosh (my abbreve for grocery store) to gather the ingredients. We got so excited about our endeavor that we doubled the recipe. Now, Brian's fridge is full of about 38 little bowls of straight up Jesus. I'm frankly jealous that he gets to sleep mere feet away from all that salsa-y goodness. It's amazing, friends.

3. I quit my job. I have been working for my wonderful father since, oh, about the Mesozoic Era and have realized it's just time for me to move on. So, I'm finishing up grad school this next year and then it's on to bigger and better things! No more desk job! My last day is August 1. Whenever I think about it, I swear I hear a sweet heavenly choir of angels. And I just want to hug those angels, just wanna hug em up and feed em some happy meals.

4. I'm reading two great books. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen and Having a Mary Heart In a Martha World by, oh I can't remember her name...how very Martha of me. Anyway, both books are sooooo good. Water for Elephants is a fiction book centered around the theme of a 1950s circus type situation. And the other one is centered around the theme of our Lord of Lord and Heavenly Host. Praise Father Son and Holy Ghost.

5. I recently whacked myself in the chin with a lawn mower. Well, not the actual mower. I mean, it would be a pretty bold accomplishment if I could just hoist a mower in the air and then proceed to accidentally whack myself in the chin with it. It was the thing you pull on to start the mower. Or the "starter pully thing" as I like to call it. Well, I was trying to show off how wonderfully talented I am at starting large pieces of lawn machinery when, just out of nowhere, I felt a humbling jolt of pain as I got a little too close to my facial area during the up-pull. So, now I have a bruise there, but that's ok. Oh, and please don't come up to me and try to touch it. Whenever anyone approaches an owie on my person, I have some sort of ninja reflex action that will sever at least two limbs in one move. So, don't. touch. my. chin. bruise. I am not responsible for bodily harm done unto ye.

6. I am horribly sunburned. I blame the clouds which gave the impression that the sun wasn't working. And, I blame my very pale ancestors. Clearly, the fact that I applied no sunscreen whatsoever is soooo not my fault.

That's basically all for now...I think...Hope you all are having a wonderful summer!!!

I am NOT a Member of the KKK

2008-04-28T07:25:00.003-06:00

So, if you have been a faithful reader of my blog, you will know that my headline used to read "K-k-k-Katy." Well, it has been brought to my attention that this may have some sort of connotation towards racial hatred...an attitude I most certainly do not possess. And, of course, leave it to me - a kind, gentle, good-hearted person who has much love for the african american community - to create some sort of ambiguity in this area. Well done, self.

So, I thought I would set the record straight and tell you all why I chose the headline that is no longer my headline (because I'm a people pleaser, gang).

When I was a wee lass, my grandpa used to sing with me all the time. I would stand behind him and comb his hair and we would accompany each other in choral merriment. Most of the songs he sang I had never heard before. Since I was a kid with lots of freckles, one of my favorites he sang went something like "She's got freckles on her but(t) she's pretty." Made me laugh every time.

But my absolute favoritest of favoritestesness was the song K-k-k-katy. It was from a very old World War II song booklet that he had lying around. I can't for the life of me think of why I loved that song so much. Oh wait. That's right. It was a song about MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! Sigh. I love myself.

So, here's the song. Proof that I'm just a supporter of vintage music as opposed to a follower of hate-filled racist organizations.

K-K-K-KATY

Jimmy was a soldier brave and bold,
Katy was a maid with hair of gold,
Like an act of fate,
Kate was standing at the gate,
Watching all the boys on dress parade.
Jimmy with the girls was just a gawk,
Stuttered ev'ry time he tried to talk,
Still that night at eight,
He was there at Katy's gate,
Stuttering to her this love sick cry.

K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.
K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.

No one ever looked so nice and neat,
No one could be just as cute and sweet,
That's what Jimmy thought,
When the wedding ring he bought,
Now he's off to France the foe to meet.
Jimmy thought he'd like to take a chance,
See if he could make the Kaiser dance,
Stepping to a tune,
All about the silv'ry moon,
This is what they hear in far off France.

K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.
K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.

Well, Thank Goodness

2008-04-25T08:01:00.003-06:00

Friends! Countrymen! Lend me your ears!

Know how the turnpike is like uber ridiculous? Remember how it was supposed to only be set up to receive a toll for like 2 years and then it would be paid off and people - the normal, working-class, proletariat- would be able to drive on it for free? And I'm sure you're aware that it's been about 80 years now and it still costs a WHOLE DOLLAR to go roughly 100 yards from Broadway Extension to Western?

I think the reason we all have been so frustrated with the pricey toll fare is because we haven't seen any sort of product from this monetary compensation. For example, if we are giving them all this money, shouldn't there be performers on the side of the road with cupcakes and free car washes? Shouldn't every other mile of road be paved with candy canes? Shouldn't renowned motivational speakers be flagging us down to hop in our cars and give us the meaning of life?

Well, fret no more. I've found where all our money is going. And I think you will be pleased. If you are ever traveling Westbound (and Eastbound, actually, as I've come to observe) on the turnpike from Broadway Extension to, say, N. Penn, look to the right just after you go through the toll. But look quickly. There's about a four foot by four foot garden that has been planted in the space where travelers merge as if we are being handed a lollipop after a sharp blow to the back of the head. WHACK! Oh! A flower!

These 9 billion dollar gardens are, of course, maintained and groomed by the little turnpike oompa loompas, so don't forget that some of our money is going to them. For example, about a week after I noticed the garden on the North side of the highway, I was driving by and happened to notice a crew of about 48 men in orange vests planting an identical four foot by four foot garden on the South side of the highway. Bless their hearts, I'm sure it was a very long and arduous process. I can easily understand why it is costing us so much to keep them out there making our travel experience pleasurable.

I hope knowing all of this is a relief to those of you who travel the turnpike, the blessed stretch of road that is forever marked with exclusivity due to the shiny oasis of deciduous life growing from it's expensive loins.

I Make A Bomb Mix Tape...I'm Not Gonna Lie

2008-02-17T22:50:00.002-06:00

Ahhhhhh mix tapes. Is it 'mix tapes' or 'mixed tapes'??? For all intents and purposes, I'm going with just 'mix.' Suck it.

Okay....music is undeniably one of my most favorite things in the whole galaxy. You know how when you are in a desert and haven't had water for 5 days (not 6, after 6 you would die) and you're like 'crap, i need some water!' and then all of a sudden a cactus appears and you suddenly remember all those movies you saw long ago where they tell you that 'hey! you can drink a cactus!' and then you do, you drink the cactus and it's the best thing you've ever tasted because it means you're actually gonna live and then you start thinking the desert isn't such a bad place after all because. of. the. cactus. Welllll....music is my cactus.

And when I get filled up by music, one of my other favorite things is to share it with people. So, over the years (since 1991 to be exact) I've been making mixes for me and my friends. I remember sitting in my room listening to the radio as a kid and calling in requests and having my hand on the 'record' button of my boom box and starting and stopping the tape just in time so that the dumb deejay wouldn't be on the mix. Man, those were fun days.

Thankfully, those days aren't over for me, thanks to iTunes and my incessant need to express myself musically since I was clearly passed up on the day God was giving out musical talent. It's okay, really. I love to just sit and find songs and create what I like to call "atmosphere cds" (okay, I just made that up...I'm not that lame). But, really, my musical mixes are very mood dependant. When I was young, I would base my mix on whoever I was mixing for and that hasn't changed. But the songs are still about me. They are the songs that are valuable to me and they say things that words can't say. And when you give that kind of crap away to a person, you'd better make sure they understand the value of that. Not everyone deserves a mix tape.

A Letter To My Bathtub

2008-02-13T09:02:00.002-06:00

Dear Garden-style Oasis of Love,

I'm in love with you. And please don't tell me it's too soon for me to feel this way. It's been nine months and I'm hypnotized by your ways. Actually, bathtub, I hesitated about whether or not I should tell you this, but you are what gets me out of bed in the morning. Knowing you are waiting for me with your fiberglass arms of bliss, aahhhh....I get weak in the knees just thinking about it.

This letter is a big step for me, bathtub. You have to know...not many people approve of our relationship. They can't seem to understand why I enjoy your company so much, why I'm willing to forgo showers for the rest of my life just to remain in your tender embrace. Filling you up fills me up. Plain and simple.

And, bathtub, thank your for being selfless with your personal space. I love that you willingly hold my crosswords and books and homework and 45 half empty shower gel bottles. That's so sacrificial of you. You have no idea. But it makes me realize I need to put more effort in our relationship so you don't feel drained, so to speak.

I promise you, bathtub, there are so many exciting times ahead for us. I think about you all day and can't wait to be in your arms again.

Loofa,
Katy

Why I Outta....

2008-02-08T08:38:00.000-06:00

Yesterday after work, I had one mission in mind: jeans shopping. I left work at about 4:30 and headed to my favorite place to shop for jeans, The Buckle. Please remind me next time I go there that the sales associates are nice not because God gave them the genetic blessing of compassion...no, they are nice because if they sell you pricey jeans, they get a sweet little commission. Jerks. Here's what happened.

Katy enters The Buckle and is greeted by an associate. Katy wanders to the sale rack and hears a soothing, low voice at the back of the store.

George: Is there something I can help you find?

Katy: No thanks, I'm just (katy turns and sees the handsome man attached to the voice)...actually, maybe you can help me with some jeans.

George: I'd be happy to. Do you know what kind you want?

Katy: Well, I have a card from the last time I was in here. It has the type of jeans I buy on it.

George: Look at you. I'm so impressed!

(Katy giggles)

George: Okay, I'll grab a few for you and put them in a dressing room while you look around.

Katy: Sounds awesome. Thanks.

(A few minutes later...)

George: So, you're havin a good day aren't you?

Katy: Why, do I look like I'm having a good day?

George: I can tell these things.

(Katy Giggles)

Katy: Yeah, it's a good day.

George: So, what do you do?

Katy: Work and go to school.

George: Awesome. Hey, I love your bag.

Katy: Thanks! I got it at Old Navy about 2 years ago. My sister is always trying to get me to carry expensive bags, but I always go back to what's comfortable.

George: I hear ya. Me too.

(The conversation continues light heartedly until Katy informs George that she is ready to try on her clothes. George escorts her to the dressing room.)

George: I'm looking forward to seeing those jeans on you.

(Katy giggles)

George (while Katy is trying on clothes): So...uh, you got any plans for Valentine's Day?

Katy's inner monologue: omigosh! He's totally gonna ask for my number. He thinks I'm cute. omigosh! What is it with me lately? Guys are all over me! I'm awesome!

Katy: nah, not this year.

George: Hmmmm....well that's no good. We'll have to do something about that.

(Katy giggles)

Katy: Will we?

After trying on three pairs of jeans and three shirts, Katy makes her selections and hands them to George.

George: I'll see you at the register.

Katy: Okay

(At the register)

George: I went ahead and punched a few extra amounts on your card, so you can get the discount.

Katy: Wow! Thanks.

George: I'll just need your address.

Katy tells him her address.

George: Are those the apartments by Target?

Katy: Yeah.

George: With the big bathtubs?

Katy: Oh yeah.

George: I live in one of the sister complexes. That's so crazy!

Katy starts imagining their wedding.

George: I just need your driver's license

Katy hands George her driver's license

George: NO WAY!!!! We have the exact same birthday! Same month! Same year! Same day!

Katy starts naming their future children in her mind.

George: Now I have such an awesome story to tell my wife tonight!!!

Aaaaaaaand scene....

Two Scoops of Lovin

2008-02-07T09:36:00.000-06:00

It's impossible for me to be mad at anyone eating an ice cream cone. Am I alone in this? The other day, I was in traffic and some rude ho decided to cut me off. Well, I pulled around her and got ready to give her my mean, dirty, road rage face when I noticed she was enjoying a delightful soft serve. I immediately withdrew my ammo. What could I say or do to this woman that would pull her out of her child-like reverie? Nothing. And, frankly, at that point it didn't matter. I was already holding hands with her and skipping to the see-saw in my mind.

Maybe that's the answer. Maybe, in the future, when I decide to rob banks n stuff, I will always be sure to carry a double scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough (because, hello, that's the best). And when I'm waving my gun around in terror while simultaneously enjoying a famous American tradition, people will be more inclined to give me their money. And if they don't give me their money it will be all good in the hood because did I mention I will be eating ice cream?

And maybe the people working at Wal-Mart should eat ice cream cones all the time. Because I promise you I would be less inclined to yell at them if I knew their incompetence was being negated by the euphoria that could only be induced by a cold, delicious, creamy treat.

So, kids. If you are ever in a situation where you want to embark on a murderous rampage, due to anger or frustration toward an individual or an establishment, I highly recommend you picture said individual or establishment holding a swirly frozen yogurt cone from Braum's in their hand. I promise it will harvest peace in your chi.

Life Lessons I Have Learned In My Life As Lessons For Life (Lessons)

2008-02-05T09:15:00.001-06:00

1. It's never a good idea to rub your eye after handling jalapenos. It stings real bad.

2. Always proofread letters you send out from work. If not, you could end up asking a client to 'sing' a Petition for Administration instead of 'sign' it. Also, it is very easy to misspell the word 'and.' Nobody likes getting letters about 'nads,' gang.

That's really all I've learned in life, so far. I find it to be helpful, though. Hope you do too.

Hot Panera

2008-02-01T08:56:00.000-06:00

Welp. I basically love Panera Bread Company. Three days a week, I meet my friend, Lindy, there for breakfast. We've established a nice little routine and it's quite enjoyable to go somewhere as a "regular." Occasionally, when walk in the front doors, the entire establishment claps and rises to their feet while confetti falls from the ceiling. We've had to tell them not to do the confetti every time, though, because it's kind of a bother trying to pick shiny round dots out of our hair. We would settle for cash instead, though.

One of my favorite things about my thrice weekly breakfasts with Lindy is the teamwork exhibited by the workers. Sometimes, when we are in the middle of a conversation, we will be interrupted with a hearty yell from the kitchen. If you've been to Panera before, you probably know that they like to announce the fresh items that come out of the oven. In the mornings, those items are usually bagels or souffles. So, roughly twice during our breakfast, Lindy and I are delighted when we hear them yell 'HOT BAGELS!' or 'HOT SOUFFLES!' Mind you, we are not the least bit interested in purchasing these temperature appropriate items, we are just pleased that they take the time to tell us about them.

And it's not just that they yell 'hot bagels' or 'hot souffles,' it's the way in which they say it. The person who retrieves the items announces their arrival and then the rest of the workers repeat the exciting news. But, there's one worker there that always repeats what he's just heard as if he can hardly believe the good news. So, instead of just a hearty shout, it's more like an ecstatic question. 'HOT BAGELS???? YOU'VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME!!! WHO'S EVER HEARD OF SUCH AN AMAZING THING!? HOT BAGELS???' And that is the best part of our morning. We wait to hear how this worker responds to shouts coming from the kitchen because we know it will be awesome. And, just so you know, Lindy is now in a position where she feels totally comfortable with shouting out the good news to the restaurant too. And that's the best part of my morning.

Why I'm Cooler Than All Y'all Fools

2008-01-28T17:58:00.000-06:00

I own vinyl. More importantly, I own a record player. In all truthfulness, my post could end right here and now. It could end with the confidence that the point I'm introducing in the title will have been adequately made. But, I'm gonna talk about it a lil more because, well, that's just what I do.

Since I was a little girl, I've been in love with my grandmother's record player. Whenever we went to her house, I would take the time to clear off the picture frames and china dolls from her record player holder contraption thing (I have no idea what it's called, but it is big and an unnaturally stained color of wood). After completing the dusty task, I would slide open the door on the top and all my mother's old records would be inside. Oh they were magnificent. The Surpremes, Jackson 5, The Sound of Music, Dean Martin...such lovely classics. I would play them and lay on my grandma's living room floor absorbing the sounds and feeling some sort of spiritual connection to the songs and the times they represented in my mother's life.

So, three Christmases ago, my grandmother bought me my very own record player. It was the greatest gift ever! About three weeks later, I found myself knee deep in a record give-away at the OU campus. I had heard about it in one of my classes and, sure enough, that afternoon there were tables and tables and tables full of records that they were just GIVING away. I got some Fleetwood Mac, Heart, James Taylor, Elton John. For. Free. I might start weeping soon.

It's safe to say, my collection of vinyl is pretty extensive. But, that didn't keep me from the wonderful record store off of Western Avenue and 36th Street last Saturday. Oh no siree it did not. I purchased Madonna's Immaculate Collection, Elliot Smith, and Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits Volume II. Please try to contain your excitement. Do you need to lie down? Please don't worry too much, though. My coolness will probably be exploding into lemon jolly rancher flavored rain drops pretty soon. It's just that intense. And, I'm worried about mentioning this next little fact because my computer might just implode upon itself due to the sheer, overwhelming COOLNESS of it all. But what the heck. Here goes....I have a subscription to Rolling Stone Magazine...

The Questionnable Nature of My Flip Calendar

2008-01-24T15:02:00.000-06:00

At the beginning of every year, I look forward to purchasing new calendars. My two favorite types of calendars are wall calendars and flip calendars. This year I went with a French theme and, so far, I've been delighted with the results...of my wall calendar.

For my flip calendar this year, I get a brand new french phrase every day. Around the beginning of January, the phrases were cute and applicable, like Happy New Year! or Au Boulot! (Get back to work!). But for the past couple of weeks, I've been somewhat confused by the phrases I'm greeted with every morning.

As I'm assuming most people who buy this calendar are looking for common phrases that we can use in conversation in order to practice the French language, I'm surprised to learn that this is not the case for the "Living Language Flip Calendar of 2008."

Let me give you an example. The French phrase for January 25, 2008 is "La peur ne se commande pas" which means "You can't control fear." Okaaaaaaay...What ever happened to "I really like your sweater today!" or "How are the kids?" I personally can't remember the last time I've ever walked up to someone with a strong desire to darkly tell them fear cannot be controlled. And, frankly, it kind of makes January 25th a day I'm not all that much looking foward to, to tell you the truth.

And how about February 5th? I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to work in "Elle ne peut plus ecrire" into a jovial lighthearted conversation, seeing as how it means "She can't write anymore." Are the makers of this flip calendar operating a small torture chamber somewhere? What does one have to do to a person to make them not be able to write anymore? And why, oh why, would we ever want to talk about it in French???

For all our sakes, I hope the makers of this calendar don't get upset this year because who knows what next year's calendar will look like if they do. And I'm pretty sure all our suspicions will be confirmed on September 3 as the phrase of the day on that day is "Je pars pour la Suisse apres-demain" (I'm leaving for Switzerland the day after tomorrow). On this day, rest assured I will be using this in a conversation with my mob boss.

Tea From a China Pot

2008-01-22T17:07:00.000-06:00

Today I had the pleasure of spending an hour in the presence of one of the oldest men in the world. He will be 100 years old this year. My dad and I went to his home for a business meeting and the gentleman's son and grandson were there. I met them last week and we discussed our mutual fondness for tea. I told them that I had some experience working in a tea room at one point and they were somewhat shocked that I knew so much about how it is served and the numerous categories of tea, etc.

When I went to their house today, my host's son (a man well into his 70s, I'd imagine) welcomed me warmly and quickly informed me that the kettle was on the stove. I thanked him and told him he didn't need to go to any trouble and he shrugged off my attempts at politeness as he disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back out, he was carrying a beautiful tea set, prepared completely and totally for me. He then brought me seven different kinds of loose leaf teas to choose from and I happily settled on the Darjeeling, which has always been a long time favorite. He started to chuckle but wouldn't tell me why.

He had poured the boiling water into a gorgeous china tea pot and told me that tea should always be served in china tea pots. I didn't argue and I'm pretty sure the expensive container holding the tea managed to charm the flavor. It was so heavenly and I felt like a queen! Then, as I was sitting there drinking my Darjeeling with one lump of sugar thank you very much, he rushed over to me exclaiming that he had something he wanted me to look at. Once again he disappeared around the corner and came back with a copy of "Love in the Time of Cholera."

I couldn't stop smiling. While my dad was conducting professional business in the other room, I was sipping tea out of china with a fine linen napkin in my lap and a classic novel in my hand. I felt like I was in the middle of a Jane Austen made for tv movie. It just felt so good to take time out of the madness and business of the world to enjoy the finery of a cup of tea! And when I got up to leave, he helped me with my coat and said that the reason he was laughing about my choice of tea was that Darjeeling was his mother's favorite. He grabbed my hands and I thanked him for the lovely time. La la la la. I think I will always make tea.

I Have A Life. I Prrrrromise.

2008-01-19T14:48:00.001-06:00

Much of my life lately has consisted of the wonderful and beautiful world of abc.com. Folks, if you have never been to this website, go. run. flee to the goodness that awaits you. I know being a full time grad student and a full time employee of Upyours & Associates (I can totally say that...I work for my dad) I have no business whatsoever spending hours of my life watching online videos of television shows I have no business whatsoever being obsessed with. But, for the love of all things holy and pure, I can't help myself. It's free. With limited commercial interruptions. And, I for one sleep so much better at night knowing I am fully caught up on the latest prime time television events.

Of course, the writer's strike has incessantly been raining on the parade of my shameful hobby, though I totally and completely support them. In fact, I think my online viewing has prompted some of the writers' complaints because they aren't getting paid for all of my free hours of entertainment. And they should. Uhhh...but, I ain't stoppin.

So, during this strike-I-fully-support-but-selfishly-want-to-be-rid-of, I've been immersed in the following:

Oh sweet salvation. A couple of years ago, I borrowed Season 1 from a friend and became completely hooked. Yes, I have an obsessive personality, thank you for your concern. However, they were in the middle of Season 2 when I finished Season 1 and abc.com simply wasn't around at the time to relieve me. So, I took a bit of a hiatus, during which time I was totally and completely lost...so to speak.

But, recently, abc.com (the aforementioned salvation) has posted Seasons 1, 2, and 3 on their website in HD. For Free. All three seasons. For Free. For my viewing pleasure. For Free.

I am currently almost done with Season 2. And, you all have to understand that most of the reason I am being so supportive of the series is because my husband, Matthew Fox, stars on the show. And, yes, ladies, he's as handsome in real life as he is on the show. Take this picture, for example:

Oh, this day was so fun. I was on set with him and he brought a picnic lunch for us. When he was done shooting for the day, we went away from the rest of the crew and found a location on the beach that was private. I snapped this picture of him right after he told me he wanted to try and have children.

Elevator Awkwardness

2008-01-15T08:48:00.000-06:00

I'm sure many of you lovely people have experienced those times in your life when you are forced into an intimate situation without knowing the person with whom you are sharing the intimacy. I'm talking about the elevator. There's a standard our society has set for almost every situation in life except this one. It's as if life just hands you this little bucket of awkwardness and says "Here. Deal with it." Some of us deal with it very well by talking about the weather (suitable for everyone), the awesome football/basketball/hockey/soccer/baseball game (suitable mostly for the guys), or last night's episode of Grey's Anatomy/The Bachelor/Desperate Housewives/American Idol (particularly suitable for the ladies).

To all of you who manage to make those elevator rides a little less uncomfortable, I thank you. You truly exemplify what it means to step outside ourselves and reach into the lives of others, if only for the timespan of however long it takes to get from the Lobby to the third floor.

However, there are those of us who still have yet to figure out how to handle the inevitable situation of being one on one with a stranger in an elevator. If this is you, then I want you to know that I'm here to tell you the awkwardness ends now. Today. This moment. I'm going to outline several instances in which certain levels of discomfort may arise (pun intended) on an elevator. I will also provide you with easy tools to help deal with them so that you and your strange elevator partner will be able to part company with ease and satisfaction.

Awkward Elevator Situation Number 1: The Button Watcher.

This situation usually occurs in most business/doctor's office settings, where the elevator passenger has much more on their mind than friendly banter. This intrusive amount of thinking forces them to lean their head back and stare blankly at the tiny numbers above the doors watching them progressively light up as the elevator ascends.

Now, I want you to take full advantage of their body language in this situation. Their pre-occupied brain and their tilted head stance has clearly given you the perfect opportunity to step in gradually behind them, lean quietly forward, and smell their neck. You will want to use caution here, however, especially if you are a man and your predestined elevator passenger happens to be a girl. If this is the case, gentlemen, I strongly suggest that no words be exchanged. A small whiff will be sufficient.

But for all other situations, ladies and gentlemen, please feel free to comment on the remarkable aroma exuding from their neckline. This is going to be most effective if the tone you use is soft and breathy, so as not to frighten your fellow passenger. After the exchange has taken place, step back and smile, because, friend, you have just overcome awkward elevator situation number one.

Awkward Elevator Situation Number 2: The Key Fiddler/Purse Digger

We've all seen it. You step on an elevator with a person and they deliberately avoid eye contact with you and intentionally divert their interest to the number of keys on their keychain or the number of loose gum wrappers in their purse. You might feel somewhat offended, and you should be! This is the second most offensive elevator relationship scenario (see Awkward Elevator Situation Number 3 for the most offensive).

Here's how I suggest we handle this situation. Just like in our first scenario, I want you to take a very close look at the body stance of this thoughtless passenger. Clearly, they are going to have their head down and their focus averted. Wait until the doors close, count to five, and then throw your keys or cell phone at their downward tilted head. Inevitably, this will grab their attention and put the focus back on you, where it belongs. Chances are they will look at you in astonishment and fear. If this happens just casually say "I know. Right?" And bug your eyes out in disbelief so that they can understand that THEY are the ones in the wrong here, not you.

If all goes according to planned, you will be laughing about it by the time you reach your destination. (Note: Do not attempt this on anyone who (a) is wearing all leather (b) has more visible tattoos than you (c) is carrying a briefcase while wearing dark glasses and an Armani suit or (d) could possibly be carrying a concealed weapon.)

Awkward Elevator Situation Number 3: The Cell-Phone Talker

Again, this has probably happened to all of us. You walk into an elevator with a person, offer them a friendly smile, and they shun you by carrying on with their conversation about lame things like "business meetings" and "Aunt Patty's life threatening disease." Come on. How rude can you be? These absurdly inconsiderate elevator passengers clearly have one thing on their mind...themselves. So, as in situation number 2, I want you to think of ways to bring the attention back to yourself. Engage them. Make them want to hang up with the person on the other end of that darn modern technological relationship destroyer.

Here's my recommendation: Make sex noises. This sure-fire method has the potential of immediately grabbing not only your estranged passenger's attention, but quite possibly the attention of the person he/she is talking to, as well. If that is the case, then pat yourself on the back. Success. You will have to keep in mind, however, that this person will have one of two responses. He/she will either be wildly intrigued by your sudden orgasmic outburst or (worst-case scenario) he/she will threaten violent bodily harm because the person they were talking to happened to be their spouse and now you've ruined their marriage, blah blah blah. If that happens, you should just smile and say "Hey, man. You were the one being rude, talking on the phone during our elevator ride." Hopefully, they will understand, and, again, you will be laughing hysterically about it by the time you reach your destination...hopefully.

Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?

2008-01-14T14:20:00.000-06:00

Good gracious, does anyone remember playing that in about 4th grade? That and the one with the prairie wagon. To this day, I'm still not sure what titian hair color is, or even how to pronounce it, for that matter. Ah, those were the days. I remember loving computer class and feeling like someone had given me a lifetime supply of cotton candy whenever I didn't have to share a computer with anyone.

But, of course, that wasn't the internet. Those were just computer games. Still...I felt the need to reminisce just then. Now, I think about how my little brothers can access a world of information through the internet on their phones if they are bored with gym class or just have an overall disinterest in whomever might be standing within a three foot radius. It's crazy! I feel like I should be in my rocking chair knitting an afghan and I'm only 25! But, I don't think I ever really surfed the internet until I was in my freshman year of college back in 1999. *insert sound of rocking chair here*

I remember the thrill and excitement of creating my own email account (it's free?! no way!) and the first time I felt warm fuzzies over the thoughtful email from the gentleman who expressed a passionate concern for my abnormally small penis (which I didn't even know I had).

Wonder led to appreciation and appreciation led to desperation and now, well, if I can't figure out the qualifying height of a dwarf in 2.8 seconds, then I just throw the damn thing across the room (the computer, not the dwarf).

Put This In Your Pipe And Smoke It

2007-12-12T14:11:00.000-06:00

Okay, so I'm thisclose to being done with my first semester of grad school. Tomorrow night is my final final (heheh) and praise be to Jesus my Shakespeare final was cancelled on Monday night ne'er to be rescheduled. I'm totally okay with that. Aye, forsooth.

In preparation for this final paper I'm writing, I have to read an article and then comment on it. The article discusses a typological approach to the Bible, specifically the Old Testament. That is to say, most stories in the OT can be seen as symbols or 'types' of other stories. So, the story of the Exodus, for example, could be a typological representation of the story of how Jesus came to save us all and set us free, et cetera.

The thing that blew my mind was her discussion of Joseph. As a refresher, Joseph was known as the dreamer. He had the coat of many colors, was seduced by Potiphar's wife, son of Jacob, blah blah blah. Anyway, the author of this article suggests that Joseph can be seen as a typology for the text itself. Stay with me because I promise it will blow your mind.

Joseph's story was one of forgetting and remembering. He grew up with his brothers, was sold into slavery and was forgotten. Likewise, the creation of the Old Testament resulted from a series of events occurring and then being forgotten and then being remembered again. Remembered and then written. Eventually, Joseph's brothers remembered him and he rewarded them with sustenance. The result of the stories of the Bible being remembered is that we, the readers, have spiritual sustenance.

Now, think about Joseph's life in between the time that he was forgotten and then remembered by his brothers. He was sold into slavery and was imprisoned. While he was in prison interpreting dreams, what was the one thing he asked the prisoner who was set free? Remember me to Potipher. And what did the prisoner do? He forgot him. So, again, Joseph was forgotten and then remembered. It was a pattern for him. But, during those times, he never stopped dreaming and interpreting.

With the Word, it's the same way. The events that are written about in the Old Testament were created from someone's memory and interpretation of those events. It's up to you whether or not you believe the final product is divinely inspired. I happen to believe it is. But that doesn't make the process any less magnificent. These events, in between the time of their being forgotten and remembered, were constantly being interpreted, like Joseph's dreams.

Joseph's story ends with him being remembered by his brothers and the reward that came from that. The formation of the Bible is the same way. The stories were remembered, transcribed, and then divinely transformed into the Word of God, which, I'm sure you will agree is a reward for anyone who ravishes it.

man. that's some coooool shiz if you ask me. Hope it made sense.

I Seriously Had No Idea

2007-11-15T16:53:00.000-06:00

Do you all know what this is???

Because I always thought it was a very artful, bohemian sketch of a man or woman dancing among some flames. See just there where the leg looks like it is bent and his head looks tilted?

Well, it is no such thing. When I told my roomate the other day that "I just love those artsy decals I see all the time on pickup trucks" she informed me very politely that they were, in fact, deer heads. Profiles of heads of tiny baby deers. Hunted tiny baby deers. Hunted tiny baby deers that are probably laying in the back of the trucks that used to contain the artful people I so admired. :(

To-Do

2007-11-13T15:11:00.000-06:00

I'm ever so sorry for not blogging much lately. I have the following to accomplish before the end of the month:

1. A 10-page paper on whether or not Jesus was illiterate (I chose this topic)

2. A 5-7 page paper critiquing an article on the existential life of Joseph in the Bible (I did not choose this topic)

3. A three-page critical or creative commentary on Antony and Cleopatra

4. A three-page critical or creative commentary on The Tempest

5. A 5-7 page critical response to some aspect of the Shakespeare plays I've read this semester (there are 5)

6. A 20-page paper on the History of Thomas Hardy's renowned classic, Tess of the D'urbervilles.

I really do believe in miracles, you guys. And, it's a good thing because it's pretty much going to take one to get all this done. And, is it wrong that I'm crying right now? No, seriously. Weeping. Crocodile tears....which, incidentally, is a phrase we get from an ancient story where the crocodile is said to have wept phony tears for the victims it was about to devour.

Welp, see ya later!

Why I Pray For Ugly Betty

2007-10-29T12:39:00.000-06:00

It's a good day. And not just because my beautiful friend has delivered a beautiful baby boy or because the weather couldn't be more perfect if it tried or because I've been listening to The Beatles for the past sweet forever and I'm like moved. Like moved in my soul. It's just because of the Lord. Pretty simply, that's it. And I'm not gonna start talking about how I saw the face of Jesus in a wildflower on my way to work or how the clouds seemed to form a cross as they drifted over my shimmering and ethereally glowing head as I did a Bible study in the woods yesterday. (totally didn't do a Bible study in the woods yesterday, unless it counts that I did one in my bed last night and I haven't shaved my legs in 2 days. gasp!).

It pretty much all has to do with how much I love being taught. Let me rephrase that. I love knowing things. Being taught that which we should know is often very painful and annoying. Lessons in the Lord are no different than numerous brutal hours of being taught the difference between sine cosine and tangent. Oh sweet heavens, I just threw up in my mouth a little.

But it seems like once you have a knowledge of something, you're pretty grateful it's there. Especially when it's useful. For instance, I love the fact that I can quote passages or ideas from certain books that I love or that I can provide random and fascinating information on virtually any current popular television series. (Karen Filippeli, from The Office, is TOTALLY the daughter of Peggy Lipton and Quincy Jones)

It's pretty common to hear that knowledge is power. So, wouldn't it stand to reason that the more we know about the Lord the more powerful we become? Of course.

I've been growing in my knowledge of the Lord, specifically my faith. Not faith like religion. Faith as in faith. The fruit of the spirit. The means by which we are saved.

I'm surprised at how much I didn't know about the intricate nature of faith. I always assumed faith was just a character quality that someone either possessed or didn't possess. To actually learn that faith is an action is something I feel I should have always known.

This past week, specifically, I have been more conscious of the ways that I allow faith to affect my life. My prayer life has been more intimate because I have opened myself up to freely praying for whatever is on my heart (which, last night, was the entire cast of Ugly Betty for some freakishly odd reason...I love that stupid show)

A foundation is laid through prayer. A foundation that opens us up to God's character so that His qualities can gently creep into our lives and words and actions. When we and others see evidence of this, THAT is what increases our faith. So much so that we can't abide the idea of it slipping away, which hopefully leads us to cling to the fragility of faith and cradle it and nurture it so that we never know anything but how good it feels to be in love with the Lord.

Thursday Night Football

2007-10-19T10:15:00.000-06:00

I'm a football fan, something I never thought I would be admitting to when I think of all the times my mother forced me to watch Sunday NFL football for the majority of my formative years. But, now that I'm a grown woman with adult decision making capabilities, I find myself unabashedly addicted to the players and their sometimes wildly attractive coaches (hi, Chuckie).

So, you can probably understand how proud it makes me that all three of my little brothers are playing football this season. Luke and Ben play for Bishop McGuinness and John plays his little heart out for the CHA Crusaders. And, frankly, I love going to their games. Last night, John played at Mount Saint Mary's, and since it's my Fall break right now, I didn't have class and got to head over there to watch him play.

I realize I should be going into great and wonderful detail on what a great job he did and how the game was really close and exciting, but I can't get out of my mind the random comments I heard from the parents during the game and how funny they seemed to me.

First of all, I would just like to say that it took me a good sweet forever to find the football field at Mt. St. Mary's, a school that seemed like it would be a really good place to film the video for Pink Floyd's The Wall. So, once I finally got to the field, I felt greatly rewarded. I went to sit by my dad and grandpa and knew it was going to be a fun night because grandpa couldn't stop talking about the delicious stew he had made the day before. Old people are proud of their stews, guys. Seriously proud.

Here are some of the things I heard during the game that made me laugh:

"Make it a good threesome!" Now, this was shouted by my father. I realize he was talking about the formation of the men on the field, but it still struck me as awkward.

"Grab his sack!" I'm pretty sure I heard this incorrectly. Certainly, the parental unit who said this said something more like "go for the sack." But, really, is that any better? I can't imagine any of the players being too thrilled about anyone going for or grabbing their sacks. Just an opinion.

"You're running around like a chicken out there!" I know this doesn't sound very funny, but let me assure you that it left me in stitches as it was immediately followed by my grandpa's subtle remark that he had, in fact, put chicken in his stew.

"You need to handle your balls a little better!" I don't necessarily feel like this one needs an explanation.

"Come on guys! Let's go for the touchdown!" Again, this one is not very funny, but I'm just letting you know that this is what was yelled by my father just moments before his giant elbow whacked me upside the head. I was just sitting there minding my own business, when my father jumped to his feet behind me and delivered a fierce blow to my cranial surface. I turned around and looked at him like he'd just shot my kitten and it was decided that his excitement would be better contained in a vicinity that was not shared by my head.

They ended up losing the game. I blame the constant discussion of the stew...or the violent display of temper that was demonstrated on my poor head.

Why I'm Better Than You

2007-10-16T20:22:00.000-06:00

Okay, so school is really hard. And I don't mean hard as in my brain can't figure it out. I mean hard as in I finally found something I can't b.s. my way through. (yes, I just ended a sentence with a preposition. eat me.) And even as I type this, something deep inside tells me that grad school was never intended to be easy. But I never thought I would be THIS humbled THIS quickly. I thought I would at least be able to sail through my first semester on my ability to compose an arguable thesis on something as trivial as a car owner's manual.

But, seriously. I'm at a point where I'm mystified by the fact that my best efforts aren't always met with academic success. In years past, if I did poorly on a paper, I could attribute it to the fact that I started writing it five minutes before class or the fact that I had never read the book about which the paper was supposed to be written. But now I feel like even my most meticulous and well-prepared assignments are deemed average.

Which makes me wonder...am I just fooling everyone? I mean, honestly. Isn't anyone with any sort of academic prowess just a slave to another man's thoughts? All the information I have stored in my brain has come from books and data sheets and intricately composited philosophies. So, it somewhat bothers me that I feel like I'm sitting on the ignorant side of stupid about ninety percent of the time. When all I really want to talk about, quite frankly, is the condition of humanity or God or why I'm the only one who seems to think there is no such thing as too many bottles of shampoo in the shower.

I'm not going to quit grad school. Mainly because I'm not a quitter. But as I sit there and listen to my "colleagues" discuss the feminine opposition and schizophrenic nature of King Lear, I can't help but wonder if this is really what I'm supposed to be doing in life. I love learning and I love being taught, but I feel so wildly inferior to so many things that I almost think I don't belong there. And, please don't view this post as a cry for help or sign of depression. I'm actually quite happy at this particular juncture in life. It's just that today I feel like I fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. But, don't worry. It's nothin I can't b.s. my way out of. (yes, I just ended with a preposition again...)

Panera is Rated R

2007-10-03T07:52:00.000-06:00

This morning, I met my friend, Lindy, at Panera for a Bible study. It's always such a nice place to study the Word because of all the BREAD type situations. Bread bread bread. Bready bread breadness. Okay. I just really love their bread.

We sat down with our selected bakery items and cracked open our B-I-B-L-Es. About ten minutes into our conversation, a guy came and sat down about two tables away. The tables in Panera, if you are one of the 4 people in the world who has never been to one, are fairly close together, so we figured he could probably hear what we were saying. Which was fine because, in all honesty, we were pretty much talking about going shopping this weekend for new dresses. So, it's not like we were, you know, OFFENDING anyone with all our speaking in tongues and slaying each other in the Spirit and stuff.

However, after a decent amount of time, our new dining patron decided to make a phone call. I know this is going to sound awfully eaves-droppy of me but when someone in close proximity is on the phone and speaking loudly, I'm pretty much going to listen to the conversation. But, in this instance, I was truly disinterested in what he was talking about...until I heard the word 'cuddle.' I immediately looked at Lindy and felt a strong need to begin a conversation about whoknowswhat in order to disguise the fact that I was about to slide across the booth to him, put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands so I could listen to him tell me all! about! the! cuddling!

But Lindy and I just stared at each other because the conversation had only just begun. From what I understood, this particular gentleman had apparently had sexy-ool relations with a young woman who was "possessive" and "like a stalker, dude." I heard such lovely phrases as "Come on, man, what was I supposed to do? She was lying there naked on top of me" and "I'm going to be known as the cuddler." It was all very appalling to my ears, frankly, and I'm pretty sure Jesus was a little disappointed in this fella's sexcapades and the fact that they TOTALLY distracted us from spending time with Him. But Lindy and I thought it was about the funniest thing we had encountered in a while.

And when we were getting up to leave, I stood up and stretched my neck and loudly exclaimed to Lindy, "Dang, girl! My neck hurts! I think it's from all the SEX." He stopped talking long enough to laugh at my comment. I'm hoping he learned his lesson, cuz ain't nobody wanna hear about no sex at 8 in the morning during a Bible Study. Can I get an Amen? Hallelujah one time.

To Purr or Not to Purr...

2007-09-27T14:23:00.000-06:00

My cat no longer wishes to be alive. As you might be able to tell from this expression:

And I've tried for oh so many hours to figure out why on earth she thinks her life is so wholly unimportant to herself. But, alas, I can't understand it. She has a lovely home with plenty of soft things to curl up on, i.e. my laundry that I haven't put away since I did it back in 1754. There are ample opportunities throughout the day to find a patch of sunlight to curl up and go to sleep in. I haven't vacuumed in a sweet forever so I'm sure there are leftovers of some sort of delicious human food product dusting the carpet in various places. Aaaand, I hug her lots of times. In fact, every day when I get home from work, I swoop her up, hold her like a baby, and tell her how much I love her, Tickle Marie Pruitt, you cute, furry thing. So, I'm baffled.

But please do not mistake the issue here. She's been doing several things lately which have me in the clear understanding that we are thisclose to having to wrap her wittle paws in bandages. You know, because she's tried to slit her wrists with her pointy cat teeth.

Here's what happened: Ever since we moved into the apartment, Tickle has been enamored with the balcony area. Every time I go out there, she races right up next to me so she can enjoy the outdoor weather and the sunshine and the birds! look! those birds that make me do weird things with my mouth and eyes! Watch me catch one and eat it and then vomit it up to you as a present! So, I was understandably nervous at first because, hello, I live on the third floor and that's a mighty far fall for a little kitty. But she's always been very good at not testing her limits in that area, so I quickly let that worry subside. Mistake.

My roomate, Carrie, and I were hanging out visiting late one night and I noticed Tickle wasn't around. So, I looked for her and didn't find her but just assumed she'd climbed up on my bookshelf as she sometimes does. Naturally, I continued with the conversation. But then I nervously started to worry that something might be wrong, so I went out on the balcony to pray. Okay, I didn't go out there to pray, but I also didn't want to admit to myself that her little body could have been on that balcony at one moment and then hurling through the air on it's way down to earth the next. But, I had to know for sure.

So, I went out there and called her name and looked over the edge and didn't see her. But I called her name again and this time I heard a very low, very terrified meow. I almost leapt over the balcony at that moment, but I was able to rationalize that I would have died if I were to do that, so I called to Carrie to KEEP AN EYE ON TICKLE! SHE'S FALLEN! OH MY SWEET LORD SHE'S HURT AND DYING! CARRIE!. All of this was frantically shouted as I flew through my living room, out the door, and down the stairs to my stranded feline below. I ran out onto the grass calling her name and she pranced right over to me and I swooped her up and she looked at me all 'what was that all about' and I kissed her and spanked her furry bottom for taking ten years off my life. But she's fine, gang. She's completely and totally fine. And I'm also considering enrolling her in stunt school. Here's her latest trick:

As if the flying leap off the balcony wasn't enough, Tickle attempted suicide once again a couple of nights ago. I was in my study mode...pajamas, candles, pillows, school books...all strewn about me like collegiate confetti. So, I wasn't really focused or aware of my surroundings. As I was hovering over my Shakespeare book reading Twelfth Night (out loud in an English accent) I began to smell something burning. I looked up and over at my nightstand where I saw Tickle staring at me with a 'dude, I just woke up' expression. What she didn't realize was that her fur was hanging over my candle and therefore on fire. She had no clue. I pushed her off of my nightstand with the same ferocity I exhibited in running down my stairs after she fell off the balcony and she looked at me as if I had just stabbed her in the eye with the toe nail of a mouse I've been thinking of trading her in for. Again, I picked her up to examine her body and, again, she was just fine.

Needless to say, I've had to keep a pretty close eye on her lately. Keep her in your thoughts and prayers. I sure do wish she wanted to live. It's so much fun sometimes.

In a completely unrelated note - on that particular day of studying, I decided to finish off my night by reading my US Weekly (mindless entertainment for the mindfully aware). I was reading an article that started off with the word "chisled" and I swear to high heaven I sat there for a good 30 seconds trying to figure out the pronunciation of that word. "CHIS-lud" "Shiz-LED" When I finally realized that it was a basic word that probably a four year old iguana could pronounce, I decided to turned off my light and go to sleep, where I was fairly sure I couldn't do any more harm.

Beauty, Truth, and Love

2007-09-21T13:50:00.000-06:00

Webster's dictionary defines BOHEMIAN as "a person (a writer or an artist) living an unconventional life, usually in a colony of others." Except for the part about the colony (because it sounds too much like a bunch of ants), I've always considered myself to be rather bohemian-esque...okay, I shouldn't say always. Mainly, my self proclaimed status of artisan extraordinaire came about when I saw Moulin Rouge. Have you seen it?!?! Oh my gosh it's soooooo good! I TOTALLY related to those in the movie who wore scarves and carried pencils behind their ears and randomly burst into song because, let's face it, the essence of bohemianism warrants at least three to seven musical outbursts per day. And I take care of at least half of those before I make it to work.

And as the true bohemian ideal upholds the standards of beauty, truth, and love, I consider it a joy and an honor to wrap myself and others in those credos like a heated towel scented with sandalwood. Mmmm...sandalwood.

And doesn't even THINKING of the words beauty, truth, and love just kind of make you wanna never walk anywhere ever again? Instead, maybe we can just use these principles to elevate us off the ground once in a while so that we waltz from place to place instead of meet the earth heavily, step by step, with our impatient feet.

I know I'm losing some of you at this point. And, actually, I don't really have a purpose in writing all this gibberish. I pretty much just like sandalwood and wanted to mention it in a blog.

Oh! And you might please think of me before your little head hits your little pillow tonight or lots of nights from here on out because, you see, I've been seriously considering looking at teaching a Freshman Composition course at UCO this Spring which means, hello, I'd be a college professor. Okay, actually I would just be a Teacher's Assistant, but I'd get my own class and my own curriculum and audio visuals! And students! Students I can assign papers to! And then grade them! And say things like "my office hours are blah blah blah." And faculty parking! Weeeeeee!

So, yeah. I'd appreciate some prayers in this area. If anything just to calm me down. Thanks and please remember "Chewing TWO pieces of Trident White sugarless gum after eating and drinking helps prevent stains, strengthen teeth, and whiten teeth in as little as four weeks." I don't care who ya are, that's dope.

Observations, Heroes, and Ballroom Dancing

2007-09-14T07:40:00.000-06:00

OBSERVATIONS:

In my Research class that meets on Wednesdays, I have carefully established my station in the back of the classroom. I do this in all my classes because I like to observe people and, on the rare instance when I decide to participate in class discussions, my back-of-the-class location inevitably forces people to look up as if they've just heard the voice of God...and, let's face it, when I offer up my brilliant wisdom in relation to bibliographical methods, how could it NOT sound like the voice of God? But that's divinely beside the point.

In this class, I happen to sit behind a very lovely foreign exchange student from Japan. Every day she comes in and smiles at me and the rest of her fellow classmates and then proceeds to take her seat at the desk in front of me. I am amazed at her determination to be successful in this class because Bibliography and Methods of Research is very complex even for those who speak Amurrican. But she never exhibits signs of frustration and if she doesn't understand something, she will just type it up on her electronic translator and continue the process of patiently enduring the lecture.

But, just when I thought this adorable little Japanese girl couldn't get any cuter, I noticed the guy who sits in front of her. He's an American and a Film Studies Major. On the second week of class, he decided to engage in conversation with the foreign exchange student asking her questions like "where are you from?" "what's your major?" The basics. Then, he proudly announced that he had taken a few semesters of Japanese, so I immediately decided that these two should get married and have lots of pretty Japerican babies together. It's such a treat every week to get to come to class and watch these two awkwardly interact. He follows her with his eyes, desparate to think of something to say, hoping to capture her attention with his interest in her culture. If all goes according to my plan, I'll have them translating each other's 'I love yous' by the end of the semester. La la la la...

HEROES:

Obviously, we all have a preconceived notion of what we think a hero is. When we were asked 'who is your hero?' as an essay question in fourth grade, we usually put 'my daddy' or 'my crazy Uncle Lou' or 'my dog, Milfred.' But as we get older and encounter more people, we see that heroism can take the shape of the most unlikely people. Today, my hero is one of my little brother's 13-year-old friends. He's the most awesome kid and he always has a smile and always runs up to hug me when he sees me. But what's so great about all of that is he is smiling and hugging and loving despite the fact that his father had a massive stroke a few months ago and this little boy's entire summer vacation was spent in the hospital with his family. Kids have very naturally selfish needs at this age, but his have been put on hold and I have never heard him complain, not once. He just started playing football this fall and at their very first game, his dad managed to come in his wheelchair to cheer on his son. And my brother's friend ran over to him with such enormous pride and shed tears over his father's effort to be there with him during this moment that he had managed to carve out for himself. I just love this kid so much which is why I'm thrilled that we get to take him with us on vacation this year at Christmas. He will get an opportunity to reclaim a part of his adolescence and hopefully will spend an entire week being a selfish, spoiled, 13-year-old boy.

BALLROOM DANCING:

On Thursday nights, my Heroes and Heroines of the Bible class meets at the downtown public library. For those of you who haven't been to check out the newly renovated building, you need to go see it. It's precocious and full of wonderment. They have all sorts of classes that meet there and a cafe that has menu items named after famous authors. Adorable. "I'll have the Chaucer on rye, please." So, last night as we were discussing the life of Jacob, a sudden flood of classical dance music poured into the room. I looked out the window of our classroom and noticed several couples moving and flowing in the room across from ours. They were teaching a ballroom dancing class. And, friends, there was just something terribly romantic and gratifying about knowing that while I was sitting there learning, there were people not 50 feet away twirling and gliding and spinning and smiling. It was great. And the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about certain images that come to mind when I think of daaaaaaancing...twirly twirly dip...

Dance in the City by Renoir (this is how every lady and gentleman should look when they're dancing)

This is how every girl imagines dancing when they're 7

This is how I look when I dance...

And, finally...this is how we dance when handsome boys come and kiss us to wake us up...

My New Favorite Thing

2007-09-10T14:03:00.001-06:00

When I was a little girl, I took a variety of dance classes that ranged from tap and ballet when I was super young to gymnastics and jazz when I got older. I always thought I had a lot more skill than I actually did. But thank goodness I recognized that at an early age because, you see, now I KNOW how I look when I dance and I can take every sort of precautionary step to avoid having any one witness said embarrassment. However, all my efforts to keep my dancing prowess to myself shall not and will not limit my ability to sit back and observe those who unfortunately have not been warned of their inability to dazzle on the dance floor.

Now, there are a rare few people who can actually pull off public dancing. They fall into the following categories:

1. The "Who Cares" Dancer: I got to witness a WCD last week at Baker's Street. The gentleman (Jed was his name, I later found out) walked in and immediately set his body to the beat of the music. He did the typical confident, casual room promenade, pointing his fingers like a gun at the many people he recognized. I was immediately captivated by his suaveninity (made up word) and was even furtherly (another made up word) delighted when he got out on the dance floor. Friends, he was an acrobatic genius. His ability to grind up next to a chair has forever changed how I look at dining room sets, lawn furniture, and bar stools entirely. He was fabulous and I secretly hoped he would grab my hand and lead me into his world. But I'm pretty sure it was more fun from my angle.

2. The "Look at My Body" Dancer: Also known as the "I'm Gonna Dance With A Group Of Girls and Playfully Demonstrate What I Will Do With You Later" Dancer. These are some of the most entertaining people to watch because it usually takes about 4 1/2 drinks of alcohol to get to this point. Usually the LAMBDs are surprisingly skilled at placing themselves within viewing distance of every man in the room. Unfortunately, that might be the only thing they are skilled at. The level of alcohol in the LAMBDs system generally forces their eyes to roll back in their heads while the rest of their body parts perform some sort of tribal mating call which looks alarmingly similar to a vomiting kangaroo or an epileptic water moccasin. Soooo entertaining.

3. The "I'm So Drunk I'm Accidentally Dancing Really Well" Dancer. These dancers are almost always couple dancers. In some rare instances, when a certain level of intoxication is reached, a man and woman will magically collide on the dance floor and you all of a sudden feel like you are watching a Cirque Du Soleil performance. The alcohol forces their inhibitions to depart from their extremities and the result is quite magical. I got to see such a couple on Saturday night. I was watching another typical guy and girl drunken dance routine when all of a sudden he hoisted her in the air like a figure skater and then performed three to five fluid motions of twirling her around, dipping her toward the ground, and then magically bringing her to her feet again. It was terrifying slash awesome. For a moment, I thought he might drop her, so I started to get up from my chair in case CPR needed to be performed but in the end the only necessary response from myself was a heart-felt round of applause. I would soooo vote for them on So You Think You Can Dance.

And, for your viewing pleasure, here's a guy who can really groove. He reminds me a lot of Jed. Dear, sweet, suavalicious Jed. Enjoy!

Cox Cares

2007-09-05T09:35:00.000-06:00

I was walking to my car the other day when I noticed a Cox van parked among a row of vehicles. What I also noticed was that this Cox van had orange cones all around it. Which brought to mind that I don't think I've ever seen a Cox van parked somewhere without orange cones around it. I'm so amused and perplexed by this. I mean, do they pull them aside in Cox Communications Van Driving School to explain to them that they are not allowed to park anywhere under any circumstances without putting orange cones next to each of their tires? And what if someone forgot their cones at home? Then what? Do they have to put their old McDonald's trash next to each tire or would a simple note on the windshield be sufficient: "I regret to inform all of you who are walking within viewing distance of this sign that I have unfortunately left my safety cones at the warehouse and now have no form of protection for my vehicle. Please don't steal anything out of this van and/or allow your car to come within six inches of any Cox Communications tire...but if you have to, I understand because it's my fault for forgetting the cones."

And do they still put the fearsome cones of warning next to their tires when they are, say, out in the middle of nowhere? When they step out of their van and hear rattlesnakes and see dust flying around, noone within a 20 mile radius, are those cones still a necessary agent of protection for their vehicles? It seems a little exaggerated to me, Mr. or Mrs. Cox. In fact, it really makes me want to pick all of those cones up and stack them on the hood of the van. And, if I were a boy and had the appropriate equipment and maneuverability, I would probably pee on your wheels.

The overuse of cone protetion by the Cox Communications Company vans reminds me a lot of this:

The Bob Oblaw Law Blog...

2007-09-03T20:40:00.000-06:00

"This is what the Lord says: 'When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.'" Jeremiah 29:10-14

Well, thaaaaaank goodness. I love this reminder. Love it so much I wanna walk down the aisle in a white wedding dress toward it. Love it so much I wanna go off to war and write a love letter to it. It's good. Very very good.

Life is very interesting for me right now. I've been hesitant to write about personal, emotional things because I don't like taking myself too seriously and I also have a really strong desire to keep things light and simple. But there is nothing simple about my world. There never has been. And, frankly, I'm pretty thrilled at the fact that God made me so intricate.

So, here's what's been going on: For the past few months, I've felt like a sheep wandering back to her shepherd. But, I wasn't just a sheep playing down by the river a few feet away from the rest of the flock. I was off off on another hill, facing a different master. Through a series of different circumstances, I've managed to turn around and wander back over to where I was supposed to be. I know I'm heading in the right direction, but I'll be darned if the journey isn't about to do me in.

The seasons of our lives, I'm learning, are so interesting and emotional and tragic and beautiful. We hang onto a dream so fiercely, make it our god, and then have to suffer the pain of shame and loss and regret because it turns out it wasn't what we were supposed to be serving. People and ideas and virtues float out of our lives like balloons and we are forced to stand there in gravity, trying to hold onto the last little bit of it, crying like children because we can't go with it, finally coming to terms with the separation and praying that it gets to where it needs to be without imploding under the weight of the atmosphere. As we suffer the trauma of the loss, our daddy grabs our hand and, as he lifts us up onto his shoulders, we pass quickly by his face and see the knowing smile there and in our confusion we somehow manage to believe that it will be okay. More than okay. We can finally look at the sky and see things other than the balloons we lost.

It's a tiresome journey, this returning. As I wander back alone, I'm forced into intimacy. I see flowers along my pathway and name them patience, and faith, and hope, and truth. These are the things I'm being schooled in right now. It's an uncomfortable lesson sometimes, but it's building a virtue in me that is so strong even my self-doubt can't penetrate it. Growing and maturing in the Lord is humbling and vulnerable and there's a reason why tears are salty. So that through our pain and brokenness we can still taste Him. He tastes goooood.

And here's a picture of Tickle because, well, she's the one who lays beside me on a pillow when I cry and looks at me like I have 22 heads.

Why I Love My Daddy

2007-08-31T09:21:00.000-06:00

Yesterday in line at Pei Wei Asian Bistro of Love and Deliciousness

Katy: So, Dad, how's grandpa doing? You talked to him lately?

Mark: He's doing okay. I just love my dad.

Katy: I know you do.

Mark: You know, I was actually lying in bed the other night praying about him and asking God for ways that I can bless my dad and spend more time with him. Something where we don't just sit around and talk but where we can both actually get out of the house and do something. Then, it came to me. God gave me the perfect solution: Mall Walking.

One Of The Funniest Things I've Ever Read

2007-08-29T10:55:00.000-06:00

I wish I could provide you all with an original writing, but all my creative energy has been re-routed to papers on Shakespeare and The Bible and Methods of Research. I'm hoping my creativity will not be permanently put on hold this semester, but who the hominy knows?

Meanwhile, here's a sample from the McSweeney's website that I found to be absolutely hysterical. I have a link to McSweeney's over there to the right called "My Favorite Website" (see! see it right over there! right there!) Okay, enjoy:

FUNNY LETTERS FROM SUMMER CAMP AND THEIR NOT-SO-FUNNY RESPONSES.
BY MIKE SACKS
- - - -

Dear Mummy and Daddy:

Camp is fun and I'm eating a lot of candy!!! Kevin today caught a frog and it climbed into his shirt!

Todd

Dear Todd:

Mummy and I are getting a divorce. Will give you specifics when you come home. Tell Kevin's frog we say hi!

Mummy and Daddy
- - - -

Dad and Mom:

Yesterday I went swimming for six hours and when I got out of the water I was all wrinkly!!! Zach my bunkmate threw up after eating a whole pizza. Before lights out yesterday we all sang "101 Bottles of Beer." I fell asleep before it was done!

Chris

Dear Chris:

It's funny you should mention "throwing up" and "beer," sweetheart. Mommy won't be visiting this weekend. Do you like this special hospital stationery? Don't get too wrinkly now or you'll turn into a prune!

Daddy
- - - -

Dear Mom:

Yesterday wait two days ago I got into the best adventure in my entire life! We started off running to the springs where we ran around and around and ate lunch. And then I climbed a tree and then I killed a bug with my shoe and then we went back and had dinner. I won the skit contest. It was the best day of my entire life! I will never ever ever ever ever forget it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Kim

Return to sender; no forwarding address.

- - - -

Dear Mom n Dad!

4got to send U a letter bee-4. R U having as much fun as eye am having? Wink.

Katy

P.S. Do U get it?

Katy:

UR brother is dead. He 4got to put on his motorcycle helm8. C U very soon, K8y!

Mom and Dad

P.S. Of course we get it. Why wouldn't we? The joke was obvious, really.

Where's Bob Dylan When You Need Him?

2007-08-23T20:14:00.000-06:00

I don't know if any of you have turned on a radio lately. If you have, then I'm writing this to you. I'm rallying the troops to fight against the horrific noise that has been accumulated into a powder puff of cultural indignity which has left me bewildered and disoriented after each painful blow to my central nervous system.

For the record, I don't intend to focus my writings on the things of this world that disgust me or cause a general disenchantment with society that is so profound I often find myself wandering off to a vacant corner three times a day so I can rock back and forth while holding myself, occasionally bursting into hysterical sobs.

But this is a situation I can no longer ignore. This cultural travesty affects the reputation of music as a whole and therefore must not be taken lightly lest the spirit of rocker legends gone by rise collectively from their graves and threaten to take back all that is good and true from the lyrics and melodies and songs and souls they provided. I'm not willing to let that happen.

So allow me, please, to raise the red flags of warning and cry 'Traitor!' to the following "songs" that I have recently had the not-so pleasurable experience of listening to on the radio. Wha-oh-oh-oh on the radio.

Candy Kisses. As the song starts to play, we are romantically whisked away to a world of lullabies and fairy tales with its clever use of the triangle chime. You know the triangle chime...that instrument you always wanted to play in 4th grade music class because, hello, it looked like a triangle and all you had to do was hit it with a metal bar occasionally or, if you were really daring, you could run the metal bar all around the inside of the triangle at a rapid pace so as to illustrate your extensive musical talent. Okay, so that's the image this song sets up for us in the beginning. Eventually, the singer commences the lyrics and we recognize immediately that she's going to sound like every other nasally 18-year-old female singer on a rocket ride through the pop charts. Great. But the part of the song that has me the most confused is the demon-possessed stalker/serial killer guy who is intermittently singing about these wonderful candy kisses. It begs the question...are these kisses really full of candy? Or are they kisses of death bestowed upon an unsuspecting victim who just happens to enjoy singing about touching someone else's lips with their own and it reminding them of a Starburst Fruit Chew? It's hard to tell based upon the Satanic quality of this gentleman's voice. Triangle chime + nasally 18-year-old musical stereotype should not, in my opinion, equal the Angel of Death quality this song possesses. Picture with me, if you will, Jack Nicholson's character from The Departed singing "I've got your candy kisses on my mind" while tucking your child into bed. Awk-ward.

A Bay Bay. This song is by a young man named Hurricane Chris. His name is appropriate considering the amount of destruction he has caused and how he has somehow managed to obliterate fifty years of quality music with one incomprehensible phrase. A Bay Bay. What does it even mean? I'm so perplexed by the level of horror that is this song. Let me just let you see for yourself:

Ay Bay Bay(Ay) [X3] (I don't get that it's X3...four times...)
Ay Bay Bay(Ay) [X3]
Ay Bay Bay(Ay) [X3]
Ay Bay Bay(Ay) [X3]

You Wanna Know Wat We Say In Da Club (Ay Bay Bay)
Whites Folks Gangsta And A Thug (Ay Bay Bay)
Stink Wit It,Stink Wit Dem Duh (Ay Bay Bay)
Ridin' In A Lac Wit A Mug (Ay Bay Bay)

Im In Da Club Hollerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Holerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Hollerin'

When I Holler Ay Bay Bay
I Finna Get My Groove On
Its So Hot Up In Da Club
Dat I Ain't Got No Shoes On
Im Holdin' Up A Big Stack And Dem
Hundreds In A Rubba Band
Girl Don't Ask Me For No Cash
Cause Im Not Dat Other Man
Everybody Trippin' Cause Im Limpin'
When Im Walkin' And Im Pimpin' When Im Talkin'
I Don't Trick On Chick Dats Talkin'
Dem Boyz In Da Back Dey Be Rollin'up Dey Doughdy
Then Dey Blow It Till Dey Chokin'
Dats Wat Godly Came Out

When I See A Bad Chik Im Hollerin Out(Ay Bay Bay)
I Hope Yall Ain't Wit Ya Boyfriendz
Cause I Don't Care Wat Dey Say
And I Don't Care Wat He Say Or She Say
Im In Da Dj Booth Takin' Pictures Wit Da Dj
You Wanna Know What We Say
When Clubs Get Crunk (Wat)
Ay Baybay Let it Play
Dats My Song Turn It Up [X2]

You Wanna Know Wat We Say In Da Club (Ay Bay Bay)
Whites Folks Gangsta And A Thug (Ay Bay Bay)
Sting Wit It,Sting Wit Dem Duh (Ay Bay Bay)
Ridin' In A Lac Wit A Mug (Ay Bay Bay)

Im In Da Club Hollerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Holerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Hollerin'

Now If You Lookin' For Me Baby You Can Find Me
Bangin' In Da Chevy Candy Painted Swingin 9 Deep
Saint Card Creep Wit My People Right Behind Me
I Showed Dem My Chain Now
She Hollerin Wat U Buyin' Me
I Show My Mouth Piece
To Dem Freaks Now Da Hirin' Me

Oh You Got A Problem Well I Hope You
Tryin Me. Throw Them ....Park
Then I Reach Under My Sit
Hop Out With My Hand Under My Shirt
Dats Where Dey Hirin Me
Yellow Bone Chirpin' Me
She Trying To See Where Imma Be.
You Gonna Let Me Get Up In
Your Mouth Well Dats Where Imma Be
I Don't Pop Trunk Wit Lights Dats
Where Dey Choppa Be. Straight To The Hotel
All Da Bad Chick Followin' Me
I Know You Like My Style, I Ain't Trippin
Im Just Tryin' To See, Girl Is You Drunk
Well Tell Me Why You Leanin' All On Me
And If You Thinkin' Imma Stink You Trippin
I Pull Up In An Expedition Wit Da Roof Lift

Im In Da Club Hollerin'
Ay Bay Bay (2x)
Ay Bay Bay (3x)
Im In Da Club Holerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Hollerin'

Im In Da Club Hollerin'
Ay Baybay Let it Play
Dats My Song Turn It Up
Im In Da Club Hot,Crunk,Sweatin, Burnin' Up
Im 'bout To Do The Crowd
Bumpin And Hollerin Wats Up
I Done Fell Out In Da Dance Floor
And Now Bring It Up
Js On Your Feet But You Cant Get These
You Wear Wats Unbrown White, And Yellow
Till You Breeze
Ill Go To Saint Louis Let My Chain Hang Low
Con Every Yellow Diamonds Mixed Wit Rozo
I Shy Real Bright In Da Light Because Im A Star
8 Shots Of Patrons Now Stannin'on Da Baw
Probably Get Drunk Wit A Scum And Put Da
Keys In Da Wrong Paw

Is this song even in English? I mean honestly. What is 'Keys in Da Wrong Paw?' And why don't he "Pop Trunk Wit Lights Dats
Where Dey Choppa Be?" It is physically impossible for me to unfurrow my brow in this moment. Seriously??? This is what we've become? If someone were to actually come up to me and say "A Bay Bay" with the same emphasis and shrill inflection that Hurricane Chris uses, I might reasonably be compelled to commit an act of murder. And who could blame me? Sheesh.

Mercifully, there are some songs out there that are romantic and poetic and it's probably the praise I should be handing out rather than the criticism. I just wanted you all to be aware of what passes for "popular" these days. Bob Dylan once said "Him not busy bein born is busy dyin." Artists, of all people, should know all about reinvinting themselves in a new light, so why is it that we still have the same five songs being rewritten over and over and over, sucking all the passion out of a powerful lyric and leaving a life-changing melody writhing in the gutter?

Firtht Day of Thkool

2007-08-21T09:47:00.000-06:00

I started school last night! For those of you who don't know, I recently decided to pursue my Master's Degree in English Literature at the University of Central Oklahoma. (Man, that was a lot of capitalized words.) My first class was last night. Shakespeare. Aye forsooth.

I've never denied the fact that I'm a super nerd. But sometimes I completely amaze myself at the level of nerdiness that I exude. For instance, my class last night started at 7:30, but I left my house at 6 so I could get to school early enough for an entire NFL football game to take place before my class, should such an instance need to occur. Also, if that wasn't nerdy enough, I actually stopped at the public library on my way to school to pick up some books to read while I waited around for Room 219 of the Liberal Arts building to become vacant. Thank goodness I left the pocket protector and suspenders at home. Sheesh.

So, I sat outside my class and read for a good lengthy time. When I was finally allowed to enter the room I set up my note-taking perch on the back corner desk. Since there was still about 20 minutes to class time, I took out my sharpened pencils, my clean notebook, and my text book, and set them all in the top left corner of my desk, the home of every diligent student's classroom necessities, then proceeded to read some more.

When the professor finally arrived, I was thrilled to see he was the embodiment of every delightfully quirky Lit professor I've ever had. Complete with a "Whoa" (a white man's afro). Aaaaaand, to make the situation so much more wonderful, he brought the whole class Diet Coke and baklava. Now, I have no clue what either of these food items has to do with Shakespeare. I mean clearly grapes, bread, goblets of wine, and spiced meat from an Igloo cooler would have been more applicable sustenance, but I don't usually turn down free food or drinks, so I happily consumed the Diet Coke he offered.

And as people were slowly filtering into the classroom, he kept calling them by name and welcoming them to the wonderful abyss of Shakespearean goodness. I was so impressed that he knew so many of the students and I was also slightly jealous that he didn't know who I was...until he frantically turned toward me, pointed, and shouted "Are you the famous Tracy Hastings???!!" I didn't know what to say! I was so tempted to say "Yes! Yes I AM the famous Tracy Hastings! Please, remind me again what I'm famous for and if you are in the habit of giving As to this famous young woman!" But, my sheer panic led me only to the boring truth and I nervously shook my head no. He didn't seem too disappointed so I felt confident that Tracy may not have been the best person's identity to adopt at that particular moment. However, if he would have said "Are you the famous Angelina Jolie?!?!" clearly I would have indulged him.

Eventually, everyone got settled in and the professor began discussing the expectations of the course and I felt my pulse race with excitement as every paper assignment was mentioned and every due date handed out. La la la la. Then, he handed out our first assignment: Read Julius Caesar by Wednesday. Great Caesar's ghost! Is he serious! Reading a Shakespeare play involves so much more than two days. My heart was beating even faster at the challenge. I wanted to stand on my chair and shout "Friends! Countrymen! Lend me your ears! I WILL have this entire play read by Thursday...O pardon me thou bleeding piece of earth!" And I'm halfway tempted to wear a toga to class, but I'm not ready for them to see how completely zealous I am about getting an A just yet. I must pace myself.

Toward the end of class, we watched some of the 1944 version of Julius Caesar which stars Marlon Brando as Marc Antony. Not a bad person to see in a toga, that's for sure. And as we watched the famous murder scene when Caesar looks at his betrayer and friend and stammers "et tu, Brute?" I couldn't help but think of the other day when I gave Tickle a bath and she gave me the same look that Caesar gave Brutus and I swear if she could have talked she would have said the exact same thing..."Et tu, Katy?"

Why I Love My Mama

2007-08-15T15:48:00.000-06:00

On the phone with my mother:

Katy: I'm almost finished with it.

Mom: It's a really good...OH MY GOSH HER BOOBS ARE HUGE...

Katy: Whose boobs?

Mom: This girl's on the street...they're huge! They're like Morganna's.

Katy: Who is Morganna?

Mom: She's got the biggest boobs in the world. Google her.

Katy; Mom, I'm at work. It'll probably take me straight to a porn site.

Mom: Yeah, probably. Do it anyway.

Airport Hugs

2007-08-14T08:23:00.000-06:00

I went to pick my grandma up from the airport last night and had the beautiful honor of watching the people from the flight before hers come out and greet their loved ones.

Now, I'm not trying to get all sappy, but I think airport reunions are the most soul reflecting moments in our world. I don't care who you are, whether you have made plans to be picked up or not, EVERYONE hopes to be greeted by a familiar face when they get off a plane.

So, as I stood there waiting for my grandma, I melted and made up stories about the people I saw:

Carl and Francis. Carl and Francis were just returning from visiting their daughter in Sacramento. She moved out there about five years ago with her husband and three daughters. Usually, she's the one that comes to visit her parents, but this time Carl surprised Francis with a trip to see their daughter, in honor of their 47th wedding anniversary....not an anniversary that holds any special epic reward except for the fact that he's still madly in love with her. So much so that he carried her purse as they descended down to baggage claim, his hand resting on her back as if it felt more comfortable there than hanging idly from his arm. They didn't expect anyone to be waiting for them because they had already shown up for each other.

Tina, Wade, and Cheryl. Tina and Cheryl are sisters. Cheryl just flew in from Washington with her husband Wade and their four year old daughter, Chrissy. Tina waited anxiously for their arrival while holding her own four year old child, Braydon, in her arms. It's been only six months since these sisters saw each other, but Grandpa Darren's funeral was hardly a reason for celebration, so this visit was going to be sooo much better...just what they needed. Upon arrival, Tina feverishly grabbed her niece and Cheryl dramatically swooped up her nephew as if they were clinging more to the reminders of their sisterhood as it had been in their youth than the children their adulthood had produced. Wade stood by, knowing better than to get in the way of women and sisters and children and all of that. Cheryl held Braydon and Tina now had Chrissy as they went off to retrieve the bags that Wade would no doubt be left to carry.

The Porter Family. Mr. and Mrs. Porter found out 10 years ago that they would never be able to have children. After two years of mourning and 45 marriage counseling sessions, they decided their love for children was not meant to be withheld due to this minor setback. So, they started to look into adoption. Mr. Porter was anxious to begin the search for a tiny infant they could raise as their own, but Mrs. Porter felt strongly that the children waiting for them were in another country and were already past those first developmental years. It took some time for Mr. Porter to be in agreement, but eventually he knew that his wife was right. These children deserved homes, too. So, they showed up at the Will Rogers Airport at 7:45 p.m. on Monday August 13, 2007, with a red balloon, a white balloon, and a blue balloon. The next fifteen minutes were spent on tiptoes as they craned their necks to see her coming. And when they finally noticed Sung-Li, they hoisted their signs that bore her name above their head, and waved furiously. An unapologetically American wave. Sung-Li, shy and insecure from the circumstances that made up her nine year old existence, humbly bowed her head and allowed herself to become liquid, bending like a question mark as she melted into the arms of this new family that chose her. She accepted the patriotic balloons and wondered quietly when she would get the opportunity to embrace them again.

It was such a great privilege to watch these reunions and that last one honestly made me choke up. Not tear up. Choke up. I was choking on tears because it was such a delicate, human moment. And then I felt dumb for crying because come on. Who cries at the airport??? Oh wait. Lots of people...

Then, my grandma wheeled around the corner. I gave her an "airport hug" and we went and got her bags and went home. And the parking was free! Yay!

A Letter to the Horn in My 2002 Honda Civic LX

2007-08-13T14:07:00.000-06:00

Dear Horn of my Honda,

It's a good thing you weren't the only thing standing in the way of me and death the other day when that guy pulled out in front of me. I mean I could understand your lack of enthusiasm if I used you on a consistently regular basis, but I clearly only utilize you once in a great sweet while. And, more often than not, when I use you it's because I REALLY need you to get some point across that a simple hand gesture or hateful facial expression will not take care of.

I don't understand you, Horn. Isn't your sole purpose as a fixture in my vehicle to serve and protect? When one thinks of the essence of who you are, it usually conjures up images of fear and respect...but when I think of you, I picture only the worthless piece of garbage that you are and how every time I use you it's more like I'm presenting a three headed tiger at the circus rather than a loaded reminder that someone has clearly violated my rights as a responsible driver. *insert festive circus music here* "Look ladies and gentlemen! Katy's using her horn! Isn't it adorable?! What will she think of next?!!!"

People talk about you, you know. I've had people get in my car, put you to the test, and then practically laugh themselves into oblivion because are you serious? that was your horn? Who are you trying to scare into submission with THAT thing? These embarrassing presentations of your less than satisfactory abilities have often left me feeling reasonably insecure and ashamed.

I'm very evidently disenchanted with you, Horn. I think it mostly has to do with the laughable responses I get when I put your abilities to the test. I'm fairly certain that most of my fellow drivers half way expect balloons and confetti to fly out my car when I use you because you quite obviously sound like you would be more willing to announce the arrival of a giant purple dinosaur than save my life. I mean I guess I understand. We all have our priorities. I would just love it if my overall safety was one of yours.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Katy

Day -o- Fun

2007-08-11T22:24:00.000-06:00

Welp, I just thought I'd share my day with the one or two of you that actually read this thing.

It was a modest day. A day of nothingness, really. And when I am presented with a whole reasonable span of time that involves no personal plans or pre-set agenda, I tend to get a little excited and life suddenly starts to look a whole lot like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical with festive choral entroits and choreographed musical numbers. *twirl twirl twirl* NO PLANS!! *bell kick bell kick bell kick*

So I thought, for organizational purposes, I would take a picture of everything I did today and then explain each item so you can be as thrilled as I am with the sheer nothingness of my day.

I woke up at around 9am which was largely due to the fact that I actually went to bed reasonably early last night after deciding I would rather go home and sleep than meet up with my roomate at City Walk. The first thing I did when I woke up this morning was grab my lap top and start watching disk two of Smallville Season 3. It's always great to start off each day with a superhero. Ain't nothin wrong with a little Clark Kent in the mornin, y'all.

I watched Smallville for a bit, then took a shower and cleaned my room. I left my apartment at about 12:45 to go down to my grandma's to feed her cats while she is visiting my mom in Ohio. While at my grandma's, I managed to spend the next 4 to 5 hours watching The Hills on MTV. Which, for those of you who don't know, is the most assinine show in existence, but so incredibly delicious I couldn't possibly change the channel. I mean, what if I like missed something really important like Heidi dumping buttface Spencer or like Whitney making head intern at Teen Vogue. Like, duh.

However, you will be pleased to know that I alternated reading two Christian non-fiction books during commercial breaks. Lies Women Believe and When Jesus Came to Harvard. So, while I was filling my mind with the attrocities of measuring up to the superficial existences of random twenty-somethings living in Beverly Hills, I was also counteracting each negative thought by reading books that reminded me that the Lord is in control of my emotions and I shouldn't live with an "I'll be happy when..." mentality. My brain was downloading so many conflicting thoughts that I'm pretty sure my house might have looked like the cottage in Sleeping Beauty when the fairies were firing different colors from their wands and the mayhem was shooting out the chimney for all the world to see. Yes, that's right (she says with an evil eyebrow raise)...my brain waves were so fiercely active, that my thoughts were atually launching from my brain and escaping through my grandma's chimney. In which case, you might have seen them if you were flying over SW 68th between the hours of 3:30 and 5:30pm.

After sufficiently warping my mind, I left there at around 6:30 and headed home. I borrowed my grandma's Dyson vacuum and decided to do some more intensive house cleaning...superhero house cleaning, if you will. And may I please just say that this was my very first experience with a Dyson vacuum. And please Sweet Lord of Mercy and Goodness, don't let it be my last. That thing was AWESOME. I don't want to go into too much detail lest another choreographed musical dance number ensue, but the sucky hose thing on the Dyson could quite possibly be the most life-changing thing I've ever experienced. You have to be careful, though, because it will literally suck up any and every thing that is put in it's path. I accidentally vacuumed the following: two bobby pins, a necklace, my white shabby chic shower curtain, half of a hand towel, and two bottles of perfume. No, seriously. I did.

After the Dyson dance number, I decided to play Boomer Sooner on my recorder. There was nobody here to appreciate it, but it's the only song I know how to play on my recorder and they always say that if you don't consistently play your instruments, you will forget how to play them, and, well, I just can't let that happen. After playing Boomer Sooner (twice....heheh), I settled in for some more Smallville lovin. But I was way too wired to just sit and stare at my lap top, so I grabbed a magazine and some scissors and my notebook and I made a prayer collage, which is an idea I got from my friend, Kim, where you cut out things in magazines that remind you of someone and then pray for them based on what you cut out (I think). It was a fun and artistic endeavor with results that made me feel more like a maniacal serial killer than a prayer warrior, but whatever. Here ya go, Kayla. I prayed for you/plotted to kill you tonight:

And, well, after creeping myself out with my very first prayer collage, I colored a pretty picture in my Princess coloring book! Yay! And painted my nails pink! Yay! Then, mercifully, before the night got REALLY out of control, my roomate got home and we chatted about the Lord and our lives and how completely ridiculous it is for us to spend more than 24 hours apart from one another. Giggidy. (That's for you, Carrie)

The Quintessential Luke

2007-08-08T19:04:00.001-06:00

Well, Luke. You turned 16 yesterday. I still can't believe it. I still can't believe you've been on this planet for a long enough period of time that the government somehow believes it's okay to hand you a license allowing you to operate a moving vehicle...that moves...and drives...on roads n stuff. I can still remember when I was told that I would be a big sister. I was 8 years old and thought I would be the baby of the family forever. Then you came along.

I was so in awe of you. I remember the phone call I got from dad at the hospital when he called to tell me you had finally been born. I was thrilled. I learned quickly how to scoop you up in my arms and change your diaper and make you smile. You weren't really a person in my world. You were more like a new toy. Something I could carry around and put outfits on. And you were spoiled. Being the first male child of the family and the newest baby in almost 8 years, everyone pretty much thought you hung the moon.

We all wanted to be the ones to feed you and put you to sleep. We fought over who would get to push you in the stroller and who would give you a bath. But, in the end, I think I won....You see, Luke, I don't think I ever told you this, but I used you as my fifth grade science project. It was a brilliant project that had a lot to do with raw vegetables and your reactions to certain foods. The details aren't important. Mainly because I was never good at Science. And you turned out fine, so no worries. Just please stay away from corn fields in July.

After the wonder of babyhood wore off, we sort of started to not get along, you and I. In fact, I loathed and despised you for the second and third year of your life. It might have something to do with my infamous competitive nature and the fact that you stole all the attention right out from under me. Or it might have something to do with the fact that pure evil invaded your body for those two years and directed all its hate and malice towards me. Whatever the case may be, let's just say you got away with a whole lotta crap while I got blamed for it. Thanks.

But we grew up and started to kind of like each other. I started to feel a strong connection to you when I realized your eyes were gonna stay blue, therefore making us the only blue-eyed children in the family. I also grew to respect your fondness for reading and your fascination with little plastic army men. Luke, you had army men everywhere. There were army men floating in the toilet at one point, I think.

Then, it seemed like over night you changed into this little man. You developed all these wonderfully human characteristics which, unfortunately for you, are almost identical to our father's. You have such a great talent at being at ease with the world. Nothing affects you too greatly. You show such amazing kindess to others and I've always believed you have this innate sense of rightness that is just forever imbedded in your character. You make it impossible for anyone to ever be mad at you. Frustrated to the point of delusion, yes. But mad, no. Your brothers look up to you and I think you have done a pretty good job of setting a strong example for them.

But the coolest thing is that you've managed to teach me some stuff over the years, too. If there's one thing I admire about you, it's your bravery. You are always very honest with yourself and that takes a lot of strength of character and wisdom. You are determined, but not in a conventional way. You are determined to be yourself which is more than a lot of people can boast. Most of us are too busy trying to fit in.

And even though it scares me to pieces that you are going to be behind the wheel of a car that's too big for any sixteen year old to drive (don't get me started), I know you will do your best to have fun while maintaining integrity. And if you start to drive like an idiot, I will sooooo bring up the resentment I've supressed from the years you were Satan to me and I will kick your ass. Don't think I won't.

Love you, bubba. Happy 16th.

Anonymous

2007-08-08T13:50:00.000-06:00

Chapter One:
I walk down the street
There's a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
It's not my fault
It takes a long time to get out

Chapter Two:
I walk down the same street
There's a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it there
I still fall in
It's not my fault
It takes a long time to get out

Chapter Three:
I walk down the same street
There's a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in
I must be a victim
It takes forever to get out

Chapter Four:
I walk down the same street
There's a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it

Chapter Five:
I walk down another street.

A Superhero Power I Didn't Really Want

2007-08-03T10:07:00.000-06:00

Well, over the weekend, my left eye started bothering me pretty badly. On Sunday morning it felt like I had something in it and I wondered if maybe my contact was torn so I took it out, but it looked fine, so I put it back in. Logically, I should have left my contacts out and worn my glasses, but I hate/loathe/despise/abhor/detest myself in glasses, so I decided it wouldn't be any big deal to suffer through some mild irritation for the day.

By Monday morning it was pretty unbearable. Again, like a blessed idiot, I kept wearing my contacts. All day at work I suffered in anguish as I slowly became a cyclops, ignoring the frightened screams of my coworkers as they passed by my office door. (There may have been some growling and drooling on my part that I was not aware of.)

Tuesday evening, my ojo was watering quite a bit and itching like bonkers. So, I took my contacts out..hahaha...noooooooo I didn't. I left the durn things in and slept in em. I have the kind that you are allowed to sleep in, but I'm pretty sure my symptomatic distress should have prompted me to, I don't know, buy a vowel...'u'...'e'....I'd like to solve the puzzle...CLUE!!! Vanna White sadly shakes her head...Poor Katy and her incessant need to prove that stubbornness really is a fruit of the spirit. I'm just sure it is.

Wednesday morning, I woke up and realized that I wouldn't have to be squinting any more. My eye was already doing it involuntarily on it's own. It was as if a little super glue fairy had come along whilst I slumbered and applied her glue to my lash line so that my eye would stay shut for all eternity. Ick. So, I went to my bathroom mirror and pried open my eye, using my fingers as mighty forceps. There it was. My poor little ojo. I couldn't see any obstruction, so reached in there to (finally!) take my contact out. But as soon as the offending finger made it's way to my ocular cavity, my eye started filling with blood. With. Blood. Now...if you know me, you are probably aware of my irrational fear of anything that has to do with things going into or coming out of my eye. I kick and waller like a hooked catfish whenever I have to put eye drops in my eyes, so you can imagine the horror on my face when I saw the blood spilling from my eye. I mean, I've been trying to be a lot more like Christ lately, but this just seemed to take it a little too far. You see, we build up to weeping and sweating blood.

Anyway, I panicked. I walked around my bathroom pushing my head as far away from my body as possible. Since heads are clearly attached to bodies, I was really just bent at a 90 degree angle with my neck extended at it's fullest length, like an ostrich. This position also allowed for some pretty efficient dry-heaving as well because gag! there's blood coming out of my eye!

So, I did what any normal human being would have done. I called my mommy. Who lives in Ohio. We decided it would probably be a good idea to go to my eye doctor. Who offices in Moore. So, I called up there and they told me to come right in. I finally got the bleeding to stop, so I felt confident in driving. And this has nothing to do with anything I'm writing about, but it was just so random...on my way to Moore, a bird flew into the side of my car. I didn't really notice until after it happened. I just heard this thud, looked over and saw the bird kind of bounce off my passenger door and I was all like 'what the hell, man'...and the expression on my face as I was holding kleenex over my eyes was one of mild irritation because, come on, I have an emergency here. Go play kamikaze bird gang initiation games on someone else's car.

I made it safely (which is more than I can say for the bird) to my eye doctor and found out that I had torn my retina, but no eye patch would be needed...sorry, all you pirate fiends. I'm wearing my glasses for now which is fine. I'll take it. I'd rather wear glasses than have my eye fill up with...I'm seriously gonna vomit if I have to say it again...

Here's my eye...all better now...

3P

2007-07-29T18:42:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, July 28, 2007, my brother John turned 13 years old. He's the baby of the family, the youngest of five and we've always had such a special connection. I think it has something to do with the fact that we are the babies of both our genders and so we both feel like it is our right and responsibility to entertain not only each other but our entire family with our astounding wit and ferocious attraction to life.

From infancy, John has been my very special soul mate. I was a year younger than he is now when he was born, and I took on a very tender role with him and was very protective over his little life. He was always a happy baby and since I don't like sad crap, we got along pretty well. My favorite thing about John when he was a baby was that it seemed like I was the only one in the world who could put him to sleep. One of my fondest memories is of when we went to Colorado during the summer when John was just under a year old and I would take him off away from the family and I would sit with him in my arms at the foot of some great big mountain and I would hold him swaying and singing to him until he fell asleep.

But after John would fall asleep, I couldn't wait until he woke up again. He was always laughing and we could tell at a very early age that he would have a remarkable sense of humor. In his younger years, it became very apparant to our family that John was, believe it or not, perfect. In fact, he quickly earned the nickname "3P: The Practically Perfect Pruitt." It seemed like everything he tried he was good at. This started when we realized his talent for sports (enter enthusiastic dad as future coach of all John's sporting activities). Any time anyone asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, John would always say "a basketball player" or "a baseball player." And I'm pretty sure none of us have ever questioned his ability to make it as a professional athlete. Not because of his talent, but because of his sheer determination to excel in all he does.

That's what I love most about John. His attitude of excellence. As the youngest member of our family, he also happens to be the tidiest and wealthiest. I think we've all gone to John to borrow money at some point. And, uh, I'm not talking about 10 dollars here or there. I'm talking hundreds. The kid saves everything he keeps (well, he did...until he broke dad's window with a baseball...) I remember one summer when we all went to Washington D.C. and we were each given an allowance of about a hundred dollars. By the end of the trip, John had about $120. Everywhere we went, he didn't think about buying food...he would just charm his way into someone's french fries. And he didn't worry about buying things for himself. He would rather save...or sell the things he had. That's how he ended up with extra.

I love the bond that John and I share. We are both music fanatics. He's learning to play the guitar and he's very very good at it. We both love to laugh. It's our favorite thing. And, for some reason, the kid thinks I hung the moon. Every time I see him he doesn't stop telling me how beautiful I am or how much he loves me or how funny or cool I am. If I've had a bad day, all it takes is a look or comment from John and it reverses every negative thing. He has provided me with so much joy and happiness in my life and I'm honored that God chose ME to be a sister to such a fantastic and wonderful boy. Happy birthday, Bubba. I love you.

2007-07-27T20:47:00.000-06:00

I acquired something today. Something extravagant and dainty and flowy and wow...

It was $300. Now, before you jump to any judgmental conclusions about what an unnecessary expense this was, I would just like to inform you that I didn't pay for it. And before you jump to the next judgmental conclusion that I'm a spoiled little brat with Daddy's credit card, I would just like to inform you that he didn't pay for it either. Neither was it purchased by any other member of my family. Or a friend. It was, however, bought for $300 for me on this day by a person who intended me to have it. So, let's play a little game I like to call 'who's blessing Katy with frivolous party frocks?'

First Guess: My Pimp

Granted, Dante DOES purchase most of my social ensembles. However, most of the stuff he picks out for me to wear costs him around twenty dollars and some change. Also, it's a standard requirement that any outfit obtained by Dante for me to wear must be of the leather textile family and must be one of three pre-approved shades of black. And besides, Dante and I aren't speaking right now on account of his failure to disclose to me my most recent client's wire hanger fetish. So, no. He did not buy me the dress.

Second Guess: Harvard University's Fertilization Clinic

Harvard has been trying to contact me for quite some time concerning their desire to purchase my unused eggs for fertilization research. Based upon my excellent intelligence, high cheekbones, strong calf muscles, and the ability to jump rope my own arms, Harvard has offered me $20,000 for the essence of my reproductivity. It seems that women of my caliber are pretty hard to come by these days and their persistent flattery has enticed me to at least consider their offer, but I have not proceeded with any further plans with them. So, no. They are not responsible for my new dress, either.

Third Guess: Oprah

We all know that Oprah is a pretty generous lady. And I have a very strong feeling that if she were to have been in town today with a camera crew, her best friend Gail, and footage of me dropping out of school to take care of my 25 orphaned brothers and sisters, she probably would have bought me this dress. And maybe a few Sonic gift cards. But, friends, Oprah was indeed not in town today and I have a pretty good feeling that her random acts of kindness aren't so much random seeing as how they are scripted, scheduled, and syndicated all across America. So, really, if you think about it, Oprah's pretty selfish and, damnit, who does she think she is! Great...now I need a tissue. Oprah really does make people cry. Bitch.

So, yeah...none of these guesses were correct and, well, I'm sorry to say that I am absolutely not going to disclose how this dress came into my possession. I'll just let you wonder and come up with some clever possibilities on your own.

And, while you're pondering, think about this little critter and how cute and invisible she thinks she is in my dress hanger upper bag...

TV On DVD: The Greatest Invention Ever

2007-07-26T10:23:00.001-06:00

My ridiculously overwhelming schedule has never really afforded me the time to watch my favorite television shows in their designated time slots. And, since I don't have TiVo (gasp!), I've resorted to watching all my favorite shows on DVD...for hours and hours at a time.

Unfortunately, this has posed quite a problem for me as a fully functioning member of society. You see, when I start in on a new series, my world seems to somehow evolve into the show I'm watching. Let me give you some examples...

Smallville. I've only just recently become a viewer of this show. For all you Smallville obsessed people, please don't get angry at me for only having viewed the first season. I'm still a fan, I'm just not as far along as you. And if you tell me anything that might ruin some excitement for me in seasons to come, I will literally hunt you down and throw fiery acid darts at your knees.

Okay, so, when I started watching Smallville, I noticed changes in my behavior toward society. It was pretty gradual at first. For example, I would just HAPPEN to notice a leaf shaped like the upper left bicep of Clark Kent's arm...or a rock shaped remarkably like the meteor that brought him to our planet. But, it was within a very short amount of time, that my life became CONSUMED with projecting Smallville into my own world. This last Sunday night, I had a conversation that went something like this:

Katy: You know, if something bad were to happen, I'm really worried that Clark Kent wouldn't be able to come and save us.

Concerned Friend: Why?

Katy: Well, you see those lights over there? They're glowing green. Clearly, there is kryptonite embedded in those lights. Clearly, we're doomed if the singers on stage decide to eat us all.

And the sad part is that I really sat there for a good, sweet forever contemplating all sorts of dark scenarios in which Clark Kent would have to battle the anguish of the crippling kryptonite to save our lives. And I'm not even gonna TELL you how often I get mistaken for Lana Lang's character. Seriously, you wouldn't believe me if I told you...

Oh precious Lord. Thank You for sending us this show. Quite possibly the most clever writing I've ever seen on a series. And, just like the other shows I watch on DVD, I got pretty consumed with evolving my world into one giant episode of Arrested Development. I even starting looking through phone books for charities whose main cause was fighting the practice of circumcision, but alas, H.O.O.P. (Hands Off Our Penises) is just a fictional organization.

And, at one point, I started driving toward the Oklahoma County Jail because I was just sure my dad would be there waiting for me in an orange jump suit, waiting to tell me what incriminating documents I should shred back at the office. Then, fortunately, I remembered that my dad is not a criminal, so I headed to work instead.

I think the most clear indication that I've watched too much of this show is my evident propensity to call everyone "Hermano" or walk up to someone and say "Hey, brother" while attempting to massage their shoulders. Mostly, I just get a lot of weird stares. Whatever.

Oh Jack. Sweet, beautiful, perfect Jack. My big, brave Jack. Out of all the shows in all the world, this one has changed my life the most. Not only am I now the type of American citizen who trusts no one and questions everyone, I am also very proud to go by the nickname of Chloe when I'm at home by myself. And, whenever I'm at work, I'll just say random things like "I need a level six clearance for the cartography images we've got posted back at headquarters! Almeda, I'm going dark! I may not make it out alive! Call Kim and make sure she gets out of the city! Damnit!" And, sometimes, when I type letters, I will include ransom notes down at the bottom for fun. Mostly, though, I just refer to everyone as Almeda, because Tony Almeda was my very own personal hero. He even saved me one time while I was trapped in a hotel after a terrorist had released deadly, poisonous gasses into the air vents. It was awful. I even lie awake sometimes at night and wonder what Jack Bauer is doing at that moment.

And, well, here's another image, because sometimes I live in this fantasy world too....

White Trash Bash 2007

2007-07-24T12:18:00.001-06:00

Well, gang, it's that time of year again. On Saturday, July 14, 2007, Oklahoma City was blessed with its fourth annual celebration of all things white trash. Praise Hoseanna. Now, personally, I've never even heard of the first three times they did this thing, but apparantly it's pretty important...well, maybe just important to those named Jedediah or Lurlene. (two lovely, classy names, by the way)

Actually, my friends and I just went out there to hear a local band play (Ocean, check 'em out. They're great), so we were quite dismayed at the $20 cover charge. Well, I wasn't so much dismayed as completely perplexed because, well, when has anything that has to do with any form of trash ever cost more than a dollar fiddy at most? But, apparantly, it was an all you can drink/eat type deal, so MAYBE $20 is reasonable. I didn't have to worry about it for too long, though, because my elite connections got me in for free. Again, hallelujah.

The only way I can describe my reaction to what I saw when I rounded the corner is to say that I felt like Charlie looks when he walks into the chocolate factory for the first time. It was a mixture of awe and wonder and disbelievablity and 'I want an oompa loompa/jello shot now!!!.' The shnozberries tasted like shnozberries! It was wonderous to behold. There was an array of scantily clad men and women. The ladies donned the ever-popular cut-off shorts with the visible thong in the back. And one gentleman in particular donned his own pair of wildly trashy cut-off shorts with an attached blow-up doll tied suggestively around his never you mind. Everyone looked like they had been sprayed down with a water hose after makin mud pies at the crick. Beer was the only known hair product. (the only KNOWN hair product...). And, honestly, beer is quite healthy for the tresses, so no wonder we don't mind having it lovingly thrown on us by a 300 pound dude named Earl. And, Earl, you should probably just spit on our eyelids too...it's good for fighting wrinkles.

But the highlight of my night has to be the dreamboat wearing the high school jersey with the number 2 on the back. Oh, number 2...you melted my heart. I'm telling you all, I have never seen such eloquent air guitar playing since that fateful summer I took a 6 hour road trip with my dad during his Guns N Roses phase. Bless it. What I loved about Number 2 was his wild uninhibited desire to display his dancing talents. Either that or he was just REALLY trying to air out his crotch. And, sweet Lord love him, I just wanted to pluck him up and collect him to my motherly bosom when he started to grind up on the sign in front of the stage that clearly read "Fight Menengitis." I'm afraid that's not how we fight it, son.

I'm fortunate that Number 2 came up and talked to me afterward. I really got a chance to see his heart and how much he loves the music. We congratulated him on his dance moves and he walked away feeling pretty proud of himself. And if I can make a difference in one po white trash life, well, then Jesus can come on and take me home. I've clearly done my job.

Why I'm Five

2007-07-24T12:17:00.001-06:00

I've never really had a strong desire to grow up. In fact, I often look at my youth with a profound sense of longing, wishing I could go back to the days when I didn't have to pay rent or electricity and when my biggest worry was whether or not I had a downward slope in my backyard for the slip n slide.

People have always told me I act just like a kid. I get excited about the dumbest stuff and today, when I opened my Happy Meal, I understood what they were saying.
First of all, who in the world doesn't get excited about a meal that has the word 'happy' in it? I know I sure do. So, I ordered my cheeseburger happy meal (sans onions) and my eyes wandered to the blessed area on the menu board where they display the featured happy meal toy. Gang, it was Hello Kitty. Now, there are few things in this world that I get excited about (lies) and Hello Kitty, well she's just right up there on my top ten list with glittery lip gloss and hot pink fingernail polish.

So, I pulled up, paid my money, received my meal of happiness and I'm sure you can guess what I did next. I opened up the bag and my eyes got real big and my mouth opened with excitement because there it was! Hello Kitty! I could have cared less about the food at that point and somewhere in the back of my head, I could hear a stern parental voice telling me that I wasn't allowed to play with my Hello Kitty until I had eaten at least half my hamburger and seven fries. I'm not even gonna tell you what I did when I found out there were Hello Kitty stickers inside my already fabulous Hello Kitty toy (let's just say there was grinning and clapping...)
So, I'm back at my grown up job now with Hello Kitty stickers placed in a very adult-like manner on the following surfaces: My keyboard, the doorknob to my door, my shirt, and the backs of each of my hands. And, I'm not gonna lie, there will probably be one on my face before the end of the day. Let's give it up to the Lord for Hello Kitty stickers.

Also, I just wanted to add that my roomate, being in complete understanding of my childlike mentality, made me pancakes last night that spelled "Katy." There was lots of grinning and clapping then, too.

Two Movies NOT to Watch Before Bed...and How I Blew My Own Mind

2007-07-24T12:15:00.000-06:00

I love my Netflix membership. I do. It allows me to peruse through a vast array of motion pictures and order whatever my little heart desires. Last week I was in this whole "I'm weird and arty and mysterious and into things that don't make sense" mood, so I ordered movies online accordingly. I had just finished watching Babel for a second time (very good movie), so I was looking for things that would make me think...what I got were things that made me question my faith in all that is good and true in this world. (slight dramatization)

Movie # 1: Dirty Pretty Things. I got this flick because it has the wonderful star of Amelie, Miss Audrey Tautou, in it. And it said 'suspense thriller' so I thought it would be cool. It was not cool. It wasn't even in the same category as cool. The first disturbing image was a toilet that was clogged by a human heart. I should have turned it off after that, but I didn't. Basically, it was about this underground organ harvesting ring in London. Illegal immigrants go to this hotel and a weirdo with a knife cuts them up and pays them for their organs by making fake identities for them. In the end, the hacker dude ends up getting HIS organs cut out of him. Ah, sweet justice...and, here Katy, how bout some sweet dreams.

Movie # 2: Little Children. I actually liked this movie for its complexity, but I definitely should have watched it before 9pm. Kate Winslet stars in it and she was nominated for an academy award for her role as a timeless homewrecker. Such elegance. Such poise. It starts out with this mother (Kate) who is the typical bored, monotonous housewife with a little girl and friends she will never fit in with. Enter dashing stay-at-home dad who brings excitement and 'joy' into her life. They begin this affair that, ironically, doesn't end in tragedy, but rather it ends with them developing an intense respect and understanding of the lives they had forsaken for each other. But, the disturbing part of the movie was the child molester they decided to throw in to, I don't know, jack with our minds a little more? His story is actually really really haunting. He is shunned by the town and is forced to live with his mother who eventually dies from all the stress that is put on her son's situation. She leaves him a final note when she is on her death bed and the note says "Please be a good boy." So, the guy goes crazy and, um, castrates himself. Enjoy!

But, it was after watching these two movies that I was left alone to ponder the meaning of life. Psh. Whatever. I was clearly in no state to ponder anything except why in the world I would put myself through such visual torture. Luckily, Carrie came in at about 1am and we discussed deep and meaningful things like boys and how much we like going to second base. Heheheh. Just kiding. However, while we were talking, I was reminded of something in "Little Children." While Kate and her cheat partner were in the Rated R throes of passion, she asked him if his wife was pretty. His response was 'Yes. She's a knockout.' This, obviously, made Kate self-conscious and insecure. Sensing her feelings, the cheater boy said "Beauty is overrated." He said this to her to make her feel better, but if you think about what a lie that statement really is, there's no way it could ever make anyone feel better. Because, simply, beauty is beautiful. True beauty, anyway.

So, for the rest of the movie, Kate's mood/hapiness depended entirely on what this man thought of her. And it made me realize that this is the great tragedy of relationships. Laying on my back in my bed, looking up at the ceiling fan, and talking with my roomate, this is how I blew my mind:

There's a reason why the happiness we find in others doesn't last. It's because we don't last. Humans. Mankind. We are finite. So, there comes a time when our words, our actions, our thoughts, reach a limit. And when that limit is reached we approach emptiness because there is no renewal of things that are finite. Finite ends. It dies. We end. We die. But, when that hope, that security, that happiness, is transferred to the Lord, it always fulfills and continues to fulfill because the Lord is infinite. He never ends, so the love that he gives keeps on renewing itself. And it isn't a replication. It's new every single time. It's like a cup full of water that just keeps getting water poured into it. Every drop is new water and it overflows and overflows and overflows into forever. It's the most beautiful, satisfying thing. It's like music and how David was never capable of communicating to the Lord in prose. He always communitcated to the Lord in song. Because words aren't enough. We have to make music in order to taste even a little bit of how much the Lord loves us. Music is the closest thing we have to expressing that infinitessimal and unconditional love. So, you know, go make some music today. And when you're done making music, thank the good ole Lord that you didn't watch the movies I watched last night. Thanks and have a good day. Um, bye.

Now Hiring: My Entourage

2007-05-11T13:15:00.000-06:00

It’s come to my attention lately that I may or may not possess certain qualities that may or may not make me fabulous. Since being fabulous in our society generally means you are popular and beautiful and wealthy, I think it’s high time I start living my life according to these standards. So, I’m posting this announcement to encourage the application process for positions that will complete my celebrity entourage. I am currently hiring for the following positions:

Eyelash Technician: Those of you who have had the pleasure of seeing me in person know that I have the ability to fan a sweaty Greek god with my eyelashes. I often face the accusation that my eyelashes are fake. They are, in fact, real and sometimes quite a hassle. Therefore, the eyelash technician will be responsible for combing my eyelashes every 45 minutes, 15 times for each eye. The combing process will immediately be followed by a re-application of MAC’s Zoom Lash mascara, 15 strokes for each eye. The eyelash technician will also be responsible for maintaining ample amounts of said Zoom Lash mascara, as I’m sure to go through roughly 2 or 3 bottles a day.

Height Management Specialist: Given the fact that I’m just shy of 5’9”, it is very important that the position of Height Management Specialist be filled with someone who is eager to ensure that I am never in the presence of any member of the opposite sex who is shorter than me. If such a person enters my presence, the HMS’s responsibility will be to place that person on an elevated plain and/or provide them with shoe lifts. Likewise, this person will need to carry with them heels of varying heights so that I can change shoes at a moments notice depending on whose company I will be enjoying. Since most of my celebrity attire requires at least a 3 inch stiletto, the HMS’s main priority will be to weed out men who are not at least 6 feet tall (unless an elevated plain and/or the afore mentioned shoe lifts are within close proximity).

Spiritual Advisor(s): This position is really only available to two men. John Piper and Donald Miller. If you feel like you exemplify either one of these gentlemen’s spiritual prowess, then feel free to apply, but please be of the understanding that the interview process will be strenuous and will most likely take place in a bar. The John Piper-esque applicant will be required to challenge my spiritual discipline. I will need this person to encourage me in the practice of the following: fasting, praying, meditation, and community service. Similarly, the Donald Miller applicant for spiritual advisement will need to be eager to indulge my humanity, often encouraging me to drink beers with fellow Christians and occasionally taking me on long walks through various wooded areas to which my pilot, Fernando, will take us upon request.

Body Contact Coordinator: Those seeking employment in this position will be in charge of consistently making sure that my back gets scratched from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep. This person should preferably not take up too much space, as my other glamour assistants will need to work fluidly around them. This person should also have a keen intuition as to when I would like the services to switch from scratching to massaging. In addition, my BCC will also be responsible for coordinating with the Height Management Specialist all other forms of bodily contact which may or may not become necessary with certain gentlemen who are 6 feet tall or more.