Shaking my fist

Dear St. Patrick,

I think it's not overstating it to say that our relationship could use some work. You understand, though, that I didn't have a devoted example to follow? Despite green being one of my mom's favorite colors, she wears any other color on the 17th and firmly refuses to capitulate to the inherent physical threat of your Day. Not so for her progeny! Come March 17th, my siblings and I were usually bedecked in years past with the appropriate grassy hue. True, my participation in your "holiday" growing up was slightly half-hearted--I mostly wore green as a measure of self-preservation against some pretty fierce pinching. Wasn't that enough? How much do you expect, really, from someone who rarely even goes outside to look at fireworks on New Year's Eve or Independence Day? Well, who really can even see fireworks in Alaska on the 4th of July anyway? Too light.

But I digress. Our relationship really hit rock-bottom in 2001. A bad year for the country, an unfortunate year for me. I was on a little mini-vacation in Idaho with my friend, Paul, to celebrate his brother coming home from his mission. Catholic, LDS . . . we're all Christian, right? You couldn't have cut me some slack? Yes, I neglected to wear green that year. Yes, I can see that wearing blue is somewhat more insulting than something completely opposite the color wheel than green. It's like I couldn't even get credit for getting it close. You decided you needed a blood sacrifice.

Though I would like to nurse my injury in great detail at your expense, I will opt for brevity and say that--really--flesh, blood and bone are a far cry from a pinch. Ever mindful of that disastrous turn in our relationship (seriously, was amputation NECESSARY?), I have had a spotless, green-wearing record from 2002-on. Never can be too careful, right?

Though I have noted the steady marching forth of the dates this month (I remembered my sister's anniversary yesterday and my friend Shawn's birthday today), I must confess that I wasn't thinking of you when I woke up this morning. However, honoring you (or at least your perverse ego) must have been subliminally a part of my mind this morning as I got dressed. Coincidentally, the only shirt I could find in my car was green. (Stop mocking me--I don't usually use my car as a wardrobe, but I'm housesitting and forgot to bring a batch of fresh clothes to wear and thus was lowered to foraging my car for school attire.) SEE? YOU'VE EVEN AFFECTED MY SUBCONSCIOUS.

I thought I was safe. I thought I'd sacrificed enough. So you can imagine my startled incredulity when my feet flew out from underneath me this morning with morbid enthusiasm and I ended up an ungraceful tangle of limbs in the snow on the icy sidewalk. Head thumped? Check. Knee whacked? Check. Bedecked in fluffy snow in unmentionable parts? Check. Cell phone sunk in clouds of freshly-fallen flakes? Check. At least I still have all my 9 1/3 digits (such as they are)?

Whatever. Next year I'm wearing RED. Consider this a trial separation. Apologize prettily enough and I'll reconsider in 365 days.

Maybe.

Cupcake Arrival!

reply imminent

An example from my inbox

Date: 5/6/09
To: Rahni
From: Curtis
Subject: RE: a precursor to a real email

I am still patiently awaiting a real email from the eloquent Rahni.

On Wed, Apr 8, 2009 at 3:34 PM, Johnson_Rahni johnson_rahni@asdk12.org> wrote:
I got your email--thanks! I've been planning a reply in my head now for days--not ready yet, but didn't want you to think that I was ignoring you. ;o)>>>> Rahni

Dear Curtis/Dawn/Melanie/Heather/Paul/Stephen/Darcy/the entire East High staff waiting to hear what I found out about the history of the Thunderbird mascot/Donia/Sarah/Aunt Yvonne/Eric/Leah/Lindsay/Perri/Corey/Steve/Xitla/Rachael/Emily/Chicago Greg/Pam/Amy/Kick/Joan/Kim/Ijeoma/Nai/Gail/Patrick/Dori/ETCYOUKNOWWHOYOUARE

Just think of how behind I would be in communication if I had to keep up with anything MORE than my cell phone, regular mail, email, texts and blogs. Facebook is really never going to happen, at this rate. Take note of the dearth of blog posts at this site and burrow in for a loooong winter. :o) I apologize for any past, present and future neglect!

Ironically, I only made one New Year's resolution (so far) this year--Be on time! Didn't work. I thought that maybe I'd work on just one quality a month, master it and move on. Shouldn't have put such a hard one first! Being timely in communication, travel, tasks, etc., is NOT MY FORTE. Here's to hoping--there's still one month left in the year.

Humility

I've always had this bizarre (unsubstantiated) notion that I'm a pretty good all-around athlete.
(view from my neighbor's driveway)
This past Labor Day, my ward advertised a Men v. Women softball game.
Sunday morning, sunny skies . . .
"Excellent!" I exclaimed. I well remember my glory days of 4th grade softball with Mr. McConnell. Along with Chandra, we were always among the first picked.
Arms pinwheeling through the air, heels flying . .
As I broadcast my enthusiasm to many about the Monday event, long-dormant doubts begain to creep in.
Neighbor girl, normally laidback, flashes by . . .
After all, 4th grade was long ago. Long long long LONG ago.
A hopeful screech wafts behind, "BAIIIIIIIIILLLEEEEEEY!!" . . .
And, hadn't I had "practice throwing" on my New Year's resolution list for years? My gosh, did they lengthen the distance between the bases? Just how far away was home plate from the outfield? Could a person even be seen out there?
Dog, disinterested, flickers a glance from a fragrant tree. . .
Reviewing my basic deficiencies (pride being foremost among them), I gulped and took the field with my team, to no spectacular results. (Much to the bewilderment of my 4th-grade self still echoing around here in my 33-year-old self.)
Later, wasps hum as they return home . . .
Chastened, I now recognize the signs. Whenever I feel my head begin to swell with errant, grandiose thoughts and foolish pride,
All is well.
I remember this my-word-there's-a-crazy-person-running-down-the-street-again scene and shake my head.
The enemy is vanquished.
Cheeks aflame, head size back to normal--meekness restored.

Sometimes it just takes a memory to cure overactive swelling--no aspirin necessary

(P.S. Really, I'm not sure what I thought my dog would do to help me escape the angry wasps that were stinging me, but reaching out for help (from anyone/thing) seemed the thing to do.)

Faultlines

*When I hear what sounds like a gunshot/car backfire/firecracker, I don't run into danger or investigate at all--I DO meticulously note the time so that if I am asked to testify the next day, I'll be a great back-up to the actual witness who ran towards the danger to help.

*I don't say "Bless you" when people sneeze and would actually prefer that people ignore my own olfactory travails.

*I'm horrible at asking "How are you?" It's actually one of my least favorite questions, mainly because it's so often asked, so infrequently meant. And, actually, if we're strangers, I actually don't have a deep-seated desire to hear about your inner emotional issues, and if we're friends, I trust that you'll tell me.

*When kids/teens/adults talk to me in a baby voice, I don't play along, I call them on it.

*A pile of clothes constantly reform on my bedroom floor because I think, "Oh, I'll hang that right up--it doesn't deserve to go to the laundry yet. Still wearable." Until, ironically, the sweater tried on for 2 seconds in the morning actually does become "worthy" of the laundry machine.

*I really dislike voicemail and rarely get around to listening to messages.

*I watch WAY too much television--TiVo is my enabler.

All Choked Up

A query from my co-worker: "What happens when two collars race?"

I'm bad at jokes. Can't remember them, can't tell them well. And yet I've always loved to read the jokes off of Laffy Taffy wrappers--despite that their answers were often incomprehensible and entirely "un-guessable" because of the 2nd-grade logic applied to them. Why did the chicken cross the road? Because his friend invited him over to play X-Box. ??? Really?

I do have a point to this post, but you haven't met it yet . . . I was about to get on track except I find I have a little more to say on the subject of jokes. I owned two joke books as a kid--one was a peanut joke book, and one was something like 1001 Jokes For Kids. Which explains why the only jokes I can ever bring up on automatic recall deal with the legume family or nuns. I'd really like to add more to my repertoire, if you've got any clean ones handy.

My guess? "It was a neck-and-neck finish."

While Christmas shopping back in December, I added a gift to my own pile and bought myself a scarf--my first! Strangely enough, I've never owned a scarf before. Yes, I live in Alaska. Yes, I can knit and crochet. Yes, I know where the mall is. The day I first wore my new scarf to school was a bit chilly, so I kept it on after shucking my coat off. These are my observations:

1) The scarf kept my neck nice and toasty. It did its job so well, in fact, that the rest of my body felt chilly in comparison. Kind of ironic.

2) I felt strangely vulnerable to being choked. Any random person with a whim to throttle someone would find me easy pickings.

I love scarves now. They can warm you up, dress up an outfit, or introduce you to a new texture. They can be fun, functional, flirty, romantic, disguising, informative, or inspiring. I never knew neckwear could be so necessary and so terrific at the same time.

Real answer? "They ended in a tie."

Hardcore

That's the word for me, my friends. I'm totally hardcore. Why, you naively ask? Because, ladies and gents, I HAVE READ PAGES 281-285 of Aron Ralston's Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Have you?

It's funny how other people can sometimes entertain different opinions of you that clash with your own lofty introspections. My own good name was maligned just the other day--BY MY OWN FAMILY. In devious collusion, Amber and Mom agreed that I was "squeamish". My mom was mentioning that she needed to get her stitches out (having gashed her noggin earlier in the month) when my oft-injured sister declared that basically anyone could remove stitches--no need to make a doctor's appointment. My name was brought up, then discarded, both citing "squeamishness".

All I can say is WHO DO YOU CALL TO PICK UP THE DEAD BIRDS WITH MAGGOTS IN THEIR EMPTY EYE SOCKETS, AMBER? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Though I honestly have no desire to remove people's stitches. I'm glad they didn't ask.

Summer Haze

My alarm clock thinks it's July 7th. I didn't even know that my alarm clock had an opinion on the date, but it's weighing in, anyway. I've had this alarm clock for something like 15 years. I wonder what other nuggets of (mis)information are hiding among its electrical wirings.

Actually . . . wait. I'm getting a glimpse of a vague memory of delight at discovering this feature back in college. Hmmm . . . I wonder what else I've forgotten since those brain-straining years. Not that they were as brain-straining as they ought to have been. APPLY YOURSELVES IN SCHOOLS, KIDS. Back to what all I've let slip--I guess that's kind of a moot thing to spend time thinking about. By definition, I'll never remember what I forgot, as it's long gone by now, right?

Still, though, I'm glad that at least my alarm clock is trying . . . even as I shiver looking at the cold, cold, snow-encrusted landscape outside the window. Looking forward to July 7th, though. I've got a good feeling about that day.

Book-learning can be bad

My nieces are very inspiring, but sometimes they wrongly motivate me. Back in August, my sister Robin called me in a responsibly-controlled panic. Madison, the sixteen-year-old, was on medicine to counteract the pneumonia that had taken hold of her respiratory system. Which was all very comforting until her family noticed that the whites of her eyes had turned yellow. Apparently, this indicates liver issues--a bad reaction to the drugs. Anyhow, following the doctor's advice, Robin was taking Madison in to the ER, and the daughters at home were kind of stressed--could I come over and hang out with them? Certainly. I formed great plans for our evening--baking goodies, beauty parlor stuff, etc. Nothing went quite as planned.

Strolling the aisles of the grocery store with Kaeli and Chelsea, I laid out our battle plan. First on the list? Procure cinnamon roll-making goods. They were enthused, but had some questions. "Do you mean just baking the premade stuff, or actually making cinnamon rolls?" Little culinary snobs. Yes, I actually had meant to just get the Pillsbury rounds, but was shamed into also getting a hot roll mix that I used to use in my cinnamon-roll-phase in college. Even that was somewhat embarassing--their mother makes everything from absolute scratch. I'm all about "Just add water".

The cinnamon roll fiasco (forgot to add the yeast) was really nothing compared to the evening's main event. I came armed with honey and ripe bananas, ready to deep condition my hair. Sound strange? I thought so too, but hey--I read about it in a book, so it must work, right? "All natural" always sounds so genuinely positive.
Well, a post-ER-Room recovered Madison had quite a job after that of trying to remove banana chunks from my long locks. We debated the relative merits of extrication methods--before or after hair dryer application. We found that it was a process equally suited to wet and dry hair--that is to say that not suited well AT ALL. Banana continued to linger for quite awhile after that. It did really smell good, though. Maybe if the bananas had been puréed . . .

Shukran (thank you)

A teacher passing through the library the other day threw me an undeserved compliment. "It's really cool that you sign your initials in Arabic," he observed. Automatically, I replied, "Thank you." Then the text of his sentence caught up with me. Arabic? I examined my 'r' and 'j'. When penning my initials, I link them in a lowercase cursive clump with which I'm sure graphologists would have a field day. What does lowercase say about my feelings about my standing in the world, the loop in my 'r', where the dot falls for my 'j'. Actually, I really just don't like to write a capital 'R' or 'J' and have always felt somewhat prideful about my lowercase cursive 'r'. Squint as much as you like, but my writing is in no way Arabic. But I take it as a feather in my hypothetical cap--it's as close to calligraphy as I will ever be rightfully accused. Too bad, that. I wish I did have more power over my pen.