Berry Smoothie Explosion

I like smoothies. Once a week, the living room at my house is the setting of an intense bible study attended by some of the most amazing people in New Braunfels. I do not attend. I watch tv in the back room and do other non-eternal stuff. I typically make every effort to be unheard and unseen while skipping bible study, but Thursday night I was desperate for a smoothie. Our house's open floor plan makes it nearly impossible to go undetected in search of food. I decided I could shield myself behind the refrigerator and half wall long enough to make a simple smoothie without being distracting. I crept stealth-like into the kitchen and began silently combining frozen berries, rice milk, yogurt, and a banana into the blender. I placed the lid on the blender and immediately realized the foolishness of my plan. Regardless of whether I hit liquefy, puree, chop, or blend, an earth-rattling sound was going to rip through the peaceful Bible study. Plan B. The back door. I could unplug the blender and transport the soon-to-be smoothie to the back porch and resume blending. Perfect. I went outside, plugged in the blender, and hit puree. The blender lurched into the air as metallic hammering sounds echoed through the neighborhood. I dove toward the outlet and ripped the cord from the wall. Clearly this must be one of those 220/110 electrical issues where small appliances explode when plugged in to the wrong outlet. Plan C. Patience. I decided to go back inside and wait until the study was over. A few seconds after the closing prayer, as I was still attempting to be relatively quiet, I plugged in the blender. The blender bolted to life and instantly resumed its violent metallic hammering. Out of nowhere, the lid flew off of the blender and a giant metal spoon launched into the air and landed with a great crash. The quaint, serene bible study group I was trying so desperately not to interrupt was now staring wide-eyed in my direction as smoothie dripped from the ceiling. Um, so apparently I left the yogurt scooping spoon inside the blender. Oops. I considered pretending nothing was amiss, ignoring their stares, and sauntering unapologetically back to my room. Instead I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. I had just blended a metal spoon. I finally controlled my laughter, poured the remaining smoothie in a glass, and returned to my room. As I was pondering the health concerns of swallowing shards of metal, I decided it would have been less disruptive if I had just streaked naked through their bible study. Oh well, the smoothie was good.

Simply Not OK

I like toilet paper. The deforestation of countless square miles of pristine natural landscape is completely justified if the end result is toilet paper. My prolific use of said toilet paper is something of which I am both aware and unashamed. However, this week my appreciation for toilet paper has not only dwindled, but has been the sole cause of great distress and confusion. Unfortunately, someone in my household broke all unspoken sanitary rules by purchasing….single-ply.

I’ve never thought of myself as a toilet paper snob, but apparently I am. I don’t need high-end paper with six layers of ring spun cotton laced with silk beaded lotion and lavender fragrances, but your basic two-ply Angel Soft or Quilted Northern is a positive economic alternative. Single-ply is simply not ok. Here is our usual paper and our new single-ply paper:


And here is what happened when one drop of water was placed on each paper:

I’m not sure how to handle this situation. At first I tried to have a good attitude and thought, “Just deal with it until it runs out.” But seven days later there was still just as much left on the roll as when it started. The stuff is going to last forever. I share a bathroom with several roommates, one of which graciously purchased toilet paper for everyone. I don’t know who the supplier was and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by openly addressing the single-ply issue. I have considered several passive aggressive ways to rid my bathroom of the paper. I could secretly swap it out for all of Anna’s paper in the other bathroom. I could accidentally leave my hair straightener plugged in and touching the extra rolls in hopes that they will burst into flames. I could take it all to chapel and try to think of an object lesson involving horribly thin toilet paper. I even considered loading up the car and rolling someone’s house. In any case, unless I am in a third world country, a porta potty, or the woods, where the mere existence of toilet paper is a luxury, I will not continue using single-ply.

Roommate, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but your single-ply has been donated to a good cause.

Teacher of the Year

Me. This week:

“I need each of you to pretend there is a bird sitting on my head. Please stare at the cute little bird and do not quit staring until I finish giving instructions…keep staring…thank you. If you are not going to pay attention, I will at least teach you how to pretend you are paying attention. It is a life skill, you will need it. Please keep staring….good job.”

“If I threw a giant handful of toothpicks in the air, would they organize themselves in mid-air and fall into a perfect log cabin on the floor? Of course not. Scientists have a very big word for that, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“If you’re not Jewish you’re Gentile. All of us in this room are Gentiles….well, yes, you could become Jewish, but you wouldn’t be like real Jewish. Like, if I moved to Mexico, I would officially be someone living in Mexico, which would make me Mexican, but I’m not like real Mexican.”

“It’s like that little red riding hood story. Remember her? She was headed to Grandma’s house with cookies and she went walking through the woods, and the wolf asked her about the cookies then ended up going to the house and…wait, did he eat the grandma? I can’t remember what exactly happened, but little red riding hood shows up and the wolf is dressed like the grandma and…wait, does he eat little red riding hood? I can’t remember… Isn’t there something about a woodsman and an axe? Ok, nevermind, this story is creepy.”

“If God told Adam and Eve not to jump up and down and squish watermelons with their feet, and they decided to jump up and down and squish watermelons with their feet anyway, that would be sin. Eating apples was not the problem, the problem was disobeying God. Apples are good, we serve them here at school.”

“Ok, I’m going to teach you a new game. Everyone stand in a giant circle. Now, you have to take turns pointing across the circle and saying the name of the person you point to. If you show your teeth at any time, you are out. You are not allowed to cover your mouth with your hand. Ready, I’ll start…" (yes, made it up on the spot, but we ended up laughing so hard that our faces hurt.)

Thanks Lilly Perkins

Last week, I dropped an entire glass bottle of olive oil on the floor in the pantry. For some reason, as I gazed upon the massive oil spill, images of these guys entered my mind:

On March 24, 1989, 10 million gallons of crude oil were dumped into the sea when the Exxon Valdez rammed into something off the coast of Alaska. I remember feeling sorry for those little oily birds. Instead of reflecting on the random images in my mind and recalling the overwhelming ecological devastation to land and sea, my only thought was, “I’m glad I don’t have a dog.” It would’ve taken much longer to clean up olive oil if it would’ve fallen on a dog or a baby or something. Anyway, I googled how to clean up olive oil spills. I am consistently impressed with people like Nancy, Steve, or Carol, typically from the Northeast, that have taken the time to type answers to obscure cleaning questions. The general consensus was to soak up the oil with paper towels then scrub with hot soapy water. Lilly Perkins from New Hampshire suggested dumping oatmeal onto the spill, but I don’t have oatmeal. I could’ve used my roommate’s oatmeal, but I have been making a concerted effort not to eat other people’s food. We don’t share food at our house. We each buy our own groceries and cook our own meals. I, however, eat everyone else’s food when they are not home. I usually go grocery shopping on Sundays when I have great resolve to eat right and exercise, so I end up with fruit, vegetables, fish, and chicken. Then, by Friday of the following week, when I have fallen off the eat-right wagon, I am forced to borrow brownie mix and tortilla chips from my roommates. Recently, I have been on a Quaker Caramel Rice Cake rampage.

Trish had a huge bag, which I ate. So I replaced her huge bag and actually bought my own bag. Before she ever noticed, I had eaten my bag and her replacement bag and had to buy a replacement for the replacement. The madness only stopped because I had eaten so many caramel rice cakes that the roof of my mouth hurt, kinda like when you eat too much Captain Crunch cereal. Anyway, I didn’t dump Anna’s oatmeal all over the floor to clean up the olive oil. I used Trish’s paper towels instead. I felt a little bad because they were brand name (see photo.) I will replace them, but probably with TowelPro, or some other disintegrating non-quicker picker upper.

Oil spills are a bummer. I steal food. Two clearly connected thoughts.

Just Chicken on Plate

Aside from the obvious misplacement of Florida, the chicken breast I cooked for dinner tonight had an uncanny resemblance to the United States.

........

R.I.P. Albi

I’m not a huge fan of reptiles in general, but a massive flesh-eating 18 foot crocodile at the zoo is my preference to the tiny pink gecko in my living room. Please know that I had no intentions of killing the little guy. It was an accident.



I was in the driveway at midnight, as most people are, just as Trish arrived from work. We walked in the house and saw what appeared to be one of those rubbery plastic lizard things you buy at Dollar Tree. Trish even said, “Is that a fake lizard?” The question itself made me laugh, since we don’t typically have fake lizards lying around the house. However, this particular night we had a family with a young boy staying at our house, so it was possible. As we stooped close to investigate, the gecko dashed full-speed under the couch. Those little guys are fast, creepy fast. I feel like the translucent pink albino geckos are much faster than the green lizard sort. Anyway, given the option of catching the gecko and releasing him outside, or being attacked by the gecko while sleeping, we decided to catch him. Clearly, the best way to do this is with a Rudy’s cup. So Trish grabbed the couch and threw it across the living room as I chased the reptile and tried to trap him under the Rudy’s cup. The process took about 10 minutes; the Gecko darting to different shelters, Trish throwing couches, me running around with a Rudy’s cup. I tried to justify waking up the 8 year old boy in the back room and asking him catch the lizard, but then I thought it was probably poor form to wake up your houseguests at midnight to help remove reptiles from the living room. We eventually caught him. So then he was trapped under the cup, but what next? I sure wasn’t going to put my hand over the cup just to have him escape and run up my arm. Trish handed me a magazine to slide over the opening. This is where I’m afraid Albi lost his life. In an effort to keep pressure on the Rudy’s cup while sliding the magazine between the carpet and the cup, I think Albi may have gotten compacted. Thinking he was still alive, I tossed the magazine and the Rudy’s cup out the door. Albi did not dash to freedom as I’d hoped. Instead, he glided effortlessly to rest on the sidewalk below. Effortlessly, because he was dead as a hammer. I’m sorry this happened to him. Next time I will use better judgment and wake the 8 year old. I don’t hate geckos, but I am a little disturbed when their soft white underbellies are scampering across the kitchen window screen or across the living room floor. Dearest Albi, my apologies, please rest in peace.

Salmon and Chicken Jerky

I learned in elementary school that penicillin was discovered when Sir Alexander Fleming accidentally overcooked a bunny rabbit he shot while hunting. He analyzed microscopic charred bunny parts and discovered antibiotic healing agents that have revolutionized modern medicine. Please keep this in mind.

I overcook things. I do not overcook some things, I overcook most things. Like water. I recently decided to steam broccoli with one of those cool foldy metal vegetable steamer things that you put into a pot, then you fill the pot about a fourth full of water, then you let it boil and it steams the vegetables. Anyway, I forgot I was steaming broccoli and returned to the kitchen a couple TV shows later to find the kitchen full of black volcanic smoke. The water had vaporized and the Teflon coating was boiling and creating huge cancer clouds in the kitchen. I don’t even like broccoli. I was just eating it to be healthy.

I love salmon, but the odor while cooking dominates household airspace. In an effort to be considerate of my roommates, I have started grilling out. We have a real grill, but I’m a little jumpy around propane and fire. So I opt to simply unplug the George Forman and plug him in outside.

Typically George does a great job, and grilling out is a fine solution, but sometimes the lack of overwhelming salmon smell causes me to forget I am cooking. Hence, salmon jerky. I turn lots of things into jerky on the George Forman. I do not recommend this. The taste is less than desirable and the fat-grilling machine is notoriously hard to clean. When I have not charred anything, I find it easiest to stick the whole thing in the sink and scrub as though there are not really electrical components. However, when I char salmon on the mini outdoor grill, I have to let it cool before transporting it to the sink. This causes salmon oil and burnt chunks to harden on the grill. Since it’s much easier to get burnt chunks off the Teflon surface when the grill is hot, I then plug in the grill by the sink in the kitchen. Burnt salmon aroma begins filling the house, and I just apologize profusely to all my roommates. Total catch 22.

I almost always boil water over after adding noodles. Noodles are high-maintenance. I usually burn the last few pancakes of a mix and the last batch of cookies. By then, I am already eating and have lost interest in the stragglers. I burn grilled cheese sandwiches, but only on one side. I do not know what a sienna is, but I liked the burnt color as a kid.



Note: Upon further biomedical research (aka I asked Paul,) it was determined that penicillin was indeed not discovered by a man overcooking a bunny rabbit. The more I teach, the more I am convinced that elementary teachers sometimes make up stuff.

Friends and Rivers (Episode 2)

I love my Friends. I love Rivers. I love New Braunfels in the Summer. The first day of Summer, we loaded up the tubes and headed to the river. We threw the tubes in the truck, jumped in the river, floated for a couple hours, and walked back to the car. Then we headed to the local barbque joint and filled up on sweet tea and barbque turkey tacos. It was the perfect start to Summer. Then I went to Mexico.

There really is no way to fully capture the New Braunfels River floating experience. I will try in the next few days to paint a picture, but I will not do justice to the phenomenon called New Braunfels tubing. You just have to experience it for yourself. This is your invitation to visit. Anyway, Mexico was fun, but now I'm back. I look forward to sharing thoughts I have not had time to share in the past couple months. It's been a crazy season. :)

Attention Target Shoppers...

“Attention all Target shoppers, Kim Berry is indeed not pregnant. She has once again accidentally strolled into the maternity section and has not yet realized her mistake.”

Ok, so I have this problem. I shop in the maternity section. I don’t mean to, it just happens. I do most of my maternity shopping at Target because there is no definitive transition from normal apparel to maternity apparel. One minute you’re looking at a Mossimo tank, then you stroll past the Merona pants, then whoops, you’re prego. I have this minor freak-out when I realize I’ve wandered from the appropriate zone. I have visions that everyone I know is huddled in the corner of the nearby fitness apparel section, all throwing out names as to who the father might be. (I just pictured that scene in my head as I was typing and I can’t stop laughing. Nine of you are standing behind the Champion sports bra display staring blankly at each other in total silence. No names, no one can think of a single name to throw out there.) Target should have more maternity signs, or maybe even a little plastic chain divider thing with a sign, “Stop, evaluate, ask yourself if you are pregnant, if not, don’t shop in this section.” Maybe that’s a little wordy, but you get the idea. Anyway, as soon as I realize my mistake, as nonchalantly as possible, I mosey on to the shoes and continue the usual Target circuit. The circuit always ends with me buying the Tear and Share size M&M bag. King-Sized is called Tear and Share these days so you don’t have to feel like such a fatty eating them. Instead you can just say, “I didn’t feel like sharing.”

Armpits, Torsos, and Photos

The following 6 photos have a theme...

I was successfully and easily cropped from each of those pictures. Some time ago, one of the above people commented, "Hey, I needed a picture of myself. I found one of us and just cropped you out. You're really easy to crop." I'm not sure what the appropriate response is..."thanks?" or ..."you're welcome?" In any case, here are the pictures from which I was successfully cropped...

Christmas 06

Christmas 08

Shanon's Wedding

New Braunfels Thanksgiving

Badminton Tournament 07

Paul's and Heather's wedding.

Recently, I needed a passport-size photo of myself. I thought, "No problem, people say I am croppable, this will be easy." I quickly realized this whole croppable thing does not work in my favor. Each time I found a picture that could be cropped and used as a passport-size photo, my face was neatly framed by armpits and torsos...

Armpits and Torsos '06

Armpits, Shoulders, Hand '08

Armpit, Torso, Antlers, the UPS Store

Armpit

Torso and Shoulder

Armpit, Hand, Face

Torso

Armpit and I look naked

I realize I could try to zoom a little closer and eliminate some pits. The problem is that at a certain point zooming becomes awkward. You become a floating face like the kid in the yearbook that was clearly absent on picture day. No one wants to be that misproportioned huge-face kid everyone laughs at when reminiscing about the past. Alas, I guess I will choose to embrace the armpit and torso face-framing, and be grateful that my friends have nice pits.

"He pooped his pants."

I have several friends that have pooped their pants. This thought occurred to me as I was jogging last week. A nice green porta-potty sits at a construction site that I pass when I run. I always think, “If I had to really go and couldn’t make it to the house, I could go there.” It’s kind of a safety net if you will. Last week, the potty was gone. I didn’t need to go, but panic hit anyway when I thought, “What if?” That’s when I started thinking of my friends that, at some point in their adult lives, have pooped their pants.

Now, before you start judging my friends, or decide you do not want to become my friend for fear that you too will someday poop your pants, please know that most of my friends who have pooped their pants have had valid parasite-induced excuses. In fact, most of my parasite laden friends acquired their parasites on mission trips to regions relatively unreached by the gospel. In this case, pooping your pants becomes somewhat honorable. “Wow, you’ve pooped your pants? That’s awesome! I hope I poop my pants someday…” As fun as it would be, I am not writing to tell their names and each of their ridiculously hilarious stories. I am more intrigued at the moment by the actual phrase, “He pooped his pants.”

The phrase itself makes me laugh. About 10 years ago, the word “in” was dropped from the statement, making it exponentially funnier. To say someone “pooped in their pants” is just gross and leaves you wondering why the person made such a socially unacceptable decision. However, to say someone “pooped their pants” instantly turns the situation comical and demands the entire story be recounted to an eager audience. The verbage is just funny. Obviously it would be biologically improbable that someone would literally poop their pants. That would raise serious questions about the digestive inefficiencies of the person involved, and it would certainly not be a joking matter. However, it is, in my opinion, totally funny to use the phrase to explain that someone has accidentally, for some hysterically inappropriate reason, failed to utilize normal sanitation facilities, and has instead, pooped in their pants.

“He pooped his pants.”

It’s just funny.

Becoming a local

After a recent trip to Colorado, I found myself contemplating the possibility of moving to Winter Park. Obviously, in order to enjoy the move it would be imperative to buy new clothes, learn the lingo, and fit in with the locals. I started considering things that would need to change.

First, I would be forced to purchase a Subaru Outback.

I am both fascinated and confused by the popularity of these Subarus. I’ve always thought of Colorado folks as being adventurous and rugged outdoorsmen, so the abundance of miniature station wagons was very confusing. I did some research. Apparently, this Subaru thing has all-wheel drive, exceptional ground clearance, and the flexibility of a hatchback. Ok, but it’s still a station wagon. You can throw a ski rack or a bike on top and manage to look a little cooler, but in the end, it’s still a station wagon.

However, I would far prefer a station wagon to this:
We arrived in Denver after dark and were assigned the rental car in space 3-E. We laughed that we got stuck with a PT Cruiser, but we didn’t realize until the next day that it was pee yellow. People in Winter Park laughed out loud as we rolled down their Subaru saturated streets. A little old lady outside the ski shop literally giggled as she asked, “Is that your car?” Rude.

Secondly, I would have to make major improvements in my skiing abilities. I like to think of myself as the kind of skier that loads up a camelback with Red Bull, drops from a helicopter, and launches myself from perilous cliffs while X-Games commentators rave about my unbelievable skills. This is simply not the case. I’m convinced that my incredibly fast and reckless skiing causes everyone to assume that I’m wearing an IPod blaring, “Welcome to the Jungle” as my personal ski soundtrack. However, my friends assured me that based on watching me ski, a more accurate soundtrack would be similar to a jack in the box wind up toy. Da doo da doo da doota de do... Rude.

I’m not sure how to improve my skiing abilities while I am still in Texas. I thought about turning on the treadmill really fast on a huge incline setting. I could throw on some rollerblades and face downhill. I think it could work.

Finally, if I want to fit in with the locals, I would need to start smoking pot. I’ve never been a fan of the idea, but fitting in is a big deal. There are obvious benefits in the athletic world (see also blog 11/15/08), and it would probably be beneficial during my Texas treadmill ski training. We’ll see.

Despite the PT Cruiser ridicule, insensitive skiing criticism, and people’s prolific use of marijuana, this was probably my favorite Colorado skiing trip ever. Chad and Shanon, you are so amazing to let us stay for 4 days! I really enjoyed getting to hang out with you guys. Jason and Cheryl, it was great to see you, and thanks for the ski hook up. Andrew, fun hanging out, we’ll see you when the snow melts. Cody, I heard you are like crack-cocaine to youth groups. I guess that’s a compliment. Awkward, but a compliment nonetheless. Marc, fun trip. Great idea. I’d do it again. Oh, by the way, the camper picture was not Chad and Shanon’s house. This is their house and their super cute kid:

Thanks everyone! You guys are awesome. Maybe I'll be a local someday!

-Kim

(disclaimer: I do not condone the use of marijuana or cocaine or any illegal substance. I was simply making observations. Drugs are bad. Do not do them.)

Say What?

The following are statements that recently made me laugh. There were more, but I can't remember them. Anyway...

“Mis, are you Irish?”
“Well, yes, was it my fair skin that made you think that?”
“No. Hairy arms. I saw your hairy arms.”
(5th grade Hispanic boy talking to the Sub…who is also my roommate.)

“So I had to go to the bathroom really bad, but I wanted to see the pumpkin carving demonstration, so I peed in my pants.”
(Robby…who is currently living on our couch…explaining why wet his pants in Kindergarten.)

“If the thought of kissing him makes you want to throw up, then he’s probably not the one.”
(One roommate giving dating advice to another roommate.)

“Mis, what is circumcision?”
“Uh, well, it’s uh, when uh, it’s….”
(My response to a 5th grader)

“Mis, what is circumcision?”
“Oh just some surgery baby boys have. Who wants to read next?”
(My response the next class period)

“Mis, what is circumcision?”
“You don’t wanna know man… you don’t wanna know.”
(6th grade boy blurting out his answer to his friend’s question)

“So Jezebel died when some people chunked her out of a window and she plummeted to her death.”
(I said that in class today)

The End.

I will explain.

Documents were recently declassified which detailed my involvement in a particular branch of the United States government. Until this time, I have not been allowed to speak freely about my time spent serving our country. I was part of an elite team created primarily for the purpose of extracting political prisoners from territories hostile to the American government. I was recruited as an 18 year old and left for training the summer after my senior year. Of the 5,000 females recruited, only 8 were eventually selected to train and serve on this team. We trained with the Navy Seals, Special Forces, and the Israeli Mossad. We had specialized training in hand-to-hand combat, advanced weaponry, and reconnaissance missions. We were non-military agents serving alongside both the American and Israeli military. Many times, our role was to spend several weeks living in a particular area, gathering information, and preparing the groundwork for prisoner extractions.
After 3 years, our team was compromised and held captive in an undisclosed country. Our escape and the events that followed have been the subject of international investigation for the past 9 years. During the process, my identity was eventually revealed and it became clear that my time as a special agent had come to an end. Details mentioned in the documents have caused concern among a number of family members and friends.

I am writing primarily for those of you who have known me for some time and have been made aware of this new information. I have heard some of you express that you feel somewhat betrayed, as though I’ve been lying to you for the entire duration of our friendship. I would like to assure you, the person you currently know as Kim Berry is who I am. Whatever you know about me is true, our friendship is real, and nothing that I have portrayed is a lie. I have, however, omitted any connection to my former service simply because, until now, it was classified information. As more documents are released, I will be free to discuss in more detail my involvement in various situations. Thank you for your understanding, and I look forward to answering your questions.

(I just wanted to explain why I miss exits on the freeway all the time. Sometimes I am a street kid who became an Olympic athlete, sometimes I save planes that are hijacked, but most the time I win Survivor and interview myself on talk shows.)

My Brothers

I don't have time to write, but I love this picture from Christmas. I think it's hilarious that all my brothers were willing to take this picture. It wasn't even my idea. It was so fun hanging out with everyone!