Printing Center USA

 Hey Everyone! I'm sending my Fat Cat book to print. I'm using this printing company I've never tried before, but I've read good things. Here's the link if you'd like to check it out. It's called Printing Center USA!  

 https://www.printingcenterusa.com/printing/calendar-printing

Cover Letter. Borrow Freely.

I haven't blogged in 5 years. Mostly because cool kids don't blog anymore. But also because my life entered an amazing trajectory following the submission of this cover letter.

April 19, 2012

Dear Hiring Manager,

I am Kim Berry, a world-renowned Marketing Administrative Assistant. Except, I’ve never exactly been an Administrative Assistant for a marketing company. The great news is there is no way I will be that annoying person that is always claiming, “Oh, that’s not the way we always did it at my other marketing company…” I have however, served as a Registrar for a company where I was responsible for correspondence, data entry, reception, billing, shipping, delivery, deposits, food runs, photocopying, faxing, mailing, creating reports, scheduling, editing, balancing accounts and supplying the top 5 list for Cheese Education Wednesdays.

I don’t know exactly what you are looking for, so I’ll just be absurdly honest. I want to move to Nashville, and I need a job. I realize that makes me sound desperate, but I am not. You see, I spent eight years teaching and coaching, and genuinely loved my job, the kids, and my coworkers, but I was commuting two hours a day. So, I could always teach somewhere different. I have plenty of certifications and tons of experience, I just don’t want to. I want to be able to go to the restroom whenever I feel like it, and I want to run errands all over town, and I want to file things and fax things and use sticky notes that are all linked together in a cool dispenser. I want to work in an office where I can overly organize things and leave my desk perfectly clean, or at least with the papers at precise angles parallel to the desk edge. I really enjoy people and would love the chance to work with adults who don’t tell me stories about their cat or turtle. I like kids, don’t get me wrong, I just like the idea of working with adults instead, unless of course they tell stories about cats and turtles.

You may have a ton of applicants for this job, many of which sound better on paper. I get that. But tonight when you’re thinking about all the applicants, you might want to ask yourself, “If terrorists tried to take over our building, who would we want at the front desk?” If the answer is Kim Berry, then you’ve found your Administrative Assistant. It’s really just a bonus that I also have mad administrative skills too.

I have attached my resume, and would be available to answer any additional questions you may have. I can be reached at (email address) or (phone number). Thank you for your consideration. Have a wonderful day!

Sincerely,

Kim Berry

I was offered a job in Nashville. I decided to stay in New Braunfels and become a cheer coach. Go Unicorns! Fear the Horn. 

Fate, Ninjas and Me

Roughly a year ago, we spotted him, The Runner, as he would become known. The chiseled guy with dark hair and bronze body had run straight from his Ralph Lauren ocean side photo shoot into our neighborhood and into our hearts. After a couple months spending an inordinate amount of time tracking his every move, we managed to figure out where he lived and rerouted our jogging paths accordingly. The hope was to orchestrate a chance encounter and get the ball rolling on one roommate’s relationship destiny. Which roommate ended up with him would be left to fate, but until then we would all work together, seizing every opportunity. He worked out with his garage door open, so we jogged past his house enough times to be mistaken as Olympic track stars. We had a problem. Regardless of our frequent sightings, none of us had any idea how to strike up a real conversation. Once when we passed him walking his dog, Trish said, "Hi" and I waved. Waved? Yes, I waved. Not like cute, subtle bar wave, more like fat Tommy waving to his mom at soccer practice. Anyway, weeks turned into months and no actual conversations or introductions ever happened. We lost hope.

A coral snake recently tried to kill us. Trish was on the front porch about 10:00pm when she saw the death coded stripes slither through the shrubs. She screamed that we had a killer snake outside. I had just gotten out of the shower, so I darted outside with wet hair and wearing my throwback pajamas: gym shorts whose elastic died years ago and my oversized pink 7^th grade basketball district championship shirt. We had a plan. Trish would keep track of the snake while I got the shovel of death from the garage. Great idea, but we’re a house full of girls who apparently don’t own a shovel. Plan B. The lawn ornament. I grabbed the iron cross-shaped end of the lawn ornament, pulled it out of the ground like King Arthur and tried to use the spikey end to stab the snake to death. Too dark outside, couldn’t see enough to kill. The snake was slithering faster now, we had to hurry. We heard our across-the-street neighbor man on the phone in his driveway. Trish shouted, “Hurry, go get his shovel!” Still holding the lawn ornament sword, I flew across the lawn, sprinted down the driveway, and took two steps into the street when I nearly collided with The Runner. He had emerged out of complete darkness and intercepted my path. We stood in the middle of the street, face to face, him looking like a print model, me wearing oversized pajamas with wet hair, holding a lawn ornament sword. Not sure what to do, but feeling the need to explain myself, I slowly held out the sword and said, “You wanna kill a snake?” Yes, after an entire year of stalking The Runner and dreaming of our future together, I finally made my move. I threw on my best outfit, chased him into the street, and attacked him with a lawn ornament. 

He eventually walked to the porch, but the coral snake was already gone. Trish never even looked up from the shrubbery and never saw The Runner standing beside her. She said, “Looks like we missed our chance.” The Runner shrugged, put in his headphones and jogged away. I often wonder what he thought that night running home. I mean, it’s not everyday you meet a sword-wielding Ninja snake killer girl. He’s probably still kicking himself for not getting my number.

Things I Smashed This Week

Waking up after a head injury is always a relief. Granted, the lump on my head wasn’t huge, but I did fall asleep thinking, “Blood could be squirting all inside my brain. Eh, probably not. Boy, I sure am sleepy…”

It’s been quite a week really, even without the head injury. It all started when I smashed a mom in the bus doors. It wasn’t on purpose exactly. I mean, it was intentional, I just didn’t mean to smash her. The mom met me at the stop, and when I opened the door, she stood on the street and leaned into the stairwell to discuss something about her kid. As the conversation grew longer, I glanced in my giant bus mirror and noticed my stop signs were still out and traffic was piling up behind me. I thought, “Oh shoot! Stop signs, blocking traffic. Hit button!” I slammed the sign button, completely forgetting it was the same button that operates the door. Then I hear, “Aaahh Aahh AOWW!” and turn to see the mom bracing herself as the doors attempt to compact her. I tried to apologize, but it’s hard to convince someone you weren’t trying to smash them on purpose when they clearly see you hit the smash button right in front of their face. Anyway, I’m sure she’s fine.

The oak tree limbs are a little lower than I thought in one neighborhood. I usually drive in the middle of the road to avoid hitting limbs, but this week there was a car in the other lane, so I eyed the height of the branch in my lane and thought, “I’m probably ok…” and hit the gas. Then I heard, “CAHFUMPPABLUHGRAHGGR…” across the top of the bus. Simultaneously, the emergency exit alarms started blaring. The branch had ripped the ceiling emergency hatch loose and broken some plastic thing into in a million pieces on the floor. Whatever the plastic thing used to be was necessary to trip the switch and make the emergency alarm to stop. On a school bus, if the emergency alarms are on for longer than 30 seconds, the horn starts honking. So there I am, bus parked on the side of the road, alarms blasting and horn honking, and I am standing on the bus seats trying to shove shards of plastic into the emergency hatch. My efforts were fruitless. I decided I would have to just honk and alarm my way through the neighborhood like a giant ambulance. Then I remembered that when the alarms are going, the engine won’t start. So I finally had to call in on the two way radio. “Um, Transportation, this is 74, I just hit a tree…” They had to send the rescue bus.

After a busy week of smashing people and trees, I wanted some soup. As I was taking the bowl out of the microwave, I dropped the bowl and spilled soup all over the floor. I cleaned the floor, stood up, and slammed my head into the open microwave door so hard that the door flew off, landed on the rest of the soup, and sent soup flying everywhere. I instantly dropped to the ground and did that thing where you’re crying because it hurts and laughing at the same time because you know how stupid you just looked, and the people watching aren’t sure if you’re hurt, so they keep asking you if you’re ok, which is motivated both by concern and the fact that they’re trying really hard not to laugh until they know you’re ok, so to give them the green light, you squeak out, “I’m ok” and you hold your throbbing head as they die laughing. So anyway, I have a little gash in my head. It hurt real bad, but didn’t kill me in my sleep, so we’re good.

I have a black light. You probably don't.

My friend Danny ran into the meeting room at camp screaming that he had just been stung by a scorpion. The panic on his face proved he thought he had been stung by the Indiana Jones kind of scorpion, the kind that causes blood to trickle from your ears just slowly enough to make you realize something’s wrong, then you die. Texas scorpions hurt like fire, but they don’t kill. Danny didn’t know this. Anyway, he ran into the room shouting that he had just been stung, fear darting from his words. The spontaneous group overreaction could not have been choreographed more beautifully.

Paul screamed, “Hurry, take off your shirt!!”

Tim bolted out of the room, “I’ll get the ice!”

The other guys shoved him onto the couch, elevated his feet, took off his shoes, and tied a tourniquet to his arm, all faster than the secret service would have responded to gunfire.

Tim ran back in with ice, “Hurry, rub this all over your chest!!”

Paul hit a button on his watch like he was timing whether their efforts would be enough to slow the poison, and in turn, avoid Danny’s untimely death. Danny spent the next 47 seconds vigorously rubbing large ice chunks all over his chest. He eventually clued in, but not before he freezer burned his entire torso.

I’ve always thought scorpions were kinda funny because of that memory.
Yeah, killer sharks are kinda funny too, until one ATTACKS YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.

So there I was, minding my own business, dead asleep at 2:37am, when I felt an intense searing pain on my rib. I jumped up and clasped my hand over the rib where the freakish pain originated. Something instantly moved UNDER MY SHIRT. As my shirt was flying across the room, I saw the scorpion bail out and sail to the floor. He defiantly scampered toward the dresser waving his stinger tail in the air shouting, “Boooyah! You thought you were sleeping! Bwahhaha…”

At that point, I was not only awake, but I was convinced there were at least 20 more scorpions hiding in my hair. I started awkwardly thrashing my hair around, hoping to dislodge the scorpions before their next attack. The scene reminded me of Julie Efferson’s sixth grade slumber party where we decided to make our own Def Leopard video.

By 2:43am, I was researching how to annihilate scorpions from the earth. Apparently scorpions glow in black light, much like those plastic stars that stick on the ceiling in your bedroom. So I did what every normal 35 year old does, I bought a black light. The bulb fits into a typical lamp, so every night for a few weeks I turned off all the lights in the house and went scorpion hunting. I know, real mature. I have no idea what the neighbors thought as I walked around our pitch black house with my homemade light saber.

We haven’t had any scorpion sightings in a while, so I’ve chilled out and stopped hunting at night. I still have a cool black light though, which I’m pretty sure secretly makes everyone a little jealous.

I Got the Lice

My Yahoo account was hacked and I unknowingly sent shady e-mails to every contact I’ve met over the last 6 years. I feel dirty. Like I have lice and now everyone knows.

Stephanie Flanders always had lice in third grade. The nurse would come to our classroom, put on blue gloves and would somehow use a pencil eraser to check each person’s hair. The nurse would leave and suddenly Mrs. Morgan would need someone to run an errand. Who did she always choose? Stephanie Flanders. In our little judgmental third grade minds, Stephanie probably never bathed and clearly never washed her hair. Hence the lice.

I need to be honest. I have subconsciously, but piously blamed some of my friends for their own cyber lice. I have assumed because of their shady e-mails, that they simply weren’t technologically savvy. They must be the dorks who actually open attachments on cheesy forwards, and now they have cooties. I’ve even assumed on occasion that the pills or the magazine subscriptions they accidentally sent everyone were probably a mere one degree of separation from something for which they were actually shopping. I mean, let’s be honest.

I was wrong. I was judgmental. I got the lice.

I'm sorry Stephanie.

The Naked Bus

* Due to the vast number of people that reached this site after googling "naked bus" or "naked people on bus" or "pictures of naked people on bus" I decided to offer this link. http://www.settingcaptivesfree.com/ I probably don't know you or your story, but I honestly wish the best for you in this life. Cheers.

* Also, if you were trying to find the cheap New Zealand bus line (where people are thankfully fully clothed,) here is the website. http://nakedbus.com/nz/bus/

This summer, I drove a giant yellow school bus full of naked people. Well, they weren't really naked, but when I pretended they were, I'd start laughing every time.

People float through town on tubes here in New Braunfels. I pick them up at the end of the river and take them to their cars. I drive the naked bus. Try not to be jealous.

I hate meetings.

I’m not typically a violent person.

As I was doodling flowers and drawing awesome 3D boxes, I heard the microphone person ask if there were any questions. I am astounded by adults who think it’s appropriate to ask questions in a large group setting. When the speaker is finished, the meeting is over. Do not ask your questions.

When Jennifer in 3rd grade talked a lot and asked too many questions and kept us from having extra kickball time at the end of the day, we found her at recess and took care of it. “Stupid Jennifer? If you shut up, we get kickball time. Duh.” If verbal encouragement didn’t work, stomping on her feet would do the trick. I’m now realizing that playground mafia was not allowed in some parts of the country. Linda, from a meeting I recently attended, clearly never had her feet stomped.

Linda kept asking questions that applied only to Linda. I don’t understand why the microphone person kept answering. She could have said, “Stupid Linda, that question only applies to you; let’s talk after this meeting so we don’t waste the lives of everyone else in this room.” But she did not.

I contemplated what should happen to Linda. It’s not her fault that no one ever stomped on her feet earlier in life. But Linda started an avalanche. Ronnie and Barbara suddenly had recurring dumb questions, some of which were already answered earlier in the meeting. Susan rattled on with a story about her sister-in-law who worked in an office that didn’t allow employees to eat gum. When Peggy gave a lengthy diatribe about open-toed shoes being unprofessional and causing the spread of staff infections, I began planning my attack on Linda. She was the instigator of the question and story vomiting. Due only to vast personal restraint, I decided on plan C. You’re welcome, Linda.

Plan C:
In one Ninja-like motion, I will backflip onto my table, or maybe do one of those side cartwheel flips that Ninja’s do, I’m not sure which yet. Anyway, in mid-air I will begin a Banshee war cry at the top of my lungs. Eiiieeiiieeeeeiiieeee!!! With cat-like swiftness, in three easy steps, I will bound across the tabletops to Linda’s location. Linda’s perplexed, questioning stare will only fuel my full-out lineman tackle that will lift her from her chair and send her to the ground with a, “Thwump,” like a raccoon being hit by a truck. The room will gasp, and then grow curiously quiet. I will release her from our now awkward bear hug and simply place my hand on her forehead. You totally can’t get up when someone does that. In slow motion, I will put my pointer finger over my lips, pause for effect, then say, “shhhh.” I will remove my hand from her forehead, climb slowly to the middle of the table and stand, silent and confident. Then, in just above a whisper, I will softly pat Ronnie on the head and say… duck. Then Barbara, long pause…duck. Then Peggy, duck. I will stare at the microphone person for an awkward amount of time, then dart across the table to the front of the room, shouting ‘DUCK’ and whopping people on the head as I pass them. I will grab the mic, and with Jack Nicholson authority and creepiness, I will bellow, “GOOOOSE!” and bail out the window. Because that’s what Ninjas do.

Anyway, if I am ever in a meeting with you, and a paper ball with a rock inside thumps into your temporal lobe while you're asking a question, just be thankful I chose plan D.

Paul's Blog

I haven't blogged lately. I'll have some new stuff soon.

My youngest brother Paul is now blogging:

http://pwberry.blogspot.com/2010/09/10-things-having-new-boy-has-taught-me.html

His blog makes me laugh to the point of facial pain.

July

Here is what happens when I combine Blue, Grey, and Orange:

And here is what happens when God combines Blue, Grey, and Orange:

Me: Not so awesome.
God: Crazy Awesome.

We had some storms this summer, followed by some sunsets.

I took pictures.

Anti-Cancer Soup

I am on a health food rampage. Recently I’ve been existing primarily on foods promising to boost my immunity, clear my skin, burn my fat, decrease my cholesterol, and make me completely invincible. So when I saw this recipe for a soup that fights cancer, I almost dropped my tofu and cried. I don’t have cancer, but I figure if I load up on this stuff, any potential cancer attacks will be thwarted by the irrational amount of spinach, kale, flax seeds, leeks, celery, acai, green tea and goji berries already in my system. A preemptive measure if you will. So, I set out to make this famous anti-cancer soup. Following recipes is not my forte, but since this is cancer we’re fighting, I did exactly what I was asked. However…

Confusion:
The recipe clearly prohibited chopping any vegetables, but said to put 10 whole zucchini, 3 whole leek stalks, and 4 whole onions into a pot with an inch of water. I wish I had a picture of how dumb this looked, zucchini piled like a giant campfire, onions falling out of the pot, leeks trying to escape….

Problem:
So you’re supposed to steam these vegetables for a while then chunk them into a blender with some other ingredients. This blending step caused my soup to quadruple in size. I used every large bowl-shaped container in the house to contain the sudden 40 gallons of soup.

Another Problem:
I have never seen pre-digested food this texture or this shade of green. After the blending, the soup looked and smelled like a giant cow had eaten and vomited 9,000 little green army men into the pot on my stove. I tried not to lose hope. I added the last few ingredients and tasted the famed anti-cancer soup.

Result:
SICK OUT. I could not possibly eat enough of this soup to ward off cancer. I couldn’t even finish one trial spoonful. In a matter of seconds, all 40 gallons of anti-cancer soup gurgled down the sink, sludged through the disposal, and oozed into the sewer where it belongs. New Braunfels sewer rats will be rock stars in the world of lab testing. As for me, tonight free radicals will float recklessly through my body, oxidizing all over the place.

The Dawn of Evening

A)

B)

So apparently when you run out of that Cascade powder stuff, you can't just dump liquid Dawn in that little flippy soap thing on the door.

Longish Sleeves

My long sleeve shirts start out normal, with the torso and sleeves spanning typical human body proportions. The cotton is always soft, the colors are vibrant, the shirts are perfect. Then something happens. My sleeves shrink. Only my sleeves. The rest of my shirt is still perfect, but my sleeves lose any semblance of proportionality and rest an exceptionally awkward distance from my wrist. Not only are my new 5/8 sleeve shirts a clear fashion disaster, they are also remarkably uncomfortable.

I do not like awkwardly short long-sleeve shirts. I much prefer all other sleeve issues. Like bunchy sleeve.

Bunchy sleeve occurs when the cuff is tight enough to rest appropriately on the wrist, but the sleeve is entirely too long, thereby creating a large bunch above the wrist.

Bunchy sleeve is not fun, but it is preferable to delastic nocuff.

Delastic nocuff is the sad situation in which the sleeve was actually the right length for once, but cuff elasticity was less than exceptional. This unfortunate situation leaves the weakened, stretched out cuff susceptible to unintentional dunking in soups and cereals.

Possibly the worst situation is delastic nocuff post-bunchy sleeve. This is a sleeve that was formerly bunchy sleeve, but the elastic in the cuff weakened and created that, “bless her heart she has no arms” look. Once a sleeve has reached this point, there is no return.

Bermuda Triangles and Resumes

*Disclaimer: The following opinions do not reflect the views of former housemate Erin DuBose. The rest of us however, wholeheartedly agree.

September 16, 1950 marked the first allegation of mysterious disappearances in the region now referred to as the Bermuda Triangle. The unexplainable phenomenon created an overwhelming sense of fear and dread to the families of people who insisted on crossing through these treacherous boundaries.

I hate snakes. I also have little appreciation for attack bugs or lizards. This snake was found Thursday living under a rock near our fence.
Her head was immediately severed, and the lives of her baby snake children were not spared. I do not feel guilty.

I also found this little guy in the driveway this week. This was probably unintentional, but again, I do not feel guilty.

These little guys lost their lives in the door jam of our front door. Unintentional. No guilt.

I left the body of the dead snake in our driveway for a couple days, along with the carcasses of the other unfortunate reptiles and arthropods that ventured onto our turf. I hope our message is clear: Fear us. I want all snake families to tremble in fear when one of their loved ones ventures onto our property. I want certain death to thwart their travel plans. Die snakes, Die.

Ok, that’s all I have to say about that. I’ll work on my resume now. My only real plan today was to work on my resume. Instead I have cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed, finished laundry, read a book, and found a new location for our hide-a-key. If prospective employers tried to find the hide-a-key or could see how clean my house is, they’d hire me for sure. Well, unless they saw the murdered snake in the driveway.

Norman and the Blood Tester

Years ago, Grandpa wobbled to his recliner, slurred his speech, and motioned incoherently while attempting to tell us something. We freaked out and rushed him to the hospital; only to find out his blood sugar was just a bit low. As soon as he took medicine, he was fine. Now we have these nifty little blood sugar testers at the house. If Grandpa starts acting loopy, we simply test the blood and give him some medicine. Awesome.



I want to create and market a hormone level tester. I would like a simple finger-prick blood tester machine that would notify me if I am crazy. For example, if I look into my closet and burst into tears because my shirt is the wrong shade of blue, I could take out the hormone tester and realize that everything I think and feel is entirely fictional because hormone levels are through the roof. I could then rest assured that in a few days my shirt would again return to an acceptable shade of blue.

I have also been working on creating a character in my dreams that notifies me of non-reality. His name is Norman. He is a thin, nerdy guy with brown plastic-framed glasses. Norman will hopefully enter the scene next time all my teeth fall out. He will wave red flags and shout, "This is not real! You are dreaming!" He will occasionally reassure me that I am neither pregnant, nor floating on my ceiling, nor marrying a faceless person I have never met. Everyone needs a Norman. I am also convinced due to recent events, that everyone also needs a hormone level finger-prick blood tester.



"Knowing is half the battle." -GI Joe.

My Car Has Gas

…then terrorists entered our school, took hundreds of people hostage, and threatened to blow up the entire city…while under lockdown, my group of friends created an escape route through the school air vents…securing freedom for the entire student body…

I daydream while driving. This was a particularly good story, like Red Dawn meets The Breakfast Club. I stopped daydreaming and started calculating how much sooner I would arrive home if I drove 5 mph faster. As I was throwing numbers around in my head, I heard.…bbrrrrrrrrbp! It was from my car engine, and it was unmistakably a fart. My car farted. I instantly looked around, strangely embarrassed and paranoid. I wondered if anyone else heard my car fart. I remembered fifth grade. I was extremely quiet and reserved in fifth grade. I sat by the wall in the back of the classroom. One day my shoe made an inappropriate noise. It really was my shoe, but knowing no one would believe the shoe story, I instantly put my arm to my mouth as though I had intentionally made a fart noise. The teacher looked my direction upon hearing the noise and saw my arm in my mouth. She must have been extremely confused as to why the girl who had never spoken in class was suddenly making fart noises on her arm. I figured being reprimanded for fake farting was certainly better than the social suicide of people thinking I had actually farted in class. Anyway, 5 months have passed and the car flatulence has become a daily occurrence. I considered taking my car to the shop, but have resisted for fear of how the scene would play out…

The service technician would ask if he could help me. I would say that my car makes a farting noise. The man would try not to laugh. He would ask what kind of fart. I would say the….brrrrrrbp kind. He would say the …….bbrrhhmhorrrmph kind? I would say no, more of a brrrrrbp…a little higher pitched than a bbrrhhhhorrrrrph. Frank and James, two men with blue shirts and embroidered name badges, would walk in and want to join the fart noise game. James would stick his hand into his shirt and begin armpit noises. Frank would roar with laughter and claim he could make the real ones on command. Fearing the possibilities of Frank’s claim, I would leave the shop.

I won’t take my car to the shop. I’ll keep it a few more years then sell it to some unsuspecting buyer. She will probably spend the next several years driving around trying to convince everyone that it was just her shoe.

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.