Not a funny post. A sad and boring post. You can skip it.

OK, so like I've said before, I have these two dads. 

There is the one whose name I bore, and one whose face I bore. 

Today I'm talking about the second one. He was not much of a dad. He had some demons. And he got in a car crash that left him paralyzed from the neck down, a few years ago. 

I struggle talking to him, because every other time it's a big dramatic near-death call, from his mother, trying to manipulate me into going out there to see them. I could go into great detail as to why I don't like to go there. But that's for another time.

I get calls from my father sometimes, when he's sedated, and he leaves me dramatic/undecipherable voicemails. He's an extremely sad person, alone in his house with a nurse and a TV and a lifetime of regrets. It's weird that I get these calls at all, considering that he has to get someone to put the headset on him and dial.

His caretaker called me last night. My father got a bad bedsore infection that ate through his leg, all the way to the bone. They sent him to a hospital in Seattle hoping some antibiotics could fix it. They didn't. They will be amputating the leg from the knee down. I still haven't called him back. 

I know that, since he will never use it again anyway, that it might seem not that sad. But isn't it a little weird, that like, a major part of your body will be thrown in a garbage can? I mean, you can't even be conscious when they discard it, so you can say goodbye. 

Anyway, plenty of things about this make me incredibly confused. Life dealt me a father who gave me nothing but bad memories and insecurities. He incensed me with his manipulative ways of hijacking conversations and cornering you with them to make you feel guilty for having the audacity to REMEMBER him beating your mom in front of you as a kid. And chasing you down in the yard when you ran for help. And being the guy they talked about in D.A.R.E., so you felt guilty and bad the entire time for not turning your parents in (my friend totally turned her dad in to the D.A.R.E. officers, and only until recently did I realize D.A.R.E. was actually an educational forum, and not a program in which cops attempt to horrify kids into turning their druggie parents in). 

And then I get this late night call from him, in his unguarded, honest, vulnerable state of sedation where he is embarrassed and ashamed for losing his leg, now having to feel "like an even bigger freak than I already was." And you picture him lying there in that hospital bed in his living room, watching Law & Order with caretakers. With no choice but to accept this misfortune. No option for suicide (oh, he tried, got a nurse fired even). No way to say "no." Just lay there and take it.

This is someone I really need to feel numb to, but I can't not bleed from my heart thinking about how much Karma has overcorrected. I can't stop thinking about his damn leg. And then his life. And his situation, and his future.

I would be completely messed up if it weren't for Ryan knowing the ropes, and keeping me anchored.

I continue to have no idea how to feel. And I still haven't called him.

Seventeen

OK, so you asked. Well, no you didn't. In fact, I apologize for doing this to you. But here is that dress. Now, is it really that bad? I mean, it wouldn't be anyone's first pick for a prom TODAY, but I have nothing to be embarrassed about besides my sad hair (I did it myself with zero inspiration or guidance). Right?

Let's put it to a vote girls. And Ryan.

poll by twiigs.com

My poor date. His mother framed an 9x12 of that sucker in their living room. He was the nicest boy I ever met in my entire life. Too bad he had to begin every sentence with either "We was" or "He don't."

We should do this again sometime. Shudder.

Twenty-seven

It's the first year I have felt that all these birthdays are starting to add up. I know this will just succeed in pissing off every person over the age of 27 who reads this blog. But I feel old for the first time. Sorry you guys. Then I remember that very young, pretty, boingy people, like my aunt Annie, are often totally in their thirties. Like, I still have six-plus years until I am as boingy as they are.

Anyway, I was thinking about how being twenty-fricking-seven means that being seventeen was ten years ago. Holy [expletive]. I mean, wow. It's been a whole decade since Britney's boob job, and my still-favorite Alanis album? Since my prom? Omyhell, my dress is not cute anymore, is it? It totally isn't! But it was the color of frost! And had a semi-full skirt. And a damask-ish brocard-y type of matte floral understated texture! And it matched my "frost" eyeshadow and accentuated my disgustingly overboard fake tan! It wasn't white, but frost! How can it not be cute anymore? How embarrassing that I'm still offering it to my sisters for their dances. They were like, in pull-ups when I last wore it. They are now using birth control and being taken places by Adam Sandberg clones in Transams. And I have honest to God offered it to them, like I'm being generous, oh mercy. I'm so very very lame. But it was FROST!

Aside from the fact that I am old and out of touch with fashion (I only fancy the True Religion and Citizen jeans because I can't seem to find any damn SILVER TABS ANYWHERE motherfrickers, and I think that paying $250 for a pair of jeans would make it ok to wear with an ENUF shirt, right? No? Esprit? NO, please no, Esprit was my trademark, you bitches, don't take that from me), I would like to think that if time warping were available, or if you could communicate with past versions of yourself through some sort of holographic email platform, that the seventeen-year-old Kirsten would be stunned with how awesome she would someday be. If it were possible, I'd write her this letter, as did Dan of [Redacted] fame. I didn't redact, that's really the name of his blog.

Dear Sunshine,

You're probably just getting out of training at the Sears Home Central call center. Sorry about having to take it twice because of the boring learning environment and the fact that you haven't yet sought medication for your ADD. Someday, you will be able to float by call center people at your place of grown-up employment when you're 27, and listen to their stories of who they told off, and when, and how they don't take shit from anyone and stuff, and remember their plight. And their weird niche in the socio-economic caste system. I know your boyfriend is annoying, and got jealous because your dog saw you change, but it's OK because you dump him to make out with Alan K anyway. Which will be super fun. Except, spoiler alert, you don't wait for him in his mission, but that's not important right now. What's important is that you also dump the annoying boyfriend RJ. When he tries to convince you to wear a t-shirt under your frost dress (heavy breathing, gush, gulp, omigosh YOU think it's pretty, don't you? Good.), because it is technically sleeveless, tell him to shove it. You will never miss the 75 inch subs he blasted into your back for the past year and a half. I promise. Alan will let you listen to whatever you want. He hearts you. And your roots look very bad.

While I'm at it, get better grades. And don't tan anymore, because I'm really REALLY paying for it now.

Love,

You at twenty-seven.

I mean, I just can't believe that the damn dress is officially ugly now. Should I make this a to be continued, and go find pictures, and scan them for reader vote?

Ok.

To be continued.

Who Doesn't Love An Abrasive ProstiTot?

So, I am going on a road trip with some friends for the next two days. Well, I mean, is it a road trip if it's just 4 hours, to Jackson Hole? (If your name rhymes with FAT FLAPPER, I hope you like the reference. Do you want me to type "hole" again? Get back to work!) Except, I didn't get everything done at work that I needed to. So I have to go in really early tomorrow. Which means I need to get to bed a little earlier. I wasted like a half hour looking for drivers to download for an old webcam we haven't used since we got Vista, so that D could watch the dog chew a bone. Oh and I haven't started packing yet, and I only just got out of the shower.

Which is why the only obvious thing to do with my time right now is to embed Miley Cyrus videos on my blog.



To quote Michael K of dlisted, "Miley's laugh could f***ing grate cheese." To be fair, I'm pretty sure that's how you picture me acting when I sit here typing about Moses. Or Aniston. I love Ellen's face.

Ok, back to work.

Right after reading the rest of what Michael K has to say about celebrity camel toe.

What a sexy fun time for you.

That was for Annie, and any other Arrested Development fan that's reading this.

A sexy fun time for me is getting home from work at 10:30 tonight and eating Taco Bell and watching Dave Ramsey on TV. Did you know he has a TV show? Yeah!

Since I've become an avid listener, I've learned to answer their little questions out loud, alone in my car, before Davey boy spits it out. He has to wait for them to finish because he's Southern and polite, but guess what, I'm neither of those things, so I can say exactly what I think about people like Katherine from Atlanta. Katherine's husband lost his job right after loading up 80k in credit cards and a $3k mortgage payment, and SHE was unable to work because she found out she was pregnant.

So, I knew about the whole not-drinking thing, and not flying in the third trimester, and now the whole sushi thing. But now pregnant women shouldn't "work." Anna and Lindsay did you know this? You just sat there at your computers for all those months, WHILE PREGNANT, right in front of all of us! Unfit mothers. Actually, where's my husband. I need to get "unable" to work. OK, Katherine was probably an aerobics instructor or a Sonic skating waitress or a swimsuit model and I'm a mean judger. But the caller before her was a single mom of three, making $24k a year looking for second jobs in call centers. I wouldn't want to follow that act either.

So their question for Dave, was this: Should they tap into the $75,000 they have saved for their kids' college, to pay off their crippling credit card debt?

...


.......


And my head explodes.

But probably not for the reason you think. My reason is this: since when is paying for your kids' college YOUR JOB? No, more than that: second only to having a roof over your head and food on the table. Did you know that every college has a system that allows you to pay every month for your tuition? It's several hundred per month for a good university, but it's an option--especially if you work through the summer and save every dime. Have you ever heard of loans? I have a couple myself. They're heinous. But they're mine. Never ONCE did I think that my tuition expenses had anything to do with my parents. Because it didn't. It was nobody's education but mine.

Not to be all self-congratulatory. Even though I totally just was. It's just that these people in this financial implosion are still completely attached to the idea that if they don't commit financial suicide, their children will be uneducated. How are people so totally unaware of what the soul of their children's educations truly will be? The day you are on your own scrounging to pay your tuition, is the day you stop taking things for granted, the day you take possession of yourself and your future. Bam. Diploma of life.

I'm really tired of seeing these hazy slow-mo commercials of people with their heads in their hands, elbows resting on hulking Ethan Allen farm tables, agonizing over how their children are going to go to college. I want to yank off their J Crew cardigan sets and flog them, and say "If your kids can't scavenge their way through a FAFSA application, that's the reason you should be groaning." You could pay for an Associate's degree with two months' of these people's mortgage payments.

Well, that's my self-righteous rant for now. Thanks mom and dad, for letting me learn how the world works in the way that was best for me.

Fricking, this is what I've been talking about.

Totally irreverent. Totally inappropriate. Totally great.

What's new this week, in my own little world.

I filled up the completely EMPTY gas tank of my SUV--with with 87 octane (you only live once) for $37.

I prepaid with a 50, which normally takes me to 3/4 tank. Today, I had to walk back in to Maverik and retrieve the $12 I overpaid.


I redid a room.

See scary pedophile basement room and dingy off-white walls, painted no later than the 60's, by someone who wanted to leave a legacy of clinical depression. This is the bedroom, mind you. Well I come in, HGTV-junkie freak flags-a-blazin. Depression: Depress THIS.

So first, I put up trim.

Then I painted it with a new clean, bright white. Look at the top half of that wall. That was the sorry excuse for "white" from before. Bottom right, season nine of Friends on DVD.

Then I added a second color to the upper portion of the wall. Our landlord should love us.

And here's the finished product! That's the North wall. I'm doing the West wall next weekend. Cuz it took for fricking EVER.

Ballet season started this week.

I have Ballet West season tickets again this year with Chardell, and the season opens with The Tempest. Purr!

I scuff around the house dragging a space heater with me everywhere I go.

It is cold down in this part of the house, and the humming sound is like a little miniature furnace--the world's real lullaby (Ry guy can back me up, as he used to have a whole furnace to himself, right there in his bedroom!). Space heaters are great for drying out wet flooded basements, and are also an excellent way to speed up the aging process. I don't care if I have to go through a bottle of Curel on my arms and legs every day. Space heaters are my friend.

In other news, the Fall of 2008 was everything God created it to be.

Hope it was for you too.

So I Guess I'm Back, Or Whatever.

The work-vent hiatus was only a few posts long and didn't satisfy the way I wanted it to. Once I got writing about it, the frustration would sweep over me faster than I could type it out (I used to have this problem journaling as an angsty, dramatic teenager, so I just quit). It did help me to re-read and go "well, how the hell was I supposed to deliver anything that way?" and cut myself some slack, and have been able to fire back nastygrams a little easier when there is nothing I can do about something.

Anyway, what else is new? My roots are like 8 inches long now, so why isn't my hair 8 inches longer than when I got it colored last? Oh that's right, because I colored it brownish, and that faded. So I have 12 weeks of regrowth when really it hasn't been THAT long. But I look all kinds of white trash. It's great.

What else? Oh, a couple months ago, we decided to start using cash for everything and keep it in envelopes to see how little we could live off of. This experiment only created naughty thoughts in my mind about how easy it truly was to live off of one income, specifically D's. Hm. Of course, now that I've gotten 50% of my OE deliverables off my plate, I'm thinking "that emotional pummelling wasn't so bad! Let's do it again!"

Just kidding, and Monday I'll be on here retracting that.

Anyway, all I can say is I wish we'd started using cash envelopes two years ago.

*UPDATE* Um, that sounded like my naughty thoughts of single income were referring to ditching out on my husband. It was actually a subtle reference to not working anymore, but I couldn't bear to quit just yet; it's just starting to get good. Just thought I'd clear that up.

Random thought #47: Remember how I thought I was a schizo and have crazy days where I will combust into tears over shadows on the ceiling, and make cakes that seem delightful at the time but later discover that they look like a clown threw up its own wig? Yeah, I stumbled upon "PMDD" through various Wiki-ing and promptly self-diagnosed. I feel awesome now that there's a word for it. I love when I'm my own doctor! Oh, PMDD is a state of severe PMS. Like so severe that on days you get to work before everyone else in the office, you think they all got there before you and made plans to leave, and go to a party without you. Then you realize that's just what the office looks like at the crack of 8 a.m., something you never see. But until you realize it, you are perched on your office chair, fully waiting for those krunked-out business associates of yours to skulk back into the office, business casual collars in disarray, wearing random strangers' ID badges (or leaving them at Taco Time?) Just kidding, Anna Montana.

OK so that was exaggerated. I do get seriously paranoid, assuming the worst about a social situation that is 2 days old (I never suspect anything in social real time. Usually, I don't realize I've been stung until the social encounter is hours old, duh). Mostly, though, I fit all the symptoms of this, and it's weirdly comforting to tell myself that I'm normal (as normal as 5% of women can be). Even if I've misdiagnosed myself. Self-misdiagnosis is its own cozy placebo, and I feel tons better. I love labeling things.

Bet you still wish this was private! Nice catching up with you. Now leave a comment.

Four grownups, two floors, one laundry room

Logan: The movie was a cool concept.
Michelle: The acting was horrible.
Logan: Yeah. I didn't want to say anything during the movie, but this was not Mark Wahlberg's best performance.
Me: The little girl's fake cry was painful.
D: The producer's other movies were better.
Michelle [to D, looking at his sweats]: Those are my pants.

(Karma)

I changed the title of this post because all the K's looked like I was about to talk about Klansters or something. Ew! The reason for all those stinking k's is that I was going for the title of that cheeky Jessica Andrews song. But it's not iconic enough to just assume everyone knows that. So I changed it. Now back to my post...

When I was in high school, this girl didn't like me and pushed me, and yelled at me in the hall, and bullied me in other fashions that included writing things on chalkboards of classrooms that I was ugly, but all for no reason. She liked a boy who liked me, and I think that might be why. She snapped out of it at the end of the year and said sorry, but I was scarred for a long time until I saw her on Facebook. It was kind of like this.



Now, I'm not saying I won't look like that in the near future. But when I do, it will be sad and not funny because I didn't push short, awkward Freshman girls around in high school and make public statements about how unattractive they are. Is all I'm saying. Who's got the bullhorn now?

Note to future bullies or parents of future bullies: If you are going to call someone ugly on a chalkboard so the next class of 30 students walks in to learn of it, make sure it is not someone who will later on learn how blogging works.

Longest job ever.

On Thursday, I will have officially been at my job for two years. I interned first, which was another month and a half so really, it's been longer. My boss brought over the standard "Happy Anniversary" printout for me. Congratulations Kirsten Johnson on Two Years Of Service!

I worked for the Doctors And Scientists Of The U of U for just a couple weeks shy of the two-year mark. It felt really good to have that much time under my belt somewhere. Here is no different. It's just a long dang time.

This week also signifies my shi**iest week of my working there. The printoff the boss-lady brought over had a Halloween theme. It probably ran our color printer out of black and blue ink with all the silhouettes of old knobby trees with evil glowing eyes all over them. She sang "happy anniversary" to me, too, as is her custom.

Does this mean I get to quit now? Ha ha. Like I know when to take a hint from the Universe! It's telling me to go crawl under my laundry pile and never come back out. Oh no, I'm the cockroach of the project management world. I'm not dying, I'm getting worse!

No, I am doing fine. Others in the office are dealing with more than I am (you know who you are, although I am guessing you don't have time for reading blogs, and certainly not mine).

In other news, one month after buying D a new car (and a WARRANTY), it has to go in for repairs. I've been braced for news that there will probably be some things not covered by the warranty. To distract me, they sent my husband home with a $40,000 loaner from their dealership. Cuz that's fair.

We took the "I made it in life" -mobile to Neilsen's for some frozen custard. The marquee outside said simply: The White Stuff Cometh.

Rather than be grossed out, I finished off my treat and got to work on D's concrete. The bumbleberry custard and I settled in at home in front of the TV (Michelle O on Jon Stewart).

And that's what you do when you've got two years' worth of job history. Congratulations, Kirsten Johnson. You are a grown-up. The end.

Four years!!!

Today marks a sacred anniversary, the day I wrote my first blog post four years ago. A little history, no? This blog deserves its own little bio now and then.

October 10, 2004 was during a time when I was dating this guy, but always breaking up with him, and had to go bitterly edit him out of any and all parts that mentioned him. But then getting back together and feeling stupid, then breaking up agan and being glad I hadn't un-edited.

It was a time when I was in college, had my very own place, a basement studio apartment in the Avenues, and a Taffeta White '98 Honda Accord. My car was the most reliable thing in my life, besides Murphy's law. I never knew if I was going to come home, turn on my light, and see a giant eyebrow-bug on my floor. Scoot lives in the Avenues and has confirmed what I've suspected, that these freaky gilli-pede things are indigenous to the neighborhood--especially in basements. They were in the basement of D's building, too. They are millipedes, but instead of a thousand legs, they have a gillion, and instead of regular millipede legs, they are the legs of spiders. These creatyres are probably 2 inches long and an inch wide, and travel at 80 miles per hour across a room. I used to think I had a mouse, out of the corner of my eye, but really it was just gillipedes. No spider has ever creeped me out as much as my gillipede roomies did. I will refrain from putting a picture solely for Marianne's sake.

I also had a constant companion in a friend called Murphy. I had what I felt was pretty sour luck, and my insistence upon it invited more. Instead of groaning at my bad luck, my sometimes-boyfriend, D, suggested I get it all out on a blog so I didn't have to whine at him. All this did was make me write it out, and then stand over him as he was forced to read it all start to finish. I also saw it as a way to get used to strangers reading my words, and since strangers can be the meanest, I thought it would get me used to news writing. This did not thicken my skin enough for even the career I actually ended up in, which is not in the news industry, but has had me in tears for the past week because, while I am making deadlines, it's ever-so-clumsily, and with serious evidence of incompetence and ineptitude on my part. I can't even handle polite disapproval.

I've changed the URL a couple of times. First it was kirstenmontague.blogspot.com. Then it was a safer, much more anonymous sucrosecluster.blogspot.com (I worked for a bunch of scientists at the U of U, thinking it was awesome to talk about my sweetness in such a scientific way, then Annie asked me if I'd gotten that from her best friend's email address: sugarcluster. The genius of my idea faded, and I finally changed it to what it currently is). Before I discovered that Blogger would let you do that without losing any of your history, I had to manually copy all my posts one by one. Fortunately this was early on. But the comments were lost. I saved them all in a Word document. I should put them in my comments as an homage to the earlier attention my blog got. Maybe someday. Here's the link to my very first post, ever.

Today, it is chugging along with about seven readers...or maybe 15, with just under 50 percent of them willing to comment. That's OK. If they are thinking "you are a wank" I'd rather they keep that to themselves.

Anyway, here's to you, blog. Happy Bday.

Fast times on Redwood Road. Or in the vicinity.

I have this problem lately where things piss me off very easily. So easily that I'm pretty much incensed, like all the time. I am at the point where I am going to see a doctor for my rage. Like Ross Geller. And I'll be able to say "They gave me something for my rage." And later, after I get sent home from work for putting my computer through the window while screaming f-bomb-peppered death threats to no one in particular, and they sedate me, and I will say "Well, I'm definitely not maaad about ma-sandwich-mmm." Except instead of ma-sandwich, it will be ma-"processing speed." For now, my rage manifests itself through hot, bitter tears at my computer screen. But I suspect it will result in me being increasingly bitchy and apathetic toward others' feelings. People's ignorance incenses me. I am starting to think I'm just smarter than most other people (Except you!) and usually it's only because they're self-centered or naive or something.

But then I got good news. Good news that will be on someone else's blog soon, and so I won't steal thunder, and will just say that it was news, and it was good. Good news.

And in a stylish compositional shift to another subject of zero relation to what I was just saying, I bring you my story. A story of getting a ticket. Outside my office building for going 41 through a 25, in a construction zone, which should have had me all but sent to Gitmo, from the sound of it. I never speed. My car makes it such a pain. Big, sport utility body on just 6 sad little cylinders. Not worth the red-lining RPMs with these gas prices, if you ask me. So I just stay politely to the right and let the Utah drivers pass. But this day was different. Different because a.) It was the day I had to go to InstaCare for intense bodily pain and was on my way back to the office to take the pain medicine as speedily as possible and b.) It was a day there was a cop standing there clocking the hell out of everyone.

When he showed me the radar gun, I think the last spark of energy (rage burns it up at a rate of excessive speed), had drained from me. I probably looked like I was going to kill myself. I didn't cry or explain. I just hung my head in shame and only looked him in the eye to show him that yes, I was indeed wearing my contacts. For this reason, the cop gave me only 5 over, in a non-construction zone. Saving me about $200. I was emphatically grateful to the man who unfortunately did NOT have the mullet his sunglasses were MADE to accompany. I swear on my life, this guy was certifiably, undeniably, a 90's-model-Camaro owner and you know it. God bless West Valley City's finest, and their neon-green Local Motion tank tops. When off-duty.

In order to avoid my pristine driving record blemished with this unfortunate incident, I signed up for the traffic school. It did not disappoint. Because it was led by a little old man who used to be a police officer. And (harumph!) wanted to go home. So he spent a few minutes letting people raise their hands and report their biggest driving pet peeves. He then proceeded to play with the magnetic Matchbox cars on the big magnetized board, crash them around like a 9 year old, and show us different crash scenarios. After a short game of "Who Would Get The Citation?" which was very informative, he let us go.

I remember thinking I was kinda bummed when it ended because this man was the coolest guy. If you ever speed, do it in the WVC, where the best traffic schools are.

Utah's finest.

My friend [and coworker] has a college aged daughter who is very intelligent, very beautiful, and very sweet. She is now single after a long-term relationship, and sampling the fine array of male specimen that the SLC has to offer.

The most recent one was my favorite. Why? Because he is someone whose mind works just like this:

"Tonight is the night I meet my new girlfriend’s mom for the first night. Now, I only have a couple of hours. In such a short amount of time, I really have to keep to the basics and stay neutral. I thought of opening with

a.) a joke, or
b.) What Webster’s Dictionary defines something as.

But tonight I’m just going to stick with the classic boiler plate pitch. You know, classics like...

- Debt is a tool for wealth, and if you’re smart, you will use any and all credit (good or bad) given you, as much as will be extended to you, especially to drive a Maserati and live in a million dollar home. At age 29. [Of COURSE I watched conference today...why do you ask?]
- I'm anti-authoritarian.
- I went to SOME college. I quit because there weren’t as many ways to cheat as I thought. Except in Spanish. I flunked out of it the first semester, wrote all the right answers on my failed papers as the teacher corrected them, saved them, changed the dates, re-enrolled for the same class the next semester, and turned it all in for an A.
- I will retire next year (I’m 29 now. Even though I’m saying things 59-year-olds say).
- After retirement, I will buy a helicopter so I can go anywhere I want (I’m 29. Even though I’m saying things 11-year-olds say).
- I am going to buy my own land and then set it up as my own sovereign nation where I will be president/king.
- I believe in polygamy.
- I believe that in the Celestial Kingdom, we’ll all be bisexual.

Naaaaaailed it!

Trust me. Moms love me. They cry when I dump their daughters, because they always know how much they’ll miss me. Other brothers don’t stand a chance. I’m the king. I’m the Free Capitalist. I’m secretly bi. That went well."

The elipses tag.

I am...improving.

I miss... college.

I think...there's more to it than this.

I know...I'm starting to look old.

I want... to fit into my clothes the way I did when I bought them.

I have...a freakish sense of smell.

I search...for homes even when I can't buy one.

I wish...I had more time to blog.

I hate...arrogance and ignorance.

I am...not handling stress very well right now.

I fear...failure.

I always...let you in if you want to merge.

I love...that time of year when the heat comes on.

I feel...smug that I was right about the housing market and the economy.

I hear...birds chirping through the muffled sound of a towel on my head.

I smell...two gallons of Petzyme I just distributed in different places in my hallway.

I don't...have any patience for animal urine.

I wonder...what we did before cell phones and the internet.

I care...about animals more than people sometimes.

I regret...eating so much last night.

I am...angry. All the time these days.

I believe...Obama. I believe he is sincere.

I write...then delete, then write, then delete. Then cry, then go to bed. I'm not making very good time on this book thing.

I win...only at Word Worm in Cranium.

I lose...and rarely care.

I never...ever ever ever like sports.

I listen...to Dave Ramsey podcasts and music that doesn't have to make me cool. Sorry, music snobs. I don't always have patience for your impressively obscure stuff to grow on me, like you promise it will. I don't care if the crap I'm listening to has sub-par chord progression. And laugh all you want at my John Mayer lyrics posted below; if it cheered me up, then it accomplished what I asked for. You can take your seat now.

I can...waste my day reading all of your blogs.

I read...slowly and often.

I am...(didn't we already do this one? I believe my answer was "angry.")

I didn't nail this tag very well, and found myself erasing Makayla's enlightening, endearing, and wonderful answers to plug in my boring vanilla ones. I should have just posted Makayla's. You would have been confused when "I" talked about JJ and Gentry like they were my husband and child. But I am usually very confusing.

I tag my officemates: Anna, Lindsay, Kelly, Tom, and Marcus. Sorry Mary. You left.

The heart of life

I hate to see you cry lying there in that position
There's things you need to hear
So turn off your tears and listen
Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around
No it won't all go the way it should
But i know the heart of life is good

You know it's nothing new
Bad news never had good timing
Then the circle of your friends
Will defend the silver lining

Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around
No it won't all go the way it should
But i know the heart of life is good

Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around
Fear is a friend who's misunderstood
But i know the heart of life is good.
I know it's good.

(-John Mayer)

To my friends. xoxo/kj

The greatest thing...

...about having a super-young mom?

Texting your grandma for clarification on a recipe, and getting an instant text response. Man my grandma is cool.

Favorite things about favorite people: Parte Ryan

I just had a night's worth of nightmares about my little brother Ryan, and then spent the last ten minutes crying about it. Since I've had too many spooky dreams turn out to be prophetic, I just wanted to publicly tell Ryan I love him and not to die. And let you all know my favorite ten things about him.

1. Telepathy: He and I have always had this freaky way of being reminded of the same person by the same song, or the same odd things are funny. Maybe it had to do with me blabbing about a boy I liked, and California Love happened to be playing on the radio and that song would forever subconsciously remind us of that boy...but what's weird is it was all the time. Ryan had this little matchbox car that was an ugly yellow lowrider farm truck. However this happened, I'll never know. But we both agreed vehemently that if the truck was a person, it would be Meredith, this weird girl that was in our aunt's wedding. What two kids think like that?

2. Modesty: Ryan is younger than me, but has built multiple small businesses that he's in the process of growing. I haven't really pried, or been out to see them in Florida, but last I heard, he and Ashley drive a paid off car and rent a small condo with their two boys. When other people his age rub his nose in all their [bank's] new cars, condos, clothes and trips (yes, this happens regularly), Ryan and Ashley say "wow!" and show excitement for their friend. Sometimes, people take it way too far with them (in my opinion) and seem to ask for a report on what impressive debt THEY'VE been getting into lately, and rather than say "oh, we don't CARE about material things, and value FAMILY and MEMORIES more than THINGS like cars and boats and granite countertops!!!" (which I think he should say) he just says something to the tune of "Oh, we're working on it, hopefully someday!" I'd like to publicly say that Ryan doesn't care about material things, he values family and baseball with his boys, and jokes, and the beach, and sunshine and zen, more than material things like cars and boats and granite. And he doesn't use consumer debt to get things he doesn't need. But he doesn't rub his modesty in your face. If it ever comes up, he'll take a diplomatic stand and then talk about the gourmet food industry, which he rules. So there.

3. He shares my dirty little genetic secret, and has survived to joke about it: Ok so we have some crazy biological relatives. Some might call them WT. And by "some" I mean "me." And Ryan is right there with me, proving that living a chain-smoking and INQUIRER readership is not passed on in DNA, that class is something you do, not something you are born with.

4. He names his children right. His two kids are named Jordan and Nolan. I LOVE those names. Their boys fit the names perfectly, too.

5. Pandas. When Ry and Ashley were dating (like ten years ago, I swear) they had some joke about pandas. They seemed to feel that pandas were forgotten, and when the media would talk about "doin it like animals" they would point out that not all animals are primal and energetic, and point out Pandas. When Jordan was a baby, his first Halloween costume was a Panda. I have no idea why I think it's so funny.

6. Worn in: Ryan grew up with five sisters. He can put up with high levels of screeching, clutter, estrogen, cattiness, bossiness, moodiness, and irrational emotion. He takes it all in stride. I remember once at family dinner, my aunt's baby, Jack, had a dirty diaper. Some female said "Ryan, YOU change it, get some practice." They were joking, and the conversations continued, but he got up and quietly did. Thats' exactly him. I mean, he's not a pu**y or anything. That's not what I'm saying. He can just stay calm and brush off so much squawking and drama and just stay quietly out of it. It's great. And in our family, someone has got to be that way.

7. Non-judgmental: I know this is a dumb term, because what does that even mean anymore? I always hear it used by people who have screwed up and don't like hearing about it. His form of it is the real meaning of it. Sometimes we'll be chatting (emailing) and I'll start bashing on something, like lame myspace profiles, and he has this way of supporting what I'm saying and agreeing with me in a way that isn't distasteful or unhealthy or venomous or indulgent, or doesn't really serve any lowblows to people who aren't there to defend themselves.

8. Funny: He and his friends used to spraypaint weiners on the deer signs along the highways in Sanpete county. Don't judge; Sanpete sucks, so it's OK and besides, it's a great alternative to substance abuse or other forms of debauchery.

9. Baseball: He was a pitching boywonder when we were growing up, garnered all kinds of praise and chatter, then hurt his shoulder and it slowed him down and graduated HS early so he didn't get that Senior year in. Well, what I love is that he still plays, and is now teaching his boys. He lives in Florida for several reasons, but one of them is that he knows the kids in warmer weather get an early start to practicing in the Spring. First things first! His kids showing signs of having inherited his superhuman pitching arm.

10. This blog I wrote awhile ago


I love you Ry guy!!!

Conversation with my husband on the way to movie.

Me: Um, what's with the hot girls you're friends with on Facebook? I hate them.
Him: Who?
Me: You know. What, you can't narrow it down?
Him: Who?
Me: Ugh. I don't know, she was some whorish sex pot.
Him: What was her name???
Me: [Her stripperish name here, but I'm not going to type it because what if she reads? She'd be really pissed after reading the comment he's about to make!]. Of course she's named [*****]. I hate her. And you Friended her.
Him: [Deep belly laughter, the kind where you can tell he wishes his buddies were all there to hear it]
Me: What's so funny?
Him: She is from my HIGH SCHOOL.
Me: What a comfort. Those are the worst kind! [The Girls Your Husband Went To High School With? Your husbands remember them in their gum-popping, pouty pencil chewing, always-in-the-assemblies, perky little prime, ugh this stupid skeeze!]
Him: Ew, no! She's like 250 pounds.
Me: ________
Him: She's the girl, you know, who everyone would say "Oh yeah? Well you love [stripper name]!" like it was the ultimate burn.
Me: Excuse me, no, she--
Him: bwahahaha!!!!! [recounts her name]
Me: --no, she was disgustingly gorgeous. She was NOT fat. She must have lost weight.
Him: NO, she's groooosss!
Me: [getting pissed on her behalf]. SHE HAD A PRETTY FACE. You are an a-hole. Guys are such jerks. You could tell she was pretty. You would be lucky to have her.

Then we were there and had to find a parking spot. And just like that, we were over [girl who is NOT fat, and is sweet and awesome and you are all such dicks] and all marital Facebook bickering.

Him: There's going to be a parking spot, I know it. (enthusiastically employing the law of attraction/The Secret).
Me: Yeah. The universe has one for us, I know it. (Keep in mind, this is Century16 on 33rd...The Theater That Never Ever Ever Has Parking Spots.)
Him: It always does.
Me: Always.

We spot a prime parking spot and gasp. And do a 4-point-turn to get into it.

Him: Oh wait! There's an even better one over there. Should we take it?
Me: No!!! The universe made that one for someone else, who is having a really crappy day.
Him: You're right. That's theirs!

We walk into theater and watch darling movie (Ghost Town, yes to F words, no to sex or money-shot nudity, yes to suggested nudity of unattractive male ghost, and only comical violence). For my husband's birthday.

On the way home, I say, "I'm so glad you were born!"
Him: Would you be married if I wasn't born?
Me: I'd probably have settled for someone lame, and would be miserable because of his weak vocabulary and poor spelling skills right now. You're really the only smart guy I ever dated. What about you? If I were never born, would you be married?
Him: Naw! Pfshhhff.
Me: Did you date smart girls before me?
Him: Naw! Pfshhff.
Me: So they were just hot?
Him: Yeah.

I should be grateful. At least they weren't [name of hot, fat, Facebook prostitute vixen cow darling loveable byotch]. I'm so confused. And I'm guessing you are aware of what that's like by now. Are you still reading this? Seriously? I mean, why?

Happy Birthday D. I love you.

*Addendum: I just got really worried that the guy who played the unattractive male ghost in ghost town was going to google "ghost town" "nudity" to see what kinds of things came up about him, since he is like a g-list actor, and had 2 lines, and is probably still excited to see what is on the interwebs about him, what with his budding career, and this blog is going to come up and he is going to see that I called him unattractive. Bro, you are NOT unattractive. You are adorable, with cute glasses, and just got kindof a creepy role in a great movie. What you need is to get cast in a Rachel McAdams movie, as a guy who is an architect or net nanny administrator, and say cute things, and be the Mark Ruffalo from "13 going on 30." Instant heart throb. I just thought I'd throw that in there. You never know who's reading.

Treading vs. climbing

The other night I was at dinner with Natelli and Michelle and we were talking about the career of being a stay-at-home mom. I imagine that staying at home all day means maintaining a household, so that in the afternoon, it looks the way it did when the other parent left for work that morning. You are served the same amount of labor, and put in the same amount of effort as the breadwinning spouse, but your achievement is staying at par while theirs is accomplished things that can't be undone in twenty minutes.

I liken it to treading water versus climbing a mountain. They are equally as hard (well, I'd argue that treading is WAY harder work). On a mountain if you stop, you get some rest. If you stop treading water...you drown.

Right now at work, I feel like I am doing both. I am in a bunch of water and am just trying to get to land so I can climb a mountain (the list of things I have to do). However, I can't even reach the first item because new tasks keep flowing into my workspace with a fluidity that I feel I'm treading in. And it's much more exhausting than the actual things on my to-do list. I have spent the majority of my day swatting at random pesky interruptions and dealing with computer problems I didn't exactly have on my calendar. I have crossed off nearly NOTHING on my ever mounting list of things to get done. I'd pull another 9 p.m. work night, but I have non-negotiable errands to run tonight (husband's birthday tomorrow!). I feel like I'm on the brink of a big failure at home and at work. I just can't keep up.

I know everyone's job is hard, and there are always things we'd change. But I wish I could feel accomplished, like I achieved SOMETHING today, like I made an ounce of progress. But I didn't. It's angering. This must be what women feel like who just wanted to get to ONE of the projects she had on her to-do list...but couldn't, because of the two hours it took to make a list and drive to the store to buy groceries, then the hour of unloading and putting them all away, and then the hour it took to prepare dinner (not to mention the lunch she served her kids earlier). Throw in the mess her kids made while she was in the kitchen. Add to that the mess she made IN the kitchen just preparing the meal, which she must spend a half hour cleaning up. Consider the outfits her kids got dirty during their play day. That is not counting the half-dozen other errands she must run that week with children in tow. All of this while watching her little ones at play so they don't run into the road while she turns her back for thirty seconds. Her husband gets home to a house that doesn't look any different than when he left. Did she do ANYTHING that day? he thinks to himself. She is slouched, frazzled and defeated, on the sofa. He then asks for a foot rub and proceeds to talk about all the things he has to show for his day of labor.

It's days like this where I can't imagine being at home, trying to keep up, but never having the audacity to ask anything more from my day. Like scrubbing a bath tub. It's days like this where I want to cry because at least I get a little cash for MY water-treading. Props to the moms.

What a boring post. Sorry.

Allison C

And she hits another one out of the park.

But what about you? How've you been? Who's a narcissist?

That puppy

NONONONONO Wait!! Please don't go! Please don't exit site! I know I just talked about my dog in the title but just THIS ONCE, like, just keep reading I promise it will get good.

Sometimes we don't call Moses by his name. It's just "that puppy." Ooh, that puppy needs a treat. I'm going to get that puppy. And so on. Except, he is not a puppy anymore. He's just shy of 100 lbs, even though he's so lanky you can't tell. He is just a puppy in his brain. A clumsy, puppy mind in a big giant lab mix body. OK I'm almost there, just two more secondsIpromiseohmygawsh!

We got those family portraits taken with that puppy and while the film ones won't be processed for a while because the processing is high end and outsourced...the photog brought digital for back up. That means she has a sneak peak for us before the film (the real payload) comes back to us. It's holding me over just fine.

Take a look.

See, that wasn't so bad! It wasn't 5,000 words about my dog's giant paws and white teeth. OkI'mStopping.

Ew, it's that time.

That's right. Enya And Taco Bell time.

(For those of you with RSS feeds, disregard the fact that it looks like I posted twice. Somehow, I managed to slide my fingers across the keyboard hitting random keys that don't form words, then slid them to some magical hotkey command that published deformed verbiage that was supposed to be my title. Sorry.)

My point is that It's That Time. The time of year when I go bye bye and don't get on my blog very often because I prefer to stay employed. Fall is our big hype season (no, I do not work for Tai Pan Trading but good guess!). I go into my office, stare at my to-do list, have micro-panic attacks every 4 minutes, and sit in terror watching that little see through box in the bottom right, waft into and out of my computer screen, notifying me of a new email. I consume 800 grams of caffeine for focus, but must baste my mind in the sounds of Enya via headphones to counteract the crankiness that comes with the crack-caffeiene.

It's the best, and I'm actually not being sarcastic.

I feel dead to the world but alive in my job, and that is refreshing. But only for three months, because any longer than that would have me divorced. I get distant and robotic. My body turns to doughy, gray-faced frumpiness. My hair starts breaking off like twigs in the desert, and my complexion. Oh, my complexion. Not to mention the lobotomized zombie stare in EVERY holiday picture I appear to have rehearsed perfectly for Halloween, but is really a result of staring at to-do lists and wafty email notifiers. And other people's boring benefits. And not blogging enough.

I just thought I'd let you know that it's not you, it's me, and my posts will be slightly less frequent and exponentially less interesting as I run out of things to think about other than my clients' level of irritation with me and the percentage of their irritation that is not really my fault.

In other news, we returned from Zion (not Zionssss) National Park, where we hiked the Subway. We, meaning the four of us home fries, David & Allison, and James & Meesh. This is a nine-or-so mile hike that spanned 11 hours and managed to kill me probably twice before D breathed life back into me (we're almost there, baby. Who is Gwyneth Paltrow married to? Who is Cindy Crawford Married to? Wow, you know EVERYTHING!!! I wish I were as smart as you!). He knows how to perk me back up. Despite going on just one hour of sleep, the first four hours of scrambling, climbing and scaling were glorious. The next four hours of trudging in and out of ice-cold, neck deep water were fascinating and exhilirating. The next hour was the wind-down for me. Ahh, I was ready to be done. What a beaufiful day.

And then two more hours happened. Right about the time the previous night's absence of REM cycle caught up to me. That's when my shoes broke skin and my body felt like it had no further strength available to lift my feet high enough not to trip on things. It ended with a steep hike straight up out of the canyon, which is not meant for out of shape people like me (Michelle took giant strides and didn't break a sweat, while I weezed and grunted behind her). I have a small tweak in my right ciatic that sometimes gets lodged painfully out of place. This happened at the foot of the eternal staircase. It was excruciating. I made embarrassing sounds that probably made others uncomfortable because I'm fairly certain it sounded like some sort of gasping, horrified porn star or something. The nerve wriggled back into place soon enough, but not before I came close to throwing up.

At the top, when I caught my breath, I was on an endorphin high that should probably have been illegal. I was stiff and weak and kept saying "haves to" instead of "has to" and even then had to pause to really know it was wrong. Shameful, I know. This blogger has got to get away from the desk once in awhile. There are no excuses. But it only took moments for me to shake off the discouragement of my weakness and take in all that I'd seen. What an incredible, Godly place.

The next morning, I was so sore I couldn't move. It's that accomplished, broken, smug reaction your body has to anything you put it through. I'm still waddling, and bandaged, and slightly high, and a little cocky still.

On the way home, we quietly discussed the increasingly obvious change we're slowly moving toward, that this chapter of our lives is ready to give way to one that is to be lived in a new city, within the next couple of years. It was frightening and refreshing, and it was time. I read aloud from the book Marley and Me and of course boobed through an entire chapter, which would have succeeded to make everyone feel all weird if I wasn't already such a frequent crier.

It was a all nice way to bookend Summer and launch the season of office captivity. Where I have a caffeine drip stabbed into my veins, listen to my Enya, and end my days by fully agreeing with Taco Bell that "fourthmeal" is a real thing, and buying mine from them. (Then taking it home to D, where I watch him play Tiger Woods online with Ashley's husband Spencer, and silently, stealthily tattle-text Ashley when D says Spence swears over their headsets. Ten seconds later, D's glazed over game-face contorts into an indignant scowl and I have his attention. "Hey! Spence just called me an A-hole because Ashley nailed him for swearing." The things I do for attention). Happy Fall, and you are free to go. Thanks for reading!

Dead-heading

Are you ever just, done?

Like, are you ever so over something you don't even feel a little bit sad about leaving it behind? I was that way with Barbies. And a crummy "friendship" that was lost in a move along with some socks and sunglasses.

But other than that, I rarely just outgrow stuff. I outgrew boyfriends. I outgrew towns. I outgrew philosophies and musical tastes and even culinary tastes. I got married when I no longer got anything out of dating.

When it comes to eras of your life, though, it's hard to look at it for what it is and say you're not even a little bit sad to leave it behind. I was never ready for any school year to end, even as much as I wanted summer to begin. I was not emotionally "over" college when I graduated or bored with "Friends" by the end of Season 10.

I have a girlfriend who is really struggling with some of the pressures and roles her family is forcing on her in their bizarre family dynamics. Between how exhausting they are to be around, and how atrociously disrespectful they are about her beliefs, she no longer feels blessed by the relationship. She is considering moving away, to put physical distance in between her and the family that is taxing her emotions far too readily. She seemed a little alarmed about how easy it was to decide, but I thought she should consider herself lucky. Many people are tethered to these kinds of uncool situations by fears, and emotional ties, and sentiment. They crave the "done-ness" that my friend feels. They WANT to lose sight of all the pros and see only cons.

I'm on of them. There are a couple of destructive things in my life that I can't just say goodbye to. For the sake of not being too ambiguous and freaking people out, I'll admit that they're stupid things like my inability to discard gifts people gave me ten years ago that are no longer of use (I can't let go of anything that was ever wrapped up and given to me, no matter how useless it is). To discontinue effort and emotional investment with a friend who only knows how to take from a relationship, and never contributes. I mean, it's a friendship. Is it really necessary to can it just because it's not performing for you anymore? In some cases, I think, yes. When it becomes taxing, and asks for so much compromise that it couldn't be considred respectful...it's moving into destructive territory. When it takes up a valuable resource of yours (like emotional energy) and burns it wastefully, it's time to clean house. It reminds me of deadheading roses. The bush distributes water and energy to all the stems so the roses can bloom. When they die, however, the bush continues to waste energy to keep the dying bud alive. When you laup the rosebud off at the stem, the bush discontinues energy being sent to that stem and redistributes it to the rose buds that actually stand a chance. I told my friend that the dead, useless and parasitic pieces of her life right now, are just sapping up energy that can't fuel them away. Cutting them completely off will free up a lot of extra aliveness that she can put toward personal progress that is actually achievable.

For me to look at something I once thought was just a LITTLE too special to get rid of, even if it is poisoning my sanity or organization or lifestyle, and not need it around anymore, is big. I'm there, and I'm realizing there are a few themes of my life that I'm done with.

I'm done with clutter, material possessions that contribute nothing in the way of usefulness and only take up space in my home and consciousness. I'm done with emotional attachments that just drag me around. I'm done with fixations that get me nowhere. Just like I decided to break up with my bad body image, I think I'm breaking up with my junk and poor friendships and loyalties that go unrequited. What a freedom. The freedom of dumping the body image (even though we run into each other from time to time) is an enjoyment that has not died out yet.

This post was incredibly boring, and it sounded like I was trying to be deep and spiritual and English-majory. I can't pull that off. We all know that. Anyway, I will be traipsing through Zions (subway) this weekend and I'll have opportunity to do some mental Fall cleaning. Your prayers for me to not die of exhaustion are greatly appreciated. Until Monday!

The Generation Y

Ah, the interwebs!

Not long ago, I accepted a Facebook friend request from one of the smallest kids in our high school class. He was not intelligent. He struggled scholastically. My heart broke for him often, as he displayed so much low self esteem in so many situations that he told us all in middle school that he had a secret tunnel under his house that had a leprochaun in it. I know that's normal for elementary school, but I specifically remember thinking that, by middle school, we were too old to be lying about that. His compulsive lies got him quite the reputation.

He followed every trend there was, depending on which douche he was mimicking at the moment. Skater (I went to high school in the late nineties), hip hop gangsta, prep, jock. Anything that might get a girl. He wrote a filthy "note" to my friend, Stephanie, using symbols and codes. We cracked his code with little effort. He didn't stop to think that right off the bat, we would figure out which symbols represented the letters S, T, E, P, H, A, N, I, and E. One lesson he should have learned then, was that 14 year old girls were, and probably always would be, brighter than him. Through some sort of divine freak accident, he made it through two years at the community college nearest to the farm town he grew up in.

Then became a gajillionaire, according to Facebook. I was confronted with the following phrases: "I know John Galt, do you?"

I'm no dummie. I took Business 1010 at the University of Utah. It's the introduction to philosophy of business, where you learn about Ayn Rand, Marx, and even Thoreau.

Things I learned in Business 1010:
What a free market is
What competition does for a free market
What altruism is
How businesses get money, then spend it, and then keep what's left over at the end
How guys who claim ANY BUS 1010 literature as their favorite books probably didn't get too far in B school
How people who actually finished business school will never admit to ever owning the book Rich Dad Poor Dad
Don't think he held out on us when it came to delcaring his "over $250,000" income. Don't believe him? Check out the pictures of his mansion and escalade. He owns a venture capital firm, and also misspells the word "entrepreneur."

What is it with people my age? Why are we so entitled and greedy? I love nice things and beautiful clothes. We drive somewhat older or used cars but if you ask us, they're really nice. And I really want to buy my own home someday so I don't have to answer to anyone else for the color of the walls. I'm not saying we're so above "moving up."

But we don't have to have it all right now. We still haven't been to Europe. We might have baby names picked out, that doesn't mean we have to start our family now. We're only 26. Just because we qualify to buy a big house right now doesn't mean we need one.

When our parents were 26, they didn't have 4,000 square foot custom Tuscan style homes with 3-car garages. In fact, they still don't. I'm getting really tired of the fact that I'm supposed to be ashamed of that. I'm not ashamed. I think it's fabulous that my husband and I live in the basement of a house we split with our best friends, and that there are still people our age that are happy with small starter homes and modest townhomes. I wish more people understood the joy that can be had when you tell the Joneses you'll meet up with them later, and hang out to enjoy the scenery.

I hope that didn't sound too self-righteous or condescending. Then again, I've had to remind people lately that my blog is irreverent and I'm not going to censor it. Don't wanna get made fun of? Take a quick glance before you post anything spelled "entreprunuer."