Catch-22

I think the concept of "Catch-22" is confusing to enough people that it can be used whenever you want. I like assessing a non-catch-22 situation as Catch-22 and seeing how many nods of approval I get.

Real Conversation:

Girl: This guy keeps coming in to work and hitting on me. He is gross and he keeps asking me when I work next and it's really grossing me out! (Insert racial slur here)
Me: Oh. Catch-22.
Girl: Exactly!

It's that simple.

*Note: This process is much more successful when the person isn't really interested in your input, but rather is using you as a sounding board who makes listening noises. Fair enough when you are using her as a device for personal amusement who makes unintelligent, and usually rude, statements.

Dictionary: 1.a frustrating situation in which one is trapped by contradictory regulations or conditions.

"The Gentle Giant"

Israel Kamakawiwo'ole:  For those who are not aware of this artist, you are probably just unaware that you are aware of him.  Anyone who watched commercials or movies in the 90's knows he sings the "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" ukulele rendition.  You know what I'm talking about.  He is Hawaiian, 789 pounds, gemini (classic gemini, sometimes fat, but always loveable) and unfortunately, dead.  He died in '97.  RIP.

That being said, consider the following conversation I overheard at the gym today.

(Kamakawiwo'ole's "rainbow" playing over the loud speakers)

small girl (talking to remotely attractive, but unfortunately short boy):  Oh my gosh, I love this song.  It's one of my favorites

small boy:  What?  Oh, yeah, this is a good one.

small girl:  I love this guy who sings this.  He was on American Idol last night, did you see it?  He sang this song.

small boy:  No, I guess I missed it.

small girl:  Yeah, it was really good, what is his name?  (I'm being serious...) It's something simple... Michael Johnson, Mike Jones... (It was George Michael, I saw the episode, I knew enough about this conversation to know that everything this girl was saying was wrong.)

This conversation taught me two things:  1.  Small people may be more attractive, but not necessarily more intelligent, and 2.  Don't ever claim anything is your favorite unless you know at least enough about it to know if it is dead or not.  

No, YOU CALM DOWN!

For those of us who have ever lived with girls (say... four in one room) we know that when that time comes to change while everyone else is dressed, things get pretty uncomfortable. We also know that as soon as we say, "Don't look" the first thing everyone does is look up at the announcer (aw, come on!). It's a little thing I like to call a paradoxical reactor.
And it doesn't only occur in a vulnerable, naked state either. In fact, most times I am fully clothed when I experience a paradoxical reactor. Some girls even use this device for flirting. "I'm really ticklish there! Don't do it!" I haven't figured out this perfect science yet: using PRs to my advantage; most of the time they are the bane of my orderly composure.

To illustrate: Look at the phrase, "calm down." I don't know what mother, meathead, pretentious snob, or "friend" thinks when they offer this gem of advice to anyone, but the lesson needs to be learned that the opposite happens. Whether I am overly- angry, excited, loud, happy, or worried; telling me to calm down will only inflame my anger, subdue my excitement, presumably make me get louder (shudder) and eliminate all happiness, probably from both our lives. Bottom line, I won't calm down. I have developed a flow chart to demonstrate what I mean. 

*Note:  The rate at which you tell me to calm down has a positive correlation with the rate at which I do not calm down

Damn Marathon

10 Things I might rather do than run 13.1 consecutive miles:

10.  Be Warren Jeffs' least favorite wife

9.  Floss on a regular basis

8.  Live as a "cat lady" for an entire year

7.  Pick up a bad habit, quit, then join a support group... all in under 21 days

6.  Re-do puberty

5.  Wear Listerine strips as contacts for a day

4.  Part with my inhaler

3.  Go freegan 

2.  Watch American Pie III again... with my grandma

1.  Lose at Mario Kart 

I just signed up for the Teton Dam half-marathon... wish me luck

My Ablogogies

Having friends who blog, we frequently run into blog pop quizzes don't we?  Testing our loyalty to our friends' lives and stories.  A conversation will be taking place and then, bam! "... but you already know that story, it was in my blog..."  -Oh yeah, that one, with the... hey!  Amelia Erhart!  I found her!

Or sometimes the occasional, I went to Spain last month, did you read my blog about it?  -Spain, Spain, quick say anything about Spain!  Yeah, that trip where you heard lots of Spanish. Great blog.

Usually these conversations end with me excusing myself to my dear friends that I have been busy lately and really do enjoy and read their blogs.  It also consists of me reciting previous blogs that I have read just to prove the point:  -Oh haven't caught the Spain blog yet, I've been so busy, but was it as good as your trip to Salt Lake? You know, when you lost half your money but that Mormon returned it to you, with an extra five? 

This process is similar to a pop quiz given in a class I really do love, but for some reason have missed the readings:  reasons for which 'busy-ness' is really no excuse.  

So, today, I want to send my apologies to the blogging world.  I have read all blogs I have missed and vow (because I want to, not because I feel obligated to do so) to keep updated on all of my charming, blogging friends.  Mary, I saw that you tagged me in a blog, and I intend on imminent response.  Kristine, I hope you have lots of fun in California with Jane; Jane, thank you for that misleading wedding photo of Christian and me; and Jess: I fell for the same April Fool's joke, you're in good company.  Or at least gullible, but optimistic company.  How's that for an A+ quiz?

Bragging Rights

Ahh blogging.  It's been a while since I've had time to breathe let alone blog.  Breathing: there is an interesting concept, and not one the designer of my bridesmaid's dress is all too familiar with, but that is another blog for another day, because today I get to do something most bloggers get to write about: bragging about children.  This isn't something I ever have the privilege to do, being senescent, single, and selfish with no offspring to show for my 21 almost 22 (shudder) years.  

But today I cross the bounds of the first dates vs. first steps.  I bring to you stories of my nephew's first publication.  

My sister, bored in church, wrote in large letters on her hand for her 6 year-old to read:  U R A Freak, and then showed him her hand.  He, being a good sport, gave her an elbow and quickly got to work on what would be his retaliation.  My sister reports a solid ten minutes of steady writing before the finished product.  When the paper was given back to my sister, it read, in unsteady kindergarten penmanship, "don't you wish your boyfriend was a freak like me."  I'm not sure what a mother feels when her child takes a first step, babbles the word, 'mama' for the first time, or finally graduates from rehab and comes home for the first time in three months, but I am quite convinced it's something of the pride and adoration I felt for my 6-year-old nephew Carter when he fired Pussy Cat Doll lyrics in counterattack towards my sister... all during the middle of church. 

The Londerground

I have been a participant of the world's most efficient public transport for about a month now.  I'm just a baby to this world of the some times scary, sometimes strange, underground, but I think my love for this place has finally entered my cautious heart.

I'm not sure when it happened, my appreciation for the tube, but it did.  It could have been the irony of the classical music played over loudspeakers in Brixton station where I live (notorious for it's drug solicitation and prostitution), as if to force class into the manner of the homeless, hustlers, and most unlikely: busy people who are all convinced that their schedule is more rushed, more important, and more urgent than their neighbor they are shoving out of the way to get onto the train first.  Yes, it could have been all these beautiful displays of humanity but I think it was last week on my lunch break, waiting for the train to take off when a rather large, blind man got on (heaven bless the blind people who brave the underground on a day-to-day basis).  He made his way along the mostly empty row of chairs and, of course, sat in the one already occupied by a very small Asian man.  

As this wonderful scene unfolded before my eyes, I was thinking about those times in life when one witnesses such pure, real-life comedy that it's almost a tragedy to be alone, not able to share with someone else.  This was nothing like that.  I stifled private laughter the duration of the ride and then all the way to work, and then yet again when I relayed the story to my less-bemused sister.  

Now, the mornings when I'm pressed up against hair that smells like fish, or a coat that smells like the Salvation Army, I remember that Asian man scrambling for his life, and I can think to myself how much I love the underground:  Slime, smell and smog, all laced with a laugh.