Today in church I noticed something I had never noticed before: the worship screen.
Now if you just read that and thought, "How could she possibly miss that all these years? Those things are huge!" then you have a problem that will be addressed shortly. In fact, I have noticed the existence of the the big screens that go over the stage where the pastor speaks. In fact, my church has two. But what I discovered today was the particular adjective-noun combination of worship screens. "Now please direct your attention to the worship screens," said the worship leader. And just after everyone had thought they were done worshiping! Little did they know, the TVs they were about to watch were actually worship TVs. Man, those churches just force you in to worshiping in all kinds of ways.
But what makes a screen of the worshipful variety?
Is it the screen itself? Do churches have a special connection with manufacturers that sell only TVs that have been made with products dipped in holy water, or blessed by Jesus Christ himself? Hmm... That seems outrageously unlikely.
Perhaps it's the money used to buy the screen that makes a worship one? Maybe the fact that it was bought by the money given to offering makes it holy. Hey! That's why they emphasize tithing so much. After all, we sure as hell don't want to be looking at any pagan screens in church. This is slightly more probable.
Maybe it's the simple fact that it's in church? I mean, after all, we call the guy who sings songs the worship leader. The room of choice for congragating is often called The Worship Center, and the service is called The Worship Service. It only naturally follows that we called the screens worship screens. If this is true (which it most likely is), we can expect that soon more inanimate objects will follow in this worshipful renaming. At the end of each service the pastor will kindly dismiss us out the worship doors. There will be cute little signs outside the sanctuary asking that no food or drink be omitted for fear it will spill on the worship carpet. Hearty remarks will be made about the awesome sounds that guy made on the worship drumset last week.
Like I said before, the last option is far more logical than the others. After all, we all know that the same money used to buy the church's TV could have been used to buy yours. Not to mention, you could buy the same TV for your house (we're just assuming churches really don't buy from special Worship Markets that hand-dip them in holy water) that was bought for the church and it wouldn't be called a worship screen. I can just see Dad after supper, "Hey can someone turn on the worship screen? I wanna watch the football game tonight."
In conclusion, when anything (or anyone, mind you) enters The Worship Center, you have free reign to add the word worship before referring to it/them. It is in that spirit that I admonish you to greet all your friends. "Hey worship Jack!"
Monday, February 21, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The day I had the "holl" day off school.
Translation:
One day I had the whole day off school. I got so happy! I went outside and made an igloo. Then I got cold so I went inside. I drank some hot cocoa with marshmallows. Then I looked outside and there was a whole bunch of snow in the yard.
I continue by saying:
"So I went outside agen. This time I maed a ice casil. It was vresing inside so I went inside and walk upstairs to my room but I didn't take my shoos off. Then I took 5 blankits and put them inside my casil. Then I went back to my room and pulled out my monny. Then went down stars I asked my mom if me and her could go to the stor. She said yes, so we did. I butt 12 boxes of hot coca. Then when we got home I put them in my casil. But I didn't have anything to drink with si I ask my mom if I could ues some of her mogs and she said yes. Then I put them in the casil. So finaly I took my mom outside into the casil. She freet out. Then we maed people pay $2.00 for a twer of the ice casil."
Goal accomplished. Mom freeted out.
Todd: A Very Sad Man
Translation:
Todd was a very sad man. He was sad because he did not get to go to a ball game. He loves! Ball games. His friend does not. His friend's favorite word is dude, but Todd's favorite word is ball. Todd and his friend are very different (I mean come on! They have different favorite words!), but they are friends, best friends.
Sometimes I still get "bycas" and "because" mixed up. I mean they're so similar...
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Illiterate Child
One day there was a small fire two blocks away from my house. Me and my friend wanted to go check it out so we walked to where it was supposed to be, but it wasn't there. But some people were giving cats to people, we we wanted some. So we took four home. It ended up that we had to give two away. We were sad but we dealt with it. We named them Teddy and Punk.
My name is Joanna and I am conceited.
Truth be told, journal entries like this actually are the fruit of utter humiliation. Cool and fun were quite literally some of the only words I knew how to spell.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Happy Valentine's Day.
Happy Valentine's Day everyone!
I'm actually not a fan of this particular holiday. I think it's stupid that we celebrate love with chocolate and roses once a year. Not to mention that whoever decided this was a good idea had no regard for anyone that was single, considering this is definitely one of the most depressing days ever for lonely people. I'm sorry for all of you who wish you had someone to celebrate SVD (St. Valentine's Day) with. For your sake I wish it didn't exist.
My boyfriend and I found ourselves realizing that it was SVD soon a few days ago and figured that considering we were both free, we should consider hanging out. Because he's such a great guy, he drove me around my favorite lake while I stuck my head out into the 40 degree crisp air. I was curled up, snug in a blanket, and we were listening to my favorite band, Emery. Best day ever, even without roses and candy bars.
But on a different note, SVD always holds great memories for me. My memories concerning this holiday usually revolve around my favorite candy-- Necoo Sweet Hearts. Now when I say Sweet Hearts, I mean the sweet kind. Some people are into the tart ones, but they're just... wrong. Every year I would wait until late January rolled around so the best candy ever would start popping up in stores (it's just my luck to have my favorite candy be seasonal). I would buy the big ol' bags of them and stock up so that mid-June I would still have some. It was great.
You may ask why all of this is in past tense. I will tell you. Last year I went to the store and noticed that the SVD section was set up, everything all pink and red with hearts floating from the ceiling. So I naturally got overly excited and prepared to indulge myself. I get to the little Necco section, only to find that there are none! After quite some time, I realize that they are indeed there, but in a different looking box. I buy them anyway, clenching my teeth with fear that it might be more than the box that changed. My nightmare was realized when I grabbed my favorite color--green-- and put it to my tongue. It was completely different, absolutely disgusting. I was dreadfully disappointed. I didn't even try another one.
As much as I loved them, it took me about four seconds to stop caring (I try not to let trivial things impact me severely), so when this year rolled around I wasn't expecting to have that lovely SVD taste. I noticed, however, a generic brand at a Holiday gas station and decided to try it. To my surprise and joy, it tasted the same as the originals! I bought a big bag and am prepared to buy more tomorrow when (hopefully) they go on sale.
Why do I love those candies so much? I'm not entirely sure. Obviously the taste is amazing. I love the enjoyment of slowly picking them up and reading their little sayings and then popping them in my mouth. I love that each color actually tastes significantly different (what is up with the pink ones, though?). I also have quite fond experiences with them. Back before Necco down-graded, they would sell them in the little boxes, which came in packs of six. This worked out perfectly because there were six people in my family. My mom would come home from the grocery store and give everyone one little box. All of us kids would gather together and trade according to what colors we liked best. I always got sucked into taking the nasty pink ones even though I hated them just because that was my favorite color. Eventually, we would each have our boxes with our desired content packed nicely inside. The boxes even had the little tabs so you could reseal them like cereal boxes if you wanted to save some for later. Growing up, I was never prudent enough to utilize that convenience. I would later learn to enjoy it. Now, every time I eat one those grand memories are wrapped up in a little heart-shaped sugar cluster. It's lovely.
P.S. Many people say that the all-year-round Necco wafer things are equally as good as the seasonal Sweet Hearts. This is what I have to say to that:
A) FALSE! They have that super strange brown color that nobody likes and it rubs off on all the good colors and make them taste super funny.
B) Even if they are the same flavor, they're wafers, come on! There's no way that thin little round thing can compare to the satisfaction of biting into the almost-too-crunchy hearts.
C) The waferness of them reminds me of the communion wafers used at big churches, which is awkward and makes the idea of ever eating the flavorless wafers at church that much more unappealing. I don't actually mind that as much, because I think whoever invented the wafer wasn't the smartest cookie in the jar (or wafer on the sliver platter used for communion) anyway, but it definitely doesn't add to the appeal of the wafer things.
D) Wafers don't have cute little sayings on them like "fax me" or "email me" (which are my favorites).
I'm actually not a fan of this particular holiday. I think it's stupid that we celebrate love with chocolate and roses once a year. Not to mention that whoever decided this was a good idea had no regard for anyone that was single, considering this is definitely one of the most depressing days ever for lonely people. I'm sorry for all of you who wish you had someone to celebrate SVD (St. Valentine's Day) with. For your sake I wish it didn't exist.
My boyfriend and I found ourselves realizing that it was SVD soon a few days ago and figured that considering we were both free, we should consider hanging out. Because he's such a great guy, he drove me around my favorite lake while I stuck my head out into the 40 degree crisp air. I was curled up, snug in a blanket, and we were listening to my favorite band, Emery. Best day ever, even without roses and candy bars.
But on a different note, SVD always holds great memories for me. My memories concerning this holiday usually revolve around my favorite candy-- Necoo Sweet Hearts. Now when I say Sweet Hearts, I mean the sweet kind. Some people are into the tart ones, but they're just... wrong. Every year I would wait until late January rolled around so the best candy ever would start popping up in stores (it's just my luck to have my favorite candy be seasonal). I would buy the big ol' bags of them and stock up so that mid-June I would still have some. It was great.
You may ask why all of this is in past tense. I will tell you. Last year I went to the store and noticed that the SVD section was set up, everything all pink and red with hearts floating from the ceiling. So I naturally got overly excited and prepared to indulge myself. I get to the little Necco section, only to find that there are none! After quite some time, I realize that they are indeed there, but in a different looking box. I buy them anyway, clenching my teeth with fear that it might be more than the box that changed. My nightmare was realized when I grabbed my favorite color--green-- and put it to my tongue. It was completely different, absolutely disgusting. I was dreadfully disappointed. I didn't even try another one.
As much as I loved them, it took me about four seconds to stop caring (I try not to let trivial things impact me severely), so when this year rolled around I wasn't expecting to have that lovely SVD taste. I noticed, however, a generic brand at a Holiday gas station and decided to try it. To my surprise and joy, it tasted the same as the originals! I bought a big bag and am prepared to buy more tomorrow when (hopefully) they go on sale.
Why do I love those candies so much? I'm not entirely sure. Obviously the taste is amazing. I love the enjoyment of slowly picking them up and reading their little sayings and then popping them in my mouth. I love that each color actually tastes significantly different (what is up with the pink ones, though?). I also have quite fond experiences with them. Back before Necco down-graded, they would sell them in the little boxes, which came in packs of six. This worked out perfectly because there were six people in my family. My mom would come home from the grocery store and give everyone one little box. All of us kids would gather together and trade according to what colors we liked best. I always got sucked into taking the nasty pink ones even though I hated them just because that was my favorite color. Eventually, we would each have our boxes with our desired content packed nicely inside. The boxes even had the little tabs so you could reseal them like cereal boxes if you wanted to save some for later. Growing up, I was never prudent enough to utilize that convenience. I would later learn to enjoy it. Now, every time I eat one those grand memories are wrapped up in a little heart-shaped sugar cluster. It's lovely.
P.S. Many people say that the all-year-round Necco wafer things are equally as good as the seasonal Sweet Hearts. This is what I have to say to that:
A) FALSE! They have that super strange brown color that nobody likes and it rubs off on all the good colors and make them taste super funny.
B) Even if they are the same flavor, they're wafers, come on! There's no way that thin little round thing can compare to the satisfaction of biting into the almost-too-crunchy hearts.
C) The waferness of them reminds me of the communion wafers used at big churches, which is awkward and makes the idea of ever eating the flavorless wafers at church that much more unappealing. I don't actually mind that as much, because I think whoever invented the wafer wasn't the smartest cookie in the jar (or wafer on the sliver platter used for communion) anyway, but it definitely doesn't add to the appeal of the wafer things.
D) Wafers don't have cute little sayings on them like "fax me" or "email me" (which are my favorites).
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Almost Dying via Bull
This was one of the scariest things I've ever done in my whole life. It was absolutely terrifying. It took place in California, when I spent half my summer there in after freshman year. This is the account of the experience the day it happened (if you're friends with me on Facebook you may have already read this):
Today Karina and I went on an adventure. We previously found an area in Simi Valley (you don’t get to know where ‘cause its ours) that is untouched by the evil hand of the world. Standing on a cliff, you can see mountainous terrain and rolling hills seemingly empty and void. Karina and I decided that we were going to embark on a journey across this mysterious land. This morning, we came prepared to take a hike through unmapped territory. Unfortunately, we first had to cross through barbed wire (that should have been our first warning) and pass a “No trespassing” sign. Determined to have an unforgettable adventure, we crossed the wire nonchalantly and continued on our hike. The first thing we noticed was the many holes in the ground where snakes dwell and are ready at any moment to come rattling our way. Though we were in fear of the creatures, we mustered up the courage to make our way to the exciting unknown we saw in the distance. Soon after we passed the fence, we discovered that neither of us had any idea what poison plants looked like. Meanwhile, our legs were collecting scratches and hopefully not diseases. Still, we were determined to see the beauty of the mysterious valley that awaited us. We made our way down the steep incline leading into a dried up stream. We followed that for a little while and noticed face-sized (poop, crap, excrement, poo-poo, feces, bodily waste, undigested food, bile pigments). At first, I thought it was some kind of strange plant that happened to look gross and poop-like. I poked it with a stick and it was hard and leathery. It was unfamiliar, but it became the reality of the substance became clear once we encountered it often and in large quantities. Thinking nothing of it, except that it was gross, we persisted. We climbed up a hill, and found on the way a huge patch of wild cacti. It was the first time we had seen such a plant growing in the wild. We then found a small path. Apparently, we were not the only ones that discovered the land behind the fence. Following the path, I intersected a spider web. I thought that the giant black thing floating in the path was a bee, and therefore kept walking. But after I felt sticky stuff and saw a big, gross, creepy creature crawling on my leg, I realized what I had done. I walked through the web of a possible poisonous spider.
Back at the beginning, we saw a huge, beautiful tree between two large hills toward the center of the giant valley. Soon, we encountered that very tree. Near the tree, we found a larger path. It looked like a vehicle of some sort (such as an ATV or tractor) had made and used this. But, the tracks on the path evidenced that an ATV was not the last thing to make use of that trail. Hoof-like imprints on the soft sand should have indicated, along with the excrement, that something else was at hand. We progressed, still, along the trail. By this time, we figured that this place was not so remote as we thought. We concluded that this valley was only fenced off on one side, and that people were able to come from the other end, where cliffs and dangerous slopes were not involved.
From the top, we could only see that one lonely tree, but soon we came across a cluster of big, shade-providing trees. This small forest was intriguing. So, we moved toward the trees, observing their malicious beckon for us to join them. Their twisted branches and dark surroundings were strangely inviting. Stooping under the branches, I almost walked into another spider web that Karina saved me from. Realizing that those trees could not give us shade without also giving us spider bites, we quickly lost desire to stay. Nearby, there was another small tree. This tree, soon became the center of our attention. Karina claimed (for the fifth time) that she heard noises. Just trying to entertain her suspicion enough to continue, I quieted down and listened to what sounded like the simple rustling of the branches due to wind. After listening impatiently for a few seconds, I assured her that it was just the wind in the trees, and we could safely walk away. However, the noise grew louder, until even I was sure that the wind had nothing to do with these mysterious stirrings. It sounded as if a monkey were falling out of the tree. Karina quickly implored me to leave the location. As we turned to walk away, I said I’m sure it was just a bird in the branches. But no sooner than I spoke, did the noise increase to a loud and terrifying rustle. This time, it was clear that it was not the tree that was making the noise, nor was it a bird and most definitely not the wind. The sound was coming from tall bushes farther, even, than the tree. I turned my head to see where the noise was coming from. I saw, emerging from the bushes, a black figure. I thought, at first, that it was a person. But a split second later, I realized that no person was that big. All in a glimpse, it became clear that there was a horse-sized black animal walking on all fours. It looked like it had hooves, able to match the prints we saw earlier. The size could definitely accommodate for the enormous crap we had already seen. In awe, I whispered in desperation to Karina about the sight I saw. Her jaw dropped, and together we totally freaked out! Immediately, we turned around and started frantically walking along the path we came from. This moment was one of few moments one has in their life where they are convinced that there is a pretty good possibility that they could die, or be seriously injured. Coming to the realization of the chances that we could make the night news, we were in shock. Our fear for perhaps a second got the best of us. Walking in terror along the path we had no idea what to do. That path was not a road less traveled, as evidenced by tracks and feces. There was nothing keeping that creature (by this time we were sure it was some kind of bull and we are both still convinced of this) from running up that familiar path and killing us both. Terrified and confused, we offered up a prayer asking God for protection. Our fear then drove us on to a fast walk, retracing our steps, constantly hoping that there were not more waiting for us around the next bend. On many occasions we stopped to listen, thinking that we heard the trampling of the huge animal.
Karina and I, in fear of the impending doom ready at any time to overtake us, we hastily made our way back. It took us forty-five minutes to get to the point where we saw the bull. It took us fifteen to get back. Spiders and snakes took no toll on us now. We were not cautious due to prickly plants or pokey cacti, we had no fear of poison oak, our only concern was making it back to the fence without any more encounters with things bigger than ourselves. Finally, we made it up the slope where our journey started. Through the ditch which we once thought was so big and scary, across the side of the steep hill where we first noticed that our legs were being ripped apart. Through the fence, and up the last stretch of the slope. We were finally back to the top. Looking back at the valley from the point where we began, we were in awe of the journey we just made. We now safely reminisced about our experience. Everything looked so much smaller. From where we stood there was no sense of what was over that first hill. No one would know, but past that fence, across that stretch of plant-infested rolling hills, was a huge animal. In Simi Valley, where everything is safe and sound, is at least one wild bull. We almost died today.
(By the time we crossed the fence we realized neither of us had phones, or a camera. I apologize that there are no pictures involved. I know it would be easier to believe if you could see it. Have a little faith.)
(Also, I am not proud of the stupidity of this story. I would not advise ever embarking on such an adventure as this.)
Back at the beginning, we saw a huge, beautiful tree between two large hills toward the center of the giant valley. Soon, we encountered that very tree. Near the tree, we found a larger path. It looked like a vehicle of some sort (such as an ATV or tractor) had made and used this. But, the tracks on the path evidenced that an ATV was not the last thing to make use of that trail. Hoof-like imprints on the soft sand should have indicated, along with the excrement, that something else was at hand. We progressed, still, along the trail. By this time, we figured that this place was not so remote as we thought. We concluded that this valley was only fenced off on one side, and that people were able to come from the other end, where cliffs and dangerous slopes were not involved.
From the top, we could only see that one lonely tree, but soon we came across a cluster of big, shade-providing trees. This small forest was intriguing. So, we moved toward the trees, observing their malicious beckon for us to join them. Their twisted branches and dark surroundings were strangely inviting. Stooping under the branches, I almost walked into another spider web that Karina saved me from. Realizing that those trees could not give us shade without also giving us spider bites, we quickly lost desire to stay. Nearby, there was another small tree. This tree, soon became the center of our attention. Karina claimed (for the fifth time) that she heard noises. Just trying to entertain her suspicion enough to continue, I quieted down and listened to what sounded like the simple rustling of the branches due to wind. After listening impatiently for a few seconds, I assured her that it was just the wind in the trees, and we could safely walk away. However, the noise grew louder, until even I was sure that the wind had nothing to do with these mysterious stirrings. It sounded as if a monkey were falling out of the tree. Karina quickly implored me to leave the location. As we turned to walk away, I said I’m sure it was just a bird in the branches. But no sooner than I spoke, did the noise increase to a loud and terrifying rustle. This time, it was clear that it was not the tree that was making the noise, nor was it a bird and most definitely not the wind. The sound was coming from tall bushes farther, even, than the tree. I turned my head to see where the noise was coming from. I saw, emerging from the bushes, a black figure. I thought, at first, that it was a person. But a split second later, I realized that no person was that big. All in a glimpse, it became clear that there was a horse-sized black animal walking on all fours. It looked like it had hooves, able to match the prints we saw earlier. The size could definitely accommodate for the enormous crap we had already seen. In awe, I whispered in desperation to Karina about the sight I saw. Her jaw dropped, and together we totally freaked out! Immediately, we turned around and started frantically walking along the path we came from. This moment was one of few moments one has in their life where they are convinced that there is a pretty good possibility that they could die, or be seriously injured. Coming to the realization of the chances that we could make the night news, we were in shock. Our fear for perhaps a second got the best of us. Walking in terror along the path we had no idea what to do. That path was not a road less traveled, as evidenced by tracks and feces. There was nothing keeping that creature (by this time we were sure it was some kind of bull and we are both still convinced of this) from running up that familiar path and killing us both. Terrified and confused, we offered up a prayer asking God for protection. Our fear then drove us on to a fast walk, retracing our steps, constantly hoping that there were not more waiting for us around the next bend. On many occasions we stopped to listen, thinking that we heard the trampling of the huge animal.
Karina and I, in fear of the impending doom ready at any time to overtake us, we hastily made our way back. It took us forty-five minutes to get to the point where we saw the bull. It took us fifteen to get back. Spiders and snakes took no toll on us now. We were not cautious due to prickly plants or pokey cacti, we had no fear of poison oak, our only concern was making it back to the fence without any more encounters with things bigger than ourselves. Finally, we made it up the slope where our journey started. Through the ditch which we once thought was so big and scary, across the side of the steep hill where we first noticed that our legs were being ripped apart. Through the fence, and up the last stretch of the slope. We were finally back to the top. Looking back at the valley from the point where we began, we were in awe of the journey we just made. We now safely reminisced about our experience. Everything looked so much smaller. From where we stood there was no sense of what was over that first hill. No one would know, but past that fence, across that stretch of plant-infested rolling hills, was a huge animal. In Simi Valley, where everything is safe and sound, is at least one wild bull. We almost died today.
(By the time we crossed the fence we realized neither of us had phones, or a camera. I apologize that there are no pictures involved. I know it would be easier to believe if you could see it. Have a little faith.)
(Also, I am not proud of the stupidity of this story. I would not advise ever embarking on such an adventure as this.)
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| This is the best picture I could find on Google. |
Sour War Heads
Most people would consider a small baby, still helplessly laying behind the bars of a crib, adorable. I think, though being the youngest this is just speculation, that older sisters think differently about their little baby siblings. I suppose at this time I wasn't exactly the baby, and the excitement of my cuteness (and perhaps even my cuteness itself) had worn off, at least temporarily. My sister Sarah, along with our foster sister Crystal (slightly older than Kara), had found my vulnerability a perfect opportunity for entertainment. This they ceased with excitement. They lurked into my room while I was lying awake in my crib, and they put a sour war head in my mouth. Knowing them, they probably chose the yellow ones, too. They did it simply to watch me hold on to the edge of my crib and shake as the sour taste penetrated my tongue. My lips pursed together like a fish and my big eyes opened as far as they could go. It does sound like a funny picture; I don't blame them.
This action they continued throughout the younger years of my life. There were even instances that I remember rolling around on the floor while Sarah and Crystal stood over me laughing hysterically. Sometimes The Neighborhood Girls would come over and Sarah would pop one in my mouth to show off how awesome and hilarious her little sister was. I was pretty awesome, I suppose. But as all things do, it faded as I grew old enough to realize they were laughing at me. I was half offended and half just really wanted to impress them with my funniness, therefore becoming significantly less funny. On the bright side, though, I built up a very high tolerance for sour things and can now eat lemons without making the embarrassing squinty face normal people do... most of the time.
But now that I think of this, I wonder about the logistics of the whole situation. Did Sarah and Crystal save up their penny change in order to buy a weekly bag of War Heads to feed to their little sister? Did my parents get tricked into buying bags for them? Maybe it wasn't as often as their retelling of the stories made it seem.
I'm told that their devious plans were often at my expense. But I'm sure my reactions were priceless, and I don't blame them for taking advantage of me. I do the same things to my friend's siblings sometimes. It's the nature of being older than someone else.
This action they continued throughout the younger years of my life. There were even instances that I remember rolling around on the floor while Sarah and Crystal stood over me laughing hysterically. Sometimes The Neighborhood Girls would come over and Sarah would pop one in my mouth to show off how awesome and hilarious her little sister was. I was pretty awesome, I suppose. But as all things do, it faded as I grew old enough to realize they were laughing at me. I was half offended and half just really wanted to impress them with my funniness, therefore becoming significantly less funny. On the bright side, though, I built up a very high tolerance for sour things and can now eat lemons without making the embarrassing squinty face normal people do... most of the time.
But now that I think of this, I wonder about the logistics of the whole situation. Did Sarah and Crystal save up their penny change in order to buy a weekly bag of War Heads to feed to their little sister? Did my parents get tricked into buying bags for them? Maybe it wasn't as often as their retelling of the stories made it seem.
I'm told that their devious plans were often at my expense. But I'm sure my reactions were priceless, and I don't blame them for taking advantage of me. I do the same things to my friend's siblings sometimes. It's the nature of being older than someone else.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The time I went to Kansas.
As I mentioned before, I was a late bloomer in the ways of literacy. Every day, the first fifteen minutes of class was devoted to writing in our journal. Some days she would let us write whatever we wanted, sometimes she gave us prompts. On one fine occasion, I decided to write about the time I went to Kansas.
Translation:
One day my dad and my brother and his friend wanted to go to Kansas. I wanted to go too, but my brother said I couldn't go. Then when my dad got home he said I could go. So I started to pack. My friend wanted to go, too, so I asked my dad if she could go. He said yes. Then my sister wanted to go and my dad said yes. Then she found out that my brother and I were bringing a friend so she wanted to, too. She called a friend and asked if she wanted to go, and she did. So we all got ready to go but the man we wanted to see had a heart attack.
Notice how capturing my writing style is? It's almost enticing. I have had problems understanding if I started packing my friend or not, though. Whoever invented commas was a genius.
Good news, though! The guy we were going to see (who did, by the way have a heart attack or two), got better. We decided to go to Kansas so see him anyway. Apparently there's an annual RC plane race or something. My dad's friend was in it, hence the sudden trip. Since there were still going to be planes one way or another, my dad still wanted to go. So my dad, my sister Sarah, her friend Kimberly, Ben, Cody, Ashley and myself set out in our very crowded van to Kansas City. Most of the trip is not note-worthy, with the exception of the time Ashley's manipulating powers caused me to wander unto a stranger's farm.
When I say "wander" I mean more life deliberately jump the fence to pet the llama on the other side. It started licking us with it's disgusting tongue, so we decided to move on. Instead of re-mounting the fence and going back the way we came, Ashley convinced me that if we kept walking on the farm we might find chickens. I have no idea why we were on a farm in the middle of nowhere alone, or where anyone else was at this point, but our immaturity and irresponsibility lead us to walk along some man's acreage until we spotted a barn. When it processed in my brain that a person actually lived there, I was terrified. I wanted to run away. Ashley, being older, new more about human relations, however. She decidedly told me we were going to knock on his door. I knew it was a bad idea but I didn't know how many smelly llamas would be in the surrounding fields, so I figured it was best to stay near Ashley. She knocked on his wooden door. "Excuse me, sir" she said, "can we pet your chickens?"
Lucky for us, the man was not a rapist or a serial killer, but a kind old man. He was confused, I'm sure. But he very clearly couldn't say no. He led us to his chicken pen to pet the nice little chickens. Soon thereafter, my dad pulled up in the van (the chicken pen was right against the fence near the dirt road), and yelled at us to get in the car. The nice old man helped Ash and I climb over the barbed wire fence, and we climbed into the vehicle. I don't remember anything else, but I'm sure my dad was very upset with us.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The time when my best friends lived in my kitchen closet.
I'll start this one off with a disclaimer: my family did not take any of my friends hostage and stuff them in the broom closet. That being said, I'll give my statement some context.
I grew up in the city. There's none of this huge houses with trampolines and pools suburbs stuff where I'm from. When you look out the window, you see right into your neighbors window. As a side note, I've come to the conclusion that all the houses in this little neighborhood were designed by the same architect. If I go to a neighbor's house for the first time, I can already determine where the bathroom is--to the right of the living room, between two bedrooms in close proximity to the stairs. This is the case with literally every house I have ever been into in this neighborhood. All kitchens are the same shape, and living rooms are the same size rectangle. I don't want to, however, give the impression that I live in one of those clusters of identical houses. Nah, in my neighborhood, every house looks different. For awhile, there was a big theme of blue-trimmed stucco houses but we settled that by repainting our trim brown. It took me about fourteen years to finally realize that the blueprints of all my friend's houses were the same as mine, which is proof of the diversity.
With fourteen other houses on the block (not to mention the numerous blocks surrounding), I was bound to find a few friends. The first friend I, or rather my brother, made was named Ashley. We first moved to this house when I was about six months old. Upon arriving, my brother and sister were intrigued by the gas station at the end of our block, which we later referred to as "The Corner Store." Eager to explore the new neighborhood, Ben and Sarah ventured to The Corner Store for some candy. On their way, they encountered two kids playing on their front lawn just down the street. Their names were Ashley and Cody. They were siblings. The details of the rest of that day are useless, except that it resulting in a friendship with Ashley and Cody. So, Ashley is my longest standing friend, as I cannot remember a time when she was not there. I grew up with a best friend five years older than me for years.
As time moved along my family adjusted to the new house. There may be stories worth telling somewhere in there, which I will explain later. But first, I must finish my tale about my friends. My sisters started meeting all sorts of "Neighborhood Girls" as I've always called them, as if they were some entity in themselves, so my pool of faces grew larger. Soon it grew to include some of the little sisters of the " Neighborhood Girls." One of the most notable was McKenna. We were like two peas in a pod. We underwent all kinds of ridiculous things as children. Another indispensable part of my childhood was my friend Melissa. Her and I grew closer in many ways then the others. But we didn't see each other as much because she actually lived in a nearby neighborhood. Her grandparents lived next door to me, and she would go there every day after school until her parents got home from work. Her little brother Tony was there, too.
In a different sphere of life, I had my one church friend, Brittany. Every week after Sunday-school, (every week may be an exaggeration, it's hard to tell) we would play at one of our houses. We would play with dolls, stuffed animals, real animals, each others' hair, etc. She, too, was (and still is) a very important aspect of my life.
All of these friends worked out really great for awhile. But only for awhile. Soon they collectively decided to hate each other. McKenna hated Ashley especially. Ash was old enough to know it's stupid to hate little playful girls, but constantly talked of the immaturity with which McKenna approached everything. I suppose she was right, but we were all young and naive. Melissa tried to stay out of it for the most part, but McKenna really bothered her. She didn't care too much for Ashley, either. I think she was intimidated by her age. Brittany did not hate, but was only hated. Every Sunday that I brought her over, the other girls would get jealous. One time, standing beneath the smaller of the two trees in my yard (where a lot of significant events in life seemed to happen), McKenna and Melissa were arguing with each other, outraged that two people would want to play with me at the same time. The argument escalated into a small cat-fight. In an effort to separate them, I stretched out my arms between them. They ceased this opportunity to really decide who was the better friend. Each took a hand, as if telepathically communicating their intention, and pulled me between them.
I was outraged. How could they be so immature? Ash was right. My solution to this problem, and I very vividly remember thinking this out, was that I wouldn't have friends anymore. They were too problematic. Instead, I resolved to spend every day in the comfort of my house where I would make my own friends, and bask in constant imagination. I was determined not to be bogged down by silly things. I searched my house for my new companions, and chose two new best friends: Broomy (a broom) and Moppy (a mop). They lived inside the Broom closet in my kitchen. Each day when I wanted to play with them, I hopped into the closet (which was also the resting place of our trash can), and shut the down, encasing myself in a very small and smelly space. I would fiddle with my fingers, pretending to press buttons. Then I would wait approximately fifteen seconds, or until I couldn't handle the smell of rotting bananas, and I would nonchalantly walk out of the "elevator" unto to the "third floor apartment" of my "friends" Broomy and Moppy. My attachment to them was short lived but severe. I would often carry them around everywhere I went. When I couldn't take both somewhere, I would settle for just Broomy, since he was my favorite. One day I was so obsessed, that I refused to take a bath without bringing Broomy into the bathtub with me. I washed his "hair" and scrubbed his... "neck"?
I'm not sure if it was the lack of the response from my friends, or just the psychological need for humans to have real friends, but somehow I was soon playing with human beings again. My habits of-- shall we say creativity?-- stayed with me for years, though. Other humans were usually my primary source of friendship and comfort, but since then I would often turn to inanimate objects for entertainment. Such instances included when I would have pop bottles perform weddings, when I would play house with the "family" of scissors we owned, and when I would play high school with markers.
I grew up in the city. There's none of this huge houses with trampolines and pools suburbs stuff where I'm from. When you look out the window, you see right into your neighbors window. As a side note, I've come to the conclusion that all the houses in this little neighborhood were designed by the same architect. If I go to a neighbor's house for the first time, I can already determine where the bathroom is--to the right of the living room, between two bedrooms in close proximity to the stairs. This is the case with literally every house I have ever been into in this neighborhood. All kitchens are the same shape, and living rooms are the same size rectangle. I don't want to, however, give the impression that I live in one of those clusters of identical houses. Nah, in my neighborhood, every house looks different. For awhile, there was a big theme of blue-trimmed stucco houses but we settled that by repainting our trim brown. It took me about fourteen years to finally realize that the blueprints of all my friend's houses were the same as mine, which is proof of the diversity.
With fourteen other houses on the block (not to mention the numerous blocks surrounding), I was bound to find a few friends. The first friend I, or rather my brother, made was named Ashley. We first moved to this house when I was about six months old. Upon arriving, my brother and sister were intrigued by the gas station at the end of our block, which we later referred to as "The Corner Store." Eager to explore the new neighborhood, Ben and Sarah ventured to The Corner Store for some candy. On their way, they encountered two kids playing on their front lawn just down the street. Their names were Ashley and Cody. They were siblings. The details of the rest of that day are useless, except that it resulting in a friendship with Ashley and Cody. So, Ashley is my longest standing friend, as I cannot remember a time when she was not there. I grew up with a best friend five years older than me for years.
As time moved along my family adjusted to the new house. There may be stories worth telling somewhere in there, which I will explain later. But first, I must finish my tale about my friends. My sisters started meeting all sorts of "Neighborhood Girls" as I've always called them, as if they were some entity in themselves, so my pool of faces grew larger. Soon it grew to include some of the little sisters of the " Neighborhood Girls." One of the most notable was McKenna. We were like two peas in a pod. We underwent all kinds of ridiculous things as children. Another indispensable part of my childhood was my friend Melissa. Her and I grew closer in many ways then the others. But we didn't see each other as much because she actually lived in a nearby neighborhood. Her grandparents lived next door to me, and she would go there every day after school until her parents got home from work. Her little brother Tony was there, too.
In a different sphere of life, I had my one church friend, Brittany. Every week after Sunday-school, (every week may be an exaggeration, it's hard to tell) we would play at one of our houses. We would play with dolls, stuffed animals, real animals, each others' hair, etc. She, too, was (and still is) a very important aspect of my life.
All of these friends worked out really great for awhile. But only for awhile. Soon they collectively decided to hate each other. McKenna hated Ashley especially. Ash was old enough to know it's stupid to hate little playful girls, but constantly talked of the immaturity with which McKenna approached everything. I suppose she was right, but we were all young and naive. Melissa tried to stay out of it for the most part, but McKenna really bothered her. She didn't care too much for Ashley, either. I think she was intimidated by her age. Brittany did not hate, but was only hated. Every Sunday that I brought her over, the other girls would get jealous. One time, standing beneath the smaller of the two trees in my yard (where a lot of significant events in life seemed to happen), McKenna and Melissa were arguing with each other, outraged that two people would want to play with me at the same time. The argument escalated into a small cat-fight. In an effort to separate them, I stretched out my arms between them. They ceased this opportunity to really decide who was the better friend. Each took a hand, as if telepathically communicating their intention, and pulled me between them.
I was outraged. How could they be so immature? Ash was right. My solution to this problem, and I very vividly remember thinking this out, was that I wouldn't have friends anymore. They were too problematic. Instead, I resolved to spend every day in the comfort of my house where I would make my own friends, and bask in constant imagination. I was determined not to be bogged down by silly things. I searched my house for my new companions, and chose two new best friends: Broomy (a broom) and Moppy (a mop). They lived inside the Broom closet in my kitchen. Each day when I wanted to play with them, I hopped into the closet (which was also the resting place of our trash can), and shut the down, encasing myself in a very small and smelly space. I would fiddle with my fingers, pretending to press buttons. Then I would wait approximately fifteen seconds, or until I couldn't handle the smell of rotting bananas, and I would nonchalantly walk out of the "elevator" unto to the "third floor apartment" of my "friends" Broomy and Moppy. My attachment to them was short lived but severe. I would often carry them around everywhere I went. When I couldn't take both somewhere, I would settle for just Broomy, since he was my favorite. One day I was so obsessed, that I refused to take a bath without bringing Broomy into the bathtub with me. I washed his "hair" and scrubbed his... "neck"?
I'm not sure if it was the lack of the response from my friends, or just the psychological need for humans to have real friends, but somehow I was soon playing with human beings again. My habits of-- shall we say creativity?-- stayed with me for years, though. Other humans were usually my primary source of friendship and comfort, but since then I would often turn to inanimate objects for entertainment. Such instances included when I would have pop bottles perform weddings, when I would play house with the "family" of scissors we owned, and when I would play high school with markers.
Starting with my childhood.
 | |
| My brother and me getting ready for snow. |
As a young child, I was... strange. My older siblings experienced some pretty bad things in public elementary and middle school, so when my turn rolled around to enter first grade (I skipped kindergarten and preschool), they decided to switch all of us over to homeschooling. Public-schoolers: do not immediately dismiss me as a socially awkward kid that has hair down to my mid-calf; I assure you I am not representative of the home-school stereotype. Home-schoolers: please do not take offense to the above statement. My parents weren't super great at homeschooling at first, which caused a lot of intellectual problems in our family. For instance, I did not learn to read until I was nine. As a result, we decided that my mom didn't have time to mature into the super-home-schooler-mom that she aspired to be, modeled after the hand full of moms that had been homeschooling their children from the prehistoric ages in our church co-op.
Anyway, my brother and I were enrolled in a charter school starting in fourth grade (for me; eighth grade for my brother). Looking back, I have no idea how I made any friends. I was the girl that always-- as in every single day of fourth grade-- wore my hair in a knotted pony-tail, and wore the same turquoise sweatshirt and blue jeans repeatedly. This particular school was different in the sense that it was on-campus only two days a week. The remaining three days of the school week were spent at home. In many senses, I was home-schooled + social life. It worked out extremely well for me. By the end of fourth grade, I was one of the top readers in my class, and well on my way to achieving... nothing really, but at least I was caught-up to other kids.
That's when I started getting relatively similar to other ten-year-olds. Before then, I was left to way too much alone time, and, consequently, way too many strange, imaginative habits. I find that period of my life rather entertaining. My transition from "awkward" to "normal" was a long, hard one, and in many ways I'm still working on it. I'm not gonna lie I'm still super awkward (or so my friends tell me), but thankfully not in an uncomfortable way. I'm just going off what people say. Maybe one of my four followers (four followers!), that I assume are my friends, could better explain my strangeness. My point is, this "transition period," as I call it, makes for some funny and interesting stories. Perhaps I'll start there, then.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
My first post.
Welcome to my blog.
I started reading blogs semi-religiously about a year ago, giving my friends all the more reason to think I'm weird. (But hey, if you're reading this I guess you're in the same boat.) Since then, I've really wanted to have my own blog, but didn't know if I had what it took. After all, my life isn't really awesome, and I don't have anything to set me apart from anyone else enough to actually get a blog following. Recently, though, I decided that if I was ever going to be a blogger, I would have to start somewhere. The beginnings of blogs always suck (if you don't believe me just go look at the very first post of your favorite blogger, if they haven't already deleted it out of shame), so I might as well have a sub-par blog while I'm still young so that someday I can have some blogging dignity.
So this is it. It probably will suck for a few months, maybe longer, but bare with me as I mature into a talented blog-writer (hopefully). You will find that I will have a wide range of content, as I am still unsure what I want my blog to really be about. If random life stories, theological debates, and sometimes a few good laughs interest you, you might enjoy this. For now, though, I can be pretty sure that whoever is reading this is a friend or family member, in which case they already know many of my life stories and stances on theological debates.
Why do I have a picture of really dirty feet on my blog?
That picture was taken at one of my prouder moments in life, after running around in a coal pit when I was visiting my sister in Beijing. I decided to capture the moment on a speed bump. As far as the significance of that picture in relation to this blog, there is probably none at all.
I started reading blogs semi-religiously about a year ago, giving my friends all the more reason to think I'm weird. (But hey, if you're reading this I guess you're in the same boat.) Since then, I've really wanted to have my own blog, but didn't know if I had what it took. After all, my life isn't really awesome, and I don't have anything to set me apart from anyone else enough to actually get a blog following. Recently, though, I decided that if I was ever going to be a blogger, I would have to start somewhere. The beginnings of blogs always suck (if you don't believe me just go look at the very first post of your favorite blogger, if they haven't already deleted it out of shame), so I might as well have a sub-par blog while I'm still young so that someday I can have some blogging dignity.
So this is it. It probably will suck for a few months, maybe longer, but bare with me as I mature into a talented blog-writer (hopefully). You will find that I will have a wide range of content, as I am still unsure what I want my blog to really be about. If random life stories, theological debates, and sometimes a few good laughs interest you, you might enjoy this. For now, though, I can be pretty sure that whoever is reading this is a friend or family member, in which case they already know many of my life stories and stances on theological debates.
Why do I have a picture of really dirty feet on my blog?
That picture was taken at one of my prouder moments in life, after running around in a coal pit when I was visiting my sister in Beijing. I decided to capture the moment on a speed bump. As far as the significance of that picture in relation to this blog, there is probably none at all.
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