Can You Tell I Don't Want to Job Search?

I was watching the music video for "Gonna Get Over You" by Sara Bareilles on YouTube and an ad popped up asking if I needed an artificial hip replacement. If you were to make a Venn diagram of people who need artificial hips and people who listen to Sara Bareilles, I'm fairly certain the overlap would be nonexistent.

I got new running shoes about a week ago. I've always been sensitive about my gigantic feet and my pride took an especially big hit when the Brooks outlet didn't carry the shoes I wanted as big as I wanted them. Much to my dismay, I was forced to purchase men's shoes. This humiliation was quickly erased yesterday morning, however, when I discovered that printed on the tongues of my new shoes, in all caps, are the words "THE BEAST." Best shoes ever.

Remember my stunning display of intelligence the other day when I tried to no avail to locate "tomatillo" in the English section of my Spanish-English dictionary? Well, today I was flipping through and happened upon "sombrero." In the English section. How does that make sense?

You may have noticed that one of my blog post labels is "Stupid Things I Have Done." I thought when I created it that it would help me organize my posts into easily locatable categories, but really all it's done is help me realize that every single thing I do is stupid. I should start tagging posts that showcase all the times I could have done something stupid but didn't. What it must be like to experience such a moment.

I'm currently perusing Craigslist for part-time jobs. Here is a smattering of what I've found so far this morning, in the span of about seven minutes:

1. A job coaching soccer with an organization called Kidz Love Soccer. Their motto is "Where the score is always Fun to Fun!" And it's trademarked. Unfortunately for them, spelling "kids" correctly is, evidently, also trademarked.

2. A part-time cleaner at Yogurtland. That sounds magical.

3. Promo girls for Seattle's newest night club. The first two requirements are that you "know how to PARTY" and "have lots of friends on Twitter and Facebook." Well, my idea of a PARTY is making popcorn and watching While You Were Sleeping four times in a row, I don't have a Twitter account, and the majority of my eight Facebook friends are former professors. So basically, this job was tailor-made for me.

That's it for now. Don't be too disappointed, though - I'm sure as soon as I leave my seat at the computer I'll do something else idiotic on accident.

So That Happened

Well, this is never happening again...

1. The cupboard outside of our bathroom is large and holds many things, most of which hurl themselves onto my head and/or bare feet every time I open the door. About once every decade, when I'm sufficiently convinced that the cupboard couldn't possibly be more of a mess if a bomb exploded inside it, I wipe the shelves clear and begin the Sisyphusean process of organizing. Among the treasures that were lurking in the dark recesses of the cabinet this time around were the following: approximately 9,000 bottles of hotel shampoo and conditioner; a sticky pink bottle of Calamine lotion that is, by my estimate, three years older than me; four twin-sized mattress pads; and my personal favorite, one unopened bottle of Fixodent Denture Adhesive Powder. I do not know what purpose this product might have served in my household, but at this point my regret at having found it far exceeds my curiosity.

I also unearthed several half-empty tubes of ten-year-old sunscreen and a couple crusty bottles containing an unknown clear, congealed substance. As badly as I wanted to dump these straight into the garbage can, the former Woodinville High School Earth Club President in me refused to throw the plastic bottles in with the rest of the trash. I must have spent an hour dumping the contents of these containers into the garbage, rinsing the potent bottles in the sink, and tossing them into the recycling. I don't even want to think about the chemicals I inhaled as I squirted centuries-old bath oil and dental adhesive powder into the trashcan, only to have the powder erupt in my face in great white plumes like a freaking volcano. The kitchen sink now smells like LA Looks Extra Hold Styling Gel and there is a thin layer of white residue on the tiles surrounding the garbage can. (Don't worry, Mom, I'll clean it up.)

2. I've decided to start relearning Spanish. (This seemed like a logical segue in my head.) I deemed myself linguistically hopeless when after four years of studying the language in junior high and high school the most complex sentence I could muster was "Quiero dormir" ("I want to sleep"). But no more! My dreams of being bilingual have been inexplicably renewed. Now, instead of watching rebroadcast soccer games from 2008 and screaming at penalty kick misses that occurred before I could legally drink, I watch rebroadcast soccer games from 2008 and make Spanish vocab flashcards for myself. Lest someone come along and try to outdo my patheticism and dweebishness, let it be known that while making flashcards for vegetables last night I looked up the Spanish word for "tomatillo" and honestly had no idea why it wasn't listed in the English section. I figured it out, had a good laugh, and then promptly did the exact same thing with "chile."

3. My bedroom window doesn't have a screen and I leave it open a lot. I walked into my room the other day and there was a bird perched on my bed. But not just anywhere on my bed. On my pillow! If this does not make you inordinately excited, please immediately watch this clip from Season 1 of Arrested Development twelve or more times.

4. And speaking of things my cat would like to eat...
(Good luck with that one, Taff.)

5. This is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me (particularly the videos for Mauro, Roger, Mike, and Jeff).

Who DOES That?

The east side of the soccer fields where I go every afternoon to pretend I'm Pele is bordered by a pathway that separates the turf from a recreation center. There is a retirement home nearby, and I often see elderly couples strolling along on the other side of the fence. I always hold my shots when they pass, as I don't have enough confidence in my ball control to shoot while someone is behind the goal, lest I expertly lob the deadly sphere over the fence and into the head of the poor octogenarian who's just trying to coax his corgi to pee.

Yesterday was no different. A petite elderly woman in too-short jeans and a red cardigan made her way down the path toward my end of the field. I had been staring down an eight-year-old who could juggle the ball better than I can shooting penalty kicks as the woman approached and I stopped to tighten my shoelaces until she passed. She'd made it several yards past the goal (keep in mind that there's a fence separating the field and the path, but it's only a bit higher than the goal's crossbar) when I decided that she was far enough away that I wouldn't hit her. I scooped up the ball with my foot, juggled it off my knee, and kicked it mid-air toward the netting.

There's a reason I shouldn't be confident in my ball control. I realized this as I watched the ball soar over the fence, into the side of the red brick recreation building (pictured left), and hurtle, in gut-wrenchingly slow motion, toward the elderly woman's head. My heart stopped. I opened my mouth to warn her but no sound came out. The ball landed with a dull whack four feet in front of her and, thank God, bounced the opposite direction into the fence. I sprinted to the gate. "Oh my gosh," I gushed, mortified, "I am so sorry. Really. I am so sorry!" The woman bent down, picked up the ball, and held it out to me with both hands. "It's okay!" she said, "You didn't hurt me!" She smiled in that way that only elderly people can smile--that Bless Your Heart, You Poor Thing smile--and continued on her way.

I immediately pulled out my phone. "Holy mother of God," I texted my friend. "I almost just hit an old woman in the head."

Who does that? I should be shot.

So That Happened

I'm at war with a bluejay. Laugh if you want, but this is serious. This vengeful, diabolical bird lives in the tree outside my window and finds it perfectly hilarious to wake me up every morning by standing in my planter box  and chucking clumps of potting soil into my room. I must have done something to offend this particular bluejay, because I was was also the victim of a pine cone aerial attack several days ago while watering plants. I have called in the Brute Squad (my cat) but that feline wouldn't lift a paw to help me if I was being mauled by an army of rabid mice who had just bathed in catnip.

This morning my mom and I drove to the Puyallup Fairgrounds to set up her pottery in the Artists in Action studio. As we were assembling our shelves and unloading pots, the petite middle-aged AiA coordinator stopped by our station to check in. "Have you met my daughter Olivia?" my mom asked her. "Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand. "Olivia!" she exclaimed, then turning to my mother added, "she's gorgeous!" She must have meant there to be a pause between that statement and the next words to come out of her mouth, which were: "How did that happen? The last time I saw her she was about this tall!" (She approximated my height by lowering her hand to within two feet of the floor. By her estimation we'd last met days after I emerged from my mother's womb.) Yes, she probably intended for those statements to be separated by a brief period of dead air, but what it sounded like to me and my mom was, "She's gorgeous! How did that happen?" My mom and I each half-laughed, half-gasped. I was nanoseconds from scoffing, "What are you talking about? My mom is stunning!" and I could tell my mom was amping up for a punch along the lines of, "Hey, I've looked worse!" And that's not all. As this woman passed by our shelves to go welcome the next artist, she smacked me somewhat forcefully on the rear end and whispered, "Stop growing!" Yes, you read that correctly. I was spanked by a post-menopausal program coordinator at the Puyallup Fair. I can now cross that off my bucket list.

Here is a new segment I'm calling, "Oh it's on, Rhoda Janzen." I have, as of this morning, officially declared a feud between myself and Ms. Janzen, author of the memoir Mennonite in a Little Black Dress. It's no secret that I think hyperbole is the greatest figure of speech on the face of the earth. It's kind of my thing, and I don't recall giving Rhoda Janzen permission to use it. Yet use it she does, as you'll see here as she discusses her ghost-editing assignment: "What I was doing was unusual - unusual, I mean, beyond the fact that there are maybe 16.2 people in the entire world who would like to know more about the sacred dramatic literature of the fifteenth century." Imagine my displeasure when suddenly, from out of nowhere, Rhoda Janzen prances her way onto my hit reading list and yanks hyperbole right out of my hands. If that's not illegal it damn well should be. So I say to you, Rhoda Janzen, it's on. It's so on.

My mom was cleaning out a drawer of her bureau the other day and came across an unopened package of Angel Cards. For those who are unfamiliar with them, Angel Cards are small laminated slips of paper that feature a virtue--kindness, balance, courageousness, etc.--and a coinciding drawing of an angel performing that task. The idea is that you keep them on a dish face-down, flip over a different card every day, and devote that day to patience or friendship, which is portrayed by an angel in a pink floor-length gown hugging a tree. So as my mother was sorting through the contents of her drawer, something caught my eye about her Angel Cards. I'm ashamed to say what this "something" was, mainly because it took me literally 45 seconds to figure it out: they weren't in English. My mom had accidentally bought a package of Angel Cards in German. I alerted her to the situation. "'Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" she said. "No wonder they were on sale!" Having no conceivable use for inspirational cards that she couldn't read, my mom gave them to me to do with as I pleased. Naturally I put them face-down in a bowl on my desk. Every day I turn over a new card, first trying to guess the virtue based on the drawing of the angel, then trying to pronounce the virtue in what I consider to be an eerily authentic German accent, then decoding the virtue through an online German-English translator. Today's virtue, "Eenvoud," shows an angel in a blue dress with her hands clasped together, possibly holding something, possibly not - it's hard to tell, as these aren't the most detailed of drawings. I take that to mean that today's theme is ambiguity. I will therefore spend my day carrying around a nondescript, vaguely visible object in front of my chest and being very proud of myself for doing so. Or not. Who knows. It's ambiguous.

Bless Your Heart, Radiolab

I make no secret of the following two things: 1) I love me a good educational podcast, and 2) if there's a soccer game on, hide the knives. 

If you've ever accompanied me to a Sounders game or watched a match on TV in my presence (from your seat in the corner of the room as far away from me as you can get) you'll know that I really do transform into a raging lunatic once the game clock starts ticking. I scream obscenities at the ref, ring my cowbell in jubilation every time someone on the other team gets carded, insult players who have what I deem ridiculous and/or unnecessary hair/names/insert your own noun here. If we win, I am elated and apologize to those around me for my unpleasant and irrational behavior. If we lose, though, boy howdy do I feel bad for you if you and I cross paths. Each loss is like a diabolically calculated personal attack. Some catapult me straight into the fifth level of Hell where I remain, wallowing in my own misery and anger, for upwards of a week. And I never knew why.

Cue this past week's episode of Radiolab, a science-meets-philosophy program that delves into the most labyrinthine, minute components of human behavior. Last week's podcast, entitled "Games," was marketed with the following preview:

"A good game - whether it's a pro football playoff or a family showdown at the kitchen table - can make you feel, at least for a little while, like your whole life hangs in the balance. This hour of Radiolab, Jad and Robert wonder why we get so invested in something so trivial. What is it about games that make them feel so pivotal?"

In the very first story, a man wonders why a San Jose Sharks hockey game makes him question the very core of humanity. Why do the glittering lights across the San Francisco Bay cease to fill him with wonder on his way home from the rink? Why does the world seem inundated with devil worshipers and rotting flesh the instant his team loses?

To which I say, Hallelujah. Praise the powers that be for Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, who week after week manage to unravel the complex knot of brain matter in my own skull. It's like having two locksmiths on call every time you lose the key to your thoughts. I appreciate this very much, as there ain't a keychain in the world big enough to get me off the stoop and into the dimly lit recesses of my own head.

I encourage you all - all three of you - to visit the Radiolab website and listen to the full hour-long episode here. I promise you won't be disappointed. Plus, you'll be that much closer to learning how my mind works. Heck, you'll probably know more than I do.

The Best of Bama

In honor (or should I say dishonor) of all would-be and could-be and probably-will-be presidential campaign stories in the news lately, I thought I would take a moment to remind American voters, in the least political way possible, exactly why we elected Barack Obama as leader of the free world three years ago. 

1. He looks damn good in a soccer jersey. He also supports women's soccer, which is definitely the #1 thing I look for in a presidential candidate. Too bad I'm not even joking.

2. He's not afraid to get in touch with his feminine side. Plus, he has fantastic taste in aprons.

3. He likes cheese. A lot.

4. No one can pull off rabbit ears quite like he can.

5. He loves America, Roman Candles, and white beards.

6. He is, you may be surprised to learn, a Chinese citizen.

7. He's got a mohawk and a Sounders foam finger. #2 and #3 things I look for in a presidential candidate. In that order.

8. He's an ally of our neighbors to the south: as his predecessor calls them, "Austria."

9. He's got the Haggadah memorized, always knows the perfect place to hide the Afikomen, only drinks from his wine glass when told, and wears his yarmulke at all the appropriate times. Also, he can fit on a Seder plate.

10. He loves wearing origami elf booties that he learned how to fold by watching an instructional video on YouTube.

And there you have it: ten reasons why I'm grateful Barack Obama is holding the reins around here. I for one take great comfort in the fact that my president is so versatile, so tolerant, so comfortable donning a cheese hat, picking up an Easter basket, and conversing with a marshmallow snowman who bears an eerie resemblance to Mr. Peanut.