Monday, August 30, 2010

Just when I least expected it... has exceeded my expectations. You'll never guess what was waiting for me on the corner as I walked to my first class this morning...

...that's right. A free doughnut. A whole box of them. And a nice woman handing it to me.
I have never actually used this phrase before, but I literally LOL'd when I saw the stand.
Oh the irony.
I have a good feeling about this school year.
Although, it is incredibly mind-blowing that today I started my senior year of college. If I thought being a high school senior gave me power, being a college senior makes me feel practically invincible.
Or at least a lot like this...
What are we going to do tonight Provo?
Same thing we do every night Katie. Try and take over the world. least I feel that way until I think about the large, senior-college-student-crunching world out there that feels as if it will not only eat me for breakfast next April, but won't even give me a nice report card should I ever do something well.
It's hard to imagine life accomplishments that aren't presented to me in the form of a letter.
Could be nice.

Maybe they'll give me doughnuts instead. Seems like I prefer those.
Day one of school down.
One more day to the relief of September.


Sunday, August 22, 2010

August never has my back.

I have one million things running through my head right now.
This can only mean one thing (besides the fact that I am a girl, which I hate to admit)... is August.
Of all the different months (there's only 12) August is by far the most traumatic for me.

August means change, and if there is one thing you should know about me, it's that I handle change about the same way my sister Rachel handles being the fifth favorite child out of four children (my mom's garden beats her out for fourth place every year)...I fight it.

True story: Between writing those last few paragraphs and now I just took a five hour nap (I've been pretty sick today, so you don't have to judge me for that) and I just had a dream that I was back in high school in my creative writing class with Mrs. Madden (the one English teacher in my life who hated my guts. I had one female teacher who kissed me straight on the lips before Christmas break one year. She was really old and I guess just liked me that much. About ruined Christmas that year, but it was really good for my grade.) Anyways, Mrs. "Abernathy" (I just decided to change Mrs. Madden's name for privacy reasons, also Mrs. Abernathy was my favorite English teacher in high school) was reading my blog to the class (this is what i get for blogging right before I nap) and my friend Jordan Frei who was in all my English classes growing up and was way better at...everything...than me, was sitting next to me and kept saying "what are you so embarrassed about?? Are you scared that my blog is better than yours?"
Now that I think about it I don't think that was a dream. I'm pretty sure I just had a prophecy, because if Jordan Frei ever did start a blog, I would be super embarrassed if Mrs. "Abernathy" ever let it be compared to mine. Some people you just can't beat.

So moving on to what I'd like to refer to as the "meat and potatoes" of this blog post, meaning I'm going to stop just rambling about things like my prophetic abilities and give you the list of what is causing all this trauma and stress this August:

1. The obvious: school is starting. You'd think after 16 years of first days of school I would be well-adjusted to the ins and outs of new classes, teachers, etc. I've thought about it for a while and I think the real problem is at SCHS they gave everyone free doughnuts on the first day of school, and well, once you've had that kind of luxury its really hard to go back. College is so cold and indifferent as far as complimentary, sugary-welcome-treats go.

2. Another move. This will be the fifth time in the last year that I have completely packed up everything I own and attempted to resettle into a new bed. Another thing you should know about me is that my bed is a big deal to me. I sleep more than the average person and even when I'm not sleeping, I'm usually just IN bed. Home, for me, is my double-folded memory foam covered by the t-shirt fabric sheets I bought at Target last year, with a glass of water and a good book.
3. This one is going to be a little more difficult to explain. You see, I am a member of the LDS church. And in my religion, every 19 year old boy is asked to serve a two year mission. This means that every 19 year old girl goes through the traumatic experience of watching all their close friends leave, and then the even more traumatic experience of watching them all come back and not knowing how they are going to fit these super awkward 21-year-olds into their new lives. I have loved watching so many of my friends make the difficult decision to leave their lives for two years to serve their Heavenly Father. Which means...guess what part of this whole experience I'm at?

Yep. They're allll home. And I'm going to see them all this week, after two long years, when I head back to Provo.

This should explain the creative writing class nightmare. Or any nightmare for that matter.

And's to August, and all the change it brings, and all the super-stressed nights I'm going to go through until I wake up and suddenly it's Septemeber and I realize, like I always do, that everything is going to be just fine and I'm just a weirdo who freaks out when it is rather unnecessary.

Except for when I remember that these boys are all home...

...and these boys...

...and also these ones...

...then it feels reeaalllyyy necessary.

I'll miss you Santa Clara. I always do.


Wednesday, August 18, 2010

I cook for old people.

Remember that annoying kid in high school who ran for student council every year and made the 100 abominable campaign signs that somehow always ended up on your locker using duct tape that you had to scrape off for hours during locker clean-outs at the end of every school year?

I am thoroughly convinced that he grew up and got a job at the local radio station making those obnoxious comercial break intros.

There's no way that's anyone else.

Only that kid could have figured out a way to make a living off of being that annoying.

Why yes, I do listen to the radio for 7 hours straight while I'm at work.

And speaking of work...

...I'm thinking of starting my own reality show about the twelve residents who live in the home I work at.

We could have challenges like Extreme Bingo, prune eating contests, and sleeping with your mouth wide open (something they are all really good at) and every week someone could get voted out, meaning they forfeit their slice of Sunday oatmeal-peaches pie we have in the freezer.

I just think its interesting that twelve verrrrry aged (could have been a polite term if it weren't for the repetition of consonants) adults ranging from somewhat-mentally-stable, to totally-checked-out live together in one house attempting to agree on daily decisions such as whether to play Elvis or Bing Crosby at lunchtime (Mary still believes those hips on Mr. Presley are from the Devil himself).

All I'm saying is you wouldn't believe the fights, outbursts and accidents that we calm the flames on daily and the drama is always intriguing.

Pauline offering Jean a ball. Jean is offended.

Drama. Drama. Drama.

I swear if someone steals my idea, I'll be super ticked.


P.s.-This is a disclaimer.*

*I love my job. And my residents.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

"If you want to win something, run 100 meters. If you want to experience something, run a marathon."

Going back to school this fall for what could be the last time is...daunting? Surreal? Exciting?
I don't think I really meant the last one. As it turns out, I actually really like school so the thought of NOT going back ever again is...daunting?Surreal? Exciting? I don't think I really meant....(haha did I trick you there?)

Anyways, grad school is most definitely in the plans, so it is very possible that I could have PLENTY more school ahead of me, but who knows right? Nobody. That's who. I hate that.

So in honor of reaching the life-long goal of becoming a college graduate, I have decided to work towards simultaneously completing another life-long goal that is much less sensible and much more...dumb.
This goal is titled: I'm Going to Run a Marathon with Less Than Two Months of Training After I Ate Nothing but Pastries and Cheese for Three Months in Europe.
I'm still working out the details of the title, but I'm thinking of changing it to:
Katie is Really Stupid.
Let me know what your vote is.

There are three major things wrong with this goal:
1. As previously stated, the cheese/pastries/Europe/blah blah blah
2. I am infamously known for my incredible inability to wake up in the morning. This wouldn't really be a problem except for...a) I work at 7:30 every morning, and b) from 7:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. every summer day in St. George it is hot enough outside to give yourself laser hair removal just by laying on the sidewalk. Meaning I either have to go running at...(I almost wrote 5 a.m. here. hahaha, that would have been a good joke since it is my personal belief that mankind has never seen any hour before 7:15 a.m.), or I have to run at 11:00 at night which, according to my mother is "not safe."
3. A marathon is 26.2 miles. Did anybody else know this? This is a problem.

Slowly but surely the training has been coming along, but I would love any tips/good reasons to back out if anyone has anything to offer.

More marathon updates to come?
But then again, hopefully not.


Thursday, August 12, 2010

Melonballing. .

MELONBALL: A cocktail made with melon liqueur (the British spelling??), Vodka and Pineapple juice.

MELONBALLER: a small spoon-like tool used to cut round- or oval-shaped sections of melon, known as melon balls, by pressing them into the mellon's flesh and rotating.

I got these definitions from Wikipedia, and I'm just going to say that if Wikipedia was the Man, then every summer Santa Clara, UT sticks it to the man, because according to us these definitions are allllllll wrong.

Allow me to set the record straight:

MELONBALL: a ferocious game played in a swimming pool using a solid ten pound ball made out of rubber bands in which the only objective is to set the ball on your side of the pool. All other components of the game...fair play.

(The silver ball being held by Liz in the middle of the pack is what is officially known as the "melonball.")


The only part Wikipedia got right was the word "flesh."

This was an injury I sustained last summer after an unfortunate pass to the face. It included a sweet concussion and a severe dissapointment that the game had to end for the night. Call me stupid (or Quasimodo, like the little kid at In N' Out did the next day) but the game is worth it. We play for hours until our bodies are scratched and bruised and our fingers lose their ability to grip and then we usually play one more game. It's hard to explain why this game is so thrilling unless you play it, but it really is unbeatable as far as adrenaline levels go.

Last night was the first good match I've played since returning from Europe, and boy was it crazy. Even crazier than the time I pulled 11 straight red ones out of a Mike & Ike box.

And speaking of red...

...if this photo is incredibly disturbing to you, then you weren't cut out for melonball. Opponents to the game have often made comments to me like "why would you want to do something with such a high risk of injuries?" And aside from losing major man-points for that remark, they are also forgetting the well-known fact that every year over 133,000 people are injured by doors. Is that going to stop them from using their walk-in-closets? Possibly. But am I going to stop playing melonball? Never.

We've always said that the game was for everyone, so you're invited to our next match.

But if you can't handle the heat, nobody will make you stay.

Just be careful with the door on the way out.

I hear those things are dangerous.

Mellonballer for life,


Sunday, August 8, 2010


True life: I do the weirdest crap in my sleep.
I answer phone calls. I send rude texts to people I hardly talk to. I talk. I walk.

It's embarrassing.

So last night I must have subliminally had a huge epiphany about my next blog post, because I woke up to a scrap piece of paper on my side table with this written on it in sloppy handwriting:

"New blog idea: Tell them about my fever and stuff."

Obviously this is important.

Who knew I was so subconsicously stressed about my blog?

And so readers, I've got something to tell you.

I gotta fever...

and the only prescription...

Okay. Okay. I'll stop quoting it.

But if you don't know what I'm referring to, take the first steps towards embracing your new, unsheltered life and click here.

(Sorry its a cheap pirated version. I couldn't find the real thing. Something about "copyrights" or some bogus like that.)

Moving on to the "and stuff" part of my dream note:
I am back (for the third summer in a row) working at Ted Warthen Center for Assited Living and Continuum of Care. Sounds fun eh?

It is.

I work with 12 residents, 9 of whom are on hospice, 12 of whom are freaking hilarious.

Here are some funny stories and residents from over the years:

Pauline: For the entire two years I knew Pauline I rarely saw her anywhere but in her chair right next to the large glass back doors. She weighed about 85 lbs and shaved her head so she always looked like the teeniest little thing. One day I was in a room helping someone when I heard screaming in the hallway. I ran out to find that one of St. George's infamously short and sudden rainstorms had hit and rain was pelting the glassdoors. Pauline was booking it as fast as her walker would take her down the hallway screaming "GOD HATES US! GOD IS PUNISHING US!" It was five minutes before I could stop laughing enough to calm her down.

Carolyne: Carolyne was the first resident I grew incredibly close to. She was goofy as all get out and part of her charm came from the fact that a stroke had left her without control of the left side of her body, and her quirky mind decided that the only way to explain the presence of her left hand was to make it her pet, named "Billy." I "fed" Billy with every meal by placing a small napkin with some broken pieces of bread on her leg, which Billy would then "eat" (knock off onto the ground) over the course of the meal. Billy had tricks that included "kisses," which consisted of her pushing all her fingers together and then kissing her own hand that she didn't know was her own hand. I once walked into the TV room to find Carolyn sobbing hysterically. I asked her what was wrong and she replied "I...(sniff)...can't...find...(sniff)...Biiillllyyyy," at which point I reached down, grabbed her left hand and showed it to her. The tears instantly stopped and she graciously exclaimed "Oh! Billy! There you are! Where do you keep running off to??" She was the funniest and spunkiest woman I have ever met.

Gladys: Gladys was 95 years old and suffered from severe dimensia, meaning she was pretty out of it most of the time and never failed at cracking me up. She was such a sweetheart but so stubborn and I could never get her to do anything unless I distracted her by asking her to sing "You Are My Sunshine." One day I was helping her get into her clothes for the day and she was fighting me on it. "Gladys," I said in frustration, "do you want to walk around naked all day??" "Well I wasn't born that way!!" she yelled back. "You were born with clothes on?!" I exclaimed. "Yep!" she replied, and then yelled at the top of her lungs, "IT WAS A MIRACLE!!"

Working as much as I do just wouldn't be possible without these kinds of moments.

All in all I have the best job in the world.

and apparently a fever.

and stuff.


(Gladys and Me)

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


I was born in 1989 and I think I sucked in enough 80's air in that little portion of a decade to supply me with retro oxygen into my 30's. (hopefully this phase wears off by then. I eventually might start caring about a social life.)

*side note: to this day my mother confuses the word "retro" with "techno." And she's still unsure as to what "techno" actually is, so there's a whole mess of confusion to clean up every time "Sandstorm" comes on her Ipod.

So being the 80's junkie I am, I have yet to get over my big-bow fascination.
Which is why, when Erin and I had "Headband Making Day 2010," I just couldn't help myself.

Erin's boyfriends Broc's reaction when I showed up with this big bow on my head: "Woah. ...Big bow."
I think he liked it.

Here's a side-view of the bow.

A big fat secret: I used pip-cleaner to shape it. Yes, that is the stuff that you made little spiders with on halloween in 2nd grade to decorate your class party. Thanks Mrs. Pollock. The skillz came in handy.

Here's a close-up of the other side. I liked the contrast of the mustard print, but if you're super into all that matching stuff you could just make it out of the same fabric as the bow.

Here is Erin's first amazing creation.

And it looks even better with her pretty face.

Her headbands even looked good with this face.

I LOVED the way she combined the fabrics on this one and I think the thick lace compliments it perfectly.

I made my second one with two layers of thin lace layered over a turquoise ribbon.
Here's a detail of the flower made totally from fabric.

If you haven't noticed by now I'm pretty big on flowers, particularly in my hair.
I think it's my attempt to distract people from the large amounts of hair I have.
In the end Headband Making Day 2010 was a big success. All of the headbands were made from scraps we found in my house, purchased by my mother at garage sales. (one of the perks of living at home for the summer.) If you think you don't have money for crafts, you should check your classifieds on Saturday mornings and check out what the world around you has to offer.
I think you'd be pleasantly surprised.
Kind of like how I feel every time I watch yet another teen 80's movie and remember that John Cusack is the only man in my life who never lets me down.

This weekend: Rent "Say Anything" and make a few headbands you're not ashamed of.

You won't be sad you did.

I'm happy. :)