I have decided not to title this post, on account of I couldn’t decide between the following—

1. All Because I Could Not, Would Not, Did Not Buy a Store Bought Pie

2. Maybe This Is Why My Grandmother Was Hesitant to Accept My Help When I Offered to Make Cookies

3. The Difference Between Ariel and The Little Mermaid

4. There is Karo Syrup on My Pants

I almost decided not to write this post at all. That way you could spend the rest of the night playing a game akin to which of these things is not like the other. Except not. Not like that game at all.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…

Well actually, I don’t really know where to go from here. I guess I could tell you how my evening started out with me glaring at a chocolate pie in Walmart and ended with me putting my Karo syrup-dipped pants in the hamper.

Oh yes. Good idea Alec. Let’s start there. 

Once upon a time, I was standing in Walmart, glaring at a chocolate pie.

I was going to bring the aforementioned chocolate pie to a Thanksgiving celebration. Because I couldn’t think of anything else which required zero minutes of prep time and fit into my budget of cheap.

Turkey was out of the question. For so many reasons. Not least among them I’m a vegetarian. Not most among them I don’t like when people look at me weird.

Anyway, mashed potatoes and rolls crossed off the list later, I was standing in Walmart, staring down a chocolate pie, trying to choose the one with the least whipped cream smeared across the top.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take a store bought pie to a Thanksgiving function.

Because what if the instructions for the Thanksgiving function were to bring some family Thanksgiving tradition food? I didn’t want the whole congregation thinking my family’s tradition was to buy sloppy chocolate pie from Walmart with whip cream smeared on top. I worked hard to ensure my family has holiday traditions. I’m not going to ruin that with one Walmart-pie fell swoop.

I changed my mind. I want the title of this to be One Fell Swoop.

I changed my mind. I want the title of this to be Useless Ramblings, Which No One Quite Understands About Karo Syrup and the Little Mermaid.

Don’t worry. I’m getting to the part about the Little Mermaid.

So I shrugged at the pie and walked away.

And then I started thinking about everything my family has ever eaten.

Yams, grape juice and apple cider later, I decided to make chocolate-covered, peanut butter rice Krispies.

Because even though I can’t remember if I have ever actually eaten those on Thanksgiving, I know I have eaten them at my grandparents’ house, and I know they have Karo syrup in them. And if anything SCREAMS holidays, it Karo Syrup.

Sorry for the capitalization. I really wanted to drive the point home there.

So I set off to the 5000 aisles in Walmart for 4 ingredients.

I’ll skip the part where I buy Advil and check out, and drive home, and unload my groceries, and watch a Tinker Bell movie while my milk goes bad.

So then I’m stirring all the ingredients. Dropping spoons into Karo syrup. Stuff like that. When, all of a sudden, I look at my rice krispies and see—DUN, DUN, DUN—they’re actually rice krispy treats.

Did you know Kellogg’s does that? They make a rice krispy treat cereal.

Here’s where the convoluted bit about the Little Mermaid comes in. See, me—or my sister (I can’t remember who)—used to call the movie “The Little Mermaid” Ariel. Probably because Cinderella was called Cinderella. And Sleeping Beauty was called Sleeping Beauty. (Although turns out Sleeping Beauty has a real name--Aurora. Weird. Right?) So Ariel should get her name written on the front of a VHS too. It’s only fair.

Point is. In my childhood head, the Little Mermaid was also named Ariel.

In my adult head, Rice Krispies cereal is also named Rice Krispy Treats. And so when the box read, “Rice Krispy Treats,” I said, “Perfect,” and bought all 11 cups and 4 ounces of it.

So now I have marshmallow-ridden Rice Krispies, covered in a peanut-butter, Karo-syrup, white-sugar concoction, topped with chocolate and butterscotch.

Want to come visit me? You can have some.

Fair warning: they don’t look pretty. They look like… well I won’t go into detail. But I will say there are several shades of brown. And they’re... umm... chunky.

Funny. I remember them being pretty and less chunked when my grandma makes them.  

I thought maybe I could salvage my dessert’s aesthetics by drizzling melted butterscotch atop, but then I remembered the Karo syrup, white sugar and marshmallow that is already seething inside. I decided not to add extra butterscotch. 

Side note: I have now created a non-vegetarian dish (marshmallows contain gelatin which contains ground bones or something) to bring to this Thanksgiving function. I might as well have cooked a turkey.

I changed my mind. I want the title of this to be Highly Educational, But Completely Unrelated, And Sometimes Difficult to Follow, Parenthetical Phrases. 

I think that pretty much covers all my main points. Except for the bit about the Karo syrup on my pants. But you figured that much out on your own. Right?

See, what did I tell you? Just like a game of which one is not like the other.

Except not.

Not like that game at all. 

I think my neighbors are having a party upstairs.

Apartment living is awesome.

Also, I can't sleep until I do my laundry and take out my contacts.

But blah, I'd prefer not to do either of those things.

So in lieu of getting 8 hours, I give you my first ever TEXTS OUT OF CONTEXT!

Please hold your applause.

Because it wasn't even my idea.

It was Jessica's idea.

We're not on a first name basis or anything. I'd just prefer not to type out her, as my British friend at work calls it, surname. It seems a little stalkerish. Or something.

Jessica seems cool. I'm sure she wouldn't mind too terribly that I have assumed first name basis. I'm sure she also won't mind that I've stolen her idea.

After all, she told me to steal it.

Okay, fine--she didn't tell me, specifically, to steal it. She just told the blog world to steal it. And sometimes I feel like the Pioneer Woman and I are the only people in the blog world left.

Well actually, it's just the Pioneer Woman left. I'm just an occasional weird relative visitor.

Anyway... about those out-of-context texts.

TA DA!



1. The car in front of me has a foot out its window. Do you think they're trying to flip me off?


2. Dang, if I knew you wanted to treasure it I would have brought two--one for drinking, one for treasuring. Next time. In Eloy.

3. I drove all the way home!

4. You don't often think of eye candy and Walmart going together.

5. I'm just here to make sure your rap career takes off. I guess you could say I'm a logician.

6. I feel like I should warn you, since we're approaching 10pm I could fall asleep at any moment without notice.

7a. You can't wear them in France. But you can wear them to nurse mystery parties.

7b. Nurse mystery parties? I've never been to one of those!

8. Dumbledore. He has a beard.

9. That's great news. I can finally stop hiding Sally in the bathtub.

10. Boomshakalaka.



Good night everyone!

Oh hey there

I might make this blog private.

For like a week. Or two.

I don't intend to write anything during this week(s).

I'm just being weird and vague and maybe I'll explain it someday, but probably not.

I'm sorry, this is the type of thing that people write on their blogs that drives me crazy.

For a minute. But then I go back to living my life and I forget that I'm dying to know why suddenly they must make their blog private right this second.

Anyway...

Once I start writing posts I'll be all public and what not again.

Sorry again for being all, 'I'm writing, I'm not writing, I'm moving, I'm not moving, I'm private, I'm public.'

Someday I will make up my mind.

Probably.

You Know? You know!

Guys, Word Press hates me. So what if I want to put an extra equal sign in my html code? You don’t have to go blow up on me. Geesh.

It’s alright though because I haven’t had much to say lately.  Because I love my internship, and loving things makes me feel all braggy. You know, like: GUESS WHAT I DID TODAY? I WENT SCUBA DIVING IN A SPRING. AND THERE WAS A CAVERN AT THE BOTTOM!

No one wants to hear that.

So instead of saying that, I’ll pose to you a question--

Have you ever had one of those days at work where you’re sitting in front of the computer screen, trying to focus on the words, but all you see is the blinding light of the monitor, telling you, “Close your eyes, go to sleep, la la la lullaby”?

You know…

 You went to bed the night before praying that you’d feel renewed and inspired come morning, but instead you wake up feeling like you haven’t slept at all, because you had a dream that your mom sent you to a doctor’s office where you have to pay for parking, and ‘what kind of doctor can’t afford their own parking lot?!’ you wonder, and then you have to come home from work at lunch time and load up on caffeine, but you don’t have a bottle opener, so you try to use a spoon, a knife and your hand, but that doesn’t work, so you check again, and it turns out the corkscrew in the drawer is actually a bottle opener, too, so you pop that Mexican Coca Cola open and chug, and then you eat two pickles on a piece of bread.

It’s a two pickles on a piece of bread kind of day.

Which doesn’t quite compare to a, I literally have nothing in my cupboard except kidney beans, kind of day, but still. It’s no veggie burger and milkshake either.

YOU KNOW?

But it’s OK, because sometimes a pickle sandwich can bring you back to your roots and help you remember who you are.

And even though the who you are stuff is a little wishy washy still, you’re working on it--one weirdy food analogy at a time.

That’s right. I said weirdy. 

Hi

For reasons I can't explain coherently, I am writing here now.

 If you would like to follow me as I trapeze gracefully (haha) across the country, you may do so. If you don't want to, you don't have to.

 You can stay here and stare at my blog reel hoping that someone else updates their blog. Most days, that's what I do, too.

I think I'm out of things to say. At least for a while.

Thanks for playing along.

Paris

Life is weird.

Despite all your best planning, figuring and dreaming, you never know what you're going to get.


On one very normal day in November, my family was pulling out of the parking lot of a Courtyard hotel in Page, Arizona. We were coming home from two Thanksgivings, one in Logan and one in St. George.

In the hotel lobby, my mom and I ran into people speaking French.

I was thirty minutes into French-teaching podcasts, and I listened intently to the french speakers' conversation. I was pretty sure if I just focused hard enough, I would be able to understand what they were saying. After all, I did have 30 minutes worth of French instruction.

I didn't understand a single word. Well maybe one. Oui.

My sisters and I got into our rental call named Bertha, and we pulled out of the parking lot.

Then my mom said to my dad, "So are you going to tell them?"

"No, you go ahead," my dad said.

If I remember correctly, this conversation was not light. And so I immediately assumed someone was dying. Because that's what I do. I assume someone is dying.

"What?" cries that backseat. "What are you going to tell us?"

My sister's sound excited, and I'm just scared. And while we try to figure out what's going on, my parents sit in the front debating over who should tell us what's going on.

"It was your idea," my mom says. "You tell them."

My dad ho's and hums and then says, "Do you guys want to go to Paris?"

My sisters and give each other sideways glances with half smiles. Because what kind of question is that? Did we hear right? Is this real life?

I can't remember exactly what came next, but basically we asked a series of questions verifying the validity of his statement.

"Is this a rhetorical question?"

"Are you talking about the eiffel tower in Vegas?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"Why are you asking this?"

And most importantly,

"Are you serious?"


After a half hour or so, we had nailed down that this was in fact a real question about the real Paris, and our half smiles turned to full ones.

We decided on spring.

Because summers are busy.

And I committed to learning more than a half-hour worth of French.



Three and a half months later, I am home from Paris.

In a way, the trip was everything I thought it would be.

I expected to be inspired.

And I was.

I expected to eat incredible food.

And I did.

I expected to be amazed.

And I was.

I expected to fall in love.

And I did.


Paris was magic.

And that's exactly what I expected.

London Calling

Today, I met the Queen of England.

And by met, I mean I saw her driving into Westminster Abby.

And by saw her, I mean I saw the big, red, double-decker bus intentionally blocking her as she arrived to Westminster Abby.

I will have to show you a picture of her sometime.

The red bus, that is.

Call Me Nichole Parks

Well, it's past 12am here. Which means plenty of girls across the Mountain Standard Time Zone are watching Rachael McAdams wake up in a hospital bed with no recollection of her undying love for Channing Tatum.

Some of the movie goers are likely already crying. But they should save their tears. Because, let's face it, it's probably only going to get more sad.

I am not watching this movie because:

1. I thought I would be asleep by now.

2. The last Nicholas Sparks movie I saw was such a disappointment that I vowed to think long and hard before I paid seven and a half dollars to see another movie based on a book by the man who loves dying characters.

I *now* realize this movie is not actually based on a Nicholas Sparks book. BUT I wrote this post before coming upon that knowledge, AND it's close enough to Nicholas Sparksish style for me, SO I'm going to leave this post as is.

Besides, if someone else can turn a based-on-a-true story into a quasi-Nicholas-Sparks sap fest, so can I.

Which is why I have decided to spend the next 20 minutes visualizing myself as the main character of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

--Not the one who dies. Obviously.--

Well that reason, AND because I am bored and am avoiding productive things. Like sleep.

I think if Nicholas Sparks wrote my life, this is how it would go--

(Note: I am changing my name to Nichole Parks for this post on account of using my real name for this display of unadulterated sappiness might make me gag.)

It didn't take long.

Nichole Parks rarely did things quickly. In fact, in fourth grade her classmates issued a complaint about her during circle time, citing her propensity to slowly eat lunch.

But when Nichole moved to a small town in the South and met Brady Bobby Billy Joe she fell in love faster than a kite catches the wind.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the movies and said "Nichole. I like you more than I like peach pie with sugar on top. And that's saying something."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the fair. And the fair was nothing like the temporary carnival set up in the Saver's parking lot that Nichole went to once. So Nichole rode the ferris wheel and nary even fretted for her life.

Then Nichole played the piano for Brady Bobby Billy Joe. After, of course, they walked a few circles around a nearby swimming hole that was filled with thousands of fuzzy baby ducklings.

It was love at first note. For both of them.

Two years later, after having been split by the great earthquake that divided the soft South from the real South, Nichole and Brady Bobby Billy Joe reunited in a trendy, metropolitan cafe where Nichole had started training to become a barista-- a day job, while she worked toward her real dream of being a teacher/crossword writer.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe ran to Nichole to sweep her up in his arms and apologize for not being on her side of the earthquake split (think Land Before Time if you're having trouble picturing the earthquake separation).

Unfortunately, Nichole had always struggled with names, and she stuttered as she attempted o remember all four of Brady Bobby Billy Joe's names.

"B.. b... b... Baby, it's good to see you," Nichole tried.

"You. You don't remember?" Tears filled Brady Bobby Billy Joe's eyes (and the audience sobs).

"I'm sorry. It's just, it's been so long," Nichole said, letting out a desperate sob. "But I'm so happy to see you. I just wish I wasn't married to your brother."

"I'm sick," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said, ignoring Nichole's confession.

"Say it isn't so," Nichole cried.

"It's true. Hundreds were affected after the earthquake. And I'm one of them. I have Valley Fever."

Another sob escaped Nichole's small mouth.

"Are you sure?" Nichole asked.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe looked sullen. "Yes, the x-ray confirmed what I already knew."

"I'll leave your brother," Nichole said. "I only loved him because he reminded me of you. I'll go to the doctor with you for check ups and make sure you get plenty of fluids."

"It's too late," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said. "It's too late."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe walked out of the cafe. And Nichole mixed tears into an otherwise perfect Frappuccino.

The End.

You Heard It Here First

http://www.cnn.com/2012/02/03/living/overweight-pets/index.html

I'll admit though, their photos are better than mine.

My Side of the Bed

Well guys, Roxy has decided she wants to sleep on my bed.

I spent the better part of my high school days trying to coax, convince and coddle Roxy into sleeping at the foot of my bed, so she could be the golden retriever from Homeward Bound and I could be... Oh wait, I don't want to be the teenage boy who goes on playing basketball even after he finds out his childhood pet got lost in the woods and was probably eaten by a MOUNTAIN LION.

But you get the point, I wanted Roxy to prove her unconditional love for me by sleeping at the foot of my bed.

Instead she slept in a corner, under my bed.

I was offended. But after years of self-consolation I finally decided it was probably more sanitary if she slept on the floor.

And now, suddenly, Roxy wants to be Shadow, the unconditionally-loving golden retriever from the movie I haven't seen in years.

So I'm letting her stay.

Sometimes compassion overrules sanitation.

Besides, she was recently bathed.

And I love her.

Until recently, Roxy was snoring away on my side of the bed. Which, incidentally, is why I'm writing in the first place. Because apparently I can only sleep on one side of the bed. And so I decided I'd open my computer and type something in my unsatisfied sleep haze. (You don't know what an unsatisfied sleep haze is? That's okay. Me either. I think it's when you're tired, but you can't sleep, because you have words floating around your head and your dog is on your side of the bed.)

Which brings me to my next point:

Kitchen Aids.

(I know, my ability to successfully transition from one point to the next is awe-inspiring.)

I want to own a Kitchen Aid.

I don't know. I guess it's because I think the red one is really pretty.

Maybe it comes from a subconscious desire to eat cookies.

And bake bread.

Someday I'm going to figure out how to know what I really want.

I'm going to learn how to be brave enough to want things bigger and more important than Kitchen Aids.

But for now, I'll look for a red mixer to sit on my counter.

Actually, on an almost related note, I have a lot of faith in hope. (And after much consideration, I have decided that does, in fact, make sense. So don't question me on it okay? I have faith in hope. So there.)

And, despite my better judgement, I believe dreams come true.

I mean, just look at Roxy. She is sleeping on my bed.

Dear SkyMall

Dear SkyMall:

I want to take my dog on a walk.

I really do.

It's just that, you see, when I walk with the leash in my hand my fingers get so fatigued.

While I've been resting my phalanges, Humphry has grown fat and lazy.

I can't even look at him anymore.

Please help.

Sincerely,

There Must Be a Better Way...

To Walk My Dog.

Dear Lazy Fingers,

Let me assure you. You are NOT alone.

No one likes holding on to the leash.

This, sadly, has resulted in an exponential increase of dog obesity in the last five years.

Please refer to the chart below.

I'd say the data is conclusive.

Exponential.

Increase.

Fortunately for you, there are people--good people--people who want to help.

They're the people of SkyMall.

And they have a solution for you.

It's Name:

THE AERO LEASH

(Please refer to photo below. Which was taken from the www.skymall.com/shopping.)

For the tiny price of $19.99, you too can run with your dog attached to your bicep.

Say goodbye to tired fingers and fatigued hand muscles.

Now you can run hands free.

If you have a blue tooth, you can also talk hands free.

In fact, if you have the computer program that types when you speak, you may not need your hands at all.

Ever again.

Also, as a side benefit, if you're dog is a puller, you're going to get very muscled.

That's right.

Muscled.

Very Muscled.

Best of luck, lazy fingers.

Sincerely,

Monday Morning Reader of SkyMall Magazine

Never stop looking. For a better way.

Disclaimer:

This is not a real SkyMall ad.

It is also not a real letter.

In fact, nothing in this post is real.

Except, incidentally, the product itself.

The Aero Leash is very real.

This scenario is a product of the author's imagination. Anything, (except the actual product as previously noted) that relates to real life is purely coincidental.

This includes the author's dog Roxy.

I repeat. Humphry is not Roxy.

Humphry is not Roxy in an oversimplified shapes form.

Humphry is not even related to Roxy.

They're not even third cousins.

Over and out.

Pistachio Boat Races

I've been eating a lot of pistachios lately.

And every time I see the empty shells, I think about pistachio boat races.

I don't know what pistachio boat races are, but I think I'd like them.

I think I'll write a book about pistachio boat races. It will be like Dr. Suess's Horton Hears a Who. Except it will be the story of a fuzz ball that goes on a grand adventure in a pistachio shell. In the end, he--the fuzz ball--will find out he never even left the kitchen sink.

Now you know.

This is what I think about in my spare time.

My sister says she catches up on my blog once every three months or so. Lately, she said, she's been disappointed, because even after three months, there's nothing new.

I'm writing about pistachios so three months from now she'll have something to read.

I think she's going to be disappointed.

"This?" She'll think. "This is what you came up with?"

In order to, I hope, dissipate some of her disappointment, I'll leave you with this story.

Two and a half years ago I went to Argentina. It felt crazy. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know why I was doing it. All I knew was I couldn't give up on going to Argentina.

So I went.

Before I left, I'm pretty sure my uncle told me I'd be fine as long as the airline people didn't think I was an unaccompanied minor.

They did.

Twelve. Unaccompanied minors are twelve.

I was 21 years old and the lady checking my luggage thought I was an unaccompanied minor.

And then I got on the plane and had the most wonderful flight.

Guys, I watched the sunrise from an airplane window as I flew into freezing Argentina.

They fed me eggs with cheese on them. I think there was basil or something, too.

And I should have been scared. I should have been thinking about everything that could go wrong. But I wasn't. I was thinking about everything that could go right.

I was originally going somewhere else with this story.

But I think I want to say this instead.

Sometimes it's okay to trust what you believe.

You can run around collecting opinions, trying to get everyone to agree with the decision you've made.

But in the end, it's you who has to board the plane. Possibly unaccompanied.

You have to decide where you're going to let life take you.

Now you know.

This is what I think about in my spare time.

Well, this and the pistachios.