You're Anne of Green Gables!
by L.M. Montgomery
Bright, chipper, vivid, but with the emotional fortitude of cottage
cheese, you make quite an impression on everyone you meet. You're impulsive, rash,
honest, and probably don't have a great relationship with your parents. People hurt
your feelings constantly, but your brazen honestly doesn't exactly treat others with
kid gloves. Ultimately, though, you win the hearts and minds of everyone that matters.
You spell your name with an E and you want everyone to know about it.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Dear to the heart of the pretty.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
I knew I had red hair for a reason...
Revenge of the Nite Bite
The basement freezer has always been a rank dungeon which houses the oddities and outcasts of the food world. Freezer burned dinner rolls, untouched, uncooked, and ill-assorted meats of all kinds flank the wire baskets lying within this big white casket for frozen food. Occasionally, however, a sweet treat can be found in the very deepest corners of this particular freezer.
It is here that I first discovered the Nite Bite.
They came as gifts from the diabetes camp management. Innocently wrapped in bright blue plastic with pink letters, they were the only colorful object in the freezer's grasp. Designed to keep little diabetics from getting midnight low downs, the colorful candies appeared to be delightful as well as tasty. Chocolaty brown with a texture similar to a tootsie roll, I unraveled my first Nite Bite with delight and sank my teeth into its frozen surface.
The first words that can possibly describe the sensation of eating a Nite Bite are a combination between chocolate, chalk, and mud. The Bite is thick, glutenous, and filled with the powdery sensation of protein packed grossness. Overwhelmingly sweet and undesirably preservable, the half-thawed goop sticks to the roof of my mouth, throat, esophogaus, and stomach.
In other words...
Bees sting,
Flies bite.
I just wanted
A Nite Bite...
But I learned my lesson the hard way.
It is here that I first discovered the Nite Bite.
They came as gifts from the diabetes camp management. Innocently wrapped in bright blue plastic with pink letters, they were the only colorful object in the freezer's grasp. Designed to keep little diabetics from getting midnight low downs, the colorful candies appeared to be delightful as well as tasty. Chocolaty brown with a texture similar to a tootsie roll, I unraveled my first Nite Bite with delight and sank my teeth into its frozen surface.
The first words that can possibly describe the sensation of eating a Nite Bite are a combination between chocolate, chalk, and mud. The Bite is thick, glutenous, and filled with the powdery sensation of protein packed grossness. Overwhelmingly sweet and undesirably preservable, the half-thawed goop sticks to the roof of my mouth, throat, esophogaus, and stomach.
In other words...
Bees sting,
Flies bite.
I just wanted
A Nite Bite...
But I learned my lesson the hard way.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Anecdotes of a Bereaved Flood Victim
My Grandma Dolli said that bad things always happen in sets of three.
Grandma's theory always worked. As pessimistic human beings searching for all the wrongs that have been done to us, it is easy to find two companions for every minor tragedy that marches in our direction. But early this morning I learned that every once in a while a real catastrophe occurs-- one that would be dimmed in comparison to any other problem, and whose terribleness cannot be classified in any category. My ability to complain over minor incidents has been demolished along with my bedroom ceiling; it is resting peacefully somewhere in a sea of broken drywall and scattered insulation.
I did not notice the watermark. It was a thin gray line, sneakily curved and just long enough to be mistaken for the shadow of the lavender that wrapped around the canopy of my bed. For days it had been growing, amassing and accumulating dirty water above my ceiling until it severed a tiny hole above my sleeping place. I was awakened early in the morning by the gentle drip, drip, drip of the hideous water as it fell from that tiny hole and onto my pillow. I sleepily squinted at the dark spot above, trying to register what exactly was happening. I grabbed a teacup from my nightstand and let it catch the drip.
The water was definitely yellow.
By the time I arrived back in my room with my mother and a more adequate container to catch the flow, the hole had stretched into an enormous and immensely ugly gash, now streaming water and bulging with more liquid. I froze, eyeing my room-- my beautiful room with the gently twisting wrought iron bed, the fluffy white down comforter, plants, flowers, perfume... the silver picture frames with yellow water dripping down their fronts--and began to cry.
We salvaged as much as we could before the ceiling broke. The black lines were spreading and impregnating themselves with water, and at last they split with a mighty crack. Wetness and gray insulation piled itself on top of my mattress, my carpet, and my little, curly, white nightstand and chair ensemble I had so lovingly developed. I stood in the middle of the floor and gazed forlornly into my attic through a four-foot long hole in my ceiling.
I sat down on several inches of dirty, gray fluff and cried.
And so I will spend the rest of today shoveling insulation and plaster into garbage bags. I will vacuum up what remains, let the plumber fix the leak, and sleep in the room across the hall until the hole in my ceiling is repaired. The gaping fissure doesn't rip at my heart as much as it initially did. I've safely moved my things away from the water, and draped the too heavy furniture with plastic for protection against further damage. All is well, and the fact that I have not been rendered unconscious by a falling piece of drywall makes me grateful indeed.
Bad things irrevocably come in threes. For every little snag I find, I will easily be able to summon two more with my pessimistic imagination.
Grandma's theory always worked. As pessimistic human beings searching for all the wrongs that have been done to us, it is easy to find two companions for every minor tragedy that marches in our direction. But early this morning I learned that every once in a while a real catastrophe occurs-- one that would be dimmed in comparison to any other problem, and whose terribleness cannot be classified in any category. My ability to complain over minor incidents has been demolished along with my bedroom ceiling; it is resting peacefully somewhere in a sea of broken drywall and scattered insulation.
I did not notice the watermark. It was a thin gray line, sneakily curved and just long enough to be mistaken for the shadow of the lavender that wrapped around the canopy of my bed. For days it had been growing, amassing and accumulating dirty water above my ceiling until it severed a tiny hole above my sleeping place. I was awakened early in the morning by the gentle drip, drip, drip of the hideous water as it fell from that tiny hole and onto my pillow. I sleepily squinted at the dark spot above, trying to register what exactly was happening. I grabbed a teacup from my nightstand and let it catch the drip.
The water was definitely yellow.
By the time I arrived back in my room with my mother and a more adequate container to catch the flow, the hole had stretched into an enormous and immensely ugly gash, now streaming water and bulging with more liquid. I froze, eyeing my room-- my beautiful room with the gently twisting wrought iron bed, the fluffy white down comforter, plants, flowers, perfume... the silver picture frames with yellow water dripping down their fronts--and began to cry.
We salvaged as much as we could before the ceiling broke. The black lines were spreading and impregnating themselves with water, and at last they split with a mighty crack. Wetness and gray insulation piled itself on top of my mattress, my carpet, and my little, curly, white nightstand and chair ensemble I had so lovingly developed. I stood in the middle of the floor and gazed forlornly into my attic through a four-foot long hole in my ceiling.
I sat down on several inches of dirty, gray fluff and cried.
And so I will spend the rest of today shoveling insulation and plaster into garbage bags. I will vacuum up what remains, let the plumber fix the leak, and sleep in the room across the hall until the hole in my ceiling is repaired. The gaping fissure doesn't rip at my heart as much as it initially did. I've safely moved my things away from the water, and draped the too heavy furniture with plastic for protection against further damage. All is well, and the fact that I have not been rendered unconscious by a falling piece of drywall makes me grateful indeed.
Bad things irrevocably come in threes. For every little snag I find, I will easily be able to summon two more with my pessimistic imagination.
But catastrophes need no exaggeration. They unalterably come in their full glory and terror-- completely and utterly alone.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
The Undivided Self
South Jordan has morphed itself into quite a pleasantry. There is an area near the public library that is especially nice; it harbors four wrought iron swings under a tall gazebo and a sizable fountain of cool water. It is here that I became acquainted with Jacob.
I was sitting on one of the swings-- filling out my Hobby Lobby job application and talking on the phone-- when a minuscule girl and boy with dark hair and eyes crept up behind me and began to pelt me with unexpectedly friendly questions. I answered them kindly, and even ventured a few of my own. I learned their names were Isaac and Isabella, they hailed from California near a lake, and they are in town for the rest of this week to visit their cousins.
About halfway through the Hobby Lobby application, another child toddled towards me-- from the front this time. He had a grim expression on his face and he said with nonchalant melancholy,
"Izzy? I think I hurt my foot."
He had indeed. His second toe had been viciously slashed open by a glass bottle left near the fountain. The tendon was exposed, and blood oozed and bubbled profusely from it, dribbling menacingly onto the hot, white pavement.
Without warning, an undeniable motherly, nurturing instinct pushed me off the phone and off the swing. I grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the library.
"Come with me, hon" I said, quickening my pace, "let's try to find some bandages to stop the bleeding."
The librarian behind the counter was not pleased with me, or the little bleeding boy staining the carpet. She handed me two very large and awkward looking bandages, and I pulled my diminutive patient into the ladies restroom where I promptly set him on the counter and began washing his foot with soap and water. It was a horrible sight. Not only was the skin completely ripped off his toe, but a long and open sore ran along the full length of his foot pad. I asked him questions and talked to him to keep him calm, and afterwards I tried to wipe some of the blood off of his legs and feet and hands.
I'm not quite sure exactly what happened after that. Isabella and Isaac went next door to get their mother, and I decided it was time for me to quietly make my exit for Hobby Lobby. But as I left they all smiled and said,
"Thank you for helping us, lady!"
Good Samaritan moments are probably more prominent than we would like to believe. Sometimes we choose not to accept them, but they are always available. There is a very basic human instinct that calls each of us to help a fellow brother-- especially when service is needed, and one not only knows their care is wanted, but required.
I left the library today spattered with blood, sweat, and worry. But I also secretly held that creepy Christmas-service-giving feeling in my heart.
It is the best feeling in the world.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Toxic Girl
Today I encountered three separate moments in which I could step outside my body and see what it's really like to be me. Perhaps they were caused by excessive studying, or even lack of sleep.
Either way, it was bizarre.
The first proof came while I was studying in my bed. From my position, I could glance to the left and see my reflection in the mirror. I was wearing my square red glasses, perched low on my nose to further facilitate reading. My plaid pajamas were still on me, and my hair was skillfully crafted into a loose and mostly falling librarian bun.
As I glanced at the mirror to tuck a few liberated hairs back into my bun, an odd little voice-- not my own-- gave me a brief commentary about the girl I saw.
She's reading about Napoleon, drinking Ovaltine, and listening to Regina Spektor-- and she likes it. How nerdy is that?
I saw the girl tidy up a few strands of hair, saw the hand move to straighten the crooked chignon-- but could not feel the fingers brush my face. It was surpassing odd.
"That isn't nerdy," I told the voice, "it's normal!"
Feeling a little embarrassed, I looked down at the textbooks and papers scrawled across my lap, littering my bed, and blowing gently in the rain-strewn wind from my open door.
I saw pages and pages listing the differences between Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin, a picture of an elf wearing roller skates that I had drawn several months ago, and the protruding corner of a note with the words, "fanatical Jacobin Friar" scrawled hastily in the corner.
Who is this girl?
Glancing out the window, I notice an odd little bird perched nonchalantly on the balcony rail. Its markings are unfamiliar to me and I jump-- yes, there was air between my feet and the ground-- out of bed and sprint to the computer to learn more about my strange little visitor.
"Ah ha! A red-winged Blackbird!"
Oh no... Did I just say that out loud?
It is fortunate that no matter who comes and goes in our lives we will always have ourselves to keep us company. Considering the fact that I feel comfortable conversing with myself, have brain hallucinations, and am content to gaze out the window and bird watch guarantees I will never be lonely.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Joslynn's existential art crisis: an evaluation of nice things that don't look good
Art speaks to the human soul. It is the greatest creation of human beings; it forges a connection between us while enveloping beauty, creativity, and emotion.
However, there is such a thing as a bad painting. Because of this fact, I was inspired to embark on a quest to find the worst art ever.
I was fortunate enough to stumble upon these.
However, there is such a thing as a bad painting. Because of this fact, I was inspired to embark on a quest to find the worst art ever.
I was fortunate enough to stumble upon these.
Vortex
Acquired by Scott Wilson from trash
Acquired by Scott Wilson from trash
Here we see a disembodied head, whose bleeding shadow screams with pain.
Don't drink the water.
Think Again
A Michael Jackson-like character presents to us the severed head of a horse which, I believe, exists simply because of the artist's inability to draw the animal's hindquarters.
Suicide
Clouds in an otherwise clear sky cry blood as the bovine beast dives, lemming like, and misses the phosphorescent, oily, swimming hole.
Reef Garden
Acquired by Scott Wilson from the Salvation Army Store
Here we are, witnessing the stage of a musical extravaganza. On a silent cue, one pulsating incubator bursts, hurtling an anxious and curiously aged little merman upwards to the unknown world above the surface. The dancer stares, hypnotizing the viewer. We find ourselves forced to stay -- feel the music or drown.
Mama and Babe
Donated by the artist
Donated by the artist
And last, the King of them all...The hues of the skin and the presidential candidate-like bone structure of both Mama and Babe advertise the everlasting bond between parent and child-- much like a marionette and a puppeteer.
Lucy in the Field With Flowers
Unknown Artist
Unknown Artist
The motion, the sway of her body, the subtle hues of the sky, the expression on her face -- every detail cries out "masterpiece."
Monday, April 02, 2007
Polluting the air in more ways than one
The McCombies have been in Malibu for six months.
Each day of their absence, Renee Clark has faithfully gathered their mail and placed it in a plastic box where bit by bit it has amassed and accumulated to overflowing. Not only does the woman drive a large vehicle to pick up the letters from the McCombie's mailbox fifty feet from her front door, but she also almost always has a skinny cigarette clamped securely between her faded and sagging lips.
From my front porch vantage point, I can periodically witness the antics of my singular neighbor. Today, as I unstrapped my running shoes and stretched my legs, I smiled to myself and thought:
Ah, she gets better everyday.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
In which I am visited by St. Patrick, the Mistress Witch of McClure, and Darius's Squadron of Benevolent Butterflies
As I stood in the check-out line with my mom and sister, I espied me an elderly woman with flaming red hair and dangle earrings shaped like foaming green beer mugs. She looked the perfect picture of an Irish Sidhe. I imagined her in a fairy rath, and the thought summoned a familiar ache in my heart-- the ache I always feel when I hear bagpipes.
We made eye contact, and I gave her a smile.
"I like your earrings," I said, "they're very festive."
Her eyes brightened as she patted her titian tresses and sighed,
"Thank you! You are the first to have noticed them today."
I kept my eyes on her the entire time-- determined that if she was a real leprechaun, this magnificent creature would have to share her gold with me.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Mirror, mirror...
We've all heard horror stories. Cornflakes stuck to the chin during sacrament talks, faces plastered with snot, and bleached eyebrows are just a few of many terrible instances. But I learned today that breaches of personal hygiene aren't truly influential until they happen to you personally.
When I arrived home from school today, I promptly headed upstairs to change my clothes before going to my violin lesson(yes, I did go). As I slipped a T-shirt over my head, I glanced at the mirror and noticed something peculiar glinting on my neck. May it be universally known that my room is very sunny at this time of day, and nothing reveals physical flaws like natural light. Thanks to this, upon closer inspection I discovered the shiny something to be a hair-- an unnaturally long and straight hair-- growing out of my neck. You can imagine my reaction. I made a beeline for my tweezers, and extracted the little bugger quickly. It was incredible, and probably should have been framed. The thing was so long it had more split ends than any hair growing out of my head. And then I saw it: another culprit, shorter than the first but much darker. I removed it as well, feeling rather unnerved and curious as to what could have spawned such a monster.
All I can say is this: either I have failed in the plucking industry or my hormones are severely screwed up.
The mirror tells no lies.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
12 Years Later
Home movies are often all the same – holidays, soccer games, birthday parties – so why do we make and watch so many of them? Maybe it's because the story they show, and the story they tell, are different.
Sometime in the mid-nineties Grandpa purchased a new and sleek Canon camcorder. Whenever he brought it out, my grandma would cover the side of her face and complain about how he followed her around, filming.
"Do you honestly think anyone is going to watch this, Coston? Why do you need to get everything on film? Are you that afraid you're going to forget something?"
My siblings and I were young then and excited about the prospect of seeing ourselves on the screen. We would take turns hogging the lens, each trying to give a word or a face to the camera ("We're bozos! Yeah, we're hogs!") before the shaky photographer took a break to film various sedentary objects and machinery.
My grandma was camera shy. She scowled upon film at family gatherings.
"There should be a law against those things. Can't it wait? It's all well for them, but what about us poor nobodies caught in the crossfire?"
After she died we took turns holding her various belongings to our noses. Grandma's coat. Grandma's sweater. Grandma's pillow. This is what people do when they're left with such paltry iconography-- they smell things, continuing long after the scent has faded, and there is nothing left to help you remember.
I never cried about my grandma's death. I locked everything up inside me and let it rot. It hurt more that way, but I couldn't bear to show emotion.
Last night I watched a home movie shot in 1995, at my father's birthday party. I witnessed myself in the most awkward stage of my life, decked out in jogging pants, with snarly brown hair and large front teeth. My parents and siblings were undeniably younger, and I couldn't remember how life was before everything changed.
I only glimpsed my grandma towards the end. It was such a small thing: grandma and grandpa and me, swinging on the swings in the backyard. She had on cotton polyester pants, and her hair looked exactly the way I remembered. The swings went back and forth, and through my loud unintelligible yelling on film I had an epiphany-- I was once again the six year old girl caught on camera, swinging with her grandparents.
It seemed to me like a miracle.
After it was over I hit the rewind button, and against my grandma's will I drew her back out to the swing set. She was mine now, captured on film and releasing dozens of repressed memories that came free as tears formed in my eyes. I sat there for a long time, only moving my eyes from her face to rewind it again and again.
Monday, January 29, 2007
For The Widows In Paradise; For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti
Every perfect day needs a topper-- an apex from which every blissful moment can delicately unfold before beginning its descent. But what happens when the day is flat lined on a negative scale with no hope of a point of increase?
Your tires get slashed.
It was bad that I could not find my carpool. It was worse that I was stuck in slippery heels without any way to contact my friends whom I was supposed to drive. But the climax-- the minimum point of my day, the anti-apex, if you will-- became tragedy when I coatlessly found the New Yorker sitting on a slope that allowed the rim of the back tire to kiss the asphalt in a most threatening manner.
Someday I would simply like to go home after school. That's it. No unclosable doors, no dead engines. Someday I would like to hop in my car and have it take me places without running the risk of suicide from an imploding radiator.
So I passed this anticlimax by standing in shock next to a car with peeling red paint and 'YSLER' glued in rusted silver letters across the back, utterly at a loss for action.
I decided that putting on a decent facade of knowledgeable tire-changing skills for the sophomores congregating on the driving range would be a good start. I opened up the trunk, where I knew a spare tire was kept. I pulled on it. It would not give. I tugged on the jack next to it. I have found that in calamities biceps and arm muscles are extremely useful. If nothing else, they give comfort in their existence. Mine exist, but only for a taut allowance of minimal tasks-- such as holding a spoon and waving at people in the hallways. My arms are not meant for manual labor.
With half my body immersed in the open trunk, my bare knees anchored on the sagging bumper, and my sleeves rolled past the elbow, I pulled and pulled at that blasted tire. By this time I had grime on my legs and hands, and was feeling extremely frustrated.
And then he came, an enormous angel who was extremely scary and simultaneously wonderful.
"Well, that sucks!" said Coach Gross, as he leaned over me to inspect what little progress I was able to make with the immovable tire.
He moved it with one hand, picked it up like he was picking up a plastic ball. He raised and lowered and unscrewed and basically lifted the entire car, while I stood back, shivering in my stupid little pink heels, feeling the negativity that comes with feminine helplessness-- or perhaps just my weakness and failure as a human being.
As I was driving home slowly on my newly changed, bike-sized back rear tire, I reflected on the goodness of human nature. Nobody had to stop to help me. I could have stood abandoned in the parking lot for a long, long, time.
Every perfect day has an apex.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Hoarding it for Home
My life as a health addict has not always been severe. Our cupboards at home are usually decorated with Wasa crackers and various healthful condiments from foreign countries. But every once in a long, long while we go on a junk food binge that ultimately leaves us fat and panting for celery and chickpeas.
I remember one such sugar-spree in particular. My father was shuffling through the contents of our refrigerator in an attempt to find something to prepare for dinner. Towards the back of the second glass shelf-- between the Shiitake mushrooms and bell peppers-- he discovered an unnamed science experiment contained within the careful plastic of Glad's Tupperware. Holding the container cautiously over the sink, he slowly pulled the lid off to reveal a medley of molding green nastiness that had been shoved to the back of Leftover Corner and had gurgled happily there for Heaven only knows how many weeks. My mother was away visiting family at this time, and perhaps in a rash act of desperation and helplessness my father emptied the fridge completely of all the organic and easily perishable ingredients that my mother had carefully stocked upon its shelves prior to her departure. From my short perspective I could see a familiar glint come into my father's eyes which could only mean one thing-- chips.
Whenever my mom left town, my dad was left in charge of the grocery shopping. Buying food with Dad was like going on holiday. He is a bargain shopper, which means that he will tear down the cookie and cracker and cereal aisles and throw anything with a 2 for 1 special sign into the cart.
"Pop tarts? Frosted flakes? White bread? Throw it into the cart and let's get out of here!"
For a family who is accustomed to eating twelve grain wheat bread, flax oil, and fortified omega 3 eggs, junk food is a big deal. By the time Dad and the girls (everybody came along for the ride and to help load ice cream into the cart) arrived home, the backseat and trunk of the minivan were weighted down with bouquets and caboodles of sugary and salty snacks that yielded far more calories in one serving than what we were used to consuming in an entire day.
After the initial grocery trip life went downhill. I remember the first few days were glorious; we ate cold cereal for breakfast and bacon and chocolate and Heinz ketchup and other such foodstuffs that most true-blue Americans take for granted. After several meals of unending glory and sugary delight, the novelty of this American life would begin to atrophy and most family members were left feeling chubby and empty and fiber-less.
The crap food would be thrown out immediately before my mom's return, which would be greeted by an empty refrigerator that she would promptly replace with cucumbers, spinach, and mozzarella cheese. She would hustle and bustle and complain, exclaiming:
"For the life of me I can't figure out how you all go through so much food when I'm away!"
So break out the Wasa crackers again, Mom. Our eating habits are as dull as two dry toasts, because after all, you are what you eat.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Lutefisk: a little piece of Valhalla
My first encounter with 'Death in the Form of Fish' came at our annual Norwegian Christmas party, six years in the past.
The celebration took place in the basement of some shady building sometime in mid-December. The room was very cold, and filled with accented strangers who all wore sweaters and smelled like mushrooms. At last the talking ceased and dinner was served.
Fish.
Mary Hoblastad, a long time family friend, approached the table at which I was sitting and asked if I was going to eat anything. I stared down at the odoriferous goo on my plate, whose gelatinous texture and rancid oiliness rendered the whole creature completely inedible. I shook my head.
"You don't like fish?" she exclaimed wildly, attracting the attention of several suspicious old men passing by, plates loaded with cod, "And you call yourself Norsk! For shame!"
The situation was further worsened when I learned the history of the dish. It was a Scandinavian delicacy known as lutefisk - which means, literally, "cod soaked in plutonium."
I had given a report in Mrs. Powell's sixth grade class about Norway, and to the delight of the sick minded 12 year old boys I had mentioned the gross practices of harvesting the cod, wrapping it in toilet paper, greasing it in Vaseline and then burying it for several weeks to create lutefisk.
I had not cared to try it since.
Despite the fuss I made over the lutefisk- or perhaps because of it-I was persuaded to take one forkful. One bite, and that was all.
How to describe that first bite? It's a bit like describing passing a kidney stone. If you are talking to someone else who has lived through the experience, a nod will suffice to acknowledge your shared pain, but to explain it to the person who has not been there makes mere words seem inadequate to the task.
When I think of that fateful moment when the fork met my lips and the lutefisk touched my tongue, the phrases, "nauseating sordid gunk", "unimaginably horrific", and "lasting psychological damage" come to mind.
There is a reason why lutefisk is only eaten once a year: anything that has been soaked in chemicals and allowed to ferment should not be allowed to pass through the digestive system-- it does detrimental things to the body.
But these descriptions seem hollow compared to the actual experience, so I will have to resort to a recipe for a kind of metaphorical lutefisk to describe the experience.
First, take jet-puffed marshmallows made without any sugar, blend them together with overcooked Japanese noodles, some canola oil, and Parmesan cheese, then bathe the whole liberally in acetone. Let it marinate in cod liver oil for several days at room temperature. When it has achieved the appropriate consistency heat it to just above lukewarm, sprinkle in thousands of tiny, sharp, invisible fish bones, and serve. Voila! You have lutefisk, or at least a very close representation.
Now you can empathize.
And so if I ever create a ruckus over fish, you will know why. There is only one word to describe possibly the most abominable recipe created by mankind-- and it is lutefisk.
Viva la Norge!
Sunday, December 31, 2006
They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back From The Dead!!
Holidays just aren't the same without the Francises.
In any ordinary suburban neighborhood New Year's Eve is celebrated by watching the ball drop on TV, making nugatory promises for the coming year, and toasting memories. These quiet, conventional, and thoroughly American customs have been tossed aside by the former residents of a certain dark and rather foreboding dead end street where I happen to live.
.........................................................................................................................................................................
There were five boys in the Francis family. Each one was taller and crazier than the next, with long lanky legs and ashen complexions from drinking too much alcohol and staying up late every night. They dropped dummies on passing cars, swam in the putrid canal, vandalized fence posts, and stole Ron Lewis's freshly killed bloody sheep head out of his barn and mounted it for all to see on a pole in their front yard. They were hooligans and hellions in every respect. Every time a dog was poisoned or a shed caught fire the residents of my road pointed their fingers at the infamous Francis Five.
They were the bane of 10755, the annual hosts of the New Year's Insanity, and they lived across the street from me.
Every New Year I recall as a child was ushered in by the raucous parties they would throw. Sleeping on this special night was difficult when Beastie Boys kept pervading my dreams and every time I looked out my window I could see my neighbors chain smoking and drinking beer on their front lawn. Often illegal fireworks were added to the mess of drugs and music and dancing, but if they were unattainable there would surely be an added bonus show of colored lights from homemade rockets and various explosive chemicals.
Life with untrustworthy neighbors is not easy. Young and innocent children are easily impressed upon. Because of this I was absolutely forbidden to associate with the Francises; I was not allowed to approach, speak, or even so much as to look at them. Because I was sheltered-- or perhaps to spite that fact-- I could not deny a lurid fascination with them. I enjoyed analyzing them because it was like gazing into bent glass: the reflection was completely contorted and twisted and crazy, but I could still see a bit of the original shape in the image.
The Francises moved away years ago. They simply packed up and left unexpectedly, taking only what they could fit in the bed of a pick-up truck and returning for the rest later.
After they left, the neighborhood gossips congregated in my kitchen and surmised the cause of this sudden departure. They ended the discussion with the assumption that Donna had gotten pregnant, or Tex had been expelled from high school, or the boys had started making a bomb in the basement and the toxic fumes had forced the whole family to leave.
I suppose we will never know the truth.
.......................................................................................................................................................................
Today is New Year's Eve once again. All is still and peaceful-- a completely different greeting for the New Year than what the residents of my neighborhood have come to expect. There are no fires, no rowdy boys riding goats, no fireworks, and no boom boxes blasting Duran Duran.
Even so, on nights like this I hear in my head the faint beat of a drum and the elusive whine of a synthesizer a little way down the road. The Francises are gone, but their obstreperous ways will forever haunt 10755 every New Year's Eve until the city inevitably decides to take a steamroller to this hill-- causing my quirky neighborhood to be evened out and average once again.
Friday, December 22, 2006
It's Christmas! Let's be glad.
Even today the slightest mention of Christmas shopping leaves an empty gnawing in my stomach-- a dull and colorless pain that reminds me of fluorescent department store lights and tube socks. It is no wonder that after years of enduring The Christensen Family Christmas Crisis I have grown to despise the holidays with the same deep antipathy that one usually reserves for truly horrendous things: like racism, terrorism, and corporate fraud.
All my life I have been trying to reconcile this phenomenal event--the incarnation of God-- with Santa Clause and blue-light specials at Kmart and the weird preoccupation people have with buying a lot of junk and giving it to each other every twenty-fifth of December. There is something incredibly phony about Christmas. Or maybe it's just the commercialized holiday cheer speaking.
And then again, I can be a bit of a curmudgeon at this time of year.
The guest bedroom in my house is present-wrapping central. Idle hands in the month of December earns any family member several locked hours in this gift wrap purgatory, with no hope of release until that day's load is safely bundled in brightly colored paper. This crinkly, gaudy, and extraneous material will litter the living room floor on Christmas morning, and then will quickly be torn into millions of shreds by The Babes. Then the gift wrap crumb shavings will sit and sit and catch on jeans as people try to wade through the mess and then will float and slide under the couches and rugs until it is eaten eventually by the vacuum sometime in mid-January. This is just like the pine needles from the fake Christmas tree (that we didn't put up this year) that become embedded in the carpet where the cat finds and eats them, and then gets sick and throws up.
The worst part of Christmas is not the hoarfrost on the windshield or the schmaltzy yuletide carols on the radio or even the extra thick eggnog and fruitcake. The very worst part of Christmas is how it is advantageously stuck between Thanksgiving and New Years, and how when you least expect it, it tiptoes from behind and bites until you bleed... until you bleed money and sleep and health out your wallet and eyes and nose and before you know it you are completely obliterated and Christmas is still three days away.
And then it sinks in-- something that I privately refer to as, "that Creepy Christmas Feeling".
It comes around when families act out the nativity scene and we picture the baby Jesus wrapped up in swaddling clothes- burping and spitting and smiling- a supreme being come to the Earth to save mankind from their sins. It comes on bright snowy nights when every sound is muffled by whiteness and everything is clear and cool and perfect, and the houses are lit up by a hodgepodge of blinking colored lights strung haphazardly from rooftops with the most tacky best intentions. It comes on Christmas Eve when I am lying in my bed, and even in my most mature state and Scrooge-like persona I can't close my eyes because that Creepy Christmas Feeling has spread from my chest to every appendage and extremity of my body until my heart is feverish with the warmth that comes with the Creepiness of Christmas.
Bah humbug!
All my life I have been trying to reconcile this phenomenal event--the incarnation of God-- with Santa Clause and blue-light specials at Kmart and the weird preoccupation people have with buying a lot of junk and giving it to each other every twenty-fifth of December. There is something incredibly phony about Christmas. Or maybe it's just the commercialized holiday cheer speaking.
And then again, I can be a bit of a curmudgeon at this time of year.
The guest bedroom in my house is present-wrapping central. Idle hands in the month of December earns any family member several locked hours in this gift wrap purgatory, with no hope of release until that day's load is safely bundled in brightly colored paper. This crinkly, gaudy, and extraneous material will litter the living room floor on Christmas morning, and then will quickly be torn into millions of shreds by The Babes. Then the gift wrap crumb shavings will sit and sit and catch on jeans as people try to wade through the mess and then will float and slide under the couches and rugs until it is eaten eventually by the vacuum sometime in mid-January. This is just like the pine needles from the fake Christmas tree (that we didn't put up this year) that become embedded in the carpet where the cat finds and eats them, and then gets sick and throws up.
The worst part of Christmas is not the hoarfrost on the windshield or the schmaltzy yuletide carols on the radio or even the extra thick eggnog and fruitcake. The very worst part of Christmas is how it is advantageously stuck between Thanksgiving and New Years, and how when you least expect it, it tiptoes from behind and bites until you bleed... until you bleed money and sleep and health out your wallet and eyes and nose and before you know it you are completely obliterated and Christmas is still three days away.
And then it sinks in-- something that I privately refer to as, "that Creepy Christmas Feeling".
It comes around when families act out the nativity scene and we picture the baby Jesus wrapped up in swaddling clothes- burping and spitting and smiling- a supreme being come to the Earth to save mankind from their sins. It comes on bright snowy nights when every sound is muffled by whiteness and everything is clear and cool and perfect, and the houses are lit up by a hodgepodge of blinking colored lights strung haphazardly from rooftops with the most tacky best intentions. It comes on Christmas Eve when I am lying in my bed, and even in my most mature state and Scrooge-like persona I can't close my eyes because that Creepy Christmas Feeling has spread from my chest to every appendage and extremity of my body until my heart is feverish with the warmth that comes with the Creepiness of Christmas.
Bah humbug!
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Don't forget to drink your Ovaltine!
I am an Ovaltine addict.
The vast quantities of this powdery and sometimes chalky beverage consumed by my family is an abnormal custom in almost every respect, but one which I enjoy immensely. In fact, I believe my life with Ovaltine as a daily ritual makes up for any lack of sugar I may have complained of in other areas of my diet.
Ovaltine has been shunned by society as a healthy form of hot chocolate, or as a mineral-enriched fortified drink for old people. No doubt this is because of the creepy commercials with the pedophile like Ovaltine man calling together a force of unattractive children who simultaneously chorus, "More Ovaltine please!" with just the perfect degree of cheesiness as to induce vomiting in the spectator. But Ovaltine doesn't usually have that effect on me. It's my comfort food.
I'm not the only crazy one around these parts either. One in ten people have heard of Ovaltine, and one in seventy-five actually like it. About half of the Ovaltine drinking population of Utah belongs to my family. Everybody else is extended or distantly related. In the rare occurence that I should meet a fellow Ovaltine fan, an instant connection is forged and an automatic friendship is inevitable. The easiest path to my heart? Drink Ovaltine.
Sunday nights are dedicated solely to Ovaltine drinking and classic cinema. I have another confession; I love masterpiece theater, and I watch it every week. Daniel Deronda, Wives and Daughters, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor Zhivago... My first taste of the classics came from KUED and a pitcher full of Ovaltine. Koseli and I would camp out on our living room floor and squeal over the gory Mysteries as we cuddled in our blankets.
Because of this I became an Ovaltine advocate; the first ever, and probably the last. Without any benefit to myself I began to promote this drink in the hope to spread health, happiness, and the intellectual stimulation that a delicious glass of frothy Ovaltine can stimulate. This is why the League of Ovaltineys was started, and why its legacy still lives on today. If you are curious about the advantages of drinking Ovaltine- over Nesquik or regular chocolate milk- just take a good look at me. I'm completely healthy, loaded to the brim with strong muscles, and practically the next Albert Einstein.
Who knew a ballyhooed and puffed up beverage could be so beneficial?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
A static and solemnly invincible alibi
The moment the cold air rushed in from my open car door I could feel it coming.
The atmosphere was permeated with the smell of campfire smoke and the ominous gray calm before a snowfall. Standing on the front porch I sifted through my bag, searching frantically for my lost key while juggling and dropping my books and violin case. Something monstrous twinged in my stomach as I crossed the threshold and I sat down on the stairs for a minute with my head between my knees.
Leaving school early had been a blessing in disguise.
I stumbled up to my bedroom and shut the door, throwing my books onto my bed. Outside the snow was already beginning to fall, illuminating the room with white light until the sun passed behind leaden clouds and left me huddled in shadows.
I opened my history book and squinted at the section on Louis XVI. The words blurred and once again I felt anemic and queasy. Leaning my head back on the pillows I commenced to daydream and gaze out the window, taking deep breaths and trying to regain control over myself. I watched a Chickadee cock his head at me through the glass as he followed a trail of winter sunflower seeds. My hands and feet were very cold, but my forehead was feverish; already a silver sheen of sweat enveloped my skin, and I could hear my heart racing in my head-- thumpthumpthump.
I closed my eyes.
I had nightmares as I slept. I was lost in a confusing maze of black and nothingness. The emptiness of the space scared me more than the darkness. There was quiet screaming somewhere in the back of mind, successively raising volume decibel by decibel. I twisted and turned until I was hopelessly tangled in my sheets. The screams became unbearably loud. I awoke suddenly and sat bolt upright.
With shaking fingers I stuck my finger with the lancett and drew a perfect drop of blood.
37, the meter read. I had dropped with unbelievable speed.
I drank some grape juice-- greedily and hungrily, still shivering. I immediately felt the heat appease and I dropped off into the state of peaceful rest I had hoped for.
Somebody barged noisily into my room, and stopped short of the bed. A worried silence ensued as I unconsciously felt my mother's eyes rake over my bloodless cheeks and weakened state. I did not open my eyes. I felt her cool hand on my forehead and her lips on my cheek. With the reverence befitting a tomb she backed slowly out the door.
Outside the snow continued to fall.
The atmosphere was permeated with the smell of campfire smoke and the ominous gray calm before a snowfall. Standing on the front porch I sifted through my bag, searching frantically for my lost key while juggling and dropping my books and violin case. Something monstrous twinged in my stomach as I crossed the threshold and I sat down on the stairs for a minute with my head between my knees.
Leaving school early had been a blessing in disguise.
I stumbled up to my bedroom and shut the door, throwing my books onto my bed. Outside the snow was already beginning to fall, illuminating the room with white light until the sun passed behind leaden clouds and left me huddled in shadows.
I opened my history book and squinted at the section on Louis XVI. The words blurred and once again I felt anemic and queasy. Leaning my head back on the pillows I commenced to daydream and gaze out the window, taking deep breaths and trying to regain control over myself. I watched a Chickadee cock his head at me through the glass as he followed a trail of winter sunflower seeds. My hands and feet were very cold, but my forehead was feverish; already a silver sheen of sweat enveloped my skin, and I could hear my heart racing in my head-- thumpthumpthump.
I closed my eyes.
I had nightmares as I slept. I was lost in a confusing maze of black and nothingness. The emptiness of the space scared me more than the darkness. There was quiet screaming somewhere in the back of mind, successively raising volume decibel by decibel. I twisted and turned until I was hopelessly tangled in my sheets. The screams became unbearably loud. I awoke suddenly and sat bolt upright.
With shaking fingers I stuck my finger with the lancett and drew a perfect drop of blood.
37, the meter read. I had dropped with unbelievable speed.
I drank some grape juice-- greedily and hungrily, still shivering. I immediately felt the heat appease and I dropped off into the state of peaceful rest I had hoped for.
Somebody barged noisily into my room, and stopped short of the bed. A worried silence ensued as I unconsciously felt my mother's eyes rake over my bloodless cheeks and weakened state. I did not open my eyes. I felt her cool hand on my forehead and her lips on my cheek. With the reverence befitting a tomb she backed slowly out the door.
Outside the snow continued to fall.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Twilight of illiteracy
Well it was inevitable. I never thought it would happen, but I've finally done it.
I've taught myself to read.
Today, the Thanksgiving of November 23rd, 2006, I read over 500 pages of an honest, true, undeniable, bona fide novel. There was no class sophistication in this particular book either. It involved the supernatural, the fiction, the cheesiness... and yes, even the romance of modern literature. What? No Dickens? No pocket dictionary required? Joslynn read something... normal? And she liked it? What?
It began while I was waiting for the Turkey. That icon of holiday goodness- that symbol of gratitude, and pilgrimage, and thanksgiving- took forever and a day to cook. I had grown restless watching my father marinate and massage that horrible fowl, so I casually picked up a novel that had been thrown haphazardly on my bed by Shirsti. Twilight, written by Stephanie Myer. Not only did it involve vampires, but the author was a graduate of BYU. I distinctly remember thinking, 'Uh-oh, this could be more than a little entertaining! Let's have a go at it.'
And then I started. And then I never stopped, except for short snippets of time to casually converse with a cousin or two, or to steal another roll. My Thanksgiving was utterly lost within the pages of a book. That has never happened to me before. Ever.
I do feel guilty for my introverted ways. I honestly believed I could pull off a sociable facade. For the first time in months I was under the same roof as the Parker family: possibly the most entertaining people in the world to watch. Unfortunately, I suck at life.
"Watcha reading Joslynn?"(said consecutively by at least twelve nameless relatives).
"Um... a book." (Obvious, "Go away, I'm reading" response).
"What's it about?"
Not wanting to give them a synopsis of my ridiculous novel, I would then ween the conversation away from me until they felt their obligation to pelt me with questions fulfilled.
So perhaps my day was not filled with the expected sunny joys of family and food. I could hardly manage to eat a bite in between chapters. However, I have discovered yet another thing to be grateful for: entertaining books. And for now I am not speaking of great books that change minds and lives and institutions, nor educational books that enlighten the brain and inspire the heart. Good, old fashioned, entertainment in the written form is what I'm thankful for today, because I have not enjoyed it since I've discovered I could read.
I think I'm in love.
Again.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Ode to the Winkles
In the Looking Glass
Who am I?
What face is this?
This face...
These lines of crusty wrinkles?
These memoirs of days past...
Who is this woman I've become?
This old hag,
With her crooked teeth
And shagged hair?
This bar wench,
That strung her beaus on a kite string,
Who attracted the men like flies to a junkyard mutt?
No Loreal crinkle cream can change the mark
Of time on this face.
"I hate it when people have stinky teeth."
--Shirsti
A beautiful siren's song--
Undulating waves
Of the most dELiciOus kind.
A bellyLaugh...
A low rumble
Deep within the guts,
in our BoWELs.
Oh capture me again!
Into the moonlight we ride
Together
My beautiful Pegasus of the sea...
Just the two of us--
Me, and my Manatee.
--Shirsti
"Oh there you are Peter!"
Blood pulsing...
Eyes shifting...
Parchment of the tongue....
Water! Water!
Where is Water? Oh, Spear of Tridant!
Wilt thou not come
And wet my tired lips
With nature's kiss?
And
With thy tinkling tears
Sing a song
of OCEANS...
and an oasis
In the mist?
--Shirsti
"Giga-who? Giga-what? Gigabixel."
Eyes shifting...
Parchment of the tongue....
Water! Water!
Where is Water? Oh, Spear of Tridant!
Wilt thou not come
And wet my tired lips
With nature's kiss?
And
With thy tinkling tears
Sing a song
of OCEANS...
and an oasis
In the mist?
--Shirsti
"Giga-who? Giga-what? Gigabixel."
Winkles and Winkettes
Once upon a time...
Ha!
I forget the rhyme
Uh, sizzle fo' shizzle, my nizzle
Whateva.
Signin' out.
Peace!
--Shirsti
"Long live Bill Clinton!"
Here a Winkle, there a Dinkle
Everywhere a stinky Stinkle.
Hopping
There's no stopping
A bee-bop
A boo-bop
A rhubarb pie.
--Shirsti
"Anyone want a piece?"
Hopping
There's no stopping
A bee-bop
A boo-bop
A rhubarb pie.
--Shirsti
"Anyone want a piece?"
Monday, November 06, 2006
Everybody needs an editor...
These are the gems of my picture library that I simply could not keep to myself. My personal favorites? Shirpa sports a frumpy blue morning jacket and a not-yet-brushed, pre-breakfast smile, and Winky blushingly belly laughs while giving a clear view up her left nostril.
How, you may ask, can one be so cruel as to delight in the misfortunes of others? Well, friends, I can tell you one thing: They do not face the curse of bad photography alone. I have enough blackmail in my possession to rule the world. Almost.
Shirsti, Koseli, Kristian, Kari: If you read this post, my most sincere apologies. It can't be helped. Remember, we are all beautiful until the camera catches us at a bad angle.
If these produce such a laugh elsewhere as the one I enjoyed when I saw them, then I have done my duty.
Bon Apetit! (WHAT?)
How, you may ask, can one be so cruel as to delight in the misfortunes of others? Well, friends, I can tell you one thing: They do not face the curse of bad photography alone. I have enough blackmail in my possession to rule the world. Almost.
Shirsti, Koseli, Kristian, Kari: If you read this post, my most sincere apologies. It can't be helped. Remember, we are all beautiful until the camera catches us at a bad angle.
If these produce such a laugh elsewhere as the one I enjoyed when I saw them, then I have done my duty.
Bon Apetit! (WHAT?)