Because I Follow Through

Despite the fact that it's a little over three weeks later, regardless, I follow through.

I completed the project that I mentioned below, but unfortunately for you, I can't share it with you because it happens to be a Christmas present for someone who might actually read this. I'm not saying they will, I'm saying it's possible. And that would ruin the surprise, I feel like.

On a completely different note, I was very embarrassed last night when I was able to identify the Maryland state flag in under one second during a game of Cranium. Awkward. I can't help that I used to have a chart of all the flags in my room when I was younger, state information was my FAVORITE. Why am I so weird? Own it.

Ask me the capital of any state and I will tell you*. I used to be able to tell you their state flower and bird as well. I've outgrown that.

* No actual promises that I will 100% get it correct every time. I'm a little rusty.

Eight Part Harmony

I am so sorry that you had to suffer through trials and tribulations without my wisdom guiding your every step. Of course, I don't know what these trials and tribulations are or were, but I feel like if I had been posting blog entries at least I could have momentarily helped you escape from your woes. Or not though. Or maybe. Too much too soon?

SINCE I have been MIA for over a month, I will fill you in on my life.

Part One -- I went to Hawaii. Totally overrated, not that exciting, blah blah. I know that it's sacrilegious to not enjoy every moment of your time in Hawaii, but believe me, it's possible. Hawaii is just painful for me because I'm never there for a good reason. Well I mean, I'm there for a good reason, but trust me, I wish I didn't have to be there for that reason. I'm just going to stop while I'm ahead because right now you have no idea what I'm talking about. Moving on.

Part Two -- I got an A- on my archaeology paper. How? Secrets of the world, my child.

Part Three -- The baby loves who stop and graze occasionally outside my door are multiplying before my eyes. Well, not actually before my eyes. If they were I would look away.

Part Four -- Paranormal Activity 2: waste of $10 and two hours of your life. Don't bother. Or do, though.

Part Five -- Did you know Thousand Island Dressing is named after the Philippines? DO NOT quote me on that. If you're looking for someone to quote on that, contact me and I will give you his name and social security number.

Part Six -- Something is wrong with me because I suddenly love orange juice. That actually is sacrilegious.

Part Seven -- I got new socks. And the girl in my dance class commented on them today, because she has the same socks, and she loves my socks, and I love her socks. Socks, socks, socks.

Part Eight -- I'm about to start my newest and most fun project of the year. Stay tuned, I will post it when it's completed.

Noooo!

Yesterday, a horse chomped my finger.

I know! His name is Crocker and I'd spent the last half an hour of my life trying to grab his tongue while my friend Sarah rode the other horses at the barn she helps out at. It's called the tongue-grabbing game. And I grabbed that gangly tongue, multiple times. But Crocker started to catch on and sucked my finger into his mouth and gave it a delicate, love chomp. "CROCKER! You bastard. Don't DO that!" But how can you stay mad at that face.

On a different note. It's Tuesday, do you know what that means? No, not Glee. Don't be that person. It means TEEN MOM. And you know we only have two more episodes of Teen Mom. I mean holy crap. Can someone please tell me what I'm going to do with my Tuesday nights from 10 - 11pm? I'm SERIOUS.

And on a different note, I just realized I'm going to miss the season finale of Jersey Shore. I need a moment to myself.

Loser = Me.

Before I go on a long-winded probably entirely too scattered one way discussion, please find a comfortable sitting place. You may in fact, want to lay, if possible. Because that's what I'm doing. And obviously whatever I'm doing, you should be doing.

I really do have some serious thoughts that need to escape, so don't skip over the beginning of this. Or do. I don't really care. Do what you want.

Can we make a hypothetical situation, hypothetical? Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Let's say you know someone, whose name starts with, oh I don't know, P. I would say that you and P are pretty close friends. I mean, you don't hang out every day, but you talk often enough and it's a two way street; you guys care about each other. Now lets just say that P is sort of turning into a man whore. Sorry, too blunt? P is sort of overly abusing his sexual mannerisms? What do you say to P? Seriously, what do you say? Because I'm at a loss for words. What if you don't want P to be a man whore anymore? P is a male, by the way. By man whore, I mean a man who is turning into a whore, if that wasn't clear.

And don't chastise me for being too harsh because you have NO IDEA what I'm going through because of this. My stomach is in knots just thinking about it.

Ew, I'm sorry for the seriousness of that all. We can move on from that. But I don't really want to move on right now. This blog is called Define: Kendall, so I'm going to define myself for you damnit, and this is defining ME right now!!!! I'm not even going to throw into the mix my other problems. I'd rather they didn't surface on a publicly available forum.

I just feel like I'm losing. There's no other way to put it. I am losing, and there's no way I can win because every solution I think of involves me losing. I'll be back.

Stream of Consciousness, Deux.

Holy Mama. Holy Cow. Holy Matrimony. HOLY CRAP! Holy Bananas. Holy, Holy, Holy.

I don't know which direction I'm going because I just don't stop moving, ever. Except when I sit down on my bed and finally (finally) remember to type out a new blog entry. There's so many things flying through my head (not literally) right now that I don't know which thoughts to lasso and serve up to you, rancher style.

I could tell you that my room looks like it imploded on itself and where there aren't boxes filled with clean laundry or office supplies, there are piles of shoes, checks, camera chargers, coffee makers missing the pots, time sheets from work, and controllers to a non-existent gaming system (no idea where that one is!). I feel like I could be on the show Hoarders, but in reality I definitely couldn't. One look into my room and you'd know that I'm obviously moving back to college in less than a week.

Plus, Hoarders scares the bejeebles out of me. OK. Here:

1. Aaron Eckhart -- all I want in my life is to hug him. Looks at those cute little cheeks and that dimple on his chin. How dare he be so irresistibly charming in the movie Love Happens. Haven't seen that? I'd throw it on the good ole Netflix list if I were you. That being, if you are a female and/or a male who is in touch with his feminine side. Although, I don't know if you could be both? But maybe. Who am I to judge you.

2. I'm so distracted by my room that I can't give you a #2 right now. In fact, I'm so distracted that I'm going to close this internet box, put on a movie, and pack up all this sh ...stuff.

I'll be back with more, for you. I love you. Probably.

Dogs, Dogs, Dogs

Holy busy-as-a-bee Batman!

I can't believe I've neglected to spurn and thrust all my thoughts upon you. You, whoever is reading this. And I promise to never use spurn and thrust in a sentence together ever again. Yikes.

I'll run my past week by you:

1. Blur.

2. Roasted kale recipes. Kale is a vegetable, for all you who are like, huh? And if you are like, huh?, then shame on you and your cow because kale is a delectably delicious member of the vegetable family and you shall weep softly to yourself because you've never experienced life until you've eaten kale.

3. Plane tickets, which in turn lead to more soft weeping, but this time of my bank account. Plane ticket to where? Don't trip, Hawaii. SILENCE Iago, I really do have a legitimate reason for flying there in the middle of fall quarter.

4. Dog bites. What is it with August and being bitten by dogs? If any of you recall last August, I got bit by a Bull Mastiff. It was more of a puncture, the beast sunk his front tooth in there nice and deep like. Antibiotics and errthang. This time it was more of an accident on the dog's part, you see, he thought my hand was part of the toy. I've forgiven him because there was no blood.

5. Dog fights. Have you ever yearned to be the one to seperate a fight between a Yellow Lab and a German Shepherd, both fully grown and fully pissed off? Well I can check that one of my to-do list with a side note of blood dripping down my leg after the ordeal.

6. Dog food. At what point was it okay that my dog's dinner looks more appealing than my own?

7. Dog excretion. I won't indulge you.

8. Dog drool. Did you know that when Elwood the Boston Terrier gets nervous, long wiggly strands of drool linger from either side of his mouth. I'm talking floor length drool here. The kind that sticks to you. Also found on Basset Hounds and Corgis. All simultaneously as they enclose on me.

9. My Sanity Slowly Seeping Away. I've found myself having full on conversations with dogs at the dog daycare. This is obviously a sign of either a) I really am working too much, b) I really need to go back to school and socialize with people who understand me when I say, "NO, do NOT HUMP HIM!" or c) a combination of the two.

The answer is obviously C.

I Mean, Whatever.

Today when I was at my nannying job, the 3-year-old and I were playing with Woody from Toy Story.

Me: T, where's Woody's hat?
T: I'm sucking on it.
Me: I can see that.
T: It's whatever.


Can I remind you that he just turned 3 two weeks ago? I think this 3-year-old is my kind of cool. He's really chill except when I'm paying attention to his 6-month-old baby brother. Then he starts climbing me and screeching.

Me: T, are you climbing me?
T: No! (as he's climbing)
Me: Be careful, my shorts are slippery.
T: (screech)
Me: Am I a mountain? A snowy, slippery mountain?
T: (screech)
Me: Be careful!
T: It's whatever!


And one more favorite from the day. I'd just gotten his brother down for a nap, and I went back into T's room to check on him. He was standing in a corner, looking at me.

Me: Whatcha doin?
T: Can you go away?
Me: Nope.
T: I'm pooping.
Me: I'll be in the hall. Tell me when you're done.
T: It's whatever.

OnTime OnTime OnTime

I curse my punctuality. I curse it! It always ends up putting me in awkward predicaments. And you’d think I would learn. You would THINK that. But I don’t. Just the thought of being late to something and having to awkwardly walk in and have everyone stare at you just isn’t appealing to me at all. That’s what drives me when I leave early to arrive early.

I’m not often fashionably late. I can’t remember the last time I was fashionably late. Late and Kendall just don’t go into the same sentence. Yes, I can own up to my OCD about the matter. But I figure there could be worse things and being on time can only be beneficial in the long run. I know my boss appreciates my punctuality. I appreciate my punctuality.

Yesterday, I did not appreciate my punctuality. I was meeting a friend for dinner at Southcenter (curse.) at 6. First of all, I don’t like Southcenter, it can burn. The traffic and the parking and the congestion and the idiots and the people in driving school and the lights and the crowds and the congestion and the parking and the congestion. I don’t LIKE IT. I never, ever, ever go without a fight. Unless it’s a) to see a movie (because that parking is usually manageable), or b) to meet a friend I haven’t seen in a long time for dinner. THOSE ARE THE ONLY TWO INSTANCES when you will not hear me moan/groan.

Although if we’re running late for a movie, you’ll hear plenty from me. I promise.

So anyway, I left my house early because I needed to put some gas in the car. I left at 5:20 because I figured once I got to Olive Garden, it was a Sunday night in the summer and it would probably be hoppin’. Well, I overestimated my timing. Pumping $12 worth of gas takes like, 1 minute and 48 seconds. I’m good at maneuvering traffic. Most of the lights were in my favor. I ended up at Olive Garden at 5:40.

There was a bustling crowd so I figured I’d go put my name on the list. The helpful hostess told me it would be 15-20 minutes and handed me a buzzer. I looked at my phone, and prayed it would be longer. Who…wants to get seated by themselves…? Not me. I texted my friend and told him what was up. He was just getting on the freeway from Federal Way. He told me if I get seated to just text him where I was.

Chant to small buzzer in my hand: Please don’t go off. Please don’t go off. PLEASE don’t go off.

So it did, of course. After a whole 8 minutes. So then the host, who couldn’t have been more than a senior in high school, led me alone to my seat. And he was nice enough to make sure someone really was coming to meet me: “So, you’re meeting someone?”

I just wanted to be like, “No. Nope. Sometimes I like to come to Olive Garden alone just to simmer in my own thoughts whilst I listen to this Italian music and let the aroma of breadsticks fill my nostrils. YES, I’M MEETING SOMEONE.” Why else would I ask for a table for two? Come. On.

And there I proceeded to sit, whilst my waiter (whose real name was Cornelius, I kid you not, I would not lie to you!) doted upon me and brought me endless glasses of water (with ice) and awkwardly lingered around my table. Keyword there was awkwardly. Finally my friend showed up, right on time as we had agreed upon: 6.

DAMN THE PUNCTUALITY. Damnit.

My Client Base.

Smithers. Marley. Jake. Calvin. Goat. Max. Ichiro. Fern. Duende. Otis. Buck. Tiger. Baby. Shadow. Nibblet. Sarajevo. Napoleon. Ledson. Pierre. Optimus. Mule. Mario. Nikita. Emma. Ivy. Samantha. Jackson. Bootie. Indy. Reno. Pearl. Stella. Kona. Josh. Tilly. Kingston. Gomez. Casey. Henry. Titus. Donkey. Sebastian. Elby. Raven.

What do all of these have in common?

They're felines. Gigantic balls of allergy inflicting, purring, drooling, hissing, spazzing, meowling kittehs. These are felines I've taken care of since the beginning of my employment. These are my "cat jobs". Some of these cats have been really great and fun to be around. Others, yikes. And you know, that list? That's minus like 9 cats whose names I just can't think of for the life of me. Yep. So many kittehs. So little time.

Bailey. Trixie. Scout (x3). Kira. Miley. Boston. Cowboy. Deuce. Bonsai. Clover. Sofi. Jax. Opie. Zoe (x3). Daisy (x2). Jack. Jazz. Bohdie. Bandit. Clancy. Indy. Cody. Sarah. Dougie. Conan. Ozzie. Ally. Beau. Beagle. Chloe (x2). Franklin. Tillie. Bailey. Baron. Winston. Scoobie. Jackie. Ella. Katy. Mali. Sophie. Chica. Layla. Sparco. Kodi. Chuck. Reese. Massey. Maggie. Sammy. Benny. Remy (x2). Madison.

And those, are off the top of my head the dogs I've either a) walked or b) babysat at the daycare. I know. I KNOW. There's more dogs too, I can guarantee I can't remember all their names.

Cr- abbing? -umping? (Kr?)

Is it okay to post multiple blog entries in one day? Is that socially acceptable or am I going to be socially reprimanded when I press the 'Publish Post' button. Oh God. I'll understand. But I do most of my thinking at night, so I feel like I should be able to express thoughts at any time. Oh wait, I found a loophole. It's not Friday anymore, it's Saturday, as of one minute ago. There, I don't feel so guilty.

Sidenote: I wish my computer's speakers would decide if they want to work or not. Right now, they're alternating between the left one and the right one. Never both. Only one, and then the switch. I feel like I'm in a dance club and I'm not even moving. In fact, I'm on my bed. Have you ever been to a dance club in bed, because I have.

See now I've forgotten the reason why I was writing this in the first place.

Oh never mind, it came to me. Guess what I learned to do today?

Don't waste your time, you'll never guess it. No, I didn't go crabbing (though I long to). Nope, I didn't have to straddle any cats (too obvious). Negative, I didn't run out of gas as I approached the gas station (though I would have, had I taken the long way to the gas station).

I learned how to krump. YES, you read that correctly. Yes, the gangster-attitude-stomping-thrashing-arm pivoting-kicking-krumping. I can successfully open at a krumping throw down. Though opening at a krumping throw down isn't anywhere near my to-do list. I just want you to know that I could do it, if it were a life or death situation. And trust me, if it were a life and death situation, I make no promises to our salvation through krumping. Remember, I am a Caucasian female. Feel free to insert gender stereotypes and racial profiling here (but be kind, I'd do my best).

You know what else I did today? "No Kendall, what? Tell me. Tell me."

I had coffee with a friend of mine that I met on the first day of 4th grade. He was in my cluster of desks. That was ELEVEN years ago. Is that even possible. I'm in my 20's. SILENCE, IAGO. Silence. Hush. Speak not. Anyway, we had coffee and reminisced and then he gave me the new Tech N9ne CD and we went on our merry separate ways. He's going to be famous. A famous cook/entrepreneur. And he was at my desk cluster.

Short Shorts.

Today I went to go feed some cats, because that's my job. I feed cats. I don't even like cats. My friend Alyssa likes cats. I don't like cats. They think they're better than you and they don't tune into your emotions and they definitely don't realize they're hurting you when they're digging their claws into your legs (or maybe they do, actually).

So I went into this house and the alarm didn't beep and the kitchen lights were on, so I immediately assumed that my boss had messed up the days again and given me the wrong schedule. Well, a man popped out from the kitchen wearing shorts that extended about seven inches down his leg, made of sweatpant material.

"Oh hey," he said to me. His tank top as white as a fresh layer of snow in the Yukon.
"Am I supposed to be here?" I asked.
He giggled.

Yes, he giggled.

"I'm the cleaning...man. Are you the cat lady?"
[NO. NO I AM NOT THE CAT LADY, NOR WILL I EVER, EVER BE THE CAT LADY. HOW DARE YOU. THIS IS A SUMMER JOB!!!!]
"Yeah, I'm the cat lady."

It all made sense when I walked into the kitchen and saw his feather duster. Needless to say, I fed those cats faster than I've ever fed cats in my life (and as fast as you could possibly feed a cat?). And then I left.

I wonder who will be there tomorrow.

1 - 2 - 3

I've heard some interesting things recently. And done some interesting things. Nothing that would be noteworthy to someone like you, of course. Small, personal decisions that don't involve you and wouldn't interest you. But they interest me. And since the blog is "defining" me, I think it would be okay to mention them as they stream through my consciousness.

1. MckMama had her baby yesterday, and she named him Lachlan. What a great name. He joins older brothers Kieran, Cullen, & Stellan (all totally awesome names, as well) and his older sister Maisie (not my favorite, but still cute). Five kids!? Five, five and under at that. It just makes me think, did she ever think that it would end up like that. Stellan and Lachlan were surprises.

Can we live through something we could never predict. Obviously we can, look at her! Obviously, look at all of us. There's no way you could know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow. Well, I do actually. I'm going to go to work and mop up dog urine and continue exercising amongst a throng of four legged furballs who think it's okay to lay underneath me when I'm doing push ups. That was totally not the point of what I'm trying to say.

Not to be too forward, but you could die tomorrow. Sorry! Gah, sorry, I had to say it. I just feel like we're all taking some things for granted. Never, ever leave things left unsaid. That's what I'm learning. And finally, over one of the longest phone conversations ever, I was able to realize it. Stream of consciousness here, people. I'm not trying to be deep. What-I'm-Saying-Is: you don't know what you're going to be doing 5, or 10, or 50 years from now. What if I turn into a crazy cat lady? What if I conquer my deepest fear and travel into outer space (not likely). The what-ifs are heavy on my mind tonight.


2. You know when you turn on the radio, and it's the very beginning of a song? I love that.


3. I've figured out I sleep better with white noise.

The Daycare.

I guess you could say there are some plusses and minuses, some pros and cons, some ups and downs to working at a dog daycare. Being the Dog Whisperer, it’s hard for any dog to really irritate me (plus). I enjoy sharing sentimental moments with the four legged creatures who frolic in the wood chipped arena (plus). I also enjoy sharing other things with the pooches. Yesterday I shared an apple with a Westie, German Shepherd, and a Black Lab puppy (plus). That was of course, after I had eaten my share, and then I let them have little nibbles.

However, since my arrival at the canine casa I have found myself realizing a couple things. There is one dog here who is the authentic reincarnation of Satan (minus). Now hold on, hold on, let me explain before you judge my judging. Not only does this dog’s bark make your inner ear cry for the end of misery, but it makes your eyes close, your face contort, and you’re sure somewhere every time this dog barks it’s shrill, miserable, high pitched bark, someone rolls over in their grave. This dog could unleash the forces of the dead with its bark. I wish I was kidding.

And it’s a constant barker. You know the type of dog that has to bark if you open a window? If you have a drink of water? If you stand up from your chair? If you scratch your head? It has to be reported, and people have to turn over in their graves. This is why I want to be cremated, so it’ll be impossible for me to turn over in my grave at the sound of this dog’s call.

And then, when you look at him, he’s always looking at you. And it’s not a kind, gentle, brown eyed love stare. It’s a squinty eyed, up to no good, I’m going to eat your soul before your shift is over, kind of stare. I kid you not he barks as I type this. The leaves are rustling outside. That’s the only sound/movement apart from my fingers on the keyboard.

And I’m sure this particular dog has really great intentions, but maybe he just acts out when he’s at daycare. Maybe when he’s at home he’s not annoying and he’s actually charming. Oh my God. I just looked at him and I think he does want to eat my soul. I kid you not he is the reason I keep a source of water close by. He doesn’t like to be sprayed.

Anyway I apologize for my discrimination of this dog, but for his own protection I’m not issuing the model or make of this dog, nor his name (you can stick to calling him Satan/Lucifer/Death Angel, etc.). It’s a shame because he’s snuffed the whole breed for me. I can guarantee I will never own this model. I fear for my life, my soul, and my eardrums.

Stream of Consciousness

Here it goes:

-- Yesterday, after the sun had set and I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, my 5-year-old child (Basset Hound) asked me for a Popsicle. She speaks with her eyes, people. I had just sat down and was finishing off the blue raspberry portion of my firecracker Popsicle, you know the red white and blue ones. I thought to myself, you know why not? She likes yogurt. YES, keep your comments to yourself, she likes yogurt. And grapes. Anyway, I held out the stick for her and she gave it a lick. Low (loe?) and behold (what does this phrase even really mean?) she licked up that Popsicle like I'd never seen her lick before. And when she was done, two things happened. The first was that her tongue turned a shade of Indian Ocean Blue that I'd only dream of seeing on a Chow. And second, she revealed a joke to me (that was on the Popsicle stick) that confirmed that these Popsicle sticks were made sometime around my 6th birthday. The joke? What is a cat's favorite button on a VCR (yes, I went there). It's paws. Hold your applause.

-- Today at work, a Pug was chasing his tail for a full fledged 120 seconds. I wasn't counting. But what is it that makes a dog want to chase their tail? Do they think it's like some kind of anamorphic phenomenon that is suctioned to their body and coincidentally moves when they think about moving it? And thus it must be eaten/chased? If I could be inside the mind of a Pug for one day, I'd do it. But just for one day.

-- What did people do before texting? Actually.

-- That was such a dumb joke. What is a cat's favorite button on a VCR. Yeah, really funny.

-- My boss took the time to draw designs in her gigantic bubble letters that read: GAS, today before she stuck in on her steering wheel. Before I got in the car. I thought that was thoughtful.

-- If I ever come to own six cats in my lifetime, you have my permission here in writing to come and deal with me. Use whatever actions you deem necessary. Unless all the cats are naming something exotic, like Da Buddha or Iago.

-- Spellcheck made me capitalize popsicle.

God Bless the Dog Park

Oh. My. Gosh. Just ohmygosh.

There I was, taking the Basset Hounds for a nice Thursday afternoon stroll through the dog park. All was going swimmingly, both of the dogs were answering to their names today and both of them were staying with my line of vision. There were no skirmishes, no close calls, no getting caught without a bag, no chasing, no growling, no humping, no stalking of Bernese Mountain Dogs...all in all a really great trip to the dog park.

So after some trail climbing and water lapping (them, not me), we said our farewells to the dog park as I loaded the Bassets into the back of the car. Uneventful drive home. Get home, unlock the door, take off their leashes, sigh with contentedness and reach into my pocket for my license so I can return it to my wallet. And reach into my pocket for my license so I can return it to...my...wallet....and REACH INTO MY POCKET for my LICENSE so I can return it to my WALLET!!!

My license, is not in my pocket. Instead, the pocket fabric is turned out, obviously suggesting that the my license flew the coop ages ago. Don't Panic.

Okay, panic.

I run outside and look over the ground, unlock the car and look all over the driver's seat and side. No avail. Nothing but a gum wrapper. Let out huge frustrated sigh. Climb back in the car, start the engine, drive BACK to the dog park. It must have fallen out when I loaded the dogs because that's when I reached into my pocket for the keys. Stupidly, the keys and license were in the same pocket.

So I search the parking lot: not there. I go back into the dog park and retrace every.single.step that I had stepped just fifteen minutes prior. I climbed hills and searched through grass, bark, wood chips, and dirt. There were no Bassets trailing behind me, so I must have looked strange just traipsing through the dog park with no dogs. But I don't know if anyone looked at me weirdly because I never looked up from the ground. I walked around that entire dog park again, at warp speed, scanning every inch of the ground for my license: nothing.

Let out huge frustrated sigh as I climb hill to go back to the car. I pause at the front gate and look at the bulletin board a short ways a way. Could someone have found it? Would they put it there? I walk over on my last whim and scan the posters taped, stapled, and push-pinned to the bulletin board. No, no, no. My eyes can't find anything. And then my heart skips a beat as I realize my own face is staring back at me.

There, in the lower corner of the bulletin board is my license held up by a pushpin at either end. Ohmygosh. Try to contain myself. Try not to spin in circles with my arms outstretched. Try not to sing the entire soundtrack of the Sound of Music. Try not to click my heels in the air. Return to car. Drive home. Weep softly. God Bless the Dog Park.

Ramblings.

Question, how many bowls of Banana Nut Cheerios have I eaten today? Answer, totally unimportant.

You see I believe in things like no matter how many bowls of Banana Nut Cheerios you consume in one day, there can't be anything wrong with it because it specifically says ON THE BOX: made with real bananas. Would Corporate Cereal Making Manufacturers lie to me? Do not answer that question. I choose to be ignorantly blissful. Along with many other things.

Did you know that my wit precedes me and often times puts me in sticky situations where I'm almost expected to produce some kind of clever and quick quip to a statement? Well it does. And I have to. But do I? Well, usually.

I also really like alliteration. I got a twinge of delightfulness when I typed quick quip a few seconds ago. Saying it out loud, sort of a tongue twister. Thank you for just saying it out loud. It makes me feel like I'm not the only one who talks to myself.

You know as I was driving up and down Admiral Way for the four hundredth time this morning, I began thinking a few things, as I often do when I find myself repeatedly driving up and down Admiral Way every day for work.

After I swore I thought I passed Brad Pitt driving, I wondered, do you think they (as in celebrities) get spotted driving by like normal civilians. Do you think any teenager has wound up in a car next to Justin Bieber and been like OOOOOOOOOH MYYYY GAW!

That's all, for now.

Note to Self.

Must Remember:

• Must Minimize Justin Bieber Comments In Public - remember, you are actually 20 years old and a relationship with Justien Bieber would actually be illegal. Not like you'd want a relationship with a 16 year old because he'd probably just crash the car driving over to pick me up. No, no, that won't do. Boyfriend is much better looking anyway, and can actually play music.
• To Never Get Old - please tell me I'm not the only one who saw that lady running on 44th today? The one with the Golden Retriever? Oh God, that is destined to be me, isn't it?
• Go to the Store. Get a Pickle Card. - it's Erik's birthday and that's the only substantial thing I can give him because of his unnatural love for pickles. Maybe a jar of pickles? Too much? Too much.
• Be Friendly to Clients' Neighbors - they don't know you're in a hurry to go to 4,399 other houses to feed cats. Take a moment to smile and reply to any/all of their questions. They mean no harm. Try to stay out of the middle of the street during these confrontations; angry drivers.
• To Not Have Such a Need for Speed - stop watching Paul Walker movies. Stoplights are your friend, repeat to self.
• Allergy Pill - unless you enjoy the sensation of a tornado in your nose every time you try to breathe which leads to unrelenting sneezing attacks whilst driving which leads to going ten miles under the speed limit which leads to angry drivers behind me which leads to honking which leads to driving faster which leads to continuous sneezing. Repeat.
• You Love Your Job - did I just have to straddle a cat? I'm getting really good at rhyming things with pets' names. Am I in my friend's house right now, feeding his cat? I did just straddle a cat, didn't I? Oh My God. I just looked at my schedule, am I taking care of a pig this week? Is that pig named after a Mariner's player? Oh My God. I did just straddle a cat.

There's a Stegosaurus in My Dinner.

You know how some things just taste better than other things? I’m not talking about the obvious chocolate cake tastes better than eggplant (unless you don’t like chocolate cake or have a closet obsession with eggplant, yikes) or spaghetti tastes better than anchovies (unless you’re cutting carbs and are interested in a high sodium intake). I’m talking about brand versus brand and shape versus shape here.

Earlier in the year, I found myself in the grocery store, my head swiveling and my heart racing as I had to make a decision between Oreos or Store Brand Chocolate Crème Sandwich Cookies. I had to make a decision, and I had to make a hurried decision because my roommates were waiting mere feet away from me, their toes tapping the unmopped, scuffed linoleum floor of our local grocer.

“They all taste the same,” Roommate One said to me.

With beads of sweat dripping down my forehead in anxiety, I reached for the naturally cheaper, store brand sandwich cookies. When we got home, I pried one from its crinkly container and ate it. Devastation. Complete and utter devastation. It was like I could taste the genericosity (yes, I made that word up). I promptly put all remaining sandwich cookies into a Ziploc bag and nestled them in the deepest corners of my desk drawers, never to be devoured by me personally anytime soon.

All that to say: 1) They in fact do not all taste the same, and 2) Brand really truly does matter sometimes!

In conjunction with the brands, I thought of shapes. My Roommate (Yes, One), absolutely insists on eating shaped macaroni, and only shaped macaroni. If she were stranded in the arctic a la Christopher MacCandless and had the choice between regular noodle-y macaroni or nothing, she would definitely choose nothing. Perhaps an exaggeration, but only slight. This is where she says, “It doesn’t taste the same.” To me, all Kraft macaroni and cheese tastes the same whether it’s a noodle or some Japanese anime character. But no, to her there is just no exception.

So all of the above was my thought process today when I stood in Safeway, my mother bustling over fresh salmon and how many yogurts she was preparing to buy as we headed towards the dairy section. But there I stood, staring at not one of the above dilemmas, but two. Yes, two.

Did I get the generic store brand macaroni and cheese, or did I get Kraft. What is this world coming to when a 20-year-old has to make these types of decisions in longer than 10 seconds? I don’t know, but the beads of anxiety were appearing on my forehead again as my mom chugged by me with the shopping cart. Once I’d made that decision, did I get regular noodles or prehistoric dinosaur shapes? Pause and think to self, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen prehistoric dinosaur shaped macaroni. Examine box from at least five feet away so that four-year-old in racing car shopping cart by your feet won’t judge you. Avoid eye contact.

My mom looks back at me and I open my mouth to speak but what can I say? The prehistoric dinosaur shapes are too much for me to pass up. So now as I sit here at work, I want you to understand my subtle joy that in this bowl are all sorts of prehistoric creatures that I’m sure long to be eaten just as much as I long to eat them.

And I just wrote an entry about macaroni. Off to better myself.

Coffee Pouches & Allergens

I’ve come to realize a few things.

Firstly, whoever was the first person to stumble upon a coffee bean, grind it up, then think to mix it with hot water and then drink it (versus pour it on plants or give it to the llamas in the open fields), I love you. I just want you to know, wherever your blessed soul is right now, I love you. I love you, I love you, and I love you. You are a genius and I’m 100% positive I’m not alone when I profess my forever undying love and servitude to you. I love you. Thank you for being there for me at ungodly hours of the morning.

That was actually a tangent, because that’s not something I’ve realized. I already knew I loved that person who first cultivated coffee, that was a given. My real realization is that I love the person who invented Starbucks Via, which my child if you don’t know, is instant, portable coffee in a pouch. Can I ask you for something that is a better invention? I cannot. Words can’t escape my lips, mostly because I’m too busy drinking instant, portable coffee. From Colombia, none the less.

If you haven’t had the glorious opportunity to quench your morning time thirst with instant, portable coffee in a pouch, I highly, highly, highly recommend you put it on your to-do list. I can safely say that it’s not 9 o’clock in the morning yet and I’m on my third cup. Excessive? Maybe a little bit, but when you have to deal with a Jack Russell that deliberately ignores you, a Golden Retriever that thinks it’s a Rhinoceros, another Golden Retriever that wants to sit ON your lap, and a Black Lab puppy that awkwardly gets stuck in awkward places, you would be on your third cup of coffee too. Trust me, I’m an Anthropologist.

And that leads me to another realization.

I forget things. I forget important things. Mind you I’ve never forgotten anything like my ID before boarding an airplane (never, in my life …), and I’ve never forgotten to set my alarm before having to wake up for work, and I’ve never, ever forgotten to write a paper and turn it in (Communication Disorders, Fall quarter 2009). I would never forget important things like that. I always, always remember super important things like, what time the season premiere of Teen Mom starts (July 20, at 10pm), and what’s on the menu at Casa Que Pasa so I can plan what I’m going to order next time I go. I remember those things.

Never in my life have I forgotten what day it is, and continued throughout the day not knowing. Never in my life have I forgotten to call someone back who I told I would call first thing. Never have I forgotten what the speed limit is, so guessed instead. And naturally, I’ve never forgotten to take off the parking brake before I start driving.

But most importantly, now I’ve realized that I ALWAYS forget my allergy pill. Always. Never mind the fact that I work in a place that has constant pet dander and fur and slobber and drool (same thing?) and hypoallergenic hair flying through the air at any given second. Curses on my desire to remember my car keys when I’m leaving instead of an allergy pill. It’s amazing the difference it makes too. On the days when I reluctantly remember to take an allergy pill with my morning coffee, I don’t sniff or sneeze ONE time at work. Let it be known that I’ve easily sneezed 30 times in the last hour. And I wonder why I get so many bloody noses.

And I’ve also realized, that I know you want to live vicariously through me as a I spend my days mopping up slobber and breaking Milkbones into equal pieces and distributing them at snack time. It’s okay, I understand your wants and needs. I understand you have the desire to know what it’s like to sit amongst 15+ dogs of all sizes and wonder to yourself, what went wrong? Just kidding! As a dog lover I want to say up front this truly is a great summer job. Even if I do have to keep the spray bottle attached to my belt loop all day and constantly have a tongue on any given part of exposed skin. I’ve decided to thus to a “Dog of the Day” and give you the insight into one of these precious pooch’s best qualities. I do not promise to post a Dog of the Day every day, because I might be in a coma from too much caffeine. There’s really no telling.

Don't. Panic.

As some may (or may not) know, I work at a dog daycare. Yes, child, a dog daycare. Did you know there was such a thing? Surely. There is.

Sometimes, as an employee I oversee going to people who are at work or on vacation's houses to A) feed their cat(s) or B) Walk their dogs. On this particular sunny June day, I was destined to walk Bailey. Bailey the sweet, sweet Beagle. As I pulled up to a very attractive, cuddly cottage in West Seattle, I thought to myself, my this will be a pleasant walk. Do you get the feeling it wasn't?

I approach the door and fumble through my ring of keys (henceforth I am known as The Keeper of The Keys). I open the door, and what doest thou hear? I hear a beep. That is NOT what I want to hear as I'm opening the door of a house I've never been to. NO. Incorrect.

I'm obviously imagining things because surely my boss would have told me if there was an alarm at Bailey's house. So, in disbelief, I close the door. YES, my sweet reader, I closed the door. Why did I do that? Somehow in the vast expanse of my mind, I assumed that if I closed the door the alarm would just, dare I say it, shut off. How wrong my child! How wrong!

Coming to my senses I opened the door again. Surprise, it was still beeping furiously, alerting me that if I did not act the homeowners would be notified and the police, summoned. My heart was beating so loud I thought Bailey might have heard it across the room with her big Beagle ears. What do I do? What do I do? Think, you are a college student, make moves. I pull out my cell phone and call my boss.

Kendall: (Phone is ringing.) Why isn't she answering!?!?!
Boss: (After third ring.) Hello?
Kendall: WHAT IS THE CODE TO BAILEY'S ALARM SYSTEM! TELL ME NOW! IT'S GOING TO GO OFF!!!!!!!! HELP ME! HELP MEEE!

I know how to keep calm under pressure. My boss, bless her, somehow managed to tell me the code over my obnoxious-freaking-out-ness and I punched in those numbers like I'd never punched in numbers before. The alarm went silent. I sighed, deeply, checking my pulse. Bailey stared at me from her crate.

I might have stood for a whole thirty seconds in complete silence, trying to remember what just happened. My breathing was irregular and I heard a siren in the distance. Thankfully, that siren did not show up at Bailey's house. Needless to say, the actual walk was uneventful.

You Know What?

I try and try and try again to remember to update, but this time you'll never guess what happened.

Yes, I forgot my log-in information.

Between changing usernames and universal logins and passwords and getting a new debit card and applying to hosts dogs in my home during the summer and almost getting the police called on me (more on that one, later), I just FORGOT my log-in information here.

Don't judge me for this condemnation that I so absentmindedly set upon myself. The police story is sure to redeem me.

Sir, could you just put your tray table up? Please. For the love of mankind.

You know what's funny (I'm not going to wait to hear your answers, sorry!); flying on airplanes.

A lot of people get anxiety, or irrational thoughts, or both (not me). A lot of people can't fall asleep the night before because they think they're going to sleep through their alarms in the morning for their 7 am flight (that would be me). A lot of people over pack (again, usually me) and a lot of people forget something (rarely me). However, most people would not say that flying on airplanes is funny.

And you know what, I guess it's really not. But I'm going to proceed with my original thoughts.

So after all seventeen (read: two) of my alarms went off this morning to make sure I'd be awake, I blindly stumbled into the shower (read: got caught in the curtain) and tried to make sure I'd remember my itinerary that was pinned to the board by my door (read: not like I would ever forget an important document whilst trying to navigate anything related to an airline...definitely not speaking from experience), I made my way to the Bellingham International Airport (prestigious, yes?).

The first thing I noticed and the first thing I noted was that today's terrorist alert level was, in fact, orange. Now what I want to know is, what exactly constitutes a declaration of a color in the terrorist alert level system. Because not only is orange directly underneath a code red terrorist threat, but it's also DIRECTLY UNDERNEATH A CODE RED TERRORIST THREAT. Needless to say, I felt calm and reassured as I walked through the airport today. Who is in charge of dictating today's precise terrorist color, because I want to know what constitutes an orange? It's a nice day (check). It's a weekend (check). It's May (check). It's my cat's birthday (check). AHH, must be code orange today, let me make the call.

After I boarded the plane (through the back, I tell you), I sat in my seat. It was nice. It was a nice airplane seat, on the aisle. The pilot let us know that we would be leaving shortly, on time. Excellent. Twenty minutes later, the captain announces they're ready to go except for some paperwork they're doing in the cabin. Paperwork? Excuse me, captain-pilot-man, please finish your Sudoku so we can get things rolling. Places to be!

Did you know you have to pay for water now, on the planes? Did you know? I think that's pretty funny. Don't even start with me on paying for checked luggage. Naturally, I went carry on.

And how often do you see male flight attendants? Sometimes. And how often do you see male flight attendants who are definitely the same age as you? Rarely. Well guess what I saw today. YES. A male flight attendant who was the same age as me. Sort of funny.

Fast forward to our final descent into Los Angeles: the Howie-AJ Backstreet Boy Hybrid across the row from me is still listening to his iPod. Clearly, the captain just said not two minutes ago to stow all electronics away and put your tray tables in the upright position. Do you want to guess if his tray table was in the upright position? Because it wasn't. So Mr. My-Age-Male-FA comes back and kindly asks AJHowie to please put his tray table up. So AJHowie puts it up and carelessly turns the knob so that I'm positive it's about to fall back down.

And does it? Yes. It falls at an angle that if it were to shoot off, it would break AJHowie's nose. Now why does this bother me, you might ask? Oh I don't care about it breaking his nose. Is it that hard to put your tray table up (and not to mention turn off your electronics) when the captain asks you to? It's not like the captain came over the intercom and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are preparing for our descent into Los Angeles. In preparation, would you please get into the aisle way and do 30 triangle push ups, one round of the Macarena, and then meet and greet at least six people around you." That would be unreasonable. ALL HE WANTED was to put the tray tables up. So obnoxious. So not funny.

Did he fix the tray? Yes, he did, seconds before we were about to touch the landing strip. And yes, I did breathe a rather large sigh of relief. Loser, I know. Me, not him. Maybe both of us though.

Psych! / 30 DayShred

Psych; not to be confused with the literal term [psych]ology, [psych]opath, [psych]ologist, [psych]iatrist, etc.

That is such a silly word. I mean, look at it. Nothing about it is right. Psych should be spelled Sike, let's just get real. You know, I just learned how to spell psych in my senior year of high school. I'd always bumble it (I just made that phrase up, it sounds English) and spell it: Pysch. Or perhaps even: Psyhc (just kidding, I think). But most of the time, I just stuck with SIKE because it was shorter and much more effective.

But what I'm really trying to say (in a roundabout way) is that I PSYCHED myself out.

There was all this hub-bub buzzing around BN (if you don't know what BN is, I'm sorry I can't disclose that information until we're very good friends) about the 30 Day Shred and Jillian Michaels and I was just so gosh darn curious that I took it upon myself to YouTube as many clips as I could. It didn't look hard, so I decided to compile my OWN workout, very similar to Jillian's.

Here were the problems with that:
1. I had no idea what I was doing.
2. I HAD NO IDEA WHAT I WAS DOING.
And apart from #1 and #2,
3. I thought it was an awesome idea, despite the fact that I didn't know what I was doing.

So I went about my merry-made-up-workout for 6 days, EVEN PUSHING THROUGH that gross, hard to maneuver (no, literally) second day. I'm not kidding, the second day after my made up workout, I couldn't sit down to pee without wanting to cry. I might have cried, you'll never know. So after 6 days, I started halving my workout and eventually just quit.

Kendall, why are you telling me this? LISTEN, child. I have a point. Hush now.

A friend of mine, we'll call her Sarah, because that's her name...lost my train of thought. SARAH AND I went to Target to buy floaties and gifts for my niece (the floaties were not for the 6 month old). We stumbled upon the real 30 Day Shred DVD and decided to go halves on it. I was literally quivering with fear as I pushed it into my DVD player that night. I figured that because I modeled my original workout around Jillian's without knowing what it exactly was, that this REAL one would be TEN TIMES HARDER.

Well, PSYCH. It wasn't!
In fact, it was totally doable. I'm serious. And Jillian makes me laugh with her serious demeanor.

So, I may have just written a novel to get to that last few sentences. You liked it, don't act like you didn't. This isn't a sales pitch for the 30 Day Shred either, because I've only done it for two days (and I'm going to LA tomorrow so I can guarantee there's going to be a 30DS hiatus from me). If you want to try it, you can come over and we'll do it together. I'll hold you. Or not, if you prefer not to be held that's cool, I'll let you sweat it out.

As an Anthropologist...

I'll tell you what's annoying; the fact that my Anthropology 303 professor has managed to change my entire outlook on life. I mean, yes I am actually going to major in Anthropology, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life mentally calculating how much distance there is from the front door of the Comm building up to my classroom on the second floor. I don't care how many paces it is! Paces equal meters equals feet equals distance. Or some silly equation that I don't care for.

Or maybe the fact that I can't look at a little kid and her mom in the park now without thinking, "Maybe that's not her mom. Is there something that SAYS that's her mom? Because it could be her aunt. It could be her sister. It could be her godmother. It could be her teacher. It could be some random lady posing as a mother for a day." There are no more stereotyping people once Professor Judy Pine is done with you!

I scrutinize the cashier at the grocery store and wonder what they're thinking, why they're working here, how many hours they have versus how many hours they want and why, of all places, did they end up here at this particular grocery store.

As an Anthropologist...

What is a "Kendall"?

And thus I attempt to define exactly what a Kendall is.

1. Kendall (Ken-dull); noun: a 19 (almost 20) year old college student who spends her days mapping city parks, getting her seat stolen by upperclassmen named Kevin or Scott, stumbling across recipes that are in dire need of creation, uploading all available pictures of her niece to her cell phone, trying to install scanners, and of course always pointing at everything.

What is it that a Kendall enjoys? A Kendall enjoys a good grilled cheese sandwich, the smell of grass after the landlord is done cutting it, pug videos from YouTube, alliteration, watching scary movies with her boyfriend, and crabbing. A Kendall also enjoys learning a song on her guitar which doesn't require bar chords, late night games of spider solitaire, the sound her basketball makes when it swishes through the net (which unfortunately isn't an often occurrence) , and pretending to be a pirate.

[As contributed by urbandictionary.com]
2. A Kendall is someone who is initially a bag of happy, and if popped will create a supersonic explosion that will send shock waves for at least a 60 mile radius. A happy bag of such a magnitude can power Finland for 36 minutes. Many Kendalls develop strange obsessions for drug-addicted men. Never take a Kendall's supply of coffee, or you will suffer the divine consequences.

2. [revision comments]
A Kendall does in fact enjoy a nice cup of coffee, but prefers her coffee in the fall and winter seasons, although a coffee in the spring season would be hard to resist as well. A Kendall does enjoy going to class in the spring quarter and often wishes every quarter could be spring quarter. A Kendall does enjoy a glass of orange juice about once or twice a month. A Kendall's feet are often not covered in socks or shoes. A Kendall can be overtly or covertly sarcastic, condescending, and witty [all at once]. Kendall is partial to afternoon naps.

3. A Kendall believes that she cannot be confined to definitions, although she thinks the above is a fairly fair smattering of Kendall-ness.