For Christmas last year, my brothers each got a Nintendo DSi (apparently the "i" is important because every time I say "DS" they correct me). When I found out that my dad and step mom were getting them the DSis, I remembered a Christmas many years ago when I got a Gameboy color. What game did I get with my Gameboy? Pokémon, of course! So, naturally, I decided I'd get my brothers a Pokémon game as well. Sometimes I regret that decision, because they ask me questions all the time. 90% of conversations they have with me are related to Pokémon. At first I didn't mind. I think it was nostalgia - me remembering how captivating Pokémon was for me when I was their age. Now, though, I sometimes don't want them to talk to me. The other day they had taken the hint that I wasn't in the mood for Pokémon talk, so they discussed it amongst themselves. I don't really remember what they were talking about, but then Sam said something I thought was noteworthy: "Liam, we should release some of our Pokémon that we caught." Liam and I both looked at him questioningly and simultaneously asked, "Why?"
"Well, I mean, the ones that we never use. Since we don't use them, they just stay locked up inside and that doesn't seem very nice. I bet they'd rather be free." He was very concerned for their well-being, and I feel like he was genuinely upset that the fictional creatures were not able to roam about freely.
Really? My nine year old brother just brought ethics into Pokémon? Next he's gonna start talking about how it's wrong to make them fight and make a joke about Michael Vick just trying to be a Pokémon master.
Just kidding - he doesn't know who Michael Vick is.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Twins Game (Kind Of)
Last night, I went to the Twins game with my mom and sister. The three of us had gone a couple of weeks ago on Mother's Day, as well. For that game, we had really great seats along the third base line. Since it was my mom's first time at the new stadium, though, she wanted to get up and explore a bit. During the seventh inning, we got up and walked around and ended up watching the top of the ninth inning from way up in foul territory. My mom really liked being up that high, though, so for the game last night,we got tickets way up in the upper deck along the first base line.
The game started out a little shaky. Actually, before the game started out a little shaky. My sister came home from work early the day before because she was feeling sick, so we weren't sure if she'd even be able to make it to the game. She felt better the day of the game, so we figured it would be okay. However, once we got to the stadium, she started to feel pretty sick again. I think she made it through the first inning before she decided she wouldn't be able to stay for the whole game. She left and walked to a friend's house who drove her home.
Before we even got to the stadium, we got to the parking ramp. We had to take an elevator to the street so we could get to the stadium, obviously. We got into the elevator, along with a bunch of other people, and were waiting for the doors to close when a man came sprinting over. He was comin' in hot and a few people inside the elevator reached out to keep the doors from closing. "There's always room for one more," the late comer said with a smile. That's completely false. In this instance, there was barely room for one more, so he gets a pass, but to say there's always room for one more? Totally not true. A couple seconds after that happened, a rather large couple came into view. Nobody made an attempt to hold the doors because there wasn't any room. Mr. Largeman thought there was, though, and jammed his arm in between the doors to keep them from closing. I thought for sure he'd realize there wasn't room for him and his lady once the doors were completely opened, but he didn't. Mr. and Mrs. Largeman waddled in, putting everyone in an uncomfortably tight squeeze. I did not hear that one guy say there was room for one more at this point.
The game, itself, was pretty bad. Our pitcher couldn't throw strikes, which meant the game went by very slowly. It was cold, too. My mom had said we'd be cold, but I thought I'd be okay with a sweatshirt under my jersey, and was very adamant about it. There's nothing worse than arguing over something with one of your parents and then being completely wrong about it, so I said I wasn't cold at all. I mean, I wasn't freezing, but I was pretty chilly. After the seventh inning, my mom (and secretly me) wanted to move around so we could warm up a little bit. We walked around and ultimately ended up behind the lower level seats near home plate. Here, we watched the rest of the game, which, by the way, ended with a three-run, walk-off homerun by Josh Willingham in the bottom of the ninth. It was incredible.
The game started out a little shaky. Actually, before the game started out a little shaky. My sister came home from work early the day before because she was feeling sick, so we weren't sure if she'd even be able to make it to the game. She felt better the day of the game, so we figured it would be okay. However, once we got to the stadium, she started to feel pretty sick again. I think she made it through the first inning before she decided she wouldn't be able to stay for the whole game. She left and walked to a friend's house who drove her home.
Before we even got to the stadium, we got to the parking ramp. We had to take an elevator to the street so we could get to the stadium, obviously. We got into the elevator, along with a bunch of other people, and were waiting for the doors to close when a man came sprinting over. He was comin' in hot and a few people inside the elevator reached out to keep the doors from closing. "There's always room for one more," the late comer said with a smile. That's completely false. In this instance, there was barely room for one more, so he gets a pass, but to say there's always room for one more? Totally not true. A couple seconds after that happened, a rather large couple came into view. Nobody made an attempt to hold the doors because there wasn't any room. Mr. Largeman thought there was, though, and jammed his arm in between the doors to keep them from closing. I thought for sure he'd realize there wasn't room for him and his lady once the doors were completely opened, but he didn't. Mr. and Mrs. Largeman waddled in, putting everyone in an uncomfortably tight squeeze. I did not hear that one guy say there was room for one more at this point.
The game, itself, was pretty bad. Our pitcher couldn't throw strikes, which meant the game went by very slowly. It was cold, too. My mom had said we'd be cold, but I thought I'd be okay with a sweatshirt under my jersey, and was very adamant about it. There's nothing worse than arguing over something with one of your parents and then being completely wrong about it, so I said I wasn't cold at all. I mean, I wasn't freezing, but I was pretty chilly. After the seventh inning, my mom (and secretly me) wanted to move around so we could warm up a little bit. We walked around and ultimately ended up behind the lower level seats near home plate. Here, we watched the rest of the game, which, by the way, ended with a three-run, walk-off homerun by Josh Willingham in the bottom of the ninth. It was incredible.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Happy New Year!
Five years ago (I think. I don't really know, but I'm just going to say it's five), I went to Hastings, MN to visit my cousins, the Jacksons, over New Year's Eve weekend. Billy's parents, Evangeline and Randy (my cousins) had plans to go out for the evening, leaving the house to Billy, his little brother, Elijah, his little sister, Shayna, and myself. Billy had asked if he could have his friend, Mike, come over, too. His parents agreed, so Mike was also there. Shayna was in the living room watching movies while Billy, Mike, Elijah, and I were in the basement playing Halo for a while until, inevitably, we got bored. "Hey, let's have a snowball fight!" someone suggested. We all agreed that was a good idea, so the four of us put on our shoes and sweatshirts and went outside. We threw snowballs at each other for probably half an hour until we got bored. I mean, you can only throw snowballs for so long until it becomes monotonous. Billy's house was located right next to the highway that goes through Hastings. Naturally, we started lobbing snowballs onto the highway. At first, it was just to see if we could throw across. It was a six lane highway with a pretty wide median, and we were throwing from a few yards away, so, I mean, don't judge. It was a long toss. Someone - I don't remember who - didn't quite make it all the way across the highway and accidentally hit a car. Then the goal changed - let's see who can hit the most cars. We'd unleash a barrage of snowballs whenever a car passed the house. Once, a car pulled over to turn at the intersection that was a few yards away from Billy's house. The four of us panicked, thinking they were going to yell at us or something, so we ran to seek shelter in the Jackson's large van. We all jumped in and closed the blinds in the windows of the van, peeking out periodically to see if the people were looking for us. They weren't, so we all got out of the van. That rush was incentive enough for us to keep throwing snowballs at cars, and we continued for probably an hour and a half, retreating back to the van a few times.
We were getting ready to go back inside, but decided we'd hit just a few more. We hit one, and I saw it turn at the intersection, but didn't say anything since nothing happened the previous times a car had turned there. We had just missed a car and I was watching it drive away. In the distance, though, I saw three dark figures. I thought they were dogs, so I didn't pay them much attention. We missed another car and I watched that one drive away, too. The dark figures were closer than before and I realized they were people that were sneaking towards us. "Hey, what are those people doing?" I asked. No one knew, but we all had a bad feeling. Mike and Elijah went inside, but Billy and I decided to try to hit just one last car. We hit the very next one. To our surprise and horror, the car pulled over immediately. At that time, the people that were sneaking up on us began sprinting toward us. To this day, I have no idea why Billy and I didn't just go into the house, but we didn't. Instead, we ran behind the house and hid behind the shed in the back yard. The people trying to...attack us...? I guess I don't know what they were trying to do, but those people went around the house to try to cut us off. When we weren't behind the house, they got confused, and we ran inside the house, locked the door, and hid in Billy's parents' room because that was the farthest from the door. Then we heard a pound on the door, and Mike, Elijah, and Shayna wanted to know what was going on. Billy and I came out of the room and looked down the hall. There was a very angry looking man peering in through the window on the door. I told Billy he should answer it. "No! You answer it!"
"No way! It's your house - you answer it!" Finally, Billy and I both answered the door, and the man was livid. This was the guy who was driving the last car we hit - the one that pulled over right away. "What the f*** are you kids doing?! Throwing f***ing snowballs at my G****** car?! I could've f***ing died!" Yeah, he was kind of angry.
"Um, would you mind not swearing? My little siblings are right here..." Billy replied.
"Oh, your little siblings, huh? Well a fine f***ing example you're setting for them, huh?"
"Sir, please leave our house." At this point, Shayna's chihuahua, Sheeba, began to bark at the angry man.
"Oh, is this your dog? I'm gonna eat this f***er for dinner. I'm gonna eat your f***ing dog!"
"Please leave."
"No. I'm gonna call the G****** cops. You're gonna be in big f***ing trouble!" Billy then shut the door and we went into the living room to explain what happened. We said that the crazy guy was going to eat Sheeba. This greatly upset Shayna. Then we said that he was going to call the cops. This greatly upset Mike. He asked Billy what he was going to do. "I know!" he said, and went downstairs. Mike and I followed him. Once in the basement, Billy turned on his Xbox and started playing Halo. This didn't make Mike very happy. "Halo?! You're playing Halo?! The guy's calling the cops, and you're playing Halo. Billy! I'm gonna get in so much trouble if my mom finds out the cops got called!"
"Well, then don't let your mom find out. Easy!" Seeing that he wasn't going to win this battle, Mike went back upstairs. I sat down and started to watch Billy play. Just as Billy was about to win, Mike came storming back downstairs and turned off the Xbox. "Hey! I was just about to win!" Billy said.
"I don't care! The cops are coming and you're going to do something about it!" demanded Mike.
"Fine!"
The three of us went back upstairs, and as soon as we reached the top step, there was another knock on the door. Billy and I went to answer the door, and we saw three cop cars, four cops, the angry/crazy man, and the three people who were chasing us. Three cop cars? I was curious as to what the angry guy had said on the phone. "So, do you boys know why we're here?" one of the cops asked, trying not to smile.
"Um, because we threw snowballs at cars?" I replied.
"Yes," he said, now stifling laughter. It was clear they didn't think it was necessary that they were called about snowballs when I'm sure they were supposed to be on the lookout for drunk drivers. "Now, why were you throwing snowballs at cars?"
"Ummmmm..." Billy and I both responded.
"Thought it was a good idea at the time?"
"Yeah!"
"But it doesn't seem like a good idea now, does it?" Both of the officers at the door started laughing.
"No..." we said, both chuckling. The cop doing most of the talking then asked the crazy guy and the three people who were chasing us to come over to where we all were.
"Now, was your car damaged at all by the snowballs?" the cop asked the angry man.
"Well, no...but it d*** well could've been!"
"So, no damage was done?"
"No! But-"
"Okay. No damage," the cop said, as he motioned to the other two cops in their cars that they could leave. "And you three - was your car damaged?" These three people had been laughing the whole time because of the ridiculousness of the situation.
"Of course not! It was a snowball! We were just gonna give these guys whities and throw snowballs at them. We thought it was funny."
"Uh-huh, so no damage here either. Alright, I'm gonna take down your names and addresses," the cop said, now talking to Billy and me, but he couldn't find a piece of paper. He ripped the corner off of a used piece of paper he had and handed it to us. "Write small because there's not a lot of room." We both wrote our names and addresses and handed the piece of paper back to the cop, who folded it up and put it in his pocket. I feel like he probably threw it away as soon as he could. "Alright, you boys have a nice night, and stay out of trouble," he said, and was on his way.
When Billy and I got back in the house, we explained to everyone what had happened, and we all agreed that it would be best if nobody's parents knew what had happened.
And then I wrote about it and posted it on the internet for everybody's parents to see.
Heh, oopsies.
We were getting ready to go back inside, but decided we'd hit just a few more. We hit one, and I saw it turn at the intersection, but didn't say anything since nothing happened the previous times a car had turned there. We had just missed a car and I was watching it drive away. In the distance, though, I saw three dark figures. I thought they were dogs, so I didn't pay them much attention. We missed another car and I watched that one drive away, too. The dark figures were closer than before and I realized they were people that were sneaking towards us. "Hey, what are those people doing?" I asked. No one knew, but we all had a bad feeling. Mike and Elijah went inside, but Billy and I decided to try to hit just one last car. We hit the very next one. To our surprise and horror, the car pulled over immediately. At that time, the people that were sneaking up on us began sprinting toward us. To this day, I have no idea why Billy and I didn't just go into the house, but we didn't. Instead, we ran behind the house and hid behind the shed in the back yard. The people trying to...attack us...? I guess I don't know what they were trying to do, but those people went around the house to try to cut us off. When we weren't behind the house, they got confused, and we ran inside the house, locked the door, and hid in Billy's parents' room because that was the farthest from the door. Then we heard a pound on the door, and Mike, Elijah, and Shayna wanted to know what was going on. Billy and I came out of the room and looked down the hall. There was a very angry looking man peering in through the window on the door. I told Billy he should answer it. "No! You answer it!"
"No way! It's your house - you answer it!" Finally, Billy and I both answered the door, and the man was livid. This was the guy who was driving the last car we hit - the one that pulled over right away. "What the f*** are you kids doing?! Throwing f***ing snowballs at my G****** car?! I could've f***ing died!" Yeah, he was kind of angry.
"Um, would you mind not swearing? My little siblings are right here..." Billy replied.
"Oh, your little siblings, huh? Well a fine f***ing example you're setting for them, huh?"
"Sir, please leave our house." At this point, Shayna's chihuahua, Sheeba, began to bark at the angry man.
"Oh, is this your dog? I'm gonna eat this f***er for dinner. I'm gonna eat your f***ing dog!"
"Please leave."
"No. I'm gonna call the G****** cops. You're gonna be in big f***ing trouble!" Billy then shut the door and we went into the living room to explain what happened. We said that the crazy guy was going to eat Sheeba. This greatly upset Shayna. Then we said that he was going to call the cops. This greatly upset Mike. He asked Billy what he was going to do. "I know!" he said, and went downstairs. Mike and I followed him. Once in the basement, Billy turned on his Xbox and started playing Halo. This didn't make Mike very happy. "Halo?! You're playing Halo?! The guy's calling the cops, and you're playing Halo. Billy! I'm gonna get in so much trouble if my mom finds out the cops got called!"
"Well, then don't let your mom find out. Easy!" Seeing that he wasn't going to win this battle, Mike went back upstairs. I sat down and started to watch Billy play. Just as Billy was about to win, Mike came storming back downstairs and turned off the Xbox. "Hey! I was just about to win!" Billy said.
"I don't care! The cops are coming and you're going to do something about it!" demanded Mike.
"Fine!"
The three of us went back upstairs, and as soon as we reached the top step, there was another knock on the door. Billy and I went to answer the door, and we saw three cop cars, four cops, the angry/crazy man, and the three people who were chasing us. Three cop cars? I was curious as to what the angry guy had said on the phone. "So, do you boys know why we're here?" one of the cops asked, trying not to smile.
"Um, because we threw snowballs at cars?" I replied.
"Yes," he said, now stifling laughter. It was clear they didn't think it was necessary that they were called about snowballs when I'm sure they were supposed to be on the lookout for drunk drivers. "Now, why were you throwing snowballs at cars?"
"Ummmmm..." Billy and I both responded.
"Thought it was a good idea at the time?"
"Yeah!"
"But it doesn't seem like a good idea now, does it?" Both of the officers at the door started laughing.
"No..." we said, both chuckling. The cop doing most of the talking then asked the crazy guy and the three people who were chasing us to come over to where we all were.
"Now, was your car damaged at all by the snowballs?" the cop asked the angry man.
"Well, no...but it d*** well could've been!"
"So, no damage was done?"
"No! But-"
"Okay. No damage," the cop said, as he motioned to the other two cops in their cars that they could leave. "And you three - was your car damaged?" These three people had been laughing the whole time because of the ridiculousness of the situation.
"Of course not! It was a snowball! We were just gonna give these guys whities and throw snowballs at them. We thought it was funny."
"Uh-huh, so no damage here either. Alright, I'm gonna take down your names and addresses," the cop said, now talking to Billy and me, but he couldn't find a piece of paper. He ripped the corner off of a used piece of paper he had and handed it to us. "Write small because there's not a lot of room." We both wrote our names and addresses and handed the piece of paper back to the cop, who folded it up and put it in his pocket. I feel like he probably threw it away as soon as he could. "Alright, you boys have a nice night, and stay out of trouble," he said, and was on his way.
When Billy and I got back in the house, we explained to everyone what had happened, and we all agreed that it would be best if nobody's parents knew what had happened.
And then I wrote about it and posted it on the internet for everybody's parents to see.
Heh, oopsies.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Perpetual Failure: Minnesota Sports
Thus far, my life as a sports fan has been nothing short of tragic. The only championship from a major pro sports team that I've witnessed was the Twins winning the World Series in 1991. I was three months old. Sure, just last year the Lynx won the WNBA title, but that just doesn't give me the same kind of excitement that I would expect from a championship. The major pro sports, I think, are football, baseball, basketball, and hockey. That means that, in order for me to witness a championship by one of my beloved Minnesota teams, either the Vikings, Twins, Timberwolves, or Wild would have to win one. The Vikings, Twins, and Wild are pretty awful, meaning the Timberwolves have the best shot at a title, though I think the Vikes will be a lot better this year (I'll get to that in a moment). You know Minnesota's sports outlook is pretty bleak when the Timberwolves have the best shot at a title. Their odds aren't good, either. They're not even decent. Sure, we've got Ricky Rubio and Kevin Love, arguably two of the best (if not the best in Kevin Love's case) at their respective positions of point guard and power forward, but outside of those two, we're not very good. Nikola Pekovic showed a lot of promise this year as the team's center, actually, so add him to the Love and Rubio group of "at-least-solid-starters. Derrick Williams showed flashes at times and, given that he was just a rookie, could end up being a very good player. The only problem is that he's more of a power forward than a small forward, and we've got the best power forward in basketball. The team desperately needs a shooting guard that can actually shoot (that seems like it should be easy to find, but apparently it's harder than it seems) and an athletic small forward. If we can get those this off-season, and if Rubio can fully recover from his knee injury, the Wolves will be a contender for a top-four spot in the west next year. Yeah, I said it.
*Sigh*... The Twins. This team is such a mess, I don't even know where to start. Yeah, we've won five of our last seven, which is good (it's actually really good. 1/3 of our wins have come in the last seven games), but frankly, we're a bad team. Without doing any research on this, I believe that Carl Pavano is the only current starter that was in the rotation at the start of the year. That's actually good because, even though all five of them were garbage, he was the best one. Consequently, I believe our starters had the highest ERA among starting rotations in baseball. Now we have three guys I've not heard of and Duensing in the rotation (I think), and I feel a lot more comfortable with that. It's not just the pitching though. Our hitting, though explosive at times, is inconsistent at best. It's unfortunate, too, because when the five guys on the team who can actually hit (Denard Span, Joe Mauer, Josh Willingham, Justin Morneau, and Ryan Doumit) are hitting well, we score a lot of runs. When they're not, though, that means it's up to guys like Alexi Casilla, Jamey Carroll, and Erik Komatsu to get hits. They can't get hits. Mauer and Morneau, though still good-very good, are shells of their former selves. If they were the Mauer and Morneau from five or six years ago, this team would be drastically better.
The definition of heartbreaker when it comes to sports has got to be the Minnesota Vikings. I mean, not last year. Last year they were pitiful. It's not like we've never been good, though. It's not even like we haven't been good recently, because we have. Remember 2009? Yeah, the 12-4, Brett-Favre-led Minnesota Vikings won the NFC North division, and should've at least made the Super Bowl. Yeah, I'm going to complain about that NFC Championship game a bit. First, though, I will reminisce. I remember week 3, Favre's last second, desperation heave to the endzone, miraculously caught by none other than Greg Lewis. I remember sprinting to my dorm room from my Monday night class to watch Favre beat the Packers on Monday Night Football. I remember all the "experts" saying the Cowboys would beat us in the Divisional round of the playoffs, their only reason being that the Cowboys won their Wild Card game. I remember saying, numerous times, "I hope we beat the Cowboys by 30, just so everyone will realize how dumb they are." I remember the Vikings winning 34-3, and the Cowboys complaining that we ran up the score. That game couldn't have been more perfect for me. Then, yes, I remember the NFC Championship game against my new-least-favorite team - the New Orleans Saints. The game in which Saints linebacker, Jonathan Vilma, offered $10,000 to whichever player knocked Favre out of the game. A sense of vindication came over me when the Saints' bounty system was discovered; I, along with many other Vikings fans, knew that the Saints players were playing dirty. Non-Vikings fans called us sore losers. What really bothers me, though, is that the referees just let that happen. They're just as pathetic as the Saints players.
That's not all with the heartbreak of the Vikings, though. Remember 1998? The '98 Vikings are the second best team to never win a Super Bowl, behind only the Patriots team that went 16-0 in the regular season. In '98, the Vikings went 15-1. Our kicker, Gary Andersen, didn't miss a single kick the whole year. That's unheard of! 100% accuracy on field goals for the whole year. Granted, we scored a ton of touchdowns, so Andersen didn't need to kick a lot of field goals. However, in the NFC Championship game that year, he not only kicked field goals, he missed field goals. We ended up losing in overtime, and seven-year-old Joe Russell cried.
Currently, the Vikings are not very good. We do, however, have the best running back in the league (Adrian Peterson) and the best defensive end in the league (Jared Allen). Christian Ponder, now that he has a decent left tackle in Matt Kalil, should improve drastically this year. An awful defensive secondary was improved (though only slightly) with the drafting of safety Harrison Smith and cornerback Josh Robinson. For some reason, no matter how bad the Vikings were the year before, I am always optimistic about the upcoming season at this time during the year. Knowing how horrible we were last year, looking at this year's schedule, I think six or seven wins is realistic. That's still not very good, but it's at least twice as good as last year.
(I know next to nothing about hockey, so I'm just going to assume the Wild will be bad again next year)
The thing about Minnesota sports teams is that we're not always bad, we're just never the best. I feel like if you want emotional balance in your life, you need to be a Minnesota sports fan. That sounds kind of crazy, given that it's pretty depressing here, sports-wise, but hear me out. You have to be optimistic to be a Minnesota sports fan. If you're pessimistic, the frustration, depression, and heart break will be too much, and you'll abandon ship. However, Minnesota sports turns anyone into a pessimist because Murphy's Law (what can go wrong will go wrong) is in full effect for every single sporting event. Actually, I guess it could go either way: you'll either find emotional balance, or you'll become a schizophrenic. Heh, well, good luck with that.
*Sigh*... The Twins. This team is such a mess, I don't even know where to start. Yeah, we've won five of our last seven, which is good (it's actually really good. 1/3 of our wins have come in the last seven games), but frankly, we're a bad team. Without doing any research on this, I believe that Carl Pavano is the only current starter that was in the rotation at the start of the year. That's actually good because, even though all five of them were garbage, he was the best one. Consequently, I believe our starters had the highest ERA among starting rotations in baseball. Now we have three guys I've not heard of and Duensing in the rotation (I think), and I feel a lot more comfortable with that. It's not just the pitching though. Our hitting, though explosive at times, is inconsistent at best. It's unfortunate, too, because when the five guys on the team who can actually hit (Denard Span, Joe Mauer, Josh Willingham, Justin Morneau, and Ryan Doumit) are hitting well, we score a lot of runs. When they're not, though, that means it's up to guys like Alexi Casilla, Jamey Carroll, and Erik Komatsu to get hits. They can't get hits. Mauer and Morneau, though still good-very good, are shells of their former selves. If they were the Mauer and Morneau from five or six years ago, this team would be drastically better.
The definition of heartbreaker when it comes to sports has got to be the Minnesota Vikings. I mean, not last year. Last year they were pitiful. It's not like we've never been good, though. It's not even like we haven't been good recently, because we have. Remember 2009? Yeah, the 12-4, Brett-Favre-led Minnesota Vikings won the NFC North division, and should've at least made the Super Bowl. Yeah, I'm going to complain about that NFC Championship game a bit. First, though, I will reminisce. I remember week 3, Favre's last second, desperation heave to the endzone, miraculously caught by none other than Greg Lewis. I remember sprinting to my dorm room from my Monday night class to watch Favre beat the Packers on Monday Night Football. I remember all the "experts" saying the Cowboys would beat us in the Divisional round of the playoffs, their only reason being that the Cowboys won their Wild Card game. I remember saying, numerous times, "I hope we beat the Cowboys by 30, just so everyone will realize how dumb they are." I remember the Vikings winning 34-3, and the Cowboys complaining that we ran up the score. That game couldn't have been more perfect for me. Then, yes, I remember the NFC Championship game against my new-least-favorite team - the New Orleans Saints. The game in which Saints linebacker, Jonathan Vilma, offered $10,000 to whichever player knocked Favre out of the game. A sense of vindication came over me when the Saints' bounty system was discovered; I, along with many other Vikings fans, knew that the Saints players were playing dirty. Non-Vikings fans called us sore losers. What really bothers me, though, is that the referees just let that happen. They're just as pathetic as the Saints players.
That's not all with the heartbreak of the Vikings, though. Remember 1998? The '98 Vikings are the second best team to never win a Super Bowl, behind only the Patriots team that went 16-0 in the regular season. In '98, the Vikings went 15-1. Our kicker, Gary Andersen, didn't miss a single kick the whole year. That's unheard of! 100% accuracy on field goals for the whole year. Granted, we scored a ton of touchdowns, so Andersen didn't need to kick a lot of field goals. However, in the NFC Championship game that year, he not only kicked field goals, he missed field goals. We ended up losing in overtime, and seven-year-old Joe Russell cried.
Currently, the Vikings are not very good. We do, however, have the best running back in the league (Adrian Peterson) and the best defensive end in the league (Jared Allen). Christian Ponder, now that he has a decent left tackle in Matt Kalil, should improve drastically this year. An awful defensive secondary was improved (though only slightly) with the drafting of safety Harrison Smith and cornerback Josh Robinson. For some reason, no matter how bad the Vikings were the year before, I am always optimistic about the upcoming season at this time during the year. Knowing how horrible we were last year, looking at this year's schedule, I think six or seven wins is realistic. That's still not very good, but it's at least twice as good as last year.
(I know next to nothing about hockey, so I'm just going to assume the Wild will be bad again next year)
The thing about Minnesota sports teams is that we're not always bad, we're just never the best. I feel like if you want emotional balance in your life, you need to be a Minnesota sports fan. That sounds kind of crazy, given that it's pretty depressing here, sports-wise, but hear me out. You have to be optimistic to be a Minnesota sports fan. If you're pessimistic, the frustration, depression, and heart break will be too much, and you'll abandon ship. However, Minnesota sports turns anyone into a pessimist because Murphy's Law (what can go wrong will go wrong) is in full effect for every single sporting event. Actually, I guess it could go either way: you'll either find emotional balance, or you'll become a schizophrenic. Heh, well, good luck with that.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Oh, Canada
Whenever I travel to a different country (which is only like thrice, maybe four times), I try to not live to the stereotypes of being American - lazy, stupid, entitled, etc. I've done a pretty good job of that, I think, except for one time. About six or seven years ago, I went to Edmonton (that's in Canada) with my cousins, the Jackson family. They have a pretty large family, so we traveled in a really big van. I mean really big. We had a generator and a TV in there. My second cousin (that's his relation to me, he's not my second cousin, like the second one to exist or whatever), Billy, and I played Xbox for almost the whole drive.
When we got to Edmonton, we went to the West Edmonton Mall. I'm not sure if there is an East Edmonton Mall, but if there is, there shouldn't be because the West Edmonton Mall is the largest mall in North America. Since most of you aren't Canadian, very few of you have probably ever heard of the WEM (that's what I like to call it) and thought the Mall of America was the biggest mall in North America. Ha. Silly Americans.
The WEM has a hotel in it, and this is the hotel in which we stayed. Billy, his brother, Elijah, their cousin Joshua, and I shared a suite. Billy and I decided we should hook up the Xbox to the TV in our suite. Unfortunately, the audio and video ports on the TV were blocked. No problem - we'll just get the TV from the van, we thought. We went out to the parking lot and found the van. Unbeknownst to us, there had been a recent spree of crime in the area, and more cops were on patrol than normal. Billy was in the van unplugging the TV when a couple of cops pulled up in their car. I'm sure it looked pretty fishy - one teenager in a van and another teenager keeping watch. The cops called me over. "Oh, man. This probably looks a bit sketchy. Oh well - I'll clear things up," I thought. Unfortunately, I hadn't yet mastered the English language. Or problem solving.
"What are you guys doing?" asked one cop.
"Oh, we're just taking the TV out of the van," I responded. As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted saying them. I became flustered, which didn't make the situation any better.
"Uh-huh... I see. Is this your van?"
"No. Well it's not my van, it's his van," I said, motioning to Billy, who was still inside the van. "Well, it's not his van, it's his dad's van." I felt like telling the truth was the most important thing for me to do, regardless of the sketchiness used to tell it.
"Uh... right. Do you have any form of ID on you?"
"Um, I have a debit card...? Does that count?" I was only 14, I think. I didn't have my driver's permit, and I certainly didn't have my driver's license.
"Yeah, sure, let's see that." I handed the cop my debit card. I have no idea what purpose that could've served. I peeked at what they were writing, and it was just my name. "Alright, Joe, have a nice day," the one cop said, and they just drove off.
I poked my head in the van to see how close Billy was to having the TV unplugged from everything. He looked up and asked, "Hey, who were you talking to?"
When we got to Edmonton, we went to the West Edmonton Mall. I'm not sure if there is an East Edmonton Mall, but if there is, there shouldn't be because the West Edmonton Mall is the largest mall in North America. Since most of you aren't Canadian, very few of you have probably ever heard of the WEM (that's what I like to call it) and thought the Mall of America was the biggest mall in North America. Ha. Silly Americans.
The WEM has a hotel in it, and this is the hotel in which we stayed. Billy, his brother, Elijah, their cousin Joshua, and I shared a suite. Billy and I decided we should hook up the Xbox to the TV in our suite. Unfortunately, the audio and video ports on the TV were blocked. No problem - we'll just get the TV from the van, we thought. We went out to the parking lot and found the van. Unbeknownst to us, there had been a recent spree of crime in the area, and more cops were on patrol than normal. Billy was in the van unplugging the TV when a couple of cops pulled up in their car. I'm sure it looked pretty fishy - one teenager in a van and another teenager keeping watch. The cops called me over. "Oh, man. This probably looks a bit sketchy. Oh well - I'll clear things up," I thought. Unfortunately, I hadn't yet mastered the English language. Or problem solving.
"What are you guys doing?" asked one cop.
"Oh, we're just taking the TV out of the van," I responded. As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted saying them. I became flustered, which didn't make the situation any better.
"Uh-huh... I see. Is this your van?"
"No. Well it's not my van, it's his van," I said, motioning to Billy, who was still inside the van. "Well, it's not his van, it's his dad's van." I felt like telling the truth was the most important thing for me to do, regardless of the sketchiness used to tell it.
"Uh... right. Do you have any form of ID on you?"
"Um, I have a debit card...? Does that count?" I was only 14, I think. I didn't have my driver's permit, and I certainly didn't have my driver's license.
"Yeah, sure, let's see that." I handed the cop my debit card. I have no idea what purpose that could've served. I peeked at what they were writing, and it was just my name. "Alright, Joe, have a nice day," the one cop said, and they just drove off.
I poked my head in the van to see how close Billy was to having the TV unplugged from everything. He looked up and asked, "Hey, who were you talking to?"
Saturday, May 12, 2012
The Doctor's Office
The other day I had a doctor appointment. Not a big deal, right? Well, it was my first trip to the doctor's office in five years. Oh, still not a big deal? I'm going to write about it, anyway - deal with it.
One day a few weeks ago, I was shirtless in my house. My step-mom pointed to a birth mark on my back. "What's that?"
"Oh, that's just a birth mark."
"No, it looks like you got smacked or something."
"I know, but it's just a birth mark. I don't know what this is though," I said, pointing to a mole-looking bump on my side.
"You should get that checked out. An irregular mole? Yeah, you should get that checked out."
Fast forward to last week. I still hadn't made a doctor's appointment. This time my dad weighed in, too. He said I should get a physical since I hadn't had one since my sophomore year of high school, which was actually the last time I went to the doctor. He also suggested that I should get my cholesterol checked - he's pretty concerned about cholesterol and blood pressure and stuff since he had his heart attack last year. Incidentally, my doctor appointment was on the one year anniversary of my dad's heart attack. Yeah. So, there's that.
I arrived at the doctor's office and I was a little nervous because I had to talk to the receptionist lady. I had never done that before and I was afraid I may make a mistake in giving information. That's not an irrational fear for me, because I don't know my mom's address, and I don't know my dad's home phone number. Anticipating the phone number question, I opened my phone and went to "Dad Home" in my contacts. When the question was asked, I discretely read the number. Works every time.
I waited for a few minutes in the waiting room, as is customary, before a nurse called my name. She took me back to a room and I filled out a little questionnaire thing. Revealing that I had asthma gave me another questionnaire to fill out. After those were completed, the nurse left and said she'd tell the doctor I was ready.
The doctor came in and asked why I was there. "Why am I here?" I thought. "I feel like you should know why I'm here. I feel like the receptionist with whom I scheduled this appointment would tell you why I'm here. What kind of doctor's office is this? Where did you get your degree?" Instead of saying that, though, I smiled and said "Well, I'm here for a physical and I want to get a mole checked and my dad wants me to get my cholesterol checked, too."
"A physical, eh? Is this for sports, or..."
"No, just because I haven't been to the doctor in a long time."
"Huh. After the sports physical in high school, we usually don't see you until you're in your 40's having trouble breathing."
He wanted to start with the mole, since that would be the quickest. I lifted up my shirt and showed him. He leaned in really close, then took off his glasses. I was under the impression that glasses help people see, but I didn't say anything. He is a doctor, after all. Then he leaned back and said, "Hmmm. Yup, it's a fwibedibedoo..." He didn't actually say "fwibedibedoo," but it was some scientific name that I can't remember. That's all he said, though. So after a few silent seconds I asked, "Umm, what's that mean?"
"Oh, it's just a mass of nerves and scar tissue. You can have it removed if you want, but it won't do any harm to leave it." Huh, well, that's that, I suppose.
Then the physical started. He asked me what sort of health issues ran in my family. What? I have no idea. I'm no family historian. I don't even know if that's a thing. Look, doc, I don't ask my parents, "Hey, do you remember great-grandma? What sort of health problems did she have?" Also, apparently, if it's only happened once in your family, that counts as "running in the family." I answered the question with, "Uhh...I don't know. I mean, my dad had a heart attack last year, but - "
"A heart attack? Well, let's give him credit for that!" and he typed that into his computer. Okay, now, apparently, heart attacks run in my family.
We went through the rest of the physical, and the doctor never actually said I was healthy, but he didn't say I was unhealthy, either, so I guess no news is good news. He then took me to a separate waiting room and said someone would come by shortly and test my cholesterol. Sure enough, a few minutes later, another nurse came and took me back to a room.
As I turned the corner to the room and took in my environment, I thought, "Huh, this looks like a place where blood is drawn..." I'd never had my cholesterol tested before, and for some reason I thought it would be like a blood pressure thing where they just strap something on your arm and voila - done. I'm not afraid of needles or anything, but I do need a minute to mentally prepare. I mean, it's a needle being jabbed into my vein, sucking precious blood from my body. The thought makes me cringe. Unfortunately, I didn't have that minute. It was just, "You can take a seat right here," dab iodine or whatever on my arm, "Look away. 1, 2, 3, poke!" and there was a needle in my vein, snatchin' my blood up. My arm hurt for the next day, which I don't think is normal. I haven't passed out, though, so there's that.
One day a few weeks ago, I was shirtless in my house. My step-mom pointed to a birth mark on my back. "What's that?"
"Oh, that's just a birth mark."
"No, it looks like you got smacked or something."
"I know, but it's just a birth mark. I don't know what this is though," I said, pointing to a mole-looking bump on my side.
"You should get that checked out. An irregular mole? Yeah, you should get that checked out."
Fast forward to last week. I still hadn't made a doctor's appointment. This time my dad weighed in, too. He said I should get a physical since I hadn't had one since my sophomore year of high school, which was actually the last time I went to the doctor. He also suggested that I should get my cholesterol checked - he's pretty concerned about cholesterol and blood pressure and stuff since he had his heart attack last year. Incidentally, my doctor appointment was on the one year anniversary of my dad's heart attack. Yeah. So, there's that.
I arrived at the doctor's office and I was a little nervous because I had to talk to the receptionist lady. I had never done that before and I was afraid I may make a mistake in giving information. That's not an irrational fear for me, because I don't know my mom's address, and I don't know my dad's home phone number. Anticipating the phone number question, I opened my phone and went to "Dad Home" in my contacts. When the question was asked, I discretely read the number. Works every time.
I waited for a few minutes in the waiting room, as is customary, before a nurse called my name. She took me back to a room and I filled out a little questionnaire thing. Revealing that I had asthma gave me another questionnaire to fill out. After those were completed, the nurse left and said she'd tell the doctor I was ready.
The doctor came in and asked why I was there. "Why am I here?" I thought. "I feel like you should know why I'm here. I feel like the receptionist with whom I scheduled this appointment would tell you why I'm here. What kind of doctor's office is this? Where did you get your degree?" Instead of saying that, though, I smiled and said "Well, I'm here for a physical and I want to get a mole checked and my dad wants me to get my cholesterol checked, too."
"A physical, eh? Is this for sports, or..."
"No, just because I haven't been to the doctor in a long time."
"Huh. After the sports physical in high school, we usually don't see you until you're in your 40's having trouble breathing."
He wanted to start with the mole, since that would be the quickest. I lifted up my shirt and showed him. He leaned in really close, then took off his glasses. I was under the impression that glasses help people see, but I didn't say anything. He is a doctor, after all. Then he leaned back and said, "Hmmm. Yup, it's a fwibedibedoo..." He didn't actually say "fwibedibedoo," but it was some scientific name that I can't remember. That's all he said, though. So after a few silent seconds I asked, "Umm, what's that mean?"
"Oh, it's just a mass of nerves and scar tissue. You can have it removed if you want, but it won't do any harm to leave it." Huh, well, that's that, I suppose.
Then the physical started. He asked me what sort of health issues ran in my family. What? I have no idea. I'm no family historian. I don't even know if that's a thing. Look, doc, I don't ask my parents, "Hey, do you remember great-grandma? What sort of health problems did she have?" Also, apparently, if it's only happened once in your family, that counts as "running in the family." I answered the question with, "Uhh...I don't know. I mean, my dad had a heart attack last year, but - "
"A heart attack? Well, let's give him credit for that!" and he typed that into his computer. Okay, now, apparently, heart attacks run in my family.
We went through the rest of the physical, and the doctor never actually said I was healthy, but he didn't say I was unhealthy, either, so I guess no news is good news. He then took me to a separate waiting room and said someone would come by shortly and test my cholesterol. Sure enough, a few minutes later, another nurse came and took me back to a room.
As I turned the corner to the room and took in my environment, I thought, "Huh, this looks like a place where blood is drawn..." I'd never had my cholesterol tested before, and for some reason I thought it would be like a blood pressure thing where they just strap something on your arm and voila - done. I'm not afraid of needles or anything, but I do need a minute to mentally prepare. I mean, it's a needle being jabbed into my vein, sucking precious blood from my body. The thought makes me cringe. Unfortunately, I didn't have that minute. It was just, "You can take a seat right here," dab iodine or whatever on my arm, "Look away. 1, 2, 3, poke!" and there was a needle in my vein, snatchin' my blood up. My arm hurt for the next day, which I don't think is normal. I haven't passed out, though, so there's that.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
From Brookings, With Love, Part 2: Electric Boogaloo
When I left Brookings, the clouds were erupting with thunder and lightning. I was excited because I love thunderstorms. Driving in thunderstorms is a bad idea for me - not because driving conditions are poor, but because I love watching thunderstorms, and if I'm watching the thunderstorm I'm not watching the road. Every time lightning illuminated the sky, I took my eyes off of the road to watch.
It didn't start to rain until I was about a half hour out of Brookings. It was incredibly dark, and my headlights were almost no help in brightening the road. I would've switched on my high beams, but, of course, there was a car just far enough ahead of me where they weren't guiding me at all, but close enough where I couldn't use my brights.
By the time I got to Marshall - which is the halfway point between Brookings and home - it was raining hard. Much to my chagrin, I needed to get gas. At the first stop light in town, I merged into the left turn lane. Since my dresser was in the back seat, I couldn't see anything out of my rear-view mirror. As I was taking a sip from my Arnold Palmer (the beverage, not the old golfer after whom the beverage is named), I got rear ended, which not only caused my car to hit the car in front of me, it also caused my Arnie Palmie to fly out of my hand and onto the floor. To give you a sense of my priorities, the order of my subjects of concern went:
1. My Arnold Palmer
2. My iPod
3. My radio (I'm not sure why)
4. All of my stuff I was moving
5. My car
6. My body
7. The other people and their cars
Turns out, everything was fine. My license plate was bent a little bit, but that was the only damage done to any of the three cars. My Arnold Palmer, however, was half spilled on the floor of my car. It's probably a good thing that happened, though (foreshadowing is fun!).
After Marshall, I had the road to myself. That makes a ton of sense, actually, because who would be driving at 10:00pm in a roughly-180-mile-long severe thunderstorm? It was still incredibly dark outside (it's weird that it didn't get brighter as the night got later, right?) so my headlights did nothing. Unfortunately, it was raining so hard that my brights were even worse. Well, they were worse for visibility reasons, but in the entertainment area, they were a lot better - it looked like I had put my car into hyper drive! Very cool, but very unhelpful, also. I decided to keep my brights off.
After Granite Falls, which is the town after Marshall, I had to pee. Like, I really had to pee. I decided that I'd stop at the next gas station. Unfortunately, the next town was an hour away. By the time I made it to Spicer, the next town, I was strongly considering just peeing my pants. To my horror, nothing in Spicer was open. I wasn't really surprised. I mean, there are like six places in Spicer, and it was after 11:00pm. Normally, in a situation like this one, I'd just pull over and pee in a ditch or something. However, the torrential downpour was still in full effect, and was a great deterrent for that plan. After about ten more minutes of driving, my eyes started to tear up, except I was certain that the tears were made out of urine. I was excited for a little bit because I thought if I cried enough, that would empty my bladder. That didn't work. I accepted the fact that I was going to die. Police would come examine my totaled car, and the autopsy would reveal that my bladder had exploded, and if that wasn't enough to kill me, the fact that my lungs filled with urine certainly was. Eventually, I decided getting a little wet was better than getting a little dead, so I pulled over on the side of the road. Any time you pull over to the side of the road to pee, you hope it's gonna go by really quick. Unfortunately, if you get to the point where you have to pull over just to go to the bathroom, it's not gonna be a twenty second pee-session. The fact that I was braving a monsoon made me want this little pit stop to go as quickly as possible. It just so happened that I had pulled over behind a hill. After having the road to myself for over an hour and a half, not one, not two, not three, but four cars drove over the hill. I have a little bit of dignity, so I wasn't about to relieve myself in front of an audience. Unfortunately, more cars kept coming, spacing themselves so perfectly that as soon as I thought I was in the clear, another pair of headlights would appear. Eventually, I didn't care anymore, so I just let 'er go. I'm not crude enough to tell you how long it took, but I will tell you that three more cars drove by me before I was done. Taking solace in the fact that I would never see these people and the fact that I could actually function now that my bladder was empty, I hopped in my car and drove the last half hour to my home in Cold Spring.
I got home at midnight, and the first thing I did was turn on House Hunters on Home & Gardening TV. Yup. After not having cable for the whole school year, the first thing I turn on when I get home is House Hunters. Don't judge me.
It didn't start to rain until I was about a half hour out of Brookings. It was incredibly dark, and my headlights were almost no help in brightening the road. I would've switched on my high beams, but, of course, there was a car just far enough ahead of me where they weren't guiding me at all, but close enough where I couldn't use my brights.
By the time I got to Marshall - which is the halfway point between Brookings and home - it was raining hard. Much to my chagrin, I needed to get gas. At the first stop light in town, I merged into the left turn lane. Since my dresser was in the back seat, I couldn't see anything out of my rear-view mirror. As I was taking a sip from my Arnold Palmer (the beverage, not the old golfer after whom the beverage is named), I got rear ended, which not only caused my car to hit the car in front of me, it also caused my Arnie Palmie to fly out of my hand and onto the floor. To give you a sense of my priorities, the order of my subjects of concern went:
1. My Arnold Palmer
2. My iPod
3. My radio (I'm not sure why)
4. All of my stuff I was moving
5. My car
6. My body
7. The other people and their cars
Turns out, everything was fine. My license plate was bent a little bit, but that was the only damage done to any of the three cars. My Arnold Palmer, however, was half spilled on the floor of my car. It's probably a good thing that happened, though (foreshadowing is fun!).
After Marshall, I had the road to myself. That makes a ton of sense, actually, because who would be driving at 10:00pm in a roughly-180-mile-long severe thunderstorm? It was still incredibly dark outside (it's weird that it didn't get brighter as the night got later, right?) so my headlights did nothing. Unfortunately, it was raining so hard that my brights were even worse. Well, they were worse for visibility reasons, but in the entertainment area, they were a lot better - it looked like I had put my car into hyper drive! Very cool, but very unhelpful, also. I decided to keep my brights off.
After Granite Falls, which is the town after Marshall, I had to pee. Like, I really had to pee. I decided that I'd stop at the next gas station. Unfortunately, the next town was an hour away. By the time I made it to Spicer, the next town, I was strongly considering just peeing my pants. To my horror, nothing in Spicer was open. I wasn't really surprised. I mean, there are like six places in Spicer, and it was after 11:00pm. Normally, in a situation like this one, I'd just pull over and pee in a ditch or something. However, the torrential downpour was still in full effect, and was a great deterrent for that plan. After about ten more minutes of driving, my eyes started to tear up, except I was certain that the tears were made out of urine. I was excited for a little bit because I thought if I cried enough, that would empty my bladder. That didn't work. I accepted the fact that I was going to die. Police would come examine my totaled car, and the autopsy would reveal that my bladder had exploded, and if that wasn't enough to kill me, the fact that my lungs filled with urine certainly was. Eventually, I decided getting a little wet was better than getting a little dead, so I pulled over on the side of the road. Any time you pull over to the side of the road to pee, you hope it's gonna go by really quick. Unfortunately, if you get to the point where you have to pull over just to go to the bathroom, it's not gonna be a twenty second pee-session. The fact that I was braving a monsoon made me want this little pit stop to go as quickly as possible. It just so happened that I had pulled over behind a hill. After having the road to myself for over an hour and a half, not one, not two, not three, but four cars drove over the hill. I have a little bit of dignity, so I wasn't about to relieve myself in front of an audience. Unfortunately, more cars kept coming, spacing themselves so perfectly that as soon as I thought I was in the clear, another pair of headlights would appear. Eventually, I didn't care anymore, so I just let 'er go. I'm not crude enough to tell you how long it took, but I will tell you that three more cars drove by me before I was done. Taking solace in the fact that I would never see these people and the fact that I could actually function now that my bladder was empty, I hopped in my car and drove the last half hour to my home in Cold Spring.
I got home at midnight, and the first thing I did was turn on House Hunters on Home & Gardening TV. Yup. After not having cable for the whole school year, the first thing I turn on when I get home is House Hunters. Don't judge me.
From Brookings, With Love
On Thursday of this past week, I finished my final exams for the last semester of my junior* year. I was pretty excited, but instantly faced with a daunting task. My dad wasn't driving out to Brookings with the van or truck to get my stuff and there was no way all of the stuff would fit into my car. Consequently, I rented a storage unit. The daunting task, then, was that I had to move all of my stuff, mostly by myself. My plan was to move it all on Friday and, depending on when that got done, go home either Friday evening or Saturday morning. Unfortunately, it rained all day Friday, so I couldn't move anything. The new plan was the same as the old one, but moved up one day. I woke up Saturday morning and noticed it was raining again. Early in the afternoon, it stopped, and I began moving some things to my storage unit. I had a few things with which I needed help, though, like my desk, my fridge, and my bed. "The desk and fridge will fit in my car," I said, audibly, to myself, because no one else was home. "I need Krsnak's Suburban for my bed, though." Mike Krsnak was one of my roommates. I waited until 6:00 for Krs to get home from work. We loaded my bed into his Suburban and then carried my desk out to my car. "Are you sure this'll fit in your car?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah - it'll fit." I was pretty confident because I had measured my back seat and the desk, and it worked out. Unfortunately, I'm no architect. I tried my best to force that desk into my back seat, but the desk was having none of that. We left the desk out, grabbed my fridge and packed it in my back seat, and drove over to the storage unit. While unloading my bed and fridge, I noticed that the sky began to look ominous again. I got a little nervous because I remembered we left my desk outside. We got back to the house, loaded the desk into Krsnak's Suburban, and drove back to the unit without a single drop of rain falling.
When I got back to the house, it was time to pack up all of my belongings that I was taking home with me. For some reason, my dad wanted me to bring my dresser home instead of just bringing all of my clothes home. I had kept all of my clothes in a giant duffel bag last year, and that worked out just fine. I took out all of the drawers and carried the dresser out to my car. I had measured my dresser, too, and decided it would fit into my back seat. Like the desk, though, the dresser had other plans, and they did not involve the back seat of my car in any way. A bit distraught, I thought I'd try to fit the dresser in the trunk of my car. No dice, but I thought I could close the trunk enough where a bungee cord would do the job. At that moment, my other roommate, Ryan Ackman, drove up and looked skeptically at the dresser in my trunk. I told him it wouldn't fit in the back seat, but he didn't accept that. He eventually got the dresser into the back seat, and as soon as he did, the thunder and lightning started. I spent the next twenty minutes sprinting in and out of my house, trying to move the rest of my stuff into my car and have a farewell conversation with Ackman simultaneously before it started to rain. I'm still impressed with myself that I managed to fit everything into my car. Before I left, Krsnak said that we were in a tornado warning. "Ha, maybe you are, but I'm leaving. No tornadoes or thunderstorms for me," I thought.
*Though this year was my third at college, I'm hesitant to call it my "junior" year, because I'm not graduating after next year. As far as graduation is concerned, this year was my freshman year.
"Oh, yeah - it'll fit." I was pretty confident because I had measured my back seat and the desk, and it worked out. Unfortunately, I'm no architect. I tried my best to force that desk into my back seat, but the desk was having none of that. We left the desk out, grabbed my fridge and packed it in my back seat, and drove over to the storage unit. While unloading my bed and fridge, I noticed that the sky began to look ominous again. I got a little nervous because I remembered we left my desk outside. We got back to the house, loaded the desk into Krsnak's Suburban, and drove back to the unit without a single drop of rain falling.
When I got back to the house, it was time to pack up all of my belongings that I was taking home with me. For some reason, my dad wanted me to bring my dresser home instead of just bringing all of my clothes home. I had kept all of my clothes in a giant duffel bag last year, and that worked out just fine. I took out all of the drawers and carried the dresser out to my car. I had measured my dresser, too, and decided it would fit into my back seat. Like the desk, though, the dresser had other plans, and they did not involve the back seat of my car in any way. A bit distraught, I thought I'd try to fit the dresser in the trunk of my car. No dice, but I thought I could close the trunk enough where a bungee cord would do the job. At that moment, my other roommate, Ryan Ackman, drove up and looked skeptically at the dresser in my trunk. I told him it wouldn't fit in the back seat, but he didn't accept that. He eventually got the dresser into the back seat, and as soon as he did, the thunder and lightning started. I spent the next twenty minutes sprinting in and out of my house, trying to move the rest of my stuff into my car and have a farewell conversation with Ackman simultaneously before it started to rain. I'm still impressed with myself that I managed to fit everything into my car. Before I left, Krsnak said that we were in a tornado warning. "Ha, maybe you are, but I'm leaving. No tornadoes or thunderstorms for me," I thought.
*Though this year was my third at college, I'm hesitant to call it my "junior" year, because I'm not graduating after next year. As far as graduation is concerned, this year was my freshman year.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Internet Weather
First of all, I just want to say that by "Internet Weather," I mean checking the weather via the internet. I don't mean the weather conditions of the internet - that'd be ridiculous. Mostly because there is no such thing. If there was such a thing as internet weather, though, nobody would have to check it because the forecast would probably be the same everyday - mostly sketchy with a high chance of identity theft.
When I wake up on the mornings of days in which I have class, I go through the same routine, which starts out with waking up and opening my laptop. I open up three tabs: Facebook, Twitter, and a Google tab. Facebook is my home page, that's why I open that one. Then I figure, "Well, I already have Facebook open...might as well check out what's happening on Twitter," (I felt like I had to justify opening those two tabs right away). In the Google tab I search "weather brookings sd," so I can dress accordingly. There is a slight problem with this strategy, though, and that is that the internet weather is almost always wrong. It's right just often enough where I go by what it says, just in case. Most mornings it'll say it's about 45° with a high of around 57° or something. "Huh, that's pretty chilly. I should wear a sweatshirt. Even when it gets to 57°, I won't be too hot." I pick out my daily attire, shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and head out the door. As soon as I step outside I think, "Wow, 45° is a lot warmer than I remember." After walking two blocks, I quickly realize that it is not 45° like the internet said - it's probably a lot closer to 65°.
There are some days, though, when I don't believe the internet weather at all. There are some days in which the internet says it is 38° and rainy. "Rainy, huh? How rainy is it?" I think. Then I open my curtains to see that it's actually quite sunny with very few clouds. "Well, you're 0 for 1 so far, internet," I sometimes-audibly state. Then I decide it's probably 60° and not 38°. These days fluster me a little bit because, then, I have to decide for myself what I will wear. It's a real gamble.
Just last week, I came up with a fantastic new strategy for weather checking. Now, after I wake up, I step outside. You know, where the weather is. Amazingly, this strategy works a lot more effectively. Go figure, eh?
When I wake up on the mornings of days in which I have class, I go through the same routine, which starts out with waking up and opening my laptop. I open up three tabs: Facebook, Twitter, and a Google tab. Facebook is my home page, that's why I open that one. Then I figure, "Well, I already have Facebook open...might as well check out what's happening on Twitter," (I felt like I had to justify opening those two tabs right away). In the Google tab I search "weather brookings sd," so I can dress accordingly. There is a slight problem with this strategy, though, and that is that the internet weather is almost always wrong. It's right just often enough where I go by what it says, just in case. Most mornings it'll say it's about 45° with a high of around 57° or something. "Huh, that's pretty chilly. I should wear a sweatshirt. Even when it gets to 57°, I won't be too hot." I pick out my daily attire, shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and head out the door. As soon as I step outside I think, "Wow, 45° is a lot warmer than I remember." After walking two blocks, I quickly realize that it is not 45° like the internet said - it's probably a lot closer to 65°.
There are some days, though, when I don't believe the internet weather at all. There are some days in which the internet says it is 38° and rainy. "Rainy, huh? How rainy is it?" I think. Then I open my curtains to see that it's actually quite sunny with very few clouds. "Well, you're 0 for 1 so far, internet," I sometimes-audibly state. Then I decide it's probably 60° and not 38°. These days fluster me a little bit because, then, I have to decide for myself what I will wear. It's a real gamble.
Just last week, I came up with a fantastic new strategy for weather checking. Now, after I wake up, I step outside. You know, where the weather is. Amazingly, this strategy works a lot more effectively. Go figure, eh?
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
That Awkward Moment (The Anatomy Of "How Are You?")
I'm a fairly awkward person. Not in the way you're thinking, though, probably. You're probably thinking that I make situations awkward. While that is very much true, that's not why I consider myself awkward. Well, that's not the only reason why I consider myself awkward. For some reason, I seem to always find myself in awkward situations. I've decided that could be attributed to coincidence only so much, leaving me to believe that it happens because I'm awkward. It also happens because I over think just about everything, and there are certain things that seem completely harmless until you over think them.
The best example of this happening is when someone asks me how I'm doing, or how I am. I over think it every time. If you've ever talked to me and asked, "How are you?" odds are high that I replied with either, "Pretty good," or, "Not too bad." Those are my standard responses. Sometimes, if things aren't that great, I'll answer with a, "Not too bad." The emphasis on "too" reveals that I'm not spectacular. That's only on very special occasions - when I really feel like venting.
"Joe, how could you possibly over think the question, 'How are you?'" you may or may not be thinking. Well, you see, if I say, "Not so great," or, "Bad," I feel like whoever asked was just being polite; they don't really care how I feel. Or, they don't care enough to listen to me complain about it. If I say, "Bad," I think they think, "Oh, great. Here's Joe with another problem," which is weird, because I don't have that many problems. Heh, okay, I have "problems," but I don't have problems. You know.
On the flip side, if I reply to, "How are you?" with something like, "Fantastic!" or "Terrific!" I feel like the person will think I'm bragging. Especially if they answered that question first with a, "I'm alright," or whatever. Like, I think they'd interpret my answer as if I'd said, "Oh, you're just fine? Well sucks to be you, doesn't it?! I'm phenomenal. Everything in my life is perfect and way better than yours." Consequently, I'll gently lead into whatever it is that is making me so great. The person will ask, "How are you?" and I'll say, "Oh, I'm pretty good. Hey, guess what! I found a jillion dollar bill in my sock this morning! It was the craziest thing! I haven't even worn that sock in 12 years!" That doesn't seem like very good logic, though, because my way seems more braggish.
I think I'll just stop thinking about it and answer the question truthfully from now on:
"How are you?"
"Awkward..."
The best example of this happening is when someone asks me how I'm doing, or how I am. I over think it every time. If you've ever talked to me and asked, "How are you?" odds are high that I replied with either, "Pretty good," or, "Not too bad." Those are my standard responses. Sometimes, if things aren't that great, I'll answer with a, "Not too bad." The emphasis on "too" reveals that I'm not spectacular. That's only on very special occasions - when I really feel like venting.
"Joe, how could you possibly over think the question, 'How are you?'" you may or may not be thinking. Well, you see, if I say, "Not so great," or, "Bad," I feel like whoever asked was just being polite; they don't really care how I feel. Or, they don't care enough to listen to me complain about it. If I say, "Bad," I think they think, "Oh, great. Here's Joe with another problem," which is weird, because I don't have that many problems. Heh, okay, I have "problems," but I don't have problems. You know.
On the flip side, if I reply to, "How are you?" with something like, "Fantastic!" or "Terrific!" I feel like the person will think I'm bragging. Especially if they answered that question first with a, "I'm alright," or whatever. Like, I think they'd interpret my answer as if I'd said, "Oh, you're just fine? Well sucks to be you, doesn't it?! I'm phenomenal. Everything in my life is perfect and way better than yours." Consequently, I'll gently lead into whatever it is that is making me so great. The person will ask, "How are you?" and I'll say, "Oh, I'm pretty good. Hey, guess what! I found a jillion dollar bill in my sock this morning! It was the craziest thing! I haven't even worn that sock in 12 years!" That doesn't seem like very good logic, though, because my way seems more braggish.
I think I'll just stop thinking about it and answer the question truthfully from now on:
"How are you?"
"Awkward..."
Monday, April 23, 2012
Elementary Retreat At GLBC
This last weekend, I helped out with an elementary retreat at Green Lake Bible Camp. I was really excited, because I've been yearning for camp since September. However, I had no idea what the retreat actually was. Early last week, Danielle, one of my friends who is on the summer staff for camp, told me I should help out, because they needed help and I'd be good at it. I agreed. Throughout the week, I found out a little bit more about the retreat, such as when I have to be there, that they needed a guitar player and more people to help, and that's actually all I found out. It dawned on me that I might have to be the guitar player. That was a little unnerving because my confidence level regarding my guitar proficiency is at or near zero. To ensure that I could not be the guitar player, I "forgot" to bring my guitar. However, when we were going over the schedule and creating the song list for the weekend, Linnae, the program director, asked who could play guitar. "You can, can't you?" I asked her. She said she could fake it. I'm not entirely sure what that means in regards to playing guitar. Anyway, she agreed to be the guitar player, I guess, but when she looked at the chords for one of the songs, she became flustered. "An E-slide? What's that?"
"E-slide? That's easy. You just play an E higher up on the neck," I answered. As soon as those words left my mouth, I immediately regretted it. Everyone turned their heads towards me, and I realized that I had just been named the guitar player. Since I didn't bring mine, we had to find a guitar. We found one (it was pretty nice, actually - nicer than mine, anyway) but we couldn't find a pick or a capo. A couple of the songs that we chose needed a capo, and didn't sound very good without one, so we sang those a cappella. It turns out that those songs sound horrible a cappella - lesson learned. Since we couldn't find a pick, I had to strum with my fingers. I'm horrible at strumming with my fingers. After the last song session, my fingers were bleeding.
As the kids were showing up, we would take them outside so they could play. They had some kickballs to play with, which is really all you need to entertain young children. "The only rule is that you do not kick or throw the balls towards the lake," I announced. Two minutes later, I was up to my thighs in lake water, retrieving a rogue ball. I wouldn't have had much of a problem with this, except that I could only roll my pants up to my knees.
That night, I couldn't sleep. My kids could sleep. That's actually why I couldn't sleep. One of my kids was snoring extremely loudly. That kept me up. Like any teenager, I started to text people, telling them I couldn't slip. Then I remembered I'm not actually a teenager, but I was too tired to feel shame. Eventually, the kid stopped snoring, and I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. That is, until about half an hour later, when I woke to the sound of a crying child. I went over to where it was coming from and found one of my kids on the floor. "What happened?" I asked.
"I fell out of my bed," he sniffled. This boy had been on the top bunk.
"What?! Are you okay?!" He didn't answer - he just cried. "Can you come out to the hallway with me?" I asked.
He tried to stand up, but couldn't. "No," he replied. Oh. He can't get up. That's not good at all. At this point I was thinking that he broke something. It was 1:00 in the morning, so the nurse wasn't there. I was on the verge of panicking. Then I thought he'd have been crying louder had he actually broken something. Remembering that one has to risk it to get the biscuit, I said, "I need you to come out into the hallway with me. I'll carry you if you can't walk." He stood right up and followed me into the hallway. "How long were you laying there?" I asked.
"A long time." Well, that wasn't true, because I had only fallen asleep a half hour ago.
"Okay, you're holding your side - does anywhere else hurt?"
"No, just my side."
"Alright, do you want a drink of water?" I led him over to the water fountain and he took a drink. "Do you want to sit for a little bit, until you feel better?" I asked.
"Yeah." Not even a minute later, he stopped crying and said he felt better. I asked if he was sure and he said he was. I led him back to our room and moved his stuff to a bottom bunk. He got into bed, and I got back into mine, and he started to cry again. I waited about five minutes before I went over to his bed. "Are you sure you're feeling better?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, well, alright then. Goodnight." He kept crying for fifteen more minutes, and then fell asleep. So, at about 1:30, I finally fell asleep for the night. By 6:45, all of my kids were awake and talking to each other. Then, Isaac's cabin (Isaac was another counselor) burst into my room wielding pillows. It was a sneak attack, and my cabin had no chance. After they left, I gathered my kids and devised a counterattack. We stormed into Isaac's room, but they weren't there. "Okay, guys, hide. We'll wait for them to come back, and then ambush them!" A few minutes later, Isaac came back, but not his cabin. He told us that their room was too hot, and they moved into a different room. I was disappointed, because I was pretty proud of my ambush-counterattack strategy, but we stormed into the other room to satisfy my kids' longing for revenge. Isaac's cabin was quick to react, though, fending off our forces. I called for a retreat, and we fled back to our room, waking up the other cabin on our floor. I've decided that military strategist is not a career I should pursue.
Also, there were a few fantastic quotes by kids from the weekend. These two are the best. The first is taken way out of context, so don't judge me or my fellow counselors.
"Somebody please kill me!"
"Nobody step on my sweatshirt! My glasses are in there and they are doing some funky things."
"E-slide? That's easy. You just play an E higher up on the neck," I answered. As soon as those words left my mouth, I immediately regretted it. Everyone turned their heads towards me, and I realized that I had just been named the guitar player. Since I didn't bring mine, we had to find a guitar. We found one (it was pretty nice, actually - nicer than mine, anyway) but we couldn't find a pick or a capo. A couple of the songs that we chose needed a capo, and didn't sound very good without one, so we sang those a cappella. It turns out that those songs sound horrible a cappella - lesson learned. Since we couldn't find a pick, I had to strum with my fingers. I'm horrible at strumming with my fingers. After the last song session, my fingers were bleeding.
As the kids were showing up, we would take them outside so they could play. They had some kickballs to play with, which is really all you need to entertain young children. "The only rule is that you do not kick or throw the balls towards the lake," I announced. Two minutes later, I was up to my thighs in lake water, retrieving a rogue ball. I wouldn't have had much of a problem with this, except that I could only roll my pants up to my knees.
That night, I couldn't sleep. My kids could sleep. That's actually why I couldn't sleep. One of my kids was snoring extremely loudly. That kept me up. Like any teenager, I started to text people, telling them I couldn't slip. Then I remembered I'm not actually a teenager, but I was too tired to feel shame. Eventually, the kid stopped snoring, and I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. That is, until about half an hour later, when I woke to the sound of a crying child. I went over to where it was coming from and found one of my kids on the floor. "What happened?" I asked.
"I fell out of my bed," he sniffled. This boy had been on the top bunk.
"What?! Are you okay?!" He didn't answer - he just cried. "Can you come out to the hallway with me?" I asked.
He tried to stand up, but couldn't. "No," he replied. Oh. He can't get up. That's not good at all. At this point I was thinking that he broke something. It was 1:00 in the morning, so the nurse wasn't there. I was on the verge of panicking. Then I thought he'd have been crying louder had he actually broken something. Remembering that one has to risk it to get the biscuit, I said, "I need you to come out into the hallway with me. I'll carry you if you can't walk." He stood right up and followed me into the hallway. "How long were you laying there?" I asked.
"A long time." Well, that wasn't true, because I had only fallen asleep a half hour ago.
"Okay, you're holding your side - does anywhere else hurt?"
"No, just my side."
"Alright, do you want a drink of water?" I led him over to the water fountain and he took a drink. "Do you want to sit for a little bit, until you feel better?" I asked.
"Yeah." Not even a minute later, he stopped crying and said he felt better. I asked if he was sure and he said he was. I led him back to our room and moved his stuff to a bottom bunk. He got into bed, and I got back into mine, and he started to cry again. I waited about five minutes before I went over to his bed. "Are you sure you're feeling better?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, well, alright then. Goodnight." He kept crying for fifteen more minutes, and then fell asleep. So, at about 1:30, I finally fell asleep for the night. By 6:45, all of my kids were awake and talking to each other. Then, Isaac's cabin (Isaac was another counselor) burst into my room wielding pillows. It was a sneak attack, and my cabin had no chance. After they left, I gathered my kids and devised a counterattack. We stormed into Isaac's room, but they weren't there. "Okay, guys, hide. We'll wait for them to come back, and then ambush them!" A few minutes later, Isaac came back, but not his cabin. He told us that their room was too hot, and they moved into a different room. I was disappointed, because I was pretty proud of my ambush-counterattack strategy, but we stormed into the other room to satisfy my kids' longing for revenge. Isaac's cabin was quick to react, though, fending off our forces. I called for a retreat, and we fled back to our room, waking up the other cabin on our floor. I've decided that military strategist is not a career I should pursue.
Also, there were a few fantastic quotes by kids from the weekend. These two are the best. The first is taken way out of context, so don't judge me or my fellow counselors.
"Somebody please kill me!"
"Nobody step on my sweatshirt! My glasses are in there and they are doing some funky things."
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Emotionally Intense
I have a problem. Okay, I have a few problems. Okay, I have a plethora of problems, but I'm only going to write about one. For now, anyway. This problem I have that I'm writing about is that I get way too emotionally involved in forms of entertainment: movies, tv shows, books, I'm pretty sure I got pretty intense emotionally during a video game or two. Don't judge me.
There are two items that really stick out in my mind that had me emotionally entranced. The first was a few months ago when I was binge-watching How I Met Your Mother. A lot of times I would get saturated with emotion from watching that show, but I remember one time I got really mad at Barney (I'm not going to say the reason, in case some of you are watching and haven't gotten to this point yet. No spoilers from this guy!). I was literally yelling at my laptop, throwing soft objects in my room. I took a week long hiatus from watching the show. I just couldn't handle it. Another time - I can't really remember if this episode is before or after the Barney-throwing-me-into-a-frenzy episode - I cried. That's the first time I cried in three years, and it was because of a tv show. Remember before how I said no spoilers? Well, spoiler alert. It was the episode where Marshall's dad died. Marshall's my favie, and to see him in that situation, well, it broke my very-much-not-gay heart. I took another week long break from the show so I could recover.
The second item that triggered my emotions was The Hunger Games trilogy. I don't read many books, but when I do, I get into it. Just the other day I finished the third book, and that, itself, was enough to make me all sad. However, there were two instances where my emotional cup overflowed. Okay, I'm not that guy who's just going to flood this post with spoilers, so I'm not going to say what happened. Both instances were in the third book, though, I will say that. One made me really sad, and though I didn't have to fight back any tears, I did have to take a break for a few hours to regain my composure. The second instance just made me so flabbergasted, I couldn't think right about anything. Instead of reading on, like a normal person, I stopped and started pacing around my room trying to make sense of what had just happened. It was pretty intense - emotionally intense.
There are two items that really stick out in my mind that had me emotionally entranced. The first was a few months ago when I was binge-watching How I Met Your Mother. A lot of times I would get saturated with emotion from watching that show, but I remember one time I got really mad at Barney (I'm not going to say the reason, in case some of you are watching and haven't gotten to this point yet. No spoilers from this guy!). I was literally yelling at my laptop, throwing soft objects in my room. I took a week long hiatus from watching the show. I just couldn't handle it. Another time - I can't really remember if this episode is before or after the Barney-throwing-me-into-a-frenzy episode - I cried. That's the first time I cried in three years, and it was because of a tv show. Remember before how I said no spoilers? Well, spoiler alert. It was the episode where Marshall's dad died. Marshall's my favie, and to see him in that situation, well, it broke my very-much-not-gay heart. I took another week long break from the show so I could recover.
The second item that triggered my emotions was The Hunger Games trilogy. I don't read many books, but when I do, I get into it. Just the other day I finished the third book, and that, itself, was enough to make me all sad. However, there were two instances where my emotional cup overflowed. Okay, I'm not that guy who's just going to flood this post with spoilers, so I'm not going to say what happened. Both instances were in the third book, though, I will say that. One made me really sad, and though I didn't have to fight back any tears, I did have to take a break for a few hours to regain my composure. The second instance just made me so flabbergasted, I couldn't think right about anything. Instead of reading on, like a normal person, I stopped and started pacing around my room trying to make sense of what had just happened. It was pretty intense - emotionally intense.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Running Errands
I don't know of anyone that truly enjoys running errands. In that sense, I am a normal person. I hate running errands. The simple thought of going grocery shopping has kept me hungry for hours on some days. Just the phrase, "running errands" - can't I just walk errands? Or sleep errands? Maybe do nothing and have the errands just kind of take care of themselves? No, we have to run errands, which, in itself, suggests the whole process will be tiring and I'll just want to be dead afterwards. This whole week I'd been dreading the day when I would finally give in and go to the grocery store. During the week, I made the decision to go on Friday. I also decided that I needed a haircut. "I guess I'll do that on Friday, too! Then I'll just have to make one trip." That's some pretty good planning, yeah? Well, it seemed like a great idea at the time because I didn't have to do anything until Friday. But then Friday came, and my self-promise of running errands loomed over me from the moment I woke up. Everything I did (shower, eat, vegetate) yesterday had much less joy to it, because I knew I'd have to go do stuff. And not just any stuff - errand stuff, which is the worst kind of stuff. It was even hard to work up the motivation to shower. Once I showered, I knew I'd have no excuse to not go run my errands. So, I wasted a few hours procrastinating taking a shower. It was all downhill from there.
After my shower, I got dressed very slowly. Sadly, no matter how slowly one gets dressed, it's still only going to take about a minute. For some reason I anticipated that to take an hour or two...or twelve. After I finally got dressed, I went to the kitchen. Here, I was faced with quite the dillema - I wanted to take a lot of time making food, but I didn't want to make food that took a lot of time to make. I decided to eat leftovers. My laziness had lost this round. Or did it win? I'm not sure. After I washed my dishes, I let out a huge sigh because I knew it was time. I grabbed my keys and my wallet, put on my shoes, and left my house. Out of habit, I checked the mail. To my surprise there was something for me! And it was from the Minnesota State Tax Place Office...Thing! It was my state tax refund! I was pretty stoked. I came back in,opened it up, and decided I should probably go ahead and deposit that right away. It took me a few seconds to realize that meant adding another errand to my already-too-long-for-my-liking list. This upped the total to three errands I had to run. That disappointment quickly canceled out the excitement of receiving my refund. Well, that and the fact that my refund wasn't even $50. A little dejected, I went out the door again to complete my errands.
I ended up getting back to my house about half an hour later, which is pretty impressive for going to the bank, grocery shopping, and getting a haircut. You could say I sprinted my errands. You could say that, if you wanted to lose all of your friends.
After my shower, I got dressed very slowly. Sadly, no matter how slowly one gets dressed, it's still only going to take about a minute. For some reason I anticipated that to take an hour or two...or twelve. After I finally got dressed, I went to the kitchen. Here, I was faced with quite the dillema - I wanted to take a lot of time making food, but I didn't want to make food that took a lot of time to make. I decided to eat leftovers. My laziness had lost this round. Or did it win? I'm not sure. After I washed my dishes, I let out a huge sigh because I knew it was time. I grabbed my keys and my wallet, put on my shoes, and left my house. Out of habit, I checked the mail. To my surprise there was something for me! And it was from the Minnesota State Tax Place Office...Thing! It was my state tax refund! I was pretty stoked. I came back in,opened it up, and decided I should probably go ahead and deposit that right away. It took me a few seconds to realize that meant adding another errand to my already-too-long-for-my-liking list. This upped the total to three errands I had to run. That disappointment quickly canceled out the excitement of receiving my refund. Well, that and the fact that my refund wasn't even $50. A little dejected, I went out the door again to complete my errands.
I ended up getting back to my house about half an hour later, which is pretty impressive for going to the bank, grocery shopping, and getting a haircut. You could say I sprinted my errands. You could say that, if you wanted to lose all of your friends.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Yo No Estoy Aquí (Spanishly Illiterate)
"I am not here," - that is to what the title translates. I think. I don't really know - I'm not exactly fluent in Spanish. Regardless, that is to what I want the title to translate, so that's good enough. In Spanish class, I have one goal, and that is to not be noticed. However, the professor does a really good job of making sure he calls on everybody. It's unfortunate, because I hate participating in class. I hate participating in every class, not just Spanish, but I hate participating in Spanish the most, because I don't think I've ever been sure of myself when saying something in Spanish. Except "Me gusta baloncesto," which means "Basketball is pleasing to me," or "I like basketball," (It's literal translation is "Basketball is pleasing to me," but nobody who speaks English talks like that, so "I like Basketball" is how it is translated (I'm kind of making that up because, since this deals with Spanish, I'm very unsure)). Like I said, despite my best efforts to not be noticed, I still get called on to do things. Not just by the professor, either. My attempts at going unnoticed are twofold: don't be noticed by the professor, and don't be noticed by the rest of the class. However, I'm clearly failing, because just this week we were doing an activity where a student would have to act out a verb (verbs that I did not know, so I did not participate). The student who correctly identifies the verb "gets" to go act out the next one. "Gets" is in quotes because I don't think anyone was excited to go act out verbs. Anyway, one student correctly identified two verbs. After the second one, he got to choose who would go next. Guess who he chose. Yup. This guy. I didn't even know that kid knew my name. Clearly I need to try harder to be less noticed.
I know you may be thinking, "Participation is good, Joe - you get points and your professor will like you more," and if you weren't, now you are. Oh, really? Is it still a good idea to participate if you have no idea how to participate? I mean, I know how to participate, but I have no idea how I'm participating. You know what I mean? Like, say I went to go play basketball, and when I got the ball, I punted it - I was participating, but I did not get any points and no one else liked me more. That's kind of what it's like when I participate in Spanish. I get asked a question and then stare blankly and say, "Si...?" Sometimes I don't even do that. About 1/3 of the way through the question I'll just give up. I realize that there's no way the question is going to be any easier to comprehend so I stop trying, and when it's over I just say, "I don't really know what you said." Then I feel bad because the rest of the class translates for me. Maybe that's how that one kid knew who I was - I'm just the guy who has no business getting a B in Spanish 102. Which I totally am getting, by the way. That's kind of like an illiterate guy pulling a B in English. I am Spanishly illiterate.
I know you may be thinking, "Participation is good, Joe - you get points and your professor will like you more," and if you weren't, now you are. Oh, really? Is it still a good idea to participate if you have no idea how to participate? I mean, I know how to participate, but I have no idea how I'm participating. You know what I mean? Like, say I went to go play basketball, and when I got the ball, I punted it - I was participating, but I did not get any points and no one else liked me more. That's kind of what it's like when I participate in Spanish. I get asked a question and then stare blankly and say, "Si...?" Sometimes I don't even do that. About 1/3 of the way through the question I'll just give up. I realize that there's no way the question is going to be any easier to comprehend so I stop trying, and when it's over I just say, "I don't really know what you said." Then I feel bad because the rest of the class translates for me. Maybe that's how that one kid knew who I was - I'm just the guy who has no business getting a B in Spanish 102. Which I totally am getting, by the way. That's kind of like an illiterate guy pulling a B in English. I am Spanishly illiterate.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Cancelled Class
Today is Wednesday. That means I have Bio Lab today. I woke up, showered, got dressed, etc, and went to lab. There were only three people there. Lab wasn't cancelled, but it turns out that this week is lab review week! That's weird, because I remember when my lab instructor told me the schedule for the rest of the semester I thought, "Well that's stupid. Lab review should be during the week where we don't have classes on Monday because then the people who have lab on Monday wouldn't miss lab that week." Apparently, that's what the schedule actually is and now I'm the stupid one. Oh well. That's definitely not the first time I misinterpreted something.
When I left the lab, I realized that I had two hours of time I didn't think I'd have. I immediately began planning a ton of things for me to do. I always do this when a class gets cancelled (or I misinterpret the schedule and show up when there isn't any class). I never accomplish all of the things I say I will. I usually never accomplish more than two things, actually. Usually I waste all of my unexpected free time on the internet. It's not really a big deal, though, because the things I put on my list are very mundane, like drink choco milk, look to see if I have bread, brush my teeth again. You know, that kind of stuff. Today, my list was update my iPod, change my clothes because the internet weather lied to me and said it was only 36° when, actually, it's like 50°, put my clean laundry away, eat, charge my phone, write this. So far, this is the only thing I've accomplished, and, realistically, I'll probably only tackle the "eat" part of my list and call it quits.
When I left the lab, I realized that I had two hours of time I didn't think I'd have. I immediately began planning a ton of things for me to do. I always do this when a class gets cancelled (or I misinterpret the schedule and show up when there isn't any class). I never accomplish all of the things I say I will. I usually never accomplish more than two things, actually. Usually I waste all of my unexpected free time on the internet. It's not really a big deal, though, because the things I put on my list are very mundane, like drink choco milk, look to see if I have bread, brush my teeth again. You know, that kind of stuff. Today, my list was update my iPod, change my clothes because the internet weather lied to me and said it was only 36° when, actually, it's like 50°, put my clean laundry away, eat, charge my phone, write this. So far, this is the only thing I've accomplished, and, realistically, I'll probably only tackle the "eat" part of my list and call it quits.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Life Goals
I've come to the conclusion that I'm not a good adult yet. I know that some of you may not even classify me as an adult, but I do, and I'm not really good at being one. I feel like good adults have real life goals such as, but not limited to: getting a job that pays a certain amount of money each year, retiring at the age of 65, buying a house, buying a car, etc. I don't have any of those goals at this point in my life. However, I do have some life goals, and I'm willing to share them with you. My life goals, in no particular order, are:
1. Ride an ostrich
1. Ride an ostrich
I said these are in no particular order, but this one is definitely first on the priority list. I don't know what gave me the idea to have this as a goal, but it has been since my freshman year of college, making it the oldest life goal I have. Just the other night I had a dream that I visited an ostrich ranch that had cowboys riding on ostriches. It looked amazing. Then one cowpoke offered to let me ride his ostrich (if you know what I mean (I mean ostrich. Like the flightless bird)). It was, in fact, amazing. That was the best dream I ever had, and added to my desire to one day ride an ostrich.
2. Eat at a Sonic.
2. Eat at a Sonic.
I believe that there is only one Sonic restaurant in the whole state of Minnesota, and probably zero in South Dakota. I haven't done any research on this, but I've never seen one in my life. I have been told, though, that there is one in Minnesota, and my roommate has eaten there. They have pretty good commercials, entertainment-wise, and every single food item they advertise looks delicious. I want to eat there. I will eat there. Some day...
3. Be a Sam's Club member
3. Be a Sam's Club member
Have you ever been to a Sam's Club? Bulk items as far as the eye can see in that place. Bulk is definitely the best way to buy. If I was a member, I'd get discounts. I'd only have to go grocery shopping once a semester! I'd just load up on mandarin oranges, soups, beans, and anything else that is non-perishable. Even after college, when semester isn't even really a word anymore, it'd be great to be a Sam's Club member. Shopping twice - maybe thrice - a year? Yeah, I could dig that.
4. Get two beagles - one male, one female - and name them Flapjack and Pancake
This goal was altered a few weeks ago. I told my roommate that one of my life goals was to get a beagle and name it Pancake. He asked if this was a girl's name or a boy's name. I said it could be either, and he laughed and suggested Flapjack as a name. "AWWWWW YEAH! I'M GONNA GET TWO BEAGLES AND NAME THE BOY FLAPJACK AND THE GIRL PANCAKE!" If you're wondering, "Why Pancake?" just google an image of a beagle, and in your head refer to it as Pancake. It makes sense. One of my friends, Sarah Glynn, was recently dog sitting a beagle. She was vehemently opposed to the name Pancake, so I told her, "Try calling the dog you're dog sitting Pancake. I bet it'll respond." Guess what - it did. Beagles were meant to be named Pancake, and since flapjack is another word for pancake it makes sense to name a boy beagle Flapjack.
5. Be successful in my career/have a family. And stuff
Obviously, in my life, I want to be successful in my career. I also want to start a family. Not really much else to elaborate on, here.
6. Remember the life goal that I already accomplished
There was another life goal that I had, but I accomplished it. The problem is that I can't remember what that goal was. This inability to remember such an important moment is frustrating me to no end. I was almost brought to tears last night from frustration, and I had a very restless night of sleep. For the life of me I cannot remember what that goal was. I've never tried so hard to remember something. The sense of failure only adds to the frustration. So, my newest life goal is to remember what that other life goal was that I already accomplished.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
A Slippery Slope, Indeed
If there's one thing I've learned whilst at college, it's that an 8:00am class in college is not the same as an 8:00am class in high school. A 9:00am class in college isn't even the same as an 8:00am class in high school. I'd go as far as to say a 10:00am class in college isn't even the same. I can't explain it, but it's 100% true.
If there are two things I've learned whilst at college, and one is that an 8:00, 9:00, or 10:00am class in college isn't the same as an 8:00am class in high school, the other is how to justify skipping a class. The morning classes are easy - "If I'm going to function properly for the rest of my classes, I should just stay in my bed and sleep; if I go to this class, I'll be too tired to focus for the rest of my day - that's more negative than skipping this morning class." That's how it starts. Skipping classes is a slippery slope, though. A slippery slope, indeed. I've never skipped an afternoon class without first skipping a morning class.
If there are two things I've learned whilst at college, and one is that an 8:00, 9:00, or 10:00am class in college isn't the same as an 8:00am class in high school, the other is how to justify skipping a class. The morning classes are easy - "If I'm going to function properly for the rest of my classes, I should just stay in my bed and sleep; if I go to this class, I'll be too tired to focus for the rest of my day - that's more negative than skipping this morning class." That's how it starts. Skipping classes is a slippery slope, though. A slippery slope, indeed. I've never skipped an afternoon class without first skipping a morning class.
There are two sides to this slope, and both of them are slippery. First, there's the short term slope. The short term slope is just one day of classes. It starts out with just the morning class being skipped. Then, maybe something else keeps you from going to your second class: "Well, I slept a little later than I planned and I didn't get to eat breakfast. If I go to this class, I won't get to eat lunch, and malnutrition isn't going to help me learn. I should stay home and have lunch." After you skip your first two classes of the day, you think, "Well, I might as well go for the clean sweep," regardless of how many classes you have that day. If you have just one more, well, that's that. You just skip it for no reason. If you have four, you just think of one more excuse: "I have a lot of laundry...I should do it now while I'm thinking about it! Otherwise I might forget." Five classes? One more excuse: "Are those clouds in the sky? Huh, they look pretty ominous... I don't want to be caught outside if it starts to storm. Maybe I'll just stay here." On the very off chance that your adviser wanted to torture you this semester and you have six classes on one day, well, I don't think you'd even have to come up with an extra excuse. "Six classes" is the only excuse you'd need.
The long term slope is for just one class, but over the course of the whole semester. Obviously, you never skip class on the first day. I personally never make it a point to skip a certain class. Like, I never think, "Psh, this class is worthless, I'll just skip it," unless I'm on the short term slope at the time and need an excuse to skip a class. Since both slopes always start with morning classes, the long term slope starts with me going to bed much too late, and when my alarm goes off I just hit it a bunch until it shuts off. I open one eye and manage to have one coherent thought: "There's no way I'm going to this class," and that's that. The next time that class comes around, of course, I remember how nice it was to skip it and sleep in. "I'll go next week," I say to myself to condone my action of skipping. This action continues for quite a while until I need to hand in homework, take a test, or anything that requires me to be there.
That class this semester is the lab for my Wellness 100 class. Wellness 100 is like a health class. It's also exactly like the health class I took my freshman year at Concordia, but those credits didn't transfer because it wasn't a lecture and a lab, it was just lecture with lab days built into the schedule. That's another justification I use for skipping it - I've already taken the class.
The long term slope is for just one class, but over the course of the whole semester. Obviously, you never skip class on the first day. I personally never make it a point to skip a certain class. Like, I never think, "Psh, this class is worthless, I'll just skip it," unless I'm on the short term slope at the time and need an excuse to skip a class. Since both slopes always start with morning classes, the long term slope starts with me going to bed much too late, and when my alarm goes off I just hit it a bunch until it shuts off. I open one eye and manage to have one coherent thought: "There's no way I'm going to this class," and that's that. The next time that class comes around, of course, I remember how nice it was to skip it and sleep in. "I'll go next week," I say to myself to condone my action of skipping. This action continues for quite a while until I need to hand in homework, take a test, or anything that requires me to be there.
That class this semester is the lab for my Wellness 100 class. Wellness 100 is like a health class. It's also exactly like the health class I took my freshman year at Concordia, but those credits didn't transfer because it wasn't a lecture and a lab, it was just lecture with lab days built into the schedule. That's another justification I use for skipping it - I've already taken the class.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Nostalgia Gland
I'd be lying if I said there was a time this school year where I didn't miss camp and all my camp friends. However, now that the school year is winding down (only 15 days of classes left, but who's counting?), I find myself practically giddy at the thought of returning to camp. I realize that reliving all of the moments that made last summer's camp so great during this summer is unrealistic, but I anticipate new great moments this summer. There are some particular events, though, that have been tickling my nostalgia gland as of late (the nostalgia gland is a very real body organ. It's located near the gall bladder and secretes nostalgialymine, which, obviously, causes nostalgia).
For instance, hiding out in the kitchen's fridge on especially hot days. This happened a lot of times, on any day of the week. During quick dip (a free time for the kids in the evening) was the most common time for me, among other counselors and staff, to venture in to the fridge. On one day in particular, there were a few of us in the fridge - Stever, Rae, Kiana, and myself, I believe - and we were hungry. It just so happened that there were also cookies in the fridge. We started eating cookies, except Rachel because she was doing some crazy thing where she cut out all sweets from her diet. A surprising amount of counselors did this during the summer, which just meant more for me, so I could dig it. Whilst eating a cookie, I remembered there was some left over frosting in the fridge, too. I found it, spread some on my cookie, and almost cried happy tears (I've never actually cried happy tears, but this is the closest I ever got). This was enough to convince Rae to make a one-time exception to her no-sweets rule, and I guarantee she does not regret it. No, really, she said that was one of her favorite moments of camp. That's how good the frosting was.
Another event is a recurring event. Before I say what it was, you have to promise not to judge me. Promise? Okay. The recurring event was lying to the campers. Not a week went by where I didn't fabricate something ridiculous, and the kids just ate it up every time. I'm not the only one who did this, by the way - it was fairly common. No big lies, though, don't worry. For example, one counselor, Kaia, and myself would tell the kids that we were married. They believed it every single time. I'm pretty sure the rest of the staff got pretty sick of this one, because we were "married" every week, and were believable enough to convince 10 year olds we were actually married. My favorite lie ever, though, was when I convinced my cabin I used to play in the NBA. Basketball is a common free time game - specifically the basketball game of "Lightning." One day, I was unbeatable. Actually, most days I was unbeatable. One day in particular, though, I was on fire (not literally) and one of my campers said something like, "Joe, you never lose!" I laughed and said, "Well I'd hope not! A former NBA player shouldn't be losing games of lightning!" His mouth dropped, but he didn't quite believe me.
"You didn't play in the NBA!"
"Yes I did."
"Oh, yeah? Who did you play for?"
"...The Milwaukee Bucks." That was the most random team I could think of.
"Really?! How long ago? I've never heard of you in the NBA before."
"Oh, yeah, ummm, let's see here. My rookie season was '96. I only played for four years, though."
"'96? How old are you?"
"30." The two-fer lie. Classic. During the conversation, I kept shooting hoops and they kept going in, making my claim a little more believable. At this point, the rest of my cabin was gathered around and listening in on the conversation, challenging my "facts." The final story was that I didn't get drafted, but signed with the Bucks. I didn't play very much (I wanted to make it believable more than anything), and that's why I retired after only four seasons. Also, I once challenged Michael Jordan to a game of PIG before a game, but he just laughed at me. I told my cabin he was scared. They totally bought it.
The last event that I'm going to write about (there are so many more, I couldn't possibly cover them all in just one post) is from the last week of camp. My "wife," Kaia, was leaving a few days early to go to some wedding or some other lame excuse. At around 10:30 on Kaia's last night at camp, after I had already declared "light's out" in my cabin, Bjorn, another counselor, knocked on my door.
"Joe," he said. "Put some clothes on and come with me."
"Wha-? Yeah, okay. Be right there." I thought something serious was going on. Bjorn had a very serious tone and an even more serious look on his face. A little panicked, I threw on some clothes real quick-like and hurried out the door. I followed Bjorn for literally about ten feet - from my cabin to the top of the lodge (the top of the lodge is the upstairs to our dining hall). We tried to open the door to the top of the lodge, but it was locked. Bjorn knocked and announced that it was he and I at the door. I heard some whispers, then running. The door burst open and Kaia flew out and landed in my arms. She wanted to say goodbye since she was leaving early the next morning. The whispers I heard were from her and Rae, who was also in the top of the lodge. As the four of us stood there talking, Linnae, the program director, walked by. "Joe," she began to interrogate, "don't you have a cabin to look after?"
"Umm, well, yes. But I mean, it's right there," I pointed to my cabin. "If anything happens, I'd be able to see it."
"Hmm, alright. Have a good night, you guys!" and she walked off.
About two minutes later, we went into the top of the lodge, totally destroying my excuse of being able to see my cabin. In the top of the lodge, all four of us were completely delirious, laughing hysterically at the slightest provocation. For about an hour, we just sat and talked. I also got a face massage, but there was talking during that, too. Eventually, Rae, Kaia, and Bjorn convinced me to go back to my cabin. By 'convinced' I mean 'forced.' That was probably a good idea, though.
For instance, hiding out in the kitchen's fridge on especially hot days. This happened a lot of times, on any day of the week. During quick dip (a free time for the kids in the evening) was the most common time for me, among other counselors and staff, to venture in to the fridge. On one day in particular, there were a few of us in the fridge - Stever, Rae, Kiana, and myself, I believe - and we were hungry. It just so happened that there were also cookies in the fridge. We started eating cookies, except Rachel because she was doing some crazy thing where she cut out all sweets from her diet. A surprising amount of counselors did this during the summer, which just meant more for me, so I could dig it. Whilst eating a cookie, I remembered there was some left over frosting in the fridge, too. I found it, spread some on my cookie, and almost cried happy tears (I've never actually cried happy tears, but this is the closest I ever got). This was enough to convince Rae to make a one-time exception to her no-sweets rule, and I guarantee she does not regret it. No, really, she said that was one of her favorite moments of camp. That's how good the frosting was.
Another event is a recurring event. Before I say what it was, you have to promise not to judge me. Promise? Okay. The recurring event was lying to the campers. Not a week went by where I didn't fabricate something ridiculous, and the kids just ate it up every time. I'm not the only one who did this, by the way - it was fairly common. No big lies, though, don't worry. For example, one counselor, Kaia, and myself would tell the kids that we were married. They believed it every single time. I'm pretty sure the rest of the staff got pretty sick of this one, because we were "married" every week, and were believable enough to convince 10 year olds we were actually married. My favorite lie ever, though, was when I convinced my cabin I used to play in the NBA. Basketball is a common free time game - specifically the basketball game of "Lightning." One day, I was unbeatable. Actually, most days I was unbeatable. One day in particular, though, I was on fire (not literally) and one of my campers said something like, "Joe, you never lose!" I laughed and said, "Well I'd hope not! A former NBA player shouldn't be losing games of lightning!" His mouth dropped, but he didn't quite believe me.
"You didn't play in the NBA!"
"Yes I did."
"Oh, yeah? Who did you play for?"
"...The Milwaukee Bucks." That was the most random team I could think of.
"Really?! How long ago? I've never heard of you in the NBA before."
"Oh, yeah, ummm, let's see here. My rookie season was '96. I only played for four years, though."
"'96? How old are you?"
"30." The two-fer lie. Classic. During the conversation, I kept shooting hoops and they kept going in, making my claim a little more believable. At this point, the rest of my cabin was gathered around and listening in on the conversation, challenging my "facts." The final story was that I didn't get drafted, but signed with the Bucks. I didn't play very much (I wanted to make it believable more than anything), and that's why I retired after only four seasons. Also, I once challenged Michael Jordan to a game of PIG before a game, but he just laughed at me. I told my cabin he was scared. They totally bought it.
The last event that I'm going to write about (there are so many more, I couldn't possibly cover them all in just one post) is from the last week of camp. My "wife," Kaia, was leaving a few days early to go to some wedding or some other lame excuse. At around 10:30 on Kaia's last night at camp, after I had already declared "light's out" in my cabin, Bjorn, another counselor, knocked on my door.
"Joe," he said. "Put some clothes on and come with me."
"Wha-? Yeah, okay. Be right there." I thought something serious was going on. Bjorn had a very serious tone and an even more serious look on his face. A little panicked, I threw on some clothes real quick-like and hurried out the door. I followed Bjorn for literally about ten feet - from my cabin to the top of the lodge (the top of the lodge is the upstairs to our dining hall). We tried to open the door to the top of the lodge, but it was locked. Bjorn knocked and announced that it was he and I at the door. I heard some whispers, then running. The door burst open and Kaia flew out and landed in my arms. She wanted to say goodbye since she was leaving early the next morning. The whispers I heard were from her and Rae, who was also in the top of the lodge. As the four of us stood there talking, Linnae, the program director, walked by. "Joe," she began to interrogate, "don't you have a cabin to look after?"
"Umm, well, yes. But I mean, it's right there," I pointed to my cabin. "If anything happens, I'd be able to see it."
"Hmm, alright. Have a good night, you guys!" and she walked off.
About two minutes later, we went into the top of the lodge, totally destroying my excuse of being able to see my cabin. In the top of the lodge, all four of us were completely delirious, laughing hysterically at the slightest provocation. For about an hour, we just sat and talked. I also got a face massage, but there was talking during that, too. Eventually, Rae, Kaia, and Bjorn convinced me to go back to my cabin. By 'convinced' I mean 'forced.' That was probably a good idea, though.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Comin' In Hot
I've heard that when someone has nothing about which to talk they often talk about the weather. Guess what, you guys - this post is about weather. I'm actually a little ashamed that I'm writing a post about weather considering how agitated I become when I see a simple Facebook status about the weather. I have legitimate concerns about the potential weather this summer, though, and I feel like I just need to vent.
As most of you who live in the Midwest have noticed, the weather this winter was very unusual. I'm pretty sure there were exactly zero -20° days. Honestly, I'm not sure if it ever went below zero. What? Crazy, right? Well, brace yourselves, it gets crazier. In March, we reached 80° a couple of times. 80 degrees. That's borderline hot. That got me thinking - if it was this warm in March, how hot is it going to be in July, when I'm at camp with no air conditioning and fans that are defunct at best? With children that will complain about the heat almost as much as I will?Okay, not even almost as much as I will, but they'll complain in high pitched voices because they're little kids, and that's just annoying. Sure, camp is located on the shores of a lake, but you can't sleep in a lake, can't hold Bible study in a lake (I'm not sure about that, actually. I think I'll have to ask about that), can't eat meals in a lake, can't play whoop-whoop in a lake (whoop-whoop is a camp game. The best game. Don't tell me bonkers is better, camp folk, we all know whoop-whoop is where it's at), and you can't beat all the campers at lightening (the basketball game) in a lake.
Seriously, though. Usually, it's like 10° in March. I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure 80° is eight times as hot. So, if it's usually 100° in July, that means it'll probably be 800°. 800 degrees! We'll all die!
Knowing full well that I will die this summer, I can still say, with confidence, that I have never been more excited for a summer in my life.
That can be taken cynically (I'm excited to die) or hopeful (it'll be worth dying over, given how fantastic this summer will be). I'll give you a hint as to which one it is - it's the second one.
As most of you who live in the Midwest have noticed, the weather this winter was very unusual. I'm pretty sure there were exactly zero -20° days. Honestly, I'm not sure if it ever went below zero. What? Crazy, right? Well, brace yourselves, it gets crazier. In March, we reached 80° a couple of times. 80 degrees. That's borderline hot. That got me thinking - if it was this warm in March, how hot is it going to be in July, when I'm at camp with no air conditioning and fans that are defunct at best? With children that will complain about the heat almost as much as I will?Okay, not even almost as much as I will, but they'll complain in high pitched voices because they're little kids, and that's just annoying. Sure, camp is located on the shores of a lake, but you can't sleep in a lake, can't hold Bible study in a lake (I'm not sure about that, actually. I think I'll have to ask about that), can't eat meals in a lake, can't play whoop-whoop in a lake (whoop-whoop is a camp game. The best game. Don't tell me bonkers is better, camp folk, we all know whoop-whoop is where it's at), and you can't beat all the campers at lightening (the basketball game) in a lake.
Seriously, though. Usually, it's like 10° in March. I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure 80° is eight times as hot. So, if it's usually 100° in July, that means it'll probably be 800°. 800 degrees! We'll all die!
Knowing full well that I will die this summer, I can still say, with confidence, that I have never been more excited for a summer in my life.
That can be taken cynically (I'm excited to die) or hopeful (it'll be worth dying over, given how fantastic this summer will be). I'll give you a hint as to which one it is - it's the second one.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
March Sadness
March Madness is perennially my favorite time of the year. Well, if you don't count summer or Christmas, that is. I'm not sure why I enjoy it so much; it's just a yearly indication of how easy it is for me to totally fail at something in which I thought I would surely succeed. That's a depressing way to look at it, I know, but it's true. Every year I fill out a bracket and every year I see my Final Four teams go down well before the Final Four. I make my picks based on what I saw throughout the season - I love watching college basketball. So when my friend, Chelsie McGraw, who watches exactly zero college basketball games all year, beats me in bracket challenges every single year, well, that's a little deflating. Choosing to delve a little deeper into the failing concept, could the failure of March Madness carry over into other aspects of my life? I'm going to college to be a teacher. What if, when I finally graduate and get my first teaching job, I completely fail, despite knowing what I should know to make me successful? What if it's just that I'm not supposed to be a teacher? There are things that indicate I should be a teacher (I strongly feel that education is important, I love working with children, etc.), but what if I'm just not supposed to teach? Like in the tournament - there are teams that should win - everything indicates that they will win - but don't. Or even smaller scale - failing a final. I haven't done that yet, but it could happen, right? I go to class and learn what I'm supposed to learn for the final, but I could still fail, yes? March Madness is a constant reminder that one can never be too sure of anything. For instance, I had Duke and Missouri in my Final Four. They both lost in the very first round. Who saw that coming? I also had Florida State in my Final Four. They lost in the second round. At the time, based on what I had observed throughout the season, those seemed like pretty good picks. Nothing is a given, though, especially in March Madness.
Obviously, I realize that predicting the winners of basketball games is not the same thing as being a teacher. That was a bit of a stretch as far as metaphors go, but I still stand by the "one can never be too sure" statement.
Also, I may be taking March Madness a little too seriously. Or maybe this isn't actually about March Madness. Heh. I feel like this part of the post should actually be about the tournament and my epic bracket failure, so, this:
I should've known this year's tournament would be a failure for me. I had Syracuse in the Final Four before I heard their starting center was ineligible. About ten minutes into actually having a bracket and already I had to make changes. I printed off a bracket, filled out one on ESPN.com and Yahoo.com the exact same way, and filled out three more on Facebook. Two of the three were different from the printed/ESPN/Yahoo one. It gave me the choice to fill out three so I figured I should have a couple of brackets where I pick South Dakota State to win at least one game. Those two were my "whatever" brackets where I don't much thought into my picks. I either pick teams that I like or pick random upsets. "Random" like, as I'm filling out my bracket I think, "Huh, I haven't picked an upset in a while...13 over a 4? Well, okay." Sadly, both of my "whatever" brackets are better than my real bracket. Like I said before, I had Duke and Missouri in my Final Four. I should've known better with Duke - they usually choke. Missouri? I still am baffled. Florida State. That was a questionable pick. I got caught up in the hype of them beating Duke and UNC twice in the same year. Speaking of UNC, they're my last Final Four team. They better make it, too, because they're also my champions. Oh, wait, they're point guard broke his wrist and they just needed overtime to beat Ohio. Not Ohio State, just regular ol' Ohio. But what do I care? My bracket was busted by day two. Oh well. I fail at this every year, but I keep on living my life, and I'll try again next year. I feel like, given how cynical the first part of this post was, there should be a moral to this (you know, to throw everyone off the emo trail). Life is going to throw you things you didn't expect or see coming - that's inevitable. All you can do is accept it, embrace the failure it may have brought, improve, and do better with your next chance. Next chances aren't inevitable, though, so if you get one, make it count.
¡Aye! This seriousness is too much. This is a little ditty about March Madness. Just replace "Sparta" with "Florida" because they're my replacement pick in place of Missouri for the Final Four.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDRAhiBtOrQ
Obviously, I realize that predicting the winners of basketball games is not the same thing as being a teacher. That was a bit of a stretch as far as metaphors go, but I still stand by the "one can never be too sure" statement.
Also, I may be taking March Madness a little too seriously. Or maybe this isn't actually about March Madness. Heh. I feel like this part of the post should actually be about the tournament and my epic bracket failure, so, this:
I should've known this year's tournament would be a failure for me. I had Syracuse in the Final Four before I heard their starting center was ineligible. About ten minutes into actually having a bracket and already I had to make changes. I printed off a bracket, filled out one on ESPN.com and Yahoo.com the exact same way, and filled out three more on Facebook. Two of the three were different from the printed/ESPN/Yahoo one. It gave me the choice to fill out three so I figured I should have a couple of brackets where I pick South Dakota State to win at least one game. Those two were my "whatever" brackets where I don't much thought into my picks. I either pick teams that I like or pick random upsets. "Random" like, as I'm filling out my bracket I think, "Huh, I haven't picked an upset in a while...13 over a 4? Well, okay." Sadly, both of my "whatever" brackets are better than my real bracket. Like I said before, I had Duke and Missouri in my Final Four. I should've known better with Duke - they usually choke. Missouri? I still am baffled. Florida State. That was a questionable pick. I got caught up in the hype of them beating Duke and UNC twice in the same year. Speaking of UNC, they're my last Final Four team. They better make it, too, because they're also my champions. Oh, wait, they're point guard broke his wrist and they just needed overtime to beat Ohio. Not Ohio State, just regular ol' Ohio. But what do I care? My bracket was busted by day two. Oh well. I fail at this every year, but I keep on living my life, and I'll try again next year. I feel like, given how cynical the first part of this post was, there should be a moral to this (you know, to throw everyone off the emo trail). Life is going to throw you things you didn't expect or see coming - that's inevitable. All you can do is accept it, embrace the failure it may have brought, improve, and do better with your next chance. Next chances aren't inevitable, though, so if you get one, make it count.
¡Aye! This seriousness is too much. This is a little ditty about March Madness. Just replace "Sparta" with "Florida" because they're my replacement pick in place of Missouri for the Final Four.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDRAhiBtOrQ
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Frustrations of Spanish 102
Last semester, I took Spanish 101. I had to take it for my major, which was English at the time. Actually, I was supposed to take Spanish 202, but to get there, I had to climb the Spanish ladder. That doesn't make sense to me. If I'm majoring in English, I feel like I should have to take English classes, not Spanish classes. About a week in to last semester, though, I changed my major. That meant I had to change all of my classes. I decided to keep Spanish, though. I thought it would be fun, and it was. Since I enjoyed 101 so much, I decided to take 102. When I told my adviser that, she assumed I wanted to minor in Spanish. I don't think so, lady.
Spanish 102 started out with review from 101. I did very well and I thought, "Hey, 102 is gonna be a breeze." Then we started in 102 stuff. The first chapter was a little hard, but nothing I couldn't handle. As the semester has progressed, however, I find myself struggling more and more. The frustrating thing, though, is that the whole class is conducted in Spanish. So when I have a question, the professor answers in Spanish. Predictably, I can't understand the answer, so I still have the same question, compounded by more questions created by the answer given. Because the class is in Spanish, I have a lot of questions, too. It's just a vicious circle of confusion, except I'm the only one in the circle that gets confused. The professor also makes important announcements in Spanish. He'll say, "¡Clase! ¡Muy importante!" followed by a lot of Spanish words that I don't understand.
Spanish 102 started out with review from 101. I did very well and I thought, "Hey, 102 is gonna be a breeze." Then we started in 102 stuff. The first chapter was a little hard, but nothing I couldn't handle. As the semester has progressed, however, I find myself struggling more and more. The frustrating thing, though, is that the whole class is conducted in Spanish. So when I have a question, the professor answers in Spanish. Predictably, I can't understand the answer, so I still have the same question, compounded by more questions created by the answer given. Because the class is in Spanish, I have a lot of questions, too. It's just a vicious circle of confusion, except I'm the only one in the circle that gets confused. The professor also makes important announcements in Spanish. He'll say, "¡Clase! ¡Muy importante!" followed by a lot of Spanish words that I don't understand.
Other people seem to understand Spanish just fine. That's also frustrating. I'm definitely not used to being the worst in a class. I'm not the worst in Spanish, but I certainly would not put myself in the upper echelon of students. I know you may be thinking, "Joe, you were pretty bad at calculus. Are you sure you're not used to being the worst?" Hey, back off, guy (or lady). I wasn't the worst in calculus, either. I was pretty close, but not the worst.
I think I recently found out why I do so poorly in Spanish, though. It's not because I don't know the rules of Spanish (the rules we have covered, anyway), it's because I don't know the vocabulary. There are two words that mean "it" in Spanish - Ser and Estar. We did an exercise in class in which there was a paragraph, and we had to fill in the blanks with the correct forms of ser and estar. I didn't do very well. I know the situations in which I am supposed to use each word, but I couldn't tell what the situations were because I didn't know what the rest of the words meant. It was frustrating.
I think I recently found out why I do so poorly in Spanish, though. It's not because I don't know the rules of Spanish (the rules we have covered, anyway), it's because I don't know the vocabulary. There are two words that mean "it" in Spanish - Ser and Estar. We did an exercise in class in which there was a paragraph, and we had to fill in the blanks with the correct forms of ser and estar. I didn't do very well. I know the situations in which I am supposed to use each word, but I couldn't tell what the situations were because I didn't know what the rest of the words meant. It was frustrating.
Less frustrating is that yesterday and today, I've been totally dominating Spanish. By "totally dominating" I mean "slightly able to understand." Yesterday we had an oral exam and I could actually formulate sentences. Big whoop, yeah? Well, that's way better than I had anticipated. Today, I understood words. Total domination of the language, right? Well, not so much, but it's a start.
Friday, March 16, 2012
The Case Against Google Maps
I don't travel by myself very much. Consequently, when I do travel by myself, I usually don't know how to get to where I am going. If you know me, you know that studying a map would not fall into the category of "my cup of tea." Luckily for people like me, there is such a thing as the internet. A lot of people like to use Google Maps to get directions. I used to be one of those people, but then I got tired of receiving faulty directions. Here are two instances (There are more instances, but I can't remember them. No, really. I'm not lying! (For real, though, I'm not lying)) of Google Maps failing.
In late December of last year (So, last December. Like 3 months ago), the Russell clan was having a family dinner. Like, big family dinner - aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. You get the idea. My dad was appointed, possibly by himself, as the dinner organizer. Not surprisingly, he picked a Chinese restaurant.* I was at my mother's house the night of the dinner, which meant I'd have to drive myself to the restaurant. As per the usual, I did not know how to get to said restaurant. I looked up the address and then got directions from my mom's house to the restaurant via Google Maps. I was a little skeptical of the directions as soon as I saw them. One of the steps in the directions was to make a U-turn. I'm no navigator, but I'm pretty sure U-turns are for when you've missed your turn. If you're putting U-turns in the directions, I feel like you're acknowledging that you suck at giving directions. The worst part is that the U-turn wasn't even necessary, but because I made the U-turn, I got lost. Instead of "make a U-turn at ____ Street," the directions should have said "turn left on _____ Street." Of course, since I followed Google Maps' directions, I was late. By a lot.
Two weeks ago, my mom and I went to a Timberwolves game (That's basketball). However, neither of us knew how to get to the Target Center (Where the Timberwolves play (Basketball)). My mom decided to take charge in finding directions, and did not adhere to my warning about Google Maps. Google's directions brought us to Target Field (Where the Twins play (Baseball)). Admittedly, that's actually pretty close to the Target Center (Basketball), but in reality, that's a horrible job of directioning.** Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. And shoe-bocce. But NOT directions!
*I've noticed that my dad is really into Chinese stuff, especially their food. I'm trying to decide if this is because he and my step-mom adopted two boys from China, or if he's always been this way, and his lifelong enthusiasm for all things China is what led to the decision to adopt from there. I don't remember him being a huge Chinese food fan, so I'm thinking it may be the former.
**"Directioning" is a new word I made up. It means "giving directions." I didn't want to use "directing" because that reminds me of a director, either musically or businessally (Another word I made up - "pertaining to business"). "Directioning," I feel, clears up any confusion.
In late December of last year (So, last December. Like 3 months ago), the Russell clan was having a family dinner. Like, big family dinner - aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. You get the idea. My dad was appointed, possibly by himself, as the dinner organizer. Not surprisingly, he picked a Chinese restaurant.* I was at my mother's house the night of the dinner, which meant I'd have to drive myself to the restaurant. As per the usual, I did not know how to get to said restaurant. I looked up the address and then got directions from my mom's house to the restaurant via Google Maps. I was a little skeptical of the directions as soon as I saw them. One of the steps in the directions was to make a U-turn. I'm no navigator, but I'm pretty sure U-turns are for when you've missed your turn. If you're putting U-turns in the directions, I feel like you're acknowledging that you suck at giving directions. The worst part is that the U-turn wasn't even necessary, but because I made the U-turn, I got lost. Instead of "make a U-turn at ____ Street," the directions should have said "turn left on _____ Street." Of course, since I followed Google Maps' directions, I was late. By a lot.
Two weeks ago, my mom and I went to a Timberwolves game (That's basketball). However, neither of us knew how to get to the Target Center (Where the Timberwolves play (Basketball)). My mom decided to take charge in finding directions, and did not adhere to my warning about Google Maps. Google's directions brought us to Target Field (Where the Twins play (Baseball)). Admittedly, that's actually pretty close to the Target Center (Basketball), but in reality, that's a horrible job of directioning.** Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. And shoe-bocce. But NOT directions!
*I've noticed that my dad is really into Chinese stuff, especially their food. I'm trying to decide if this is because he and my step-mom adopted two boys from China, or if he's always been this way, and his lifelong enthusiasm for all things China is what led to the decision to adopt from there. I don't remember him being a huge Chinese food fan, so I'm thinking it may be the former.
**"Directioning" is a new word I made up. It means "giving directions." I didn't want to use "directing" because that reminds me of a director, either musically or businessally (Another word I made up - "pertaining to business"). "Directioning," I feel, clears up any confusion.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Embrace The Wrinkles
If there's one thing I dislike, it's calculus. Unfortunately, there are many more things that I dislike. I'd say the number of things I dislike is rapidly approaching a bazillion. One of these near bazillion things are when old ladies try to hide their wrinkly faces. Maybe "hide" isn't the best word. I don't mean that they submerge their heads into sand like an ostrich or something (I'm now picturing an ostrich and I just realized how weird they look. They're just two giant legs, a fluffball body, a giant neck, and a tiny head with a big ol' bill-beak. For some reason, the ostrich I'm picturing also has giant eyelashes. Oh, now it's Chris Bosh. Chris Boshtrich), I just mean I don't like it when they can't accept the fact that they're getting old and try to get rid of their wrinkles. I have no problem if someone is applying magic wrinkle reducing cream - or whatever it is - religiously; it's when someone pays for surgery to get rid of their wrinkles. Are you kidding me? You're going to get surgery just to get rid of wrinkles. Are you aware that wrinkles are in no way detrimental? You know what you should do instead of surgery? You should take a clothes iron and iron your face. That'll get the wrinkles out and save you money, unless you're planning on treating your burns. Personally, I'd say leave them - you'd look scarier had you gotten a face lift, and the burns would serve as a reminder to how shallow you are. Seriously, when you get old, your face wrinkles - it's natural. Face lifts are unnatural. Unnatural = creepy. Ergo, face lifts = creepy. Just embrace your wrinkles, yo.
I feel as though this post pertains to exactly zero of the people that actually read my blog. Oh well. I guess this is just for future reference, ladies.
Also, fellas, if you're also contemplating a face lift, just...no. No.
I feel as though this post pertains to exactly zero of the people that actually read my blog. Oh well. I guess this is just for future reference, ladies.
Also, fellas, if you're also contemplating a face lift, just...no. No.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
RE: Lecture Hall Dreaming
I'm revisiting my post from last year in regards to big lecture halls. What's that you say? You don't remember that one, and it's not in the archives? Bummer. Maybe you can read it in an upcoming e-book or something. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what we in the writing universe call foreshadowing. I think. Maybe it's not. I'm done referencing it in this post, so I'm not sure if it's actually foreshadowing. Perhaps it's a cliffhanger. Hmm, starting out with a cliffhanger seems like a literary faux pas. Oh well. I'm starting out with a cliffhanger, and there's nothing you can do about it.
Anyway, in my original post about lecture halls, I mentioned that I sat in on about ten minutes of a class I thought was "Housekeeping 101," and that if I ever had a class in a big lecture hall I would either be super interested, pretend to be super interested and totally space out, or fall asleep. I mentioned other things, too, I'm sure, but those probably aren't important because I can't really remember them. Well, this semester I have not one, not two, not four, not five, six, or even seven classes in a big lecture hall. That's right - I have three. One of which is the class I thought was "Housekeeping 101." Turns out, it's actually Lifespan Development, and the professor starts every class with "Housekeeping," which is just a slide on the PowerPoint with announcements about the class. Regardless, my mind was completely blown the first time I saw that slide. It was kind of like a dream-come-true moment (If you've read my "Dream Come True" post, you're probably thinking I have the lamest dreams in the world).
As far as what I would do if I had a class in a big lecture hall, that second option I listed is exactly what happens. I always look like I'm really interested - I pretty much make a 1 with my left hand and then rest my chin on the thumb, with my index finger going up my cheek - but I think things like "What size shamrock shake should I get," "Do I have any more brats in the freezer," "When's the last time I had breakfast," or "I bet if I met Ricky Rubio, we'd be best friends." Just to clarify, the thought about brats - I mean bratwursts. Every time.
In retrospect, I have no idea why I so desperately wanted to have a class in a 300-person lecture hall. It's not that great. The best thing is that the professor wears a microphone, so sometimes I pretend like I'm at a concert. A really, really boring concert with an old, lackluster performer, whose songs don't rhyme and are all a cappella. As one would imagine, tickets for such a concert are not cheap.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Super Female
Last week in my Bio lab, we learned about different birth defects (woohoo!) that occur in humans, mostly focusing on syndromes that take place with abnormalities in the 23rd chromosome pair, or the sex chromosomes. One such birth defect my lab partners and I found to be very intriguing.
An egg with two x-chromosomes that is fertilized by a sperm with one x-chromosome yields the karyotype xxx. The consequent offspring is, apparently, called a super female. For all of the other syndromes that were listed in the lab manual, there were also descriptions. Super female, however, did not have a description. Since we finished our lab early, my lab partners and I discussed the super female and what it could possibly be:
"I think a super female would be born wearing a cape and wouldn't cry at all, and she'd, like, cut her own umbilical cord with laser vision or something."
"I think only one super female ever existed, and it was Wonder Woman."
"For some reason, I just envision a mullet."
"I think it would be the female form of Chuck Norris."
"Ha, yeah. She'd give birth to herself, round-house kicking her way out of her own uterus."
"For some reason, I just envision a mullet."
"I think it would be the female form of Chuck Norris."
"Ha, yeah. She'd give birth to herself, round-house kicking her way out of her own uterus."
"That's literally terrifying."
"What if Chuck Norris and the super female had a baby?"
"We'd all die."
"What if Chuck Norris and the super female had a baby?"
"We'd all die."
"I think, if you're a super female, your future only holds starring in pornos."
"Wait, what? Why?"
"Well, her karyotype is XXX. Like for porn."
"Ooooooooooooooh."
"Wait, what? Why?"
"Well, her karyotype is XXX. Like for porn."
"Ooooooooooooooh."
(There was, of course, a sandwich-related explanation. Ladies, I sincerely apologize and would like to point out that I do not support the sandwich-making stereotype of women. I mean, I make sandwiches like a boss, and I'm not a woman.)
"I think a super female would be able to make you a sandwich with whatever you wanted on it without even having to ask what you wanted on it, and she'd know exactly when you want it, and how you wanted it cut, and, even if you were at work, she'd get it to you exactly when you wanted it."
This is pretty much why we should be allowed to leave once we finish our lab.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Sugar Cereal
I love sugar cereal. Some of my favorite foods are sugar cereals. Think about that for a second. Off the top of my head, I can think of three sugar cereals that are among my favorite foods. Three of my favorite foods are from the same category, and that category's target demographic is young children. You know how some adults don't eat sugar cereal? I'm not going to be one of those adults. I don't know what the threshold is for when one starts to eat healthy cereal, but I'm never going to cross it. One of the reasons why I want to have kids is so I have an excuse to buy sugar cereals. I know that there's not a rule where an adult needs children in order to buy sugar cereal, but it just looks a lot less suspicious if I have kids with me when I buy it. Until I have kids, I think I'm just going to pay kids to accompany me to the store. No one else will know the level of creepiness that entails because they'll have no idea I paid them to go to the store with me. So, when everyone looks at me in disgust, I'll just say, "Oh, it's for my kids," and everything will be fine. Also, when I actually have kids, I don't think I'll allow them to eat sugar cereal for two reasons: 1. Less sugar for them, and 2. More sugar cereal for me. My kids will be like, "Daddy, can we have some Reese's Puffs?" and I'll say, "No. You can have some when you're older." Then they'll ask, "Why do we have five boxes if we can't eat any?" and I'll say, "For motivation to live into your twenties. This is why you shouldn't drive 70 mph*," and they'll say, "We can't even drive, Daddy!" and I'll say, "Valid point," and then pour myself a heaping bowl of Reese's Puffs.
As good as the cereal is, the milk left in the bowl is easily the best part about sugar cereal. Like I said, I love sugar cereal, but I am at my happiest after I finish a bowl of cereal and get to drink the leftover milk. My friend and roommate, Ryan Ackman, came up with the greatest idea I've ever heard if you don't count like five other ideas. He conjured up the concept of bottling and selling the leftover milk from a bowl of cereal. I would totally buy that. And drink it.
*My sister, Claire, actually said the bit about not driving 70 mph, and only that part. I came up with literally everything else outside of "this is why you shouldn't drive 70 mph." I know it's not exactly an integral part to the post, but it's there, and I have to give credit where credit is due. So, look at that, Claire! You're pretty much famous, now!
Monday, February 13, 2012
Mr. T Hates Me
When I was younger, I wanted a pet turtle more than anything. To this day, I still do not know why I so desperately wanted a turtle of all things. I have always been a sucker for reptiles and amphibians. Also, can we just combine those two animal groups, yet? Lizards, frogs, snakes, turtles - they're all pretty similar. We'll call them reptibians. Or amptiles. I like reptibians more. Anyway, one day, on his way home from work, my dad stopped by a Petsmart (I still am not sure if that's "Pets Mart" or "Pet Smart." I think that was their plan the whole time! Those sneaky executives...) and bought me a turtle. I was ecstatic. At this point in my life, I was horrible at coming up with names (I'm the best at it now. Seriously, ranked #1 in the world at coming up with names), so I decided on Mr. T. The "T" stood for "turtle." It wasn't until a few weeks later that I made the connection between Mr. T and the Mr. T. I then decided that I named my turtle after Mr. T.
One day, Mr. T's container was dirty, and needed cleaning. "Container" is the best word I can think to use. He lived in a big, plastic tote, filled with sand and water in such a way that it resembled a beach. Well, maybe if you've never been to a beach in your life. Regardless of beach quality, it wasn't like a little tiny container. I guess I could've said "Mr. T's tote," huh? Oh well. His habitat was dirty and smelly, so my dad said it would be a good idea to clean it. I took the tote outside, set Mr. T down in the grass, and cleaned his home for him. As I was rebuilding the "beach," my dad came outside and said, "Hey, come dry the dishes off for me."
"What about Mr. T? He's roaming free in our backyard."
"He's a turtle - he won't go far."
"Good point. Okay."
I was gone for maybe five minutes. I came back outside, and Mr. T was nowhere to be found! I even looked in our neighbors' lawns. Apparently he had been to a beach before and decided the one I created was not adequate.
One day, Mr. T's container was dirty, and needed cleaning. "Container" is the best word I can think to use. He lived in a big, plastic tote, filled with sand and water in such a way that it resembled a beach. Well, maybe if you've never been to a beach in your life. Regardless of beach quality, it wasn't like a little tiny container. I guess I could've said "Mr. T's tote," huh? Oh well. His habitat was dirty and smelly, so my dad said it would be a good idea to clean it. I took the tote outside, set Mr. T down in the grass, and cleaned his home for him. As I was rebuilding the "beach," my dad came outside and said, "Hey, come dry the dishes off for me."
"What about Mr. T? He's roaming free in our backyard."
"He's a turtle - he won't go far."
"Good point. Okay."
I was gone for maybe five minutes. I came back outside, and Mr. T was nowhere to be found! I even looked in our neighbors' lawns. Apparently he had been to a beach before and decided the one I created was not adequate.
And that's the story of how my pet turtle ran away. I pity the fool.
Monday, February 6, 2012
True Pessimism: Waking Up
I've been told, quite often, that I am a pessimist. I always respond with, "No I'm not - I'm a realist," or, "It's not pessimism if you're always right." However, lately, I've also been told that I am an optimist. I respond to those accusations with, "lol," "Usually, I'm actually pretty pessimistic," or, "It's a lot easier to be optimistic about other people's problems than your own problems." With that said, I still think I'm a realist. However, with that said, today I had a revelation. A very, very pessimistic revelation.
Waking up is the worst way to start a day. However, it is literally the only way to start a day. Isn't that sad? Every day that I will ever experience will start out horribly. Not just horribly, but the worst way it could possibly start. I'm never happy the moment I wake up. Ever. That means I never start a day out happy. That's why I don't understand morning people. Why are they so happy? They've recently stopped sleeping - that's no reason to be happy. See, I'm a mourning person. I mourn the loss of my sleep. The best time to do that, of course, is in the morning, when I wake up. I'm not looking for sympathy; I'm just trying to spread my pessimism. You know what they say - misery loves company.
However, I could look at this from an optimist's point of view, too. I mean, I'm not really a pessimist - I'm a realist. The fact that waking up is the worst way to start a day isn't pessimism, it's reality. Anyway, the optimist's point of view. Well, every day starts out terribly by waking up, but every day also ends perfectly, by going to sleep. There's no alternative way to end a day, just like there's no alternative way to start a day. I can't think of a better way to end anything than by falling asleep. Sleep is the best. When someone says, "I fell asleep during _______," most people are like, "Haha, that sucks," or "Wow, you're lazy." Not me. I think, "Lucky!" and then wish I was asleep. That's how awesome sleep is, and everyone gets to end every day by sleeping. So, to those of you who don't believe in happy endings - your move. Your happy ending will come as soon as you choose to end today.
Wow. That last statement was hardcore optimistic and hardcore pessimistic.
Waking up is the worst way to start a day. However, it is literally the only way to start a day. Isn't that sad? Every day that I will ever experience will start out horribly. Not just horribly, but the worst way it could possibly start. I'm never happy the moment I wake up. Ever. That means I never start a day out happy. That's why I don't understand morning people. Why are they so happy? They've recently stopped sleeping - that's no reason to be happy. See, I'm a mourning person. I mourn the loss of my sleep. The best time to do that, of course, is in the morning, when I wake up. I'm not looking for sympathy; I'm just trying to spread my pessimism. You know what they say - misery loves company.
However, I could look at this from an optimist's point of view, too. I mean, I'm not really a pessimist - I'm a realist. The fact that waking up is the worst way to start a day isn't pessimism, it's reality. Anyway, the optimist's point of view. Well, every day starts out terribly by waking up, but every day also ends perfectly, by going to sleep. There's no alternative way to end a day, just like there's no alternative way to start a day. I can't think of a better way to end anything than by falling asleep. Sleep is the best. When someone says, "I fell asleep during _______," most people are like, "Haha, that sucks," or "Wow, you're lazy." Not me. I think, "Lucky!" and then wish I was asleep. That's how awesome sleep is, and everyone gets to end every day by sleeping. So, to those of you who don't believe in happy endings - your move. Your happy ending will come as soon as you choose to end today.
Wow. That last statement was hardcore optimistic and hardcore pessimistic.
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