beauty marks

I remember a friend telling me she loved her scars because it made her feel tough. My most recent scar makes me feel anything but. The morning I burned my forearm on my iron I was reminded of how clumsy I truly am. Actually, I think most of my scars showcase my gawkiness.

There are the knee and opposite elbow scars from my rollerblading fiasco. A little bit of advice for fellow bladers is to roll right over a snake on a path. Trying to avoid it only ends in a tangle of arms, legs, blades and gravel. After a stranger looks you in the eye to ensure you don't have a concussion, you get the pleasure of rollerblading to the car with blood dripping wounds. Living through the cleaning and healing process made me feel tough but the fall reminded me of my awkwardness.

While working at a flower shop I cut my knuckle with scissors. I received only three stitches but the bigger scar was the humiliation of freaking out in front of the customers as my blood dripped on to their pussy willows. I'm still confused as to how my knuckle got in the way.

The oldest scar that I can remember is the one I obtained at a girl's camp over 14 years ago. It was the worst camp ever as it rained non-stop. I think I kept my rain gear on from sunrise to sunset. The tents kept getting flooded and the weather didn't allow for much except whittling. The camp nurse felt very uncomfortable that we all had pocket knives. My 14 year old mind thought she was crazy as what could possibly happen with a measly Swiss army knife and wood? I found the answer during our first aid training. We were asked to put our knives away and I happened to put mine away on my thumb. I looked down at the deep gash and knew it wasn't something I could solve on my own. As the shock set in, my voice rose in panic. When the nurse figured out what was going on, she decided my real life wound would make a great demonstration. She set me in the middle of the circle and began to explain that deep cuts need pressure and elevation. After yelling at her to get me out of there, I was taken to a van, given butterfly stitches and a blanket to help with my shock. Several days later a chunk of skin fell off with a permanent reminder of my idiocy.

I have come to understand that many of people have scars due to unfortunate incidents, surgeries or sheer toughness. If only I could be so lucky... or careful.



Occasionally I stop on cooking channels to drool over good food that I'll never make. I did attempt a chile chocolate soup from the Take Home Chef but using dried jalapenos instead of chiles was a bit of a spicy disaster. Perhaps one day my curiosity will get the best of me and I'll try it again, with the correct ingredients.

The difficulty I have with these shows is the use of gorgeous or beautiful to describe food. While I understand that "gorgeous" can imply magnificence, it's not a term I would use for my food. I might say "this tastes magnificent" but to say "this is gorgeous" sounds peculiar. It's as though the basic adjectives of our youth are no longer mature enough for our food. I still remember the stress involved in language art worksheets. Teacher's tortured us with writing down adjectives and adverbs. Was red an adjective when saying "a red car" and what the heck is an adverb again? I know it describes a verb but I can't even remember what a verb is. It's an action word... think action, think describing it... This is triggering grade school flashbacks so I must retreat from these horrific memories and go back to my present focus.

Why do culinary cuisines require such words? Kraft wouldn't even dare use beautiful to describe their cheesy masterpiece. Why then do cooking shows have to show off by refusing to use "spicy, yummy, or tasty" when referring to their dish that contains ingredients that regular supermarkets wouldn't carry. Thereby making it impossible or frustrating to attempt their divine creations.

Is it just me or are there pretentious adjectives floating around that also irk you?


when the moron is you...

We've all heard those stories that are much more amusing because they didn't happen to you. Well, yesterday I became the star of one such story.

It all began at about 12:30 p.m. I had just finished a late lunch, due to my cardio/yoga Saturday morning ritual. I was waiting to hop in the shower, as my friend had told me she would stop by while walking her dog to bring me the money she owed me from the Death Cab for Cutie concert. By the way, the put on a great show, as did Mates of State. The doorbell rang and we sat on my porch chatting away when a nasty wasp kept buzzing around me and the door. To avoid it entering my house, I shut the door. We chatted some more and then said our goodbyes. I turned to enter my house only to gasp in horror. I had locked myself out with my phone inside. The invention of cellular phones has created the inability for me to memorize phone numbers. With no way of knowing when my roommate would be home, and no way of breaking in, I resigned myself to finish walking with my friend and her dog. I went over to her house still in my sweaty work out clothes with a sunburn beginning to develop on my pale-ass shoulders and chest. I used her phone to call the only friend whose number I have memorized. After leaving several messages on both her and her husband's cell phone, I waited patiently. I walked back to my house to leave a note written on bright paper for my roommate. Upon my return to my friend's house, I was greeted with the news that my other friends were en route to break in. Apparently my friend's husband has a knack for that sort of thing, although he is an upstanding member of society.

I sat on my friend's porch and snoozed in the sun. They arrived much later than they had originally anticipated, drove me to my house, and within seconds (with the help of a Discover credit card), we were inside. Considering I have about three friends in Provo, no way to contact my roommate or landlord, and just the clothes on my back, a two and half hour wait to get in my house was pretty darn good. The moral of this story is that wasps not only sting, they can also make you lock your silly self out!


in the eye of the beholder

I had the privilege of going to the Art institute of Chicago and was awed by some of the beautiful pieces.

But then I saw this (my apologies for the quality):

and then this:

Although I am not a fan of most abstract art, there are times when I can see and appreciate the talent. However, I look at these pieces and believe that there are plenty of people who could replicate it. I am willing to admit that I do not have a full understanding of how and why some art makes it in to museums while others do not. Is there some talent that I cannot see? Do these "abstract" pieces make it in because the artist already has a good reputation in the art field? Please, someone, anyone, help me figure this out. *Sigh

Even though I don't like this either, it looks like it took some thought and talent.

Why, oh why, does abstract art continue to mock my confused mind?


hot or not

There was a time when my favourite "love to hate" heiress thought she should try her hand at a Donald by attempting to patent "that's hot". Thankfully, it was rejected, thereby saving us from the heaps of junk at Claire's Accessories proclaiming "that's hot."

You may wonder where this Paris diatribe is headed and I assure my readers that I am not as directionless as her. That may be a cruel jab, as she does take a lot of time to match her outfits, spends time in the studio recording and filming videos, and almost writes her own novel, but I stand by my statement. Okay, back to the point... sizzling under the summer sun, my thoughts are frequently turned to what is hot and what is not. Much like this very awkward website, it is clear that each person has a very different opinion of what is or isn't hot.

My loyal readers, I turn to you for the first of perhaps many polls. Only time will tell if it becomes a feature. The virgin Right of Way poll is related to transportation, not Ms. Hilton:

Women riding motorcycles: Hot or Not?
Men riding scooters: Hot or Not?

P.S. - If you still have a hankering for links after my prolific use of them in this post, check this site out. I stumbled upon it randomly and found it a more amusing take on internet polling.


via chicago

When embarking on a solo trip to Chicago you might want to have a few things to make the trip smoother.

1. Toothpaste: Fortunately for you careless packers (ahem), the Marriott hotel gives you complementary toothpaste.
2. Money: Parking in the downtown core is expensive. Do some investigating and you'll discover that there is underground parking that is half the price of all other places. Unfortunately, I found this bit of information on my last day. Also, unexpected toll booths pop up and it's rather embarrassing when you don't have cash on you. There is also a need for spending cash at the awesome stores.
3. Patience: When you're a driver, the pedestrians drive you crazy with their constant jaywalking and crossing against the light. However, once rolls are reversed, you join in the bad walking behavior.
4. Sense of Direction: When you finish watching the amusing musical, Wicked, you might want to ensure you go the right direction down Michigan Avenue. It doesn't feel like such a magnificent mile when your error is discovered and it is so busy on the streets that hailing a taxi is near impossible. MOM CLOSE YOUR EYES. She told me to be safe and I don't want her to know I was walking alone at 11 p.m. MOM YOU CAN OPEN YOUR EYES AGAIN. Interestingly enough, there were so many people out that I felt totally safe... the only problem was sore and tired feet from the extra mile I ended up walking.

Oh, and don't forget to get a chocolate molten lava cake at the Grand Lux Cafe. Delicious.


against all odds

Population of Provo: 105, 166
Population of Provo between the ages of 25-34: 17, 345
Popularity of Cafe Rio: High
Odds of running in to an ex-boyfriend at Cafe Rio in Provo: In my friend's case, the odds are 100% that you will.

This wasn't any ex. He was a class act... one of those guys that starts dating another girl before he breaks up with his current one. She discovered this bit of information when she happened to go to a large church function that had thousands of people and coincidentally bumped in to him while he was holding his new girlfriend's hand trying to navigate her through the crowd. Naturally their breakup occurred that same night. See? Class act. Back to the present when we see him come in to Cafe Rio. He walks past us to a woman that is separated by one other person in front of us. The woman was the girl from the night long ago and she is now his wife and they have a baby. Although my friend is now much relieved for the demise of the relationship, we mull over leaving but decide the one person buffer may help avoid an awkward interaction. Within several minutes, our buffer exits and we are right beside them. At this point the best way forward is to talk to him but he makes enormous amounts of effort to pretend he does not see her standing mere inches away from him. The solution? She stares weirdly until he looks over. What proceeds is a fake nice conversation by all and the pretend "Oh I didn't see you. How are you doing? It's so good to see you." A perfect moment to laugh over during a perfect meal.

Ah Provo, your odds endlessly entertain me.