I don't usually do these types of question deals, but this one was pretty funny, so I thought I'd try. And it turned out pretty funny. To do this yourself, you're supposed to copy the list of questions and erase my answers. Then, for the answer to the first question, you press play on your music player while it's set to shuffle. For the answer to the next question, you hit "next."
If someone says, "Is this okay?" You say?
“Done Hangin' on Maybe” (Evan and Jaron)
What do you like in a guy/girl?
“No One Needs to Know” (Shania Twain)
How do you feel today?
“Hakuna Matata” (Lion King)
What is your life's purpose?
“Poor Unfortunate Souls” (The Little Mermaid)
What is your motto?
“Out of the Rain” (The Duhks)
What do your friends think of you?
“Crazy” (Simple Plan)
What do you think of your parents?
“The Luckiest” (Ben Folds)
What do you think about very often?
“Secret Valentine” (We the Kings)
What is 2+2?
“Building a Mystery” (Sarah McLachlan)
What do you think of your best friend?
“Don’t Be Stupid” (Shania Twain)
What do you think of the person you like?
“Brighter than Sunshine” (Aqualung)
What is your life's story?
“I Believe” (Diamond Rio)
What do you want to be when you grow up?
“Eleanor Rigby” (The Beatles)
What do you think of when you see the person you like?
“Madly” (Tristan Prettyman)
What will you dance to at your wedding?
“Thank You” (Simple Plan)
What will they play at your funeral?
“Celebrity” (Brad Paisley)
What is your hobby/interest?
“Car Crash” (Matt Nathanson)
What is your biggest fear?
“Then I Did” (Rascal Flatts)
What is your biggest secret?
“How Lucky I Am” (Emerson Drive)
What do you think of your friends?
“Yellow Submarine” (The Beatles)
How would you describe yourself?
“Addicted” (Simple Plan)
What will you post this as?
“Pick up the Phone” (Evan and Jaron)
Monday, February 16, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
A Recommendation
Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone. Read it; it's fabulous. Especially if you have a fondness for nineteenth century writing, which I do. Writers in the nineteenth century preferred character development over plot, so the book sometimes moves slowly, but the characters who narrate the story more than make up for the pace.
Also, it's considered to be one of the first mystery novels. Actually, he wrote one before The Moonstone called The Woman in White, but people seem to prefer The Moonstone generally. I'll let you know how I feel after I finish WIW. Thank you, and good night.
Also, it's considered to be one of the first mystery novels. Actually, he wrote one before The Moonstone called The Woman in White, but people seem to prefer The Moonstone generally. I'll let you know how I feel after I finish WIW. Thank you, and good night.
Monday, February 9, 2009
A Change of Identity
No, I am not changing my name (as I should have a year ago), nor am I undergoing surgery of any kind. I just thought I would let you all know that, according to the extremely reliable phone of my sister-in-law Traci (http://runningstray.blogspot.com/), I no longer exist.
It's true. Every time she tries to type my name into her phone (for a text message or just to add me to her contacts list), the auto correct on her phone denies my existence. "Tina," obviously, is not real. No. Apparently, I am "Tuna."
I am half sister, half fish.
At first I just told Traci to tell her phone, "Har! Like I haven't heard that one before!" from me, but then I became accustomed to my fate. And also, it started to make sense. Everyone thinks I'm nutty as squirrel poo for being from Seattle yet not liking fish, and now I know why. It's because I am one! How could I eat my comrades in fins? This also explains my devastation over the loss of a certain gilled friend (see below).
What I really want to know, though, is where the split is. I mean, do I split between fish and female right down the middle, or is it at my waist? Or is the split more of a random act of nature, taking one arm here and both lungs there? Actually, we can be pretty sure both lungs are human, as I have little-to-no trouble breathing on land. So maybe it is more of an inner nature thing. I have the body of a human, but the soul of a fish. I can walk on two legs, but I have an eternal craving for the ocean and krill.
Hmmm. That doesn't sound right either. Oh well.
It's true. Every time she tries to type my name into her phone (for a text message or just to add me to her contacts list), the auto correct on her phone denies my existence. "Tina," obviously, is not real. No. Apparently, I am "Tuna."
I am half sister, half fish.
At first I just told Traci to tell her phone, "Har! Like I haven't heard that one before!" from me, but then I became accustomed to my fate. And also, it started to make sense. Everyone thinks I'm nutty as squirrel poo for being from Seattle yet not liking fish, and now I know why. It's because I am one! How could I eat my comrades in fins? This also explains my devastation over the loss of a certain gilled friend (see below).
What I really want to know, though, is where the split is. I mean, do I split between fish and female right down the middle, or is it at my waist? Or is the split more of a random act of nature, taking one arm here and both lungs there? Actually, we can be pretty sure both lungs are human, as I have little-to-no trouble breathing on land. So maybe it is more of an inner nature thing. I have the body of a human, but the soul of a fish. I can walk on two legs, but I have an eternal craving for the ocean and krill.
Hmmm. That doesn't sound right either. Oh well.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
A Brief Lesson in Literacy and Chocolate Cake
I get really random, really bad cravings. You’d almost think I was pregnant, but I’ve been this way for my whole life. Also, I never crave gross combinations of foods. I never want pickles and fudge ice cream, for instance. At least not together. But these cravings, they’re instantaneous. And relentless. One minute I’ll be a normal girl in her early twenties, and the next minute I’m a rabid monster out for blood, or in one case, chocolate cake.
Hooo boy, did I want some chocolate cake. And not just any old chocolate cake. Oh, no. I wanted the kind of chocolate cake that has little streams of hot fudge running through it. I had fantasies about that chocolate cake. I could see it there, sitting warm and tempting in the pan, fresh from the oven. I could see my hand holding a fork and heading for that warm, gooey deliciousness. I could see the prongs of the fork sinking into the chocolate and pulling a chunk out, and I could see my hand lifting the bite to my mouth. (I know, I know. Where’s the plate, right? You’re thinking that I skipped the step where I cut out a piece and put it on a plate, or at least a paper towel, like a civilized being would do. You obviously don’t know me at all.)
I suffered through cravings for three days. (I told you they were relentless.) One of my roommates finally took pity on me and let me go to the store with her to purchase the ingredients that would end my suffering—and my roommates’. After three days of groaning, I’d succeeded in dragging half my roommates into the craving with me and making the other half crazy with annoyance.
But to put a true end to the annoyance and the craving, I had to make the cake. Now, I am the first to admit that I have had many mishaps with food: the Great Tomato Sauce Explosion; the Toffee, Plastic Bowl, and Microwave Incident; the Tolo Chocolate Sauce Fiasco…the list goes on. But in my defense, I am actually a decent cook, when I’m paying attention to what I’m doing.
I really tried to pay attention with the chocolate cake. I swear. I checked the directions repeatedly to make sure that I had all the needed ingredients. I kept thinking, Hmmm, this recipe does call for an oddly large amount of cooking oil, which should have been a thought that brought the rest of my brain to full attention. My brain, upon looking back, seemed to have prematurely gone into ecstasy over the mere prospect of chocolate cake, and was not available to give me a little help.
As I dumped the second two-thirds cup of cooking oil into the mix, I happened to look down at the directions again. And that’s when I realized that I am illiterate.
The requirement of one and a thirds cup was for water, not oil. Somehow, I had missed that little bit of information the first few times I looked at the back of the box. My reaction to this was (and this is a direct quote), "Oh, crap." I yelled the order to start bailing the boat, and began scooping up as much oil from the bowl into the measuring cup as I could without also scooping up chocolate cake mix. I estimate that I got about half the oil out, which left me with about 2/3 cup oil in my cake. The actual required amount was half a cup, so I figured, hey, what’s a little extra oil among cakes?
I added the other ingredients, in their proper amounts, and the consistency seemed right. However, when we tasted the batter, Bridget and I could definitely taste the oil more than any other ingredient, including the chocolate. This we took as a bad sign. We were debating whether to actually cook the cake or not when Camille walked in, talking on the phone, and without consulting me or Bridget, she stuck her finger in the cake mix and tasted it. She didn't sense anything weird (meaning she didn't taste anything weird, though I'm sure she could have used her other senses as well), so we decided maybe it just tasted like oil to us 'cause we knew that there was an excess of oil. We decided to give the cake another chance, and to teach me to read. (I wasn’t an English major or an editing minor at that point. I was an archaeology major, and dead people don’t always expect you to be able to read.)
Thirty minutes later, we had a chocolate cake, or what looked like a chocolate cake. Despite copious amounts of hot fudge in and on the cake, it did not taste like chocolate cake. Did it taste like oil? No, actually, we couldn’t taste the oil, which came as a pleasant surprise to everyone. It didn’t, however, even taste like cake of any kind. No, it tasted like cardboard.
I need not go into details about my despair. I’d had another of my kitchen catastrophes, and I was left cakeless. I think that gives you a fair idea of what I felt that night. On the bright side, however, I didn’t blow anything up, set anything on fire, cover the entire kitchen (surfaces and appliances) in hot toffee, or fling chocolate sauce on anyone’s expensive clothing. So I guess you could say the night turned out not so bad after all.
Hooo boy, did I want some chocolate cake. And not just any old chocolate cake. Oh, no. I wanted the kind of chocolate cake that has little streams of hot fudge running through it. I had fantasies about that chocolate cake. I could see it there, sitting warm and tempting in the pan, fresh from the oven. I could see my hand holding a fork and heading for that warm, gooey deliciousness. I could see the prongs of the fork sinking into the chocolate and pulling a chunk out, and I could see my hand lifting the bite to my mouth. (I know, I know. Where’s the plate, right? You’re thinking that I skipped the step where I cut out a piece and put it on a plate, or at least a paper towel, like a civilized being would do. You obviously don’t know me at all.)
I suffered through cravings for three days. (I told you they were relentless.) One of my roommates finally took pity on me and let me go to the store with her to purchase the ingredients that would end my suffering—and my roommates’. After three days of groaning, I’d succeeded in dragging half my roommates into the craving with me and making the other half crazy with annoyance.
But to put a true end to the annoyance and the craving, I had to make the cake. Now, I am the first to admit that I have had many mishaps with food: the Great Tomato Sauce Explosion; the Toffee, Plastic Bowl, and Microwave Incident; the Tolo Chocolate Sauce Fiasco…the list goes on. But in my defense, I am actually a decent cook, when I’m paying attention to what I’m doing.
I really tried to pay attention with the chocolate cake. I swear. I checked the directions repeatedly to make sure that I had all the needed ingredients. I kept thinking, Hmmm, this recipe does call for an oddly large amount of cooking oil, which should have been a thought that brought the rest of my brain to full attention. My brain, upon looking back, seemed to have prematurely gone into ecstasy over the mere prospect of chocolate cake, and was not available to give me a little help.
As I dumped the second two-thirds cup of cooking oil into the mix, I happened to look down at the directions again. And that’s when I realized that I am illiterate.
The requirement of one and a thirds cup was for water, not oil. Somehow, I had missed that little bit of information the first few times I looked at the back of the box. My reaction to this was (and this is a direct quote), "Oh, crap." I yelled the order to start bailing the boat, and began scooping up as much oil from the bowl into the measuring cup as I could without also scooping up chocolate cake mix. I estimate that I got about half the oil out, which left me with about 2/3 cup oil in my cake. The actual required amount was half a cup, so I figured, hey, what’s a little extra oil among cakes?
I added the other ingredients, in their proper amounts, and the consistency seemed right. However, when we tasted the batter, Bridget and I could definitely taste the oil more than any other ingredient, including the chocolate. This we took as a bad sign. We were debating whether to actually cook the cake or not when Camille walked in, talking on the phone, and without consulting me or Bridget, she stuck her finger in the cake mix and tasted it. She didn't sense anything weird (meaning she didn't taste anything weird, though I'm sure she could have used her other senses as well), so we decided maybe it just tasted like oil to us 'cause we knew that there was an excess of oil. We decided to give the cake another chance, and to teach me to read. (I wasn’t an English major or an editing minor at that point. I was an archaeology major, and dead people don’t always expect you to be able to read.)
Thirty minutes later, we had a chocolate cake, or what looked like a chocolate cake. Despite copious amounts of hot fudge in and on the cake, it did not taste like chocolate cake. Did it taste like oil? No, actually, we couldn’t taste the oil, which came as a pleasant surprise to everyone. It didn’t, however, even taste like cake of any kind. No, it tasted like cardboard.
I need not go into details about my despair. I’d had another of my kitchen catastrophes, and I was left cakeless. I think that gives you a fair idea of what I felt that night. On the bright side, however, I didn’t blow anything up, set anything on fire, cover the entire kitchen (surfaces and appliances) in hot toffee, or fling chocolate sauce on anyone’s expensive clothing. So I guess you could say the night turned out not so bad after all.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Le Grand Mystere du Petit Poisson
The sad tale of our many aquatic friends is long and complicated (and also a tragedy) so I will pass on relating the whole story for now. Suffice it to say, since November, we have been the owners and protectors of two small scum suckers. That sounds like an insult, but it is merely the truth.
Anyway, after our last eight fish died (that's the tragic part), I was trying to distance myself, in case my bad karma killed our new fish. Every once in a while I would look in, see how they were doing, notice that the tank continued to be a scum-free fishy apartment, and go my way.
But after a weekend trip, we couldn't find one of our little fish tenants. Usually scum suckers are not difficult to find, as they tend to attach themselves to the sides of the tank, but I couldn't find our friend anywhere. We searched the filter, and he was not in it, alive or dead. He's not in or under any of the rocks. And we were only gone three days, not long enough for him to decompose. And we have seen neither gill nor fin of him since. So here are the theories:
1. His brother in sucking turned cannibal and ate him.
2. He made a bid for freedom and leaped from the tank, ending his days in agony in an unknown locale.
3. He has been relocated by the witness protection program so he can testify against the neon tetra mafia he worked for when he lived at the pet store.
4. He’s Harry Houdini, reincarnated in fish form, and he has escaped his watery confinement to become a celebrity among fish.
Personally, I lean toward the witness protection program option because I've seen what tight groups those neon tetras form. Also, they are very flashy and I don't know where they get the money to keep themselves in such style. I have a feeling that Le Grand Mystere du Petit Poisson will remain unsolved--at least until we move in April, when we will probably find his poor little carcass, not quite decomposed enough to hide the bullet hole from the neon tetra gun that did him in.
Anyway, after our last eight fish died (that's the tragic part), I was trying to distance myself, in case my bad karma killed our new fish. Every once in a while I would look in, see how they were doing, notice that the tank continued to be a scum-free fishy apartment, and go my way.
But after a weekend trip, we couldn't find one of our little fish tenants. Usually scum suckers are not difficult to find, as they tend to attach themselves to the sides of the tank, but I couldn't find our friend anywhere. We searched the filter, and he was not in it, alive or dead. He's not in or under any of the rocks. And we were only gone three days, not long enough for him to decompose. And we have seen neither gill nor fin of him since. So here are the theories:
1. His brother in sucking turned cannibal and ate him.
2. He made a bid for freedom and leaped from the tank, ending his days in agony in an unknown locale.
3. He has been relocated by the witness protection program so he can testify against the neon tetra mafia he worked for when he lived at the pet store.
4. He’s Harry Houdini, reincarnated in fish form, and he has escaped his watery confinement to become a celebrity among fish.
Personally, I lean toward the witness protection program option because I've seen what tight groups those neon tetras form. Also, they are very flashy and I don't know where they get the money to keep themselves in such style. I have a feeling that Le Grand Mystere du Petit Poisson will remain unsolved--at least until we move in April, when we will probably find his poor little carcass, not quite decomposed enough to hide the bullet hole from the neon tetra gun that did him in.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The Long and Short
This semester I have drawn the short straw and am stuck in classes with all the anal students and irrelevant commenters. This doesn't always bother me as much as it is this semester, but then, usually I only have one irrelevant commenter in one of my classes, and the obsessive compulsives keep their disorders to themselves.
My technical writing class, however, brings out the worst in all people. I suppose this is what I get for taking technical communication, which is marketed to science/engineering types, who have a higher tendency toward obsession with detail. This, however, is extreme. And I do not exaggerate. I have lived with many obsessive compulsives, and I have a high tolerance for it, but this is beyond my ability to deal with.
Take, for instance, typical grading proceedure for daily quizzes. I swear that the people in my class think that in order for an answer to be correct, it has to be word-for-word from the book. I kid you not. I offer this example as evidence:
The other day, one of our quiz questions requested that we name and define an organizational scheme for written documents. I wrote down: "Sequential organization--arranging information in order of steps or time." The girl who was grading my quiz turned to me and said, "I'm not sure this is correct. I mean, this is the right definition, but in the book it calls it 'chronological' organization." I just looked at her for about 30 seconds while I debated internally about whether she was serious or not. Really? I mean, really? Was it such a big difference that it required a conference? Eventually she said, "Well, I'll give you half a point, okay?" I just turned away. I have, in fact, seen it called sequential or chronological organization. This is something we talk about extensively in my editing classes.
Now, what I want to know is do these people really believe that such small details mean so much? Are there not more important things to worry about? Whether or not it is ethical for our troops to be in Iraq, for instance? Possibly whether Obama will be a good leader or not? The state of the economy? Starving orphans who have been made to fight in bloody civil wars in Africa? Of course not. Forgive me for my joking. Whether the correct term is "chronological" or "sequential" is a much more important issue.
Speaking of obsessive compulsives and issues, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend in technical writing: the Irrelevant Brazilian. Now, I promise I am not being racist. Not all Brazilians are irrelevant. And, actually, his being Brazilian only relates to the issue in that his nationality is the only thing I know about him because that is all he talks about, in all his long comments, regardless of the topic of the class. How to write instructions? He comments about being Brazilian. Putting cats to sleep (actually came up in class)? Let's talk about him being Brazilian. The appropriate way to poach lions in Africa? Being Brazilian comes up in some way.
I am not wrong. Or kidding.
Every comment the Irrelevant Brazilian makes is both irrelevant and about Brazil. Or his family in Brazil. And, I get it, when you're that far away, certainly they and your home country would be on your mind frequently. But just because you think about something does not mean that it warrants a comment in class.
In my "Bible as Literature" class, the irrelevant commenter is not Brazilian, nor does he make comments about Brazil. Instead, he keeps his comments to things related to the bible, but he seems to be confused about what kind of class it is. And while there are certainly a lot of religion classes at BYU, "The Bible as Literature" is not one of them. Because of this, his comments come off not so much as irrelevant as they do know-it-all and sometimes holier-than-thou. Which is, in some ways, more annoying.
You may be thinking that this is the only connection these two people share (besides their gender), but you would be oh so wrong. In fact, they each have another thing in common: they are both in groups for projects with me. Like I said: the short straw.
My technical writing class, however, brings out the worst in all people. I suppose this is what I get for taking technical communication, which is marketed to science/engineering types, who have a higher tendency toward obsession with detail. This, however, is extreme. And I do not exaggerate. I have lived with many obsessive compulsives, and I have a high tolerance for it, but this is beyond my ability to deal with.
Take, for instance, typical grading proceedure for daily quizzes. I swear that the people in my class think that in order for an answer to be correct, it has to be word-for-word from the book. I kid you not. I offer this example as evidence:
The other day, one of our quiz questions requested that we name and define an organizational scheme for written documents. I wrote down: "Sequential organization--arranging information in order of steps or time." The girl who was grading my quiz turned to me and said, "I'm not sure this is correct. I mean, this is the right definition, but in the book it calls it 'chronological' organization." I just looked at her for about 30 seconds while I debated internally about whether she was serious or not. Really? I mean, really? Was it such a big difference that it required a conference? Eventually she said, "Well, I'll give you half a point, okay?" I just turned away. I have, in fact, seen it called sequential or chronological organization. This is something we talk about extensively in my editing classes.
Now, what I want to know is do these people really believe that such small details mean so much? Are there not more important things to worry about? Whether or not it is ethical for our troops to be in Iraq, for instance? Possibly whether Obama will be a good leader or not? The state of the economy? Starving orphans who have been made to fight in bloody civil wars in Africa? Of course not. Forgive me for my joking. Whether the correct term is "chronological" or "sequential" is a much more important issue.
Speaking of obsessive compulsives and issues, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend in technical writing: the Irrelevant Brazilian. Now, I promise I am not being racist. Not all Brazilians are irrelevant. And, actually, his being Brazilian only relates to the issue in that his nationality is the only thing I know about him because that is all he talks about, in all his long comments, regardless of the topic of the class. How to write instructions? He comments about being Brazilian. Putting cats to sleep (actually came up in class)? Let's talk about him being Brazilian. The appropriate way to poach lions in Africa? Being Brazilian comes up in some way.
I am not wrong. Or kidding.
Every comment the Irrelevant Brazilian makes is both irrelevant and about Brazil. Or his family in Brazil. And, I get it, when you're that far away, certainly they and your home country would be on your mind frequently. But just because you think about something does not mean that it warrants a comment in class.
In my "Bible as Literature" class, the irrelevant commenter is not Brazilian, nor does he make comments about Brazil. Instead, he keeps his comments to things related to the bible, but he seems to be confused about what kind of class it is. And while there are certainly a lot of religion classes at BYU, "The Bible as Literature" is not one of them. Because of this, his comments come off not so much as irrelevant as they do know-it-all and sometimes holier-than-thou. Which is, in some ways, more annoying.
You may be thinking that this is the only connection these two people share (besides their gender), but you would be oh so wrong. In fact, they each have another thing in common: they are both in groups for projects with me. Like I said: the short straw.
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