Year: 2011

I’m finally hardcore.

Posted on by Sierra

You must understand: I am a pansy.  I have reason to suspect that I am cold-blooded. I am always cold if the thermometer drops below 70 degrees. And even sometimes if it is 70 degrees, my feet are typically cold anyways.
So whenever I see a “hardcore jogger” jogging in any sort of inclement weather, I give them a vicarious shudder from my passing car, and burrow deeper into my sweater.
However, since it’s basically the summer months, I have decided that it’s about the right time in my life to finally work jogging into my life’s regimen. So this morning, resolute in my determination, I looked out the window. If there is even a teensy cloud in the sky, my jogging outfit consists of the following:
1.     1.Whatever shirt I was wearing to bed…
2.     2. Covered by a warmer long sleeve shirt
3.     3. Customary jogging shorts
4.    4. Woolen Leggings beneath the shorts.
5.    5.  Sweatpants on top of that.
6.    6. Snowboarding socks
7.    7.  Also, usually last nights smeary make up to ward of creepy construction workers that whistle at you while you jog. Gives me peace of mind anyway.
Still, I braved the perfectly fine looking morning and began my jog.
Have you ever been in one place and it’s not raining, and then step into a place right next door and it IS raining in that place? I literally ran headlong into a storm that passed over my apartment and began torrential downpour right along my path. Not only that, but winds reached hurricanic speeds, yanking the blossoming white flower petals from the trees. It looked like I was running through a tornado of snow petals! I realized with pleasure that if I had driven by myself in a car, I would have shivered vicariously for myself!
On my way home (which, admittedly occurred five minutes after the start of my jog), I passed a bunch of other hardcore joggers along the way. Rather than pitying and admiring them, I finally felt a sense of solidarity with them (even if they were wearing shorts and t-shirts). With pride and pleasure, I crossed “being a hardcore jogger” off my life’s bucket list in one day!
I’m never doing that again!
Don’t you just like the look on her face? Hardcore. Determined. Warm.

Noah Installment 2: Hand Bell Day

Posted on by Sierra

The hand bell tables indicated that it was going to be another horrible day in music class—another day where we had to shove our hands into smelly gloves worn by other smelly fifth graders, another day where we had to play “Hark the Herald, Angels Sing,” for the fiftieth time. We ushered into the classroom with various groans and found our numbered spaces on the risers with juvenile melancholy.
 “No Noah today?” Asked Mrs. Reynolds, her graying eyebrow twitching with ill-disguised pleasure. Class without Noah at least made things a little easier.
  The class exchanged perplexed glances. Hadn’t Noah ushered in with the rest of us? Hadn’t he uttered a dirty word under his breath when he saw the hand bell tables?
 Mrs. Reynolds perched herself behind her hand bell table and began another tiresome lecture about how we were never to touch the bells (lest our fifth-gradery-ness was contagious and infected the barrel with cooties). Behind her frameless glasses, she gave us looks that could raise our blood pressure.
The first time it happened quickly. Only a few people barely spotted the massive blue cabinet door open and close behind Mrs. Reynolds’ lecture. A slight whisper exchanged ears. The next time, Noah decided to savor the reaction a little more. The cabinet door opened, just a crack, and he inserted one index finger out the crevice. Slowly, and one by one, all of his fingers joined his index. From the risers, we just saw a disembodied hand waggling his flirtatious phalanges at us. There was giggling from the risers.
 Mrs. Reynolds chose to ignore it at first. Until various appendages of kept materializing from behind the cabinet door every five minutes or so. She started to blush, and get agitated as the giggles mounted. She checked her dress, and felt her bum for a wedgie. She ran her tongue across her teeth to see if breakfast was still lodged between two of them. Figuring that her appearance was normal,  she strapped each one of our souls to a lie detector with her eyes, but none of us yielded the secret source of our laughter.
 Finally, after a prolonged absence (Noah had a way with comedic timing), Noah decided to reveal his true identity. Slowly languishing in the laughter that sustains a class clown, Noah peeked his entire head out of the cabinet door. The risers erupted with uproarious laughter now. Mrs. Reynolds swung her head around frantically looking for the final source of the eruption, but Noah had nimbly tucked himself behind his safe haven again without nary a snap of sealing cabinets. Mrs. Reynolds was flummoxed and upset.
About midway through the class, Noah got bored or hot or something. The cabinet door opened its final time, and Noah silently crept out. The class collectively inhaled, certain that Noah would meet his doom. Noah darted right past Mrs. Reynold’s foot without being noticed. Now he was hiding underneath the hand table, so the entire class could see him except our woe-begotten teacher. Unfortunately, it seemed that there was little way to get to the risers from his current location. Then that characteristically devilish grimace slid across Noah’s face as he caught sight of Mrs. Reynolds’ foot. The class was silent, in solidarity for our comrade and his quest.
Noah reached down, every second of his hand’s dissent feeling laboriously slow, and then he pinched Mrs. Reynolds’ foot. She hopped, and yanked her gaze downward, but Noah was as quick as a jack rabbit. He withdrew his hand, and darted silently back onto his numbered spot on the risers. Mrs. Reynolds never even realized he was back. I think she even chose him to be in the first batch of students to play the hand bells that day.

You Try Being A Fifth Grade Girl

Posted on by Sierra

Every teacher has a Noah Osborne: You know, one of those kids that, as a teacher, you’re supposed to discipline. But Noah Osbornes make you laugh so hard that you can’t even inhale enough air to support your laughter, let alone breathe out the word “Stop,” with any sort of conviction that that is what you would like them to do. Basically what I mean is that Noah Osborne was a class clown. 
And he was good at it.
  To paint a picture of Noah Osborne for you, I turn back to fifth grade. The Growing and Changing unit: The unit pre-adolescent girls dread with their whole hearts and souls, and the only science unit wherein pre-adolescent boys give their rapt attention. To this day, I’m not quite sure fifth grade boys, or even girls for that matter, can handle words like “ovulation.” Perhaps this story will illustrate my point.
I remember one particularly alarming video that was supposed to assuage the girls’ fears about their changing bodies. For some reason, they allowed the boys to watch it too. I still remember this unnerving narration (complete with ANIMATED VISUAL, to make everything worse):  “Therefore, girls, do not fear. It is perfectly normal for one breast to grow larger than the other.” I remember as a collective female, the girls hung their heads in shame. It’s not like we had them anyway, but now we had to worry about size differentiation in addition to ovulation. The Growing and Changing unit was shockingly unfair.
  Noah had been one such young male who had given this video rapt attention (and if he feels like I’m singling him out just now, I assure you, he was not the only one). That day, during recess, he decided to put his newfound knowledge into practice. Claiming, what I can only guess, that he had the bloody nose from hell, Noah pilfered an entire box of tissues. He stuffed one side of his generic boy t-shirt full to bursting with Kleenex. I can imagine that this involved a sculpting process.
The other side of his shirt, he left completely empty.
Then Noah pranced into the classroom after recess, right in front of Mrs. Covert, chest proudly jutting out and announced.
“Look! I’m a girl!”
It allayed our fears better than any dang video, that’s for sure.  At least we would never look like that. We hoped.
Wanna hear the second Noah Osborne installment? Vote funny enough times and I will enlighten you with that one too.

This Blog Is About Wren

Posted on by Sierra
Today I am going to reward myself for waking up earlier than I had to by writing a blog.
This blog is about Wren.
I don’t know Wren very well; in fact,we’ve only ever met once, but Wren is an inspiration, my latest hero, and if nothing else, Wren deserves a blog.
Wren is taking Arabic.
Wren used to be a doctor.
Wren wears a stunning green plaid polyester jacket with a tie to school every day.
And an old man cap.
Which is appropriate, because Wren is Eighty-Seven years old.
Allie introduced me:
“This is Wren,” she said. “He is 87 years old, and he is taking Arabic.”
…At which all of the wrinkles in his perfect face defied all sorts of gravity laws by dancing into a grin.
“Aren’t I stupid?” He asked, chuckling a slow chuckle.
“On the contrary,” I replied. “You are very smart, and still quite stylish.”
I don’t know why, but I just got the feeling that Wren was recently widowed. I pictured him each morning over a lonely bowl of cereal, straightening his tie and shining his shoes, because classy is the only appropriate attire for school—or at least that’s how it was back in his day. Allie later confirmed: “His wife died eight months ago. He is a retired doctor and is trying to stay busy. He is hoping to go over and be a doctor in the Middle East now.”
I call for a Hurrah for Wren! Hurrah for a man who takes on such a difficult class! Hurrah for a man that loved his wife so much that he needed such heavy distraction. Hurrah for a man of courage,  a man who truly understands “Go Forth to Serve.” And Hurrah for Green Plaid Polyester Jackets too.



Hurrah for you, Wren. Hurrah for you.

Potty Humor (PG 13)

Posted on by Sierra

My boyfriend and I have reached a level of intimacy where I am starting to get to know the way his toilet flushes. So, though I won’t yet use his bathroom without turning on the sink to create a healthy obfuscating white noise that blocks out any potential bathroom noises, he still gets in his car and drives all the way to his apartment whenever his Mother Nature beckons, so at least I’m getting comfortable with him.
And since I’ve let myself finally get comfortable with him, I have learned to spot any anomalies in his toilet’s flushing tendencies—and on my last visit to Jeremy’s restroom, there was an “anomaly.”  And so after I got over my initial ten-minute shock and humiliation by pretending to casually eat my grapes and quesadillas Jeremy had just made for me, I decided it was time to test my boyfriend’s love for me.
I buried my head into his chest and asked, “Do you love me?”
Jeremy: “Yes. Why?”
Me: “How much?”
Jeremy: “What’d you do?”
Me (Barely audible): “I may have clogged your toilet.”
Jeremy (relieved and laughing): Is that all? Oh, geez.
I then immediately retreated to the couch and attempted to bury my whole body under its cushions, under the guise of needing consolation for my humiliation; really, I was just trying to bide some time for the bathroom to air out before we descended upon the Clog.
            When finally we braved the Clog, I insisted that any smells present already existed. Jeremy mercifully assured me that the Clog probably lingered from a previous occupant. And then we went in. Together. Scared, but oh-so-brave.
            And the toilet flushed perfectly normally. Of course.
“That’s it, Sierra!? That’s it! You didn’t even need to tell me, and I never would have known! There was nothing even wrong!”
“Jeremy!” I insisted, “It flushed different!
Jeremy (still laughing): “Did it, Sierra? Did it flush different? Did it act up? Did it misbehave?”
Me: “Yes! It did! I swear!”
Then, in the special sort of euphoria that only comes from not clogging your boyfriend’s toilet, I tackled him onto the couch, where he assured me that he could handle a lifetime of unclogging toilets with me. And then in a moment of utmost sweetness, he said to me, “Sierra, I love you. But sometimes, you’re retarded.”
It was the nicest thing anyone has ever said. 

Wednesday Weirdness

Posted on by Sierra

     The weirdest thing just happened: It was a Wednesday night, and I finished all my homework for the week.

     It’s times like this where you want to summon all the blogger powers at be–funnel all of that creative energy that’s been building inside your writer fingers for weeks but just hasn’t had time to be released from your fingertips–and write something truly prolific. 


But all that comes out are a few fragmented thoughts:

Concerns that gyms are only really for people that are already in shape.
Vague realizations that Disney has done bad things for females’ perception of love.
Consternation about your personal uselessness in fixing Bahrain or rebuilding Japan.
Unnerving realizations that sentence combining is something you consider a hobby.
Bitterness that you never built yourself a treehouse where you could burrito yourself into a blanket and read by flashlight into the wee hours of the rainstorm. 
The dull but omnipresent junior high hurt of recognizing that cliques still exist and your still not part of them.

So my dear readers, nothing profound or prolific for you tonight. Just thoughts to chew on for a bit. Also, Here’s an indie photo for you to salivate over. Thought it capped off my blankness nicely.

I’m off to go read a YA lit novel. And I feel great about it.

Happy Wednesday to you. 

More Important Things

Posted on by Sierra
Last week I blogged about hair. The next day, I was humbled by one of the most important events that will probably hit this decade.

I am bound by human hands. I am bound by the frailties of the human race. I don’t have the all-powerful hands of a loving God who probably wants to reach down to earth and clean everything up himself (and please, no comments about how God caused this disaster. Please), but since I believe that humans are his instruments, I want to help. 
Does anyone know of ways that my small, meager, American self can get involved in the relief effort in Japan? Does anyone want to help me?

The All Important Subject: Hair

Posted on by Sierra

I blame my Aunt Beth for this particular genetic blight. I apologize, Beth, if I embellish on your story in anyway, but this story is begging to be told, so it’s best done with a bit of color anyway.
           I believe it started with a trip to Europe, a country which is not as reputably meticulous in their grooming standards as us body-wash-loving Americans. Perhaps, as an effort to embrace European culture, while still retaining her American eccentricity, my aunt Beth decided to divide her body down the middle, using her nose as the Prime Meridian. For one year, she proceeded to groom one half of her body as any body-wash-loving American should; she brushed, shaved, showered, perfumed, make-upped, etc.
The other half—she didn’t. She just… didn’t. Didn’t brush, shave, shower, perfume, or make up in any way shape or form. She was half beautiful, half banshee.
One generation later, and the right side of my hair has decided to avenge to family “half side of the hair neglect.” Essentially this means: the right side of my hair never looks as good as the left side of my hair. When I do my hair curly, the right side lays lank. When I do my hair straight, inevitably some natural wave sneaks into the right side, throwing my whole pin straight look totally off. My pony tails even look bumpier on the right side of my head! No matter how much primping, no matter how much toiling, the right side of my head is always belligerent. 
This is why I have decided to take matters into my own hands. I will personally eliminate all hair unawesomeness by adding FEATHERS to the right side of my hair. 
Like this:
Glasses may or may not be included.
What do you think?! I’m so excited.

Curiously Blank and Mysteriously Pristine

Posted on by Sierra

My name is Sierra Robinson. And I haven’t purchased a new blank notebook in two days.
Sponsors, I have a problem. I am easily swayed by indie cover art and blank pages (none of this college-ruled nonsense). I purchase blank notebooks like cartons of cigarettes. Something about them speaks to me. Maybe it’s the un-cracked spine. Maybe it’s those seductively blank pages. Maybe it’s the pristine whiteness of potential.
Whatever it is, I’m obsessed.
This is my current collection of notebooks:


See what I do to them? 


Check on the spine on these puppies! They’ve been written in, pasted in, and beaten into submission so much that their spine starts to splinter like crazy. And this is just the college collection. I have a whole bureau drawer + a whole 3’ by 2’ container chalk full of them back home (even though I never really understood the phrase chalk full).
Apparently, I have a lot of thoughts. And a lot of time to write them down.
While some of my journals (namely the injured spine journals) are a raging success, others are less successful. 

Take this journal for instance:

I agonized for minutes about whether or not I should purchase it. I scanned the list of potential uses for this journal. I weighed the pros and cons of this journal and I decided that I simply had to have it. I decided it would be of great use to me, whatever it became.

And then.

I blew it.

I wrote down my New Years Resolutions on the first page.

And now all this book can contain is lists of New Years Resolution, and it has ended up a wasted collection of tree. 



This is why I am greatly perplexed about this newest addition to my collection:

This little treasure came all the way from Europe just to be with me. It is from the Belle and Boo Collection and I highly recommend it. 

But it vexes me because… right now, it has so much potential to become the next great American novel.

It could hold my deepest darkest collection of intelligent poetry.

It could contain the cure to Cancer!

But I’m terrified, petrified, immobilized because what if… what if… this British journal becomes another house of New Years Resolutions??
WHAT IF I SINGLEHANDEDLY DESTROY ITS POTENTIAL?


Friends, cast your votes: What should become of this perfect little notebook? 

And remember: Please notebook responsibly.

Sh-All

Posted on by Sierra
I think I’ve shared this with you before, but I’m not a graceful person. Nor do I ever plan on being a graceful person. When people see me coming at fast food restaurants, the employees don their ponchos and man the napkin booths, discretely dropping stacks of napkins on my food tray for the inevitability that food gets all over my shirt–or all over their shirts (I’m that spasmodic with a hamburger). Other manifestations of my lack of physical dexterity: I trip. A lot. Lately, I’m like Adele Webber, and ten points to you if you catch my allusion.
Take last night for instance: I was trying to remove my impediment boots, boots that normally are the cause of my stumbles, and in the process, I nearly fell–derriere-first–onto the floor. Were it not for my safety net of tall boy, I would have fallen to my tailbone’s demise. But you see, I’m not graceful in Vans, let alone very tall boots with large heels that aerate the lawn.
Which brings me to my point. My new boyfriend and I have a tallness problem. I’m not sure if the problem is his fault for being too tall, or my fault for being too short.
For proof, I have included the following photos:
Do you see the angle of incline that our necks are being forced to perform? Do you understand the inherent difficulties of craning? (Please note: in this picture, I am wearing three-inch heels).

And take this photo for example. See, here, the height difference doesn’t actually look all that alarming.
But friends, I encourage you to look closer, or at least scroll downward.
TIPTOES!

Friends, it appears I will be condemned to heels for quite some time. I feel like perhaps I should get better insurance, or perhaps join a group called “Short Support,” where we all get together and whine about not being able to get things on the top shelf, or practice wearing stilts.
Are there any Sh-All (Short Tall) couples out there who have had successful lives together that can share their words of wisdom? Would anyone like to alleviate my stress by telling us how cute we are together?
Because… honestly, truth be said in full, I’m not so worried about the height difference. I just wanted to show off my new boyfriend! Isn’t he handsome? And so very tall?