Excuse me, I know this is sooo Utah of me, but if I could dip the world in Ranch dressing, I would. I love Ranch Dressing.
I wasn’t raised on the stuff. Ranch, like Lucky Charms or Hamburger Helper, never made it into our family grocery cart when I was growing up. In fact, I grew up snubbing Ranch.
Nose upturned, I would order at restaurants in my “Daughters of the American Revolution” voice. “I’ll have It-ah-lian, please.”
Artless Foreshadowing: I have a vertical second degree burn–currently blistering–in an unspeakable location.
My sister and I? We’re spillers. We spill things. We spill a lot of things.
… And I don’t just mean they think I am mean or unfair.
It started with a student who thought it was cool to draw Swastikas on my desks. High schoolers are weird.
The first time it cropped up, it was a tiny little Swastika. I was faced with the dilemma: Make a big deal out of it and risk goading the Nazi in my class to continue, or just let it slide and hope the perpetrator will get bored after their graffiti failed to incite. Apparently, “letting it slide” only ensured that the Swastikas got bigger and more noticeable. Teacher Fail.
I’m a sharer. When I say that, I don’t mean like, “Hey, here’s a bite of my sandwich;” more like, I tend to share personal details a little too readily with an slight dose of hyperbole. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood. My sister’s blog is titled, “And Then Some” for Heaven’s sake.
Guys! It’s a miracle. Somewhere in between yesterday’s blog publication and 7 PM , I developed a real need, not just for glasses but for full-on bifocals! Fortunately, I was able to get a rapid prescription and glasses posthaste!
I have a movie going on in the background when I get ready in the morning because plots make boring things better. Today, though I’ve seen it probably six or seven times, I selected Sleepless in Seattle because it never gets old.
In different scenarios throughout my life, I’ve thought to myself, “Wow. Self. You are so lame.” Moments like when I wear tube socks with my moccasins, and any moment that involves me dancing–these are moments that I let myself believe that I am, at my core, a lame person.
I have been trying to explain to my boyfriend that Robinson’s have impressive gag reflexes. I explained the story of a family road trip where my baby spit up caused a chain reaction of throw up for my entire family except my dad. I’d tried to demonstrate the especially loud sound that occurs when a doctor jammed a popsicle stick down my throat. Perhaps he started to believe me when, in attempts to make me feel better in a night of sickness, he administered Nyquil to me, and I barfed in Technicolor. But if he didn’t believe me and my insistence that my stomach is typically in a volatile state, then he must believe me now.
What’s in the water lately? It seems that everywhere I turn there is love petals blossoming in the wind, or mainly in the Hinckley Halls common room. It seems to have become the domain of many a newly happy couple whispering sweet nothings into each others’ ears, making out shamelessly on the common room chairs which were definitely only built for one, serenading each other with a piano and/or guitar, playing tactless games of “footsie,” or even spooning for the whole wide world to see. What is with the mass influx of couples in my living quarters? Why must they so publicly share their feelings for each other with the rest of the world as well? Why do I feel like I need a blindfold and perhaps some ear plugs every time I saunter through the common room to the vending machine room for a snack?