Sticky Situations

When I was in Kindergarten we would stick pieces of paper together using what was referred to as paste.  It wasn't quite glue, the thick, white liquid known to kids today.  It came in a jar with a screw top lid that usually had a plastic stick attached to the inside.  It smelled like mint and, according to many of my classmates but not confirmed by me personally, it tasted good.  I never ate the paste.  I've always been proud of my ability to not fold under pressure.  It kept me out of trouble until... well... whenever. 

Anyhow... My kids came into the living room to inform me that they needed glue.  Apparently, there was a very important impromptu craft project taking place on the kitchen table.  I don't let my kids use glue.  I always squeezed too much of the sticky liquid out at once and would end up saturating the construction paper.  I imagine my kids will probably inherit that technique and don't wish to experience it in my own home.  I'll save that adventure for the school art teacher, along with the realization that if they coat their hands with glue and let it dry it will look like they're peeling off their skin.  It's a really cool sensation, but a mess I would rather not clean up after.

So instead of glue I handed over the modern version of paste, the glue stick.  This is the only adhesive product I trust my children with after the Tape Fiasco of '09.  I won't go into it right now, but lets suffice it to say that I lost an entire role of masking tape and Emily's eyebrows are still pretty thin.  Even glue stick has evolved.  It used to just be a cylindrical version of the paste I grew up with.  But now it goes on purple, dries clear and is washable.  I'm not sure of the purpose of this "fading purple" technology, but I'm sure there is a reason for it.  It doesn't seem to prevent my kids from smearing it onto the kitchen table.  But at least everyone keeps their eyebrows on.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

I don't understand the words to While My Guitar Gently Weeps.

I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping.
Still my guitar gently weeps.

Weepy guitar.  So sad.  :-(

I don't understand how those lines mean something together.  Is it because he knows he's wasting time fiddling with his guitar when there's obviously chores to be done?  Is it a euphemism for something?

I posed the question to a friend of mine who tends to be a very deep thinker.  His response was, "It could be a metaphor for how the mundane responsibilities of life intrude on the speaker/singer's love for music."

Geesh!  All I know for sure is that my floor needs sweeping, but I don't sit around crying about it.  I don't like sweeping because I usually have to pick a lot of stuff up off the floor first.  But the other day I adopted the concept of "if it's on the floor, it must be garbage."  This technique worked out well for me.  I swept up everything and threw it away.  It didn't matter if it was crumbs, twist ties, the kid's valentines, toys, a sock, or a big chunk of banana, all of which, I am ashamed to say, I found under the kitchen table.  I didn't even bother asking how one looses a sock at the table without noticing.  It all went into the trash.  I also don't like sorting socks, so it was a double win for me.

Like I said, I'm not really a deep thinker.  I'm a surface dweller of the mind.  If it's not on the surface I don't really care to dig around.  I took a lot of Anthropology classes in college.  I even went on an Archaeological dig.  This is what I learned:  digging for stuff is dirty and boring.  You don't usually find anything at all, and on the rare occasion that you do, it really isn't worth all the effort.  The big finds are rare.  In contrast, I have found money on the ground countless times.  Just lying there on top of the ground waiting to be picked up!  No digging necessary!  Awesome!

Whatever you are, deep thinker, surface thinker, diligent cleaner, or neglectful slob, you can't deny that a song written by a Beatle, sung by India Arie, and featuring the stylings of Yo-Yo Ma and Santana is a beautiful thing.

My Fair Lady

I'm super white...

I have fair skin.  Now, if you don't know me or haven't seen me in a while, let me explain further.  I have REALLY white skin.  The other day my mother saw my leg and said, "Kim, you're the only person I know who can put their leg next to a piece of white paper and make the paper look like it's old."  My sister added onto this comment with, "Your skin is 92 Bright."  They laugh, but I can make them go blind by reflecting the sun off my leg at just the right angle.  Also, the red haired girl at the gym who looks like a china doll was pleased to find the first person she's ever met who is whiter than her.  I'm whiter than most people, with the exception of albinos.  But really, I'm not much darker than them either.  The freckles give the illusion of more pigmentation.

There's a picture of me as a baby laying on my parent's bed.  It's kind of a "Where's Waldo" kind of photo because the sheets on the bed were white.  The only real way to spot me is to look for the dark hair.  If I had the picture I would post it.  Sadly, it's somewhere in my parent's house.

It's been uncharacteristically warm this March, so the inevitability of shorts, or at the very least capris, is once again upon me.  I decided to make Jergens lotion with sunless tanner part of my daily routine in an effort to blend in with the crowd.  Here's the thing about sunless tanners and bronzers; they make the assumption that you already have some sort of color to your skin.  They are orange which, on skin with any amount of brown, will leave you with a nice warm, natural-looking, sun kissed glow.  But when you mix the orange with pure white... you get orange.  It's not too bad in natural light, but combined with the florescent lighting at the gym, I looked like an Oompa Loompa.  Flailing around doing Zumba didn't help alleviate that image.

So my option this summer boil down to blazingly white, oddly orange, or sweating in long pants for three months.  I'm not sure where I'll land on this.

St. Patrick's Day

I have a very Irish sounding name.  It couldn't sound more Irish if my parents had gone with their original plan and named me Jennifer.  Then everybody would call me Jennie.  That's right, Jennie... with and "ie".  Combined with my nearly translucently-white skin, blue eyes and freckles, I have a look that matches my husband's last name.  So, with the Irish look and the Irish name I get a lot of questions on St. Patrick's Day like, "Where's your green?" and "Aren't you Irish?"  This was never an issue before I got married and still had my very Italian last name.

Here's the thing.  I look terrible in green.  Really terrible.  I used to have a green shirt that I would wear to work on days that I really didn't want to stay at work.  Within an hour, someone would look at me and say, "Oh, Kim, you look terrible! You should go home!  Honestly, go home before you spread your germs around the office!"  Since they insisted, I would go home.  Six years in that office and nobody ever caught on that I was "sick" every time I wore that green shirt. 

But that's how bad I look in green.  It reflects off of my terribly fair skin in a way that makes people keep their distance because it looks like I'm going to ralph all over them.  And nobody wants to hang around for that.

So technically, yes, I am just shy of half Irish.  I eat corned beef, potatoes and cabbage every March 17th.  I wear the little shamrock pin that I made with my mother when I was a little girl.  I dress my kids in green clothes and put their hair in green ribbons and bows.  They look like little leprechans.  They're adorable and look cute in every color.  But for me, I wear black and grey, with just a tiny bit of my one and only green shirt, a tank top, peeping out from under my black t-shirt. 

The New Job

I got a job a couple of weeks ago.  It's for a consulting company that does training for other companies.  I'm not one of the trainers.  Passing out in front of a room full of people is generally frowned upon.  It's a really grown-up kind of place where people wear sensible heels and makeup and do their hair nice before coming in.  It's been a drastic change from my life wearing yoga pants and sneakers and going days without wearing makeup because I wouldn't see anybody over the age of eight.

This is not my sister, but they do clap for her because she is
that awesome. It's a family trait.

My sister is one of the trainers at work. She got sick of working with temps who would screw-up her spreadsheets and told her boss that I could do a much better job. So they hired me. Nepotism is pretty awesome. Until your sister starts telling your co-workers about embarrassing stories from when you're a kid. This hasn't exactly happened yet. But I'm prepared if it does. I have pictures of my sister from when she went to charm school in the 80s. I keep stuff like that on almost everybody I know, because you never know when you'll need to resort to blackmail. (Just a warning, J!)

My awesome 5" butterfly snake skins.
Too flashy for work, but whimsical
enough for church!

I'm not used to wearing sensible heels to work.  I usually wear either sneakers or four-inch heels.  (I'm an "all-or-nothing" kind of girl!)  I love my four-inch heels.  I have quite a collection developing.  I mostly just wear them to church because I don't really go anywhere where four-inch heels are appropriate footwear.  And also, I'm short and my pants are usually significantly too long and I need to compensate with big heels.  However, four-inch heels are not really appropriate for this particular workplace.  Especially since mine tend to have gold glitter or red leather butterflies on them.  They're awesome shoes, and it's a darned shame that they're not being showcased in the workplace, but they're just a bit too flashy.  So I'm reduced to wearing one of my two pairs of sensible heels.  They are not nearly tall enough to compensate for my long pants, so I'm constantly tripping on the bottoms of my pants. I really need to get to a tailor.  But I probably won't.

The work itself isn't particularly difficult or challenging, but sometimes it's fun to just do stuff that you're good at.  Especially if it's totally impressive to people who would take all day to get a project done that takes you about an hour.

Work is boring.  Here are pictures of more of my shoes.

My newest and most awesome shoes, sparkly gold
6" Steve Maddens.

My 6" silver shoes that I had to buy to wear with the dress I
bought for my sister's wedding so that I wouldn't trip over it.
I didn't have time to get the dress hemmed.
These shoes are awesome and surprisingly comfortable.

My semi-sensible black boots.  They're only 3-inches.

My friend Jen talked me into buying these.
They are terribly uncomfortable, but super cute at only 3-inches.
I can't go shopping with Jen anymore.  I can't afford it.

Robert Downey, Jr.
'Cause the world is a better place
just by looking at him.