- sleep -
Eventually you appreciate that two hours of sleep is simply more important than waking up for that Aural Skills quiz.
- my hair -
1. Its smell. 2. Its twirlability.
If you know me, this will make perfect sense.
- coffee -
This is above explanation.
- tea -
This too.
- handwritten letters -
What else can contain as much as a letter?
- hebrew -
Who wouldn't love learning an ancient language that's completely useless for present-day conversation? But really. I get to read the Bible in its original language.
- singing -
I looooove singing.
Other people don't love my love of singing.
- green -
See "ode to green."
- shakespeare -
My hero. Who has ever used language like him? Who possesses that depth of insight into human nature? Yeh. Unconvinced? Let me introduce you to Dr. Thurber...
- words -
Maybe this is why I love Shakespeare.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
plague or prince?
Two frogs.
That's it so far.
At 8:24 this morning I plodded up the steps to the realm of the living (whether I belonged there just yet was debatable) and, as morning routine would have it, I found myself in my bathroom. Not that I harbor particularly negative or positive feelings toward my bowels, but I don't generally plan on this part of the morning ritual to hold all that much excitement. Then again, I don't generally plan to lift the toilet cover to discover a frog perched on the toilet seat, either.
At 8:26, everything was processing much more slowly than merits excuse. There I stood, in a state of consternation as only sleepy stupor can effect. Wow, someone had taken very poor aim. Gross. Wait. Even boys don't usually miss when it involves...
At 8:27, it clicked, as I stood dumbly in the bathroom doorway, and suddenly I felt rather much infused with life. It's one of those moments when surprise hits you like a slow-motion hammer, right between the eyes. I was at momentary loss as whether to thank the good Lord that I hadn't sat upon the amphibious fiend or to flip out that a frog had somehow penetrated the fortress of our house. Not to mention my comfort zone.
(Side note: I do like frogs. Actually, toads. Toads were a childhood favorite. Christian and I would collect them in the evenings and build cities for them in our sandbox and then set them loose. Frogs are significantly rarer where I live. And they can climb, which made them no fun for easy capture.)
After gathering my wits back up off the floor, remembering the harmlessness of the intruder, and reestablishing my long-held affection for his kind, I conveniently recalled my mother's profound disgust for slimy critters. So naturally, I fetched her.
Froggy was promptly evicted.
A considerably less eventful shower followed, as did brushing of teeth and a morning Bible study. Later logging onto my computer, however, was accompanied by a muffled shriek emanating from my parents' bathroom.
Froggy had apparently told friends about his morning exploits, as a fellow of his had followed suit and discovered my parents' commode. Unfortunately, Mama did not discover him until he had become rather intimately acquainted with her unsuspecting hind quarters.
Eviction number two.
This frog invasion has never happened before. I have never heard of this happening before. To anyone. And like I said, we don't even have frogs where I live - especially considering our resident army of cats and one wired dog.
This leads me to conclude only one possible explanation: divine intervention. And of course, there exist only two reasonable interpretations thereof: in short, plague or prince.
Plague?
Admittedly, after the second frog, Moses came to mind. As a firstborn, I have a lot at stake if this turns out to be anything Biblical. There have been no further frog episodes, but I'll keep you posted. If cows start dying or we break out in boils, I'm finding me a Fluffy (fellow Mark Meehl students, you know what I mean).
Prince?
May I be a transparent, silly girl with you? After recovering from the initial shock of finding the 8:26 frog, my first thought was - not kidding - maybe I should kiss it. Granted, that thought didn't linger excessively, but it was there. It wasn't until later that I regretted my decision to refrain. You see, not too long ago, I had a heart-to-heart with God about the woes of singlehood. Clearly, this was his answer: he had provided a prince. On a porcelain throne, no less. And - tragedy! - I had cast my prince outside! Alas!
As I lay reflecting upon my self-inflicted misfortune, a muffled shriek heralded redemption.
It's certainly interesting, isn't it, how an object pined after is somehow less desirable upon its reception? Especially when it is slightly flattened. In other words, I am recently persuaded that singlehood holds remarkably undervalued advantages and opportunities. And that making out with amphibians - royal or otherwise - is not in my future.
That's it so far.
At 8:24 this morning I plodded up the steps to the realm of the living (whether I belonged there just yet was debatable) and, as morning routine would have it, I found myself in my bathroom. Not that I harbor particularly negative or positive feelings toward my bowels, but I don't generally plan on this part of the morning ritual to hold all that much excitement. Then again, I don't generally plan to lift the toilet cover to discover a frog perched on the toilet seat, either.
 |
| photo by Christian |
At 8:26, everything was processing much more slowly than merits excuse. There I stood, in a state of consternation as only sleepy stupor can effect. Wow, someone had taken very poor aim. Gross. Wait. Even boys don't usually miss when it involves...
At 8:27, it clicked, as I stood dumbly in the bathroom doorway, and suddenly I felt rather much infused with life. It's one of those moments when surprise hits you like a slow-motion hammer, right between the eyes. I was at momentary loss as whether to thank the good Lord that I hadn't sat upon the amphibious fiend or to flip out that a frog had somehow penetrated the fortress of our house. Not to mention my comfort zone.
(Side note: I do like frogs. Actually, toads. Toads were a childhood favorite. Christian and I would collect them in the evenings and build cities for them in our sandbox and then set them loose. Frogs are significantly rarer where I live. And they can climb, which made them no fun for easy capture.)
After gathering my wits back up off the floor, remembering the harmlessness of the intruder, and reestablishing my long-held affection for his kind, I conveniently recalled my mother's profound disgust for slimy critters. So naturally, I fetched her.
Froggy was promptly evicted.
A considerably less eventful shower followed, as did brushing of teeth and a morning Bible study. Later logging onto my computer, however, was accompanied by a muffled shriek emanating from my parents' bathroom.
Froggy had apparently told friends about his morning exploits, as a fellow of his had followed suit and discovered my parents' commode. Unfortunately, Mama did not discover him until he had become rather intimately acquainted with her unsuspecting hind quarters.
Eviction number two.
This frog invasion has never happened before. I have never heard of this happening before. To anyone. And like I said, we don't even have frogs where I live - especially considering our resident army of cats and one wired dog.
This leads me to conclude only one possible explanation: divine intervention. And of course, there exist only two reasonable interpretations thereof: in short, plague or prince.
Plague?
Admittedly, after the second frog, Moses came to mind. As a firstborn, I have a lot at stake if this turns out to be anything Biblical. There have been no further frog episodes, but I'll keep you posted. If cows start dying or we break out in boils, I'm finding me a Fluffy (fellow Mark Meehl students, you know what I mean).
Prince?
May I be a transparent, silly girl with you? After recovering from the initial shock of finding the 8:26 frog, my first thought was - not kidding - maybe I should kiss it. Granted, that thought didn't linger excessively, but it was there. It wasn't until later that I regretted my decision to refrain. You see, not too long ago, I had a heart-to-heart with God about the woes of singlehood. Clearly, this was his answer: he had provided a prince. On a porcelain throne, no less. And - tragedy! - I had cast my prince outside! Alas!
As I lay reflecting upon my self-inflicted misfortune, a muffled shriek heralded redemption.
It's certainly interesting, isn't it, how an object pined after is somehow less desirable upon its reception? Especially when it is slightly flattened. In other words, I am recently persuaded that singlehood holds remarkably undervalued advantages and opportunities. And that making out with amphibians - royal or otherwise - is not in my future.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
a tasteful predicament
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| source |
Well.
That all changes when your taste buds grow - and I'm not talking about developing a pansy-er palate as you get older. I mean, something is wrong and they swell to three times their normal size. Your tongue hurts and every taste is amplified. You can still taste what you ate last Thursday for your mid-morning snack kind of amplified. You never knew that dish you are currently masticating does not, in fact, comprise ONE flavor, but thirty-four - and now you can identify each of them.
As an individual unfortunately prone to cold sores for the past couple years (apparently people in the U.S. start getting them when they hit age 20), I am used to taking a collective month-long fast from spicy foods each year (acids/spicy food exacerbate symptoms). This past week, however, has been a novel adventure. Yes, I have a cold sore... but no, this is not the typical experience. My tongue looks like it's a petri dish of pink warts (too grotesque? sorry...), and needless to say, my regular consumption of spicy foods has been drastically altered. I've waited it out a while, but recently I've decided to get others' opinions:
Mom: "Oh, Sara, you better get that checked out."
Christian: "Whoa, sweet."
Dad: "Buck up."
Dentist: "I'm not alarmed."
Internet: absolutely nothing helpful
Although these sources have been largely unhelpful, I have learned that enlarged taste buds are probably the result of the same things that spike cold sores: stress, heat, tiredness, eating spicy foods, etc. I tend to get pretty severe cold sores, so the taste bud weirdness is probably part of the package. Ugh. Hopefully these puppies cool down soon. Seriously. This whole being-burned-by-mild-salsa thing is killing me.
In the meantime, given the probable causes, I think I have ample argument to go sleep in a nice, air conditioned room. For a long time. And have ice cream when I wake up. Eh? :)
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
a woeful epistle
Alas! Dear Friend,
Perhaps it is the kindred spirit of dear Anne of Green Gables rattled to wake in me a speech utterly dramatic (I may or may not have spent an hour reading just now...), but nevertheless, I am afflicted sorely with recently felt and soon-to-come woes. O awful pang!
Shall I number my misfortunes? Please, do dam thy tears:
I am a most miserable Irish set dancer. Indeed, graceful motion alone seems to elude me. How terribly dreadful! You would imagine that out of my six feet and half inch, some part of me might want to cooperate with another, but - alas! - it is hopeless. More than that though - how dearly I wish to be Irish! Even in my imagination! But when one has not red hair (Anne, be happy!), nor Gaelic tongue, nor feet of an Irish dancer, what can be done but to succumb most despairingly to one's own fate? I thought perhaps taking a class this summer might cure me of my clumsy malady, but as the mirrors in Dance Room 301 so brutally honestly showed last night (my first class), my future remains bleak and ever so American.
When one finds despair in a particular corner of life, often he or she copes by finding joy in another, no? Words provide such hopeful solace for my wilted soul, and so naturally, I turned to Dictionary.com to browse my favorite words (no, really... I'm not being facetious on this point). What greeted me but this story flashing across the home page: "Obscure language isolate will die with this woman." A language? Dying? It happens all the time - and it is occurring with greater force every day as people learn global languages - but how sad it is! This particular language is called Kusunda; not only is it moribund (worse than endangered - no kids speak it), but also isolate (meaning that it is not related to any other spoken language). At any rate, this story dampened further my already drenched spirits.
And lastly, I have little joy for which I may hope in the near future, as tonight I begin my first math class in four years. Granted, it is only a summer course in college algebra, and I honestly do not find mathematics to be the dismal plague I so often describe them to be - in fact, math was once a favorite subject of mine... but where the open wound of my wearied heart craves the salve of sesquipedalian locution, poetic verse, and vibrant musical tones, it is slathered with a coarse cream indeed: sharp points of rigid numbers and dryness of exact measurement. How tragical! What hope can sustain me?
Friend, it is a pity to lay my griefs upon you so heavily now in our brief acquaintance - do please find it within yourself to forgive me. Thank you. Thank you ever so much for your patient ear and sympathetic visage. It heartens me. I can now surrender myself to the grave - or math class - content to know that I went with a speech most romantic. I am ever eternally, gratefully yours,
Perhaps it is the kindred spirit of dear Anne of Green Gables rattled to wake in me a speech utterly dramatic (I may or may not have spent an hour reading just now...), but nevertheless, I am afflicted sorely with recently felt and soon-to-come woes. O awful pang!
Shall I number my misfortunes? Please, do dam thy tears:
I am a most miserable Irish set dancer. Indeed, graceful motion alone seems to elude me. How terribly dreadful! You would imagine that out of my six feet and half inch, some part of me might want to cooperate with another, but - alas! - it is hopeless. More than that though - how dearly I wish to be Irish! Even in my imagination! But when one has not red hair (Anne, be happy!), nor Gaelic tongue, nor feet of an Irish dancer, what can be done but to succumb most despairingly to one's own fate? I thought perhaps taking a class this summer might cure me of my clumsy malady, but as the mirrors in Dance Room 301 so brutally honestly showed last night (my first class), my future remains bleak and ever so American.
When one finds despair in a particular corner of life, often he or she copes by finding joy in another, no? Words provide such hopeful solace for my wilted soul, and so naturally, I turned to Dictionary.com to browse my favorite words (no, really... I'm not being facetious on this point). What greeted me but this story flashing across the home page: "Obscure language isolate will die with this woman." A language? Dying? It happens all the time - and it is occurring with greater force every day as people learn global languages - but how sad it is! This particular language is called Kusunda; not only is it moribund (worse than endangered - no kids speak it), but also isolate (meaning that it is not related to any other spoken language). At any rate, this story dampened further my already drenched spirits.
And lastly, I have little joy for which I may hope in the near future, as tonight I begin my first math class in four years. Granted, it is only a summer course in college algebra, and I honestly do not find mathematics to be the dismal plague I so often describe them to be - in fact, math was once a favorite subject of mine... but where the open wound of my wearied heart craves the salve of sesquipedalian locution, poetic verse, and vibrant musical tones, it is slathered with a coarse cream indeed: sharp points of rigid numbers and dryness of exact measurement. How tragical! What hope can sustain me?
Friend, it is a pity to lay my griefs upon you so heavily now in our brief acquaintance - do please find it within yourself to forgive me. Thank you. Thank you ever so much for your patient ear and sympathetic visage. It heartens me. I can now surrender myself to the grave - or math class - content to know that I went with a speech most romantic. I am ever eternally, gratefully yours,
Sara
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