kimberrykim

Things I Smashed This Week

2011-10-21T10:44:00.000-07:00

Waking up after a head injury is always a relief. Granted, the lump on my head wasn’t huge, but I did fall asleep thinking, “Blood could be squirting all inside my brain. Eh, probably not. Boy, I sure am sleepy…”

It’s been quite a week really, even without the head injury. It all started when I smashed a mom in the bus doors. It wasn’t on purpose exactly. I mean, it was intentional, I just didn’t mean to smash her. The mom met me at the stop, and when I opened the door, she stood on the street and leaned into the stairwell to discuss something about her kid. As the conversation grew longer, I glanced in my giant bus mirror and noticed my stop signs were still out and traffic was piling up behind me. I thought, “Oh shoot! Stop signs, blocking traffic. Hit button!” I slammed the sign button, completely forgetting it was the same button that operates the door. Then I hear, “Aaahh Aahh AOWW!” and turn to see the mom bracing herself as the doors attempt to compact her. I tried to apologize, but it’s hard to convince someone you weren’t trying to smash them on purpose when they clearly see you hit the smash button right in front of their face. Anyway, I’m sure she’s fine.

The oak tree limbs are a little lower than I thought in one neighborhood. I usually drive in the middle of the road to avoid hitting limbs, but this week there was a car in the other lane, so I eyed the height of the branch in my lane and thought, “I’m probably ok…” and hit the gas. Then I heard, “CAHFUMPPABLUHGRAHGGR…” across the top of the bus. Simultaneously, the emergency exit alarms started blaring. The branch had ripped the ceiling emergency hatch loose and broken some plastic thing into in a million pieces on the floor. Whatever the plastic thing used to be was necessary to trip the switch and make the emergency alarm to stop. On a school bus, if the emergency alarms are on for longer than 30 seconds, the horn starts honking. So there I am, bus parked on the side of the road, alarms blasting and horn honking, and I am standing on the bus seats trying to shove shards of plastic into the emergency hatch. My efforts were fruitless. I decided I would have to just honk and alarm my way through the neighborhood like a giant ambulance. Then I remembered that when the alarms are going, the engine won’t start. So I finally had to call in on the two way radio. “Um, Transportation, this is 74, I just hit a tree…” They had to send the rescue bus.

After a busy week of smashing people and trees, I wanted some soup. As I was taking the bowl out of the microwave, I dropped the bowl and spilled soup all over the floor. I cleaned the floor, stood up, and slammed my head into the open microwave door so hard that the door flew off, landed on the rest of the soup, and sent soup flying everywhere. I instantly dropped to the ground and did that thing where you’re crying because it hurts and laughing at the same time because you know how stupid you just looked, and the people watching aren’t sure if you’re hurt, so they keep asking you if you’re ok, which is motivated both by concern and the fact that they’re trying really hard not to laugh until they know you’re ok, so to give them the green light, you squeak out, “I’m ok” and you hold your throbbing head as they die laughing. So anyway, I have a little gash in my head. It hurt real bad, but didn’t kill me in my sleep, so we’re good.

I have a black light. You probably don't.

2011-08-07T20:48:00.000-07:00

My friend Danny ran into the meeting room at camp screaming that he had just been stung by a scorpion. The panic on his face proved he thought he had been stung by the Indiana Jones kind of scorpion, the kind that causes blood to trickle from your ears just slowly enough to make you realize something’s wrong, then you die. Texas scorpions hurt like fire, but they don’t kill. Danny didn’t know this. Anyway, he ran into the room shouting that he had just been stung, fear darting from his words. The spontaneous group overreaction could not have been choreographed more beautifully.

Paul screamed, “Hurry, take off your shirt!!”

Tim bolted out of the room, “I’ll get the ice!”

The other guys shoved him onto the couch, elevated his feet, took off his shoes, and tied a tourniquet to his arm, all faster than the secret service would have responded to gunfire.

Tim ran back in with ice, “Hurry, rub this all over your chest!!”

Paul hit a button on his watch like he was timing whether their efforts would be enough to slow the poison, and in turn, avoid Danny’s untimely death. Danny spent the next 47 seconds vigorously rubbing large ice chunks all over his chest. He eventually clued in, but not before he freezer burned his entire torso.

I’ve always thought scorpions were kinda funny because of that memory.
Yeah, killer sharks are kinda funny too, until one ATTACKS YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.

So there I was, minding my own business, dead asleep at 2:37am, when I felt an intense searing pain on my rib. I jumped up and clasped my hand over the rib where the freakish pain originated. Something instantly moved UNDER MY SHIRT. As my shirt was flying across the room, I saw the scorpion bail out and sail to the floor. He defiantly scampered toward the dresser waving his stinger tail in the air shouting, “Boooyah! You thought you were sleeping! Bwahhaha…”

At that point, I was not only awake, but I was convinced there were at least 20 more scorpions hiding in my hair. I started awkwardly thrashing my hair around, hoping to dislodge the scorpions before their next attack. The scene reminded me of Julie Efferson’s sixth grade slumber party where we decided to make our own Def Leopard video.

By 2:43am, I was researching how to annihilate scorpions from the earth. Apparently scorpions glow in black light, much like those plastic stars that stick on the ceiling in your bedroom. So I did what every normal 35 year old does, I bought a black light. The bulb fits into a typical lamp, so every night for a few weeks I turned off all the lights in the house and went scorpion hunting. I know, real mature. I have no idea what the neighbors thought as I walked around our pitch black house with my homemade light saber.

We haven’t had any scorpion sightings in a while, so I’ve chilled out and stopped hunting at night. I still have a cool black light though, which I’m pretty sure secretly makes everyone a little jealous.

Lice In Justness

2011-08-06T13:58:00.000-07:00

My Yahoo account was hacked and I unknowingly sent shady e-mails to every contact I’ve met over the last 6 years. I feel dirty. Like I have lice and now everyone knows.

Stephanie Flanders always had lice in third grade. The nurse would come to our classroom, put on blue gloves and would somehow use a pencil eraser to check each person’s hair. The nurse would leave and suddenly Mrs. Morgan would need someone to run an errand. Who did she always choose? Stephanie Flanders. In our little judgmental third grade minds, Stephanie probably never bathed and clearly never washed her hair. Hence the lice.

I need to be honest. I have subconsciously, but piously blamed some of my friends for their own cyber lice. I have assumed because of their shady e-mails, that they simply weren’t technologically savvy. They must be the dorks who actually open attachments on cheesy forwards, and now they have cooties. I’ve even assumed on occasion that the pills or the magazine subscriptions they accidentally sent everyone were probably a mere one degree of separation from something for which they were actually shopping. I mean, let’s be honest.

I was wrong. I was judgmental. I got lice.

I’m most embarrassed about the fringe people that received my scandalous e-mails. And really, it’s not so much the actual spam e-mail that is embarrassing, it’s the fact that many of those people were even on my contact list at all. I’ve never deleted a contact. So ex-boyfriends, former employers, a guy who bought something off craigslist, and some hot Australian guys I met in a hostel in South America all received my e-mail. What if the Aussie guy thinks, “Ha, she kept me on her contacts list all this time, she probably has a thing for me”? Actually, I guess that wouldn’t be all bad. He had a great accent. In fact, he’d probably be totally into me too, if it weren’t for the lice.

The Naked Bus

2010-11-06T07:37:00.001-07:00

* Due to the vast number of people that reached this site after googling "naked bus" or "naked people on bus" or "pictures of naked people on bus" I decided to offer this link. http://www.settingcaptivesfree.com/ I probably don't know you or your story, but I honestly wish the best for you in this life. Cheers.

* Also, if you were trying to find the cheap New Zealand bus line (where people are thankfully fully clothed,) here is the website. http://nakedbus.com/nz/bus/

This summer, I drove a giant yellow school bus full of naked people. Well, they weren't really naked, but when I pretended they were, I'd start laughing every time.

People float through town on tubes here in New Braunfels. I pick them up at the end of the river and take them to their cars. I drive the naked bus. Try not to be jealous.

I hate meetings.

2010-10-21T12:42:00.000-07:00

I’m not typically a violent person.

As I was doodling flowers and drawing awesome 3D boxes, I heard the microphone person ask if there were any questions. I am astounded by adults who think it’s appropriate to ask questions in a large group setting. When the speaker is finished, the meeting is over. Do not ask your questions.

When Jennifer in 3rd grade talked a lot and asked too many questions and kept us from having extra kickball time at the end of the day, we found her at recess and took care of it. “Stupid Jennifer? If you shut up, we get kickball time. Duh.” If verbal encouragement didn’t work, stomping on her feet would do the trick. I’m now realizing that playground mafia was not allowed in some parts of the country. Linda, from a meeting I recently attended, clearly never had her feet stomped.

Linda kept asking questions that applied only to Linda. I don’t understand why the microphone person kept answering. She could have said, “Stupid Linda, that question only applies to you; let’s talk after this meeting so we don’t waste the lives of everyone else in this room.” But she did not.

I contemplated what should happen to Linda. It’s not her fault that no one ever stomped on her feet earlier in life. But Linda started an avalanche. Ronnie and Barbara suddenly had recurring dumb questions, some of which were already answered earlier in the meeting. Susan rattled on with a story about her sister-in-law who worked in an office that didn’t allow employees to eat gum. When Peggy gave a lengthy diatribe about open-toed shoes being unprofessional and causing the spread of staff infections, I began planning my attack on Linda. She was the instigator of the question and story vomiting. Due only to vast personal restraint, I decided on plan C. You’re welcome, Linda.

Plan C:
In one Ninja-like motion, I will backflip onto my table, or maybe do one of those side cartwheel flips that Ninja’s do, I’m not sure which yet. Anyway, in mid-air I will begin a Banshee war cry at the top of my lungs. Eiiieeiiieeeeeiiieeee!!! With cat-like swiftness, in three easy steps, I will bound across the tabletops to Linda’s location. Linda’s perplexed, questioning stare will only fuel my full-out lineman tackle that will lift her from her chair and send her to the ground with a, “Thwump,” like a raccoon being hit by a truck. The room will gasp, and then grow curiously quiet. I will release her from our now awkward bear hug and simply place my hand on her forehead. You totally can’t get up when someone does that. In slow motion, I will put my pointer finger over my lips, pause for effect, then say, “shhhh.” I will remove my hand from her forehead, climb slowly to the middle of the table and stand, silent and confident. Then, in just above a whisper, I will softly pat Ronnie on the head and say… duck. Then Barbara, long pause…duck. Then Peggy, duck. I will stare at the microphone person for an awkward amount of time, then dart across the table to the front of the room, shouting ‘DUCK’ and whopping people on the head as I pass them. I will grab the mic, and with Jack Nicholson authority and creepiness, I will bellow, “GOOOOSE!” and bail out the window. Because that’s what Ninjas do.

Anyway, if I am ever in a meeting with you, and a paper ball with a rock inside thumps into your temporal lobe while you're asking a question, just be thankful I chose plan D.

Paul's Blog

2010-09-28T17:12:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged lately. I'll have some new stuff soon.

My youngest brother Paul is now blogging:

http://pwberry.blogspot.com/2010/09/10-things-having-new-boy-has-taught-me.html

His blog makes me laugh to the point of facial pain.

July

2010-08-02T16:36:00.000-07:00

Here is what happens when I combine Blue, Grey, and Orange:

And here is what happens when God combines Blue, Grey, and Orange:

Me: Not so awesome.
God: Crazy Awesome.

We had some storms this summer, followed by some sunsets.

I took pictures.

Anti-Cancer Soup

2010-07-25T20:48:00.000-07:00

I am on a health food rampage. Recently I’ve been existing primarily on foods promising to boost my immunity, clear my skin, burn my fat, decrease my cholesterol, and make me completely invincible. So when I saw this recipe for a soup that fights cancer, I almost dropped my tofu and cried. I don’t have cancer, but I figure if I load up on this stuff, any potential cancer attacks will be thwarted by the irrational amount of spinach, kale, flax seeds, leeks, celery, acai, green tea and goji berries already in my system. A preemptive measure if you will. So, I set out to make this famous anti-cancer soup. Following recipes is not my forte, but since this is cancer we’re fighting, I did exactly what I was asked. However…

Confusion:
The recipe clearly prohibited chopping any vegetables, but said to put 10 whole zucchini, 3 whole leek stalks, and 4 whole onions into a pot with an inch of water. I wish I had a picture of how dumb this looked, zucchini piled like a giant campfire, onions falling out of the pot, leeks trying to escape….

Problem:
So you’re supposed to steam these vegetables for a while then chunk them into a blender with some other ingredients. This blending step caused my soup to quadruple in size. I used every large bowl-shaped container in the house to contain the sudden 40 gallons of soup.

Another Problem:
I have never seen pre-digested food this texture or this shade of green. After the blending, the soup looked and smelled like a giant cow had eaten and vomited 9,000 little green army men into the pot on my stove. I tried not to lose hope. I added the last few ingredients and tasted the famed anti-cancer soup.

Result:
SICK OUT. I could not possibly eat enough of this soup to ward off cancer. I couldn’t even finish one trial spoonful. In a matter of seconds, all 40 gallons of anti-cancer soup gurgled down the sink, sludged through the disposal, and oozed into the sewer where it belongs. New Braunfels sewer rats will be rock stars in the world of lab testing. As for me, tonight free radicals will float recklessly through my body, oxidizing all over the place.

The Dawn of Evening

2010-06-28T20:06:00.000-07:00

A)

B)

So apparently when you run out of that Cascade powder stuff, you can't just dump liquid Dawn in that little flippy soap thing on the door.

Longish Sleeves

2010-05-10T20:29:00.000-07:00

My long sleeve shirts start out normal, with the torso and sleeves spanning typical human body proportions. The cotton is always soft, the colors are vibrant, the shirts are perfect. Then something happens. My sleeves shrink. Only my sleeves. The rest of my shirt is still perfect, but my sleeves lose any semblance of proportionality and rest an exceptionally awkward distance from my wrist. Not only are my new 5/8 sleeve shirts a clear fashion disaster, they are also remarkably uncomfortable.

I do not like awkwardly short long-sleeve shirts. I much prefer all other sleeve issues. Like bunchy sleeve.

Bunchy sleeve occurs when the cuff is tight enough to rest appropriately on the wrist, but the sleeve is entirely too long, thereby creating a large bunch above the wrist.

Bunchy sleeve is not fun, but it is preferable to delastic nocuff.

Delastic nocuff is the sad situation in which the sleeve was actually the right length for once, but cuff elasticity was less than exceptional. This unfortunate situation leaves the weakened, stretched out cuff susceptible to unintentional dunking in soups and cereals.

Possibly the worst situation is delastic nocuff post-bunchy sleeve. This is a sleeve that was formerly bunchy sleeve, but the elastic in the cuff weakened and created that, “bless her heart she has no arms” look. Once a sleeve has reached this point, there is no return.

Bermuda Triangles and Resumes

2010-04-18T16:38:00.000-07:00

*Disclaimer: The following opinions do not reflect the views of former housemate Erin DuBose. The rest of us however, wholeheartedly agree.

September 16, 1950 marked the first allegation of mysterious disappearances in the region now referred to as the Bermuda Triangle. The unexplainable phenomenon created an overwhelming sense of fear and dread to the families of people who insisted on crossing through these treacherous boundaries.

I hate snakes. I also have little appreciation for attack bugs or lizards. This snake was found Thursday living under a rock near our fence.
Her head was immediately severed, and the lives of her baby snake children were not spared. I do not feel guilty.

I also found this little guy in the driveway this week. This was probably unintentional, but again, I do not feel guilty.

These little guys lost their lives in the door jam of our front door. Unintentional. No guilt.

I left the body of the dead snake in our driveway for a couple days, along with the carcasses of the other unfortunate reptiles and arthropods that ventured onto our turf. I hope our message is clear: Fear us. I want all snake families to tremble in fear when one of their loved ones ventures onto our property. I want certain death to thwart their travel plans. Die snakes, Die.

Ok, that’s all I have to say about that. I’ll work on my resume now. My only real plan today was to work on my resume. Instead I have cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed, finished laundry, read a book, and found a new location for our hide-a-key. If prospective employers tried to find the hide-a-key or could see how clean my house is, they’d hire me for sure. Well, unless they saw the murdered snake in the driveway.

Norman and the Blood Tester

2010-02-21T20:04:00.000-08:00

Years ago, Grandpa wobbled to his recliner, slurred his speech, and motioned incoherently while attempting to tell us something. We freaked out and rushed him to the hospital; only to find out his blood sugar was just a bit low. As soon as he took medicine, he was fine. Now we have these nifty little blood sugar testers at the house. If Grandpa starts acting loopy, we simply test the blood and give him some medicine. Awesome.

I want to create and market a hormone level tester. I would like a simple finger-prick blood tester machine that would notify me if I am crazy. For example, if I look into my closet and burst into tears because my shirt is the wrong shade of blue, I could take out the hormone tester and realize that everything I think and feel is entirely fictional because hormone levels are through the roof. I could then rest assured that in a few days my shirt would again return to an acceptable shade of blue.

I have also been working on creating a character in my dreams that notifies me of non-reality. His name is Norman. He is a thin, nerdy guy with brown plastic-framed glasses. Norman will hopefully enter the scene next time all my teeth fall out. He will wave red flags and shout, "This is not real! You are dreaming!" He will occasionally reassure me that I am neither pregnant, nor floating on my ceiling, nor marrying a faceless person I have never met. Everyone needs a Norman. I am also convinced due to recent events, that everyone also needs a hormone level finger-prick blood tester.

"Knowing is half the battle." -GI Joe.

My Car Has Gas

2010-02-07T16:50:00.000-08:00

…then terrorists entered our school, took hundreds of people hostage, and threatened to blow up the entire city…while under lockdown, my group of friends created an escape route through the school air vents…securing freedom for the entire student body…

I daydream while driving. This was a particularly good story, like Red Dawn meets The Breakfast Club. I stopped daydreaming and started calculating how much sooner I would arrive home if I drove 5 mph faster. As I was throwing numbers around in my head, I heard.…bbrrrrrrrrbp! It was from my car engine, and it was unmistakably a fart. My car farted. I instantly looked around, strangely embarrassed and paranoid. I wondered if anyone else heard my car fart. I remembered fifth grade. I was extremely quiet and reserved in fifth grade. I sat by the wall in the back of the classroom. One day my shoe made an inappropriate noise. It really was my shoe, but knowing no one would believe the shoe story, I instantly put my arm to my mouth as though I had intentionally made a fart noise. The teacher looked my direction upon hearing the noise and saw my arm in my mouth. She must have been extremely confused as to why the girl who had never spoken in class was suddenly making fart noises on her arm. I figured being reprimanded for fake farting was certainly better than the social suicide of people thinking I had actually farted in class. Anyway, 5 months have passed and the car flatulence has become a daily occurrence. I considered taking my car to the shop, but have resisted for fear of how the scene would play out…

The service technician would ask if he could help me. I would say that my car makes a farting noise. The man would try not to laugh. He would ask what kind of fart. I would say the….brrrrrrbp kind. He would say the …….bbrrhhmhorrrmph kind? I would say no, more of a brrrrrbp…a little higher pitched than a bbrrhhhhorrrrrph. Frank and James, two men with blue shirts and embroidered name badges, would walk in and want to join the fart noise game. James would stick his hand into his shirt and begin armpit noises. Frank would roar with laughter and claim he could make the real ones on command. Fearing the possibilities of Frank’s claim, I would leave the shop.

I won’t take my car to the shop. I’ll keep it a few more years then sell it to some unsuspecting buyer. She will probably spend the next several years driving around trying to convince everyone that it was just her shoe.

Berry Smoothie Explosion

2009-11-16T20:32:00.001-08:00

I like smoothies. Once a week, the living room at my house is the setting of an intense bible study attended by some of the most amazing people in New Braunfels. I do not attend. I watch tv in the back room and do other non-eternal stuff. I typically make every effort to be unheard and unseen while skipping bible study, but Thursday night I was desperate for a smoothie. Our house's open floor plan makes it nearly impossible to go undetected in search of food. I decided I could shield myself behind the refrigerator and half wall long enough to make a simple smoothie without being distracting. I crept stealth-like into the kitchen and began silently combining frozen berries, rice milk, yogurt, and a banana into the blender. I placed the lid on the blender and immediately realized the foolishness of my plan. Regardless of whether I hit liquefy, puree, chop, or blend, an earth-rattling sound was going to rip through the peaceful Bible study. Plan B. The back door. I could unplug the blender and transport the soon-to-be smoothie to the back porch and resume blending. Perfect. I went outside, plugged in the blender, and hit puree. The blender lurched into the air as metallic hammering sounds echoed through the neighborhood. I dove toward the outlet and ripped the cord from the wall. Clearly this must be one of those 220/110 electrical issues where small appliances explode when plugged in to the wrong outlet. Plan C. Patience. I decided to go back inside and wait until the study was over. A few seconds after the closing prayer, as I was still attempting to be relatively quiet, I plugged in the blender. The blender bolted to life and instantly resumed its violent metallic hammering. Out of nowhere, the lid flew off of the blender and a giant metal spoon launched into the air and landed with a great crash. The quaint, serene bible study group I was trying so desperately not to interrupt was now staring wide-eyed in my direction as smoothie dripped from the ceiling. Um, so apparently I left the yogurt scooping spoon inside the blender. Oops. I considered pretending nothing was amiss, ignoring their stares, and sauntering unapologetically back to my room. Instead I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. I had just blended a metal spoon. I finally controlled my laughter, poured the remaining smoothie in a glass, and returned to my room. As I was pondering the health concerns of swallowing shards of metal, I decided it would have been less disruptive if I had just streaked naked through their bible study. Oh well, the smoothie was good.

Simply Not OK

2009-10-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

I like toilet paper. The deforestation of countless square miles of pristine natural landscape is completely justified if the end result is toilet paper. My prolific use of said toilet paper is something of which I am both aware and unashamed. However, this week my appreciation for toilet paper has not only dwindled, but has been the sole cause of great distress and confusion. Unfortunately, someone in my household broke all unspoken sanitary rules by purchasing….single-ply.

I’ve never thought of myself as a toilet paper snob, but apparently I am. I don’t need high-end paper with six layers of ring spun cotton laced with silk beaded lotion and lavender fragrances, but your basic two-ply Angel Soft or Quilted Northern is a positive economic alternative. Single-ply is simply not ok. Here is our usual paper and our new single-ply paper:

And here is what happened when one drop of water was placed on each paper:

I’m not sure how to handle this situation. At first I tried to have a good attitude and thought, “Just deal with it until it runs out.” But seven days later there was still just as much left on the roll as when it started. The stuff is going to last forever. I share a bathroom with several roommates, one of which graciously purchased toilet paper for everyone. I don’t know who the supplier was and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by openly addressing the single-ply issue. I have considered several passive aggressive ways to rid my bathroom of the paper. I could secretly swap it out for all of Anna’s paper in the other bathroom. I could accidentally leave my hair straightener plugged in and touching the extra rolls in hopes that they will burst into flames. I could take it all to chapel and try to think of an object lesson involving horribly thin toilet paper. I even considered loading up the car and rolling someone’s house. In any case, unless I am in a third world country, a porta potty, or the woods, where the mere existence of toilet paper is a luxury, I will not continue using single-ply.

Roommate, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but your single-ply has been donated to a good cause.

Teacher of the Year

2009-09-03T17:02:00.000-07:00

Me. This week:

“I need each of you to pretend there is a bird sitting on my head. Please stare at the cute little bird and do not quit staring until I finish giving instructions…keep staring…thank you. If you are not going to pay attention, I will at least teach you how to pretend you are paying attention. It is a life skill, you will need it. Please keep staring….good job.”

“If I threw a giant handful of toothpicks in the air, would they organize themselves in mid-air and fall into a perfect log cabin on the floor? Of course not. Scientists have a very big word for that, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“If you’re not Jewish you’re Gentile. All of us in this room are Gentiles….well, yes, you could become Jewish, but you wouldn’t be like real Jewish. Like, if I moved to Mexico, I would officially be someone living in Mexico, which would make me Mexican, but I’m not like real Mexican.”

“It’s like that little red riding hood story. Remember her? She was headed to Grandma’s house with cookies and she went walking through the woods, and the wolf asked her about the cookies then ended up going to the house and…wait, did he eat the grandma? I can’t remember what exactly happened, but little red riding hood shows up and the wolf is dressed like the grandma and…wait, does he eat little red riding hood? I can’t remember… Isn’t there something about a woodsman and an axe? Ok, nevermind, this story is creepy.”

“If God told Adam and Eve not to jump up and down and squish watermelons with their feet, and they decided to jump up and down and squish watermelons with their feet anyway, that would be sin. Eating apples was not the problem, the problem was disobeying God. Apples are good, we serve them here at school.”

“Ok, I’m going to teach you a new game. Everyone stand in a giant circle. Now, you have to take turns pointing across the circle and saying the name of the person you point to. If you show your teeth at any time, you are out. You are not allowed to cover your mouth with your hand. Ready, I’ll start…" (yes, made it up on the spot, but we ended up laughing so hard that our faces hurt.)

Thanks Lilly Perkins

2009-08-03T14:30:00.001-07:00

Last week, I dropped an entire glass bottle of olive oil on the floor in the pantry. For some reason, as I gazed upon the massive oil spill, images of these guys entered my mind:

On March 24, 1989, 10 million gallons of crude oil were dumped into the sea when the Exxon Valdez rammed into something off the coast of Alaska. I remember feeling sorry for those little oily birds. Instead of reflecting on the random images in my mind and recalling the overwhelming ecological devastation to land and sea, my only thought was, “I’m glad I don’t have a dog.” It would’ve taken much longer to clean up olive oil if it would’ve fallen on a dog or a baby or something. Anyway, I googled how to clean up olive oil spills. I am consistently impressed with people like Nancy, Steve, or Carol, typically from the Northeast, that have taken the time to type answers to obscure cleaning questions. The general consensus was to soak up the oil with paper towels then scrub with hot soapy water. Lilly Perkins from New Hampshire suggested dumping oatmeal onto the spill, but I don’t have oatmeal. I could’ve used my roommate’s oatmeal, but I have been making a concerted effort not to eat other people’s food. We don’t share food at our house. We each buy our own groceries and cook our own meals. I, however, eat everyone else’s food when they are not home. I usually go grocery shopping on Sundays when I have great resolve to eat right and exercise, so I end up with fruit, vegetables, fish, and chicken. Then, by Friday of the following week, when I have fallen off the eat-right wagon, I am forced to borrow brownie mix and tortilla chips from my roommates. Recently, I have been on a Quaker Caramel Rice Cake rampage.

Trish had a huge bag, which I ate. So I replaced her huge bag and actually bought my own bag. Before she ever noticed, I had eaten my bag and her replacement bag and had to buy a replacement for the replacement. The madness only stopped because I had eaten so many caramel rice cakes that the roof of my mouth hurt, kinda like when you eat too much Captain Crunch cereal. Anyway, I didn’t dump Anna’s oatmeal all over the floor to clean up the olive oil. I used Trish’s paper towels instead. I felt a little bad because they were brand name (see photo.) I will replace them, but probably with TowelPro, or some other disintegrating non-quicker picker upper.

Oil spills are a bummer. I steal food. Two clearly connected thoughts.

Just Chicken on Plate

2009-07-16T16:51:00.000-07:00

Aside from the obvious misplacement of Florida, the chicken breast I cooked for dinner tonight had an uncanny resemblance to the United States.

........

R.I.P. Albi

2009-06-22T21:58:00.000-07:00

I’m not a huge fan of reptiles in general, but a massive flesh-eating 18 foot crocodile at the zoo is my preference to the tiny pink gecko in my living room. Please know that I had no intentions of killing the little guy. It was an accident.

I was in the driveway at midnight, as most people are, just as Trish arrived from work. We walked in the house and saw what appeared to be one of those rubbery plastic lizard things you buy at Dollar Tree. Trish even said, “Is that a fake lizard?” The question itself made me laugh, since we don’t typically have fake lizards lying around the house. However, this particular night we had a family with a young boy staying at our house, so it was possible. As we stooped close to investigate, the gecko dashed full-speed under the couch. Those little guys are fast, creepy fast. I feel like the translucent pink albino geckos are much faster than the green lizard sort. Anyway, given the option of catching the gecko and releasing him outside, or being attacked by the gecko while sleeping, we decided to catch him. Clearly, the best way to do this is with a Rudy’s cup. So Trish grabbed the couch and threw it across the living room as I chased the reptile and tried to trap him under the Rudy’s cup. The process took about 10 minutes; the Gecko darting to different shelters, Trish throwing couches, me running around with a Rudy’s cup. I tried to justify waking up the 8 year old boy in the back room and asking him catch the lizard, but then I thought it was probably poor form to wake up your houseguests at midnight to help remove reptiles from the living room. We eventually caught him. So then he was trapped under the cup, but what next? I sure wasn’t going to put my hand over the cup just to have him escape and run up my arm. Trish handed me a magazine to slide over the opening. This is where I’m afraid Albi lost his life. In an effort to keep pressure on the Rudy’s cup while sliding the magazine between the carpet and the cup, I think Albi may have gotten compacted. Thinking he was still alive, I tossed the magazine and the Rudy’s cup out the door. Albi did not dash to freedom as I’d hoped. Instead, he glided effortlessly to rest on the sidewalk below. Effortlessly, because he was dead as a hammer. I’m sorry this happened to him. Next time I will use better judgment and wake the 8 year old. I don’t hate geckos, but I am a little disturbed when their soft white underbellies are scampering across the kitchen window screen or across the living room floor. Dearest Albi, my apologies, please rest in peace.

Salmon and Chicken Jerky

2009-06-19T18:02:00.000-07:00

I learned in elementary school that penicillin was discovered when Sir Alexander Fleming accidentally overcooked a bunny rabbit he shot while hunting. He analyzed microscopic charred bunny parts and discovered antibiotic healing agents that have revolutionized modern medicine. Please keep this in mind.

I overcook things. I do not overcook some things, I overcook most things. Like water. I recently decided to steam broccoli with one of those cool foldy metal vegetable steamer things that you put into a pot, then you fill the pot about a fourth full of water, then you let it boil and it steams the vegetables. Anyway, I forgot I was steaming broccoli and returned to the kitchen a couple TV shows later to find the kitchen full of black volcanic smoke. The water had vaporized and the Teflon coating was boiling and creating huge cancer clouds in the kitchen. I don’t even like broccoli. I was just eating it to be healthy.

I love salmon, but the odor while cooking dominates household airspace. In an effort to be considerate of my roommates, I have started grilling out. We have a real grill, but I’m a little jumpy around propane and fire. So I opt to simply unplug the George Forman and plug him in outside.

Typically George does a great job, and grilling out is a fine solution, but sometimes the lack of overwhelming salmon smell causes me to forget I am cooking. Hence, salmon jerky. I turn lots of things into jerky on the George Forman. I do not recommend this. The taste is less than desirable and the fat-grilling machine is notoriously hard to clean. When I have not charred anything, I find it easiest to stick the whole thing in the sink and scrub as though there are not really electrical components. However, when I char salmon on the mini outdoor grill, I have to let it cool before transporting it to the sink. This causes salmon oil and burnt chunks to harden on the grill. Since it’s much easier to get burnt chunks off the Teflon surface when the grill is hot, I then plug in the grill by the sink in the kitchen. Burnt salmon aroma begins filling the house, and I just apologize profusely to all my roommates. Total catch 22.

I almost always boil water over after adding noodles. Noodles are high-maintenance. I usually burn the last few pancakes of a mix and the last batch of cookies. By then, I am already eating and have lost interest in the stragglers. I burn grilled cheese sandwiches, but only on one side. I do not know what a sienna is, but I liked the burnt color as a kid.

Note: Upon further biomedical research (aka I asked Paul,) it was determined that penicillin was indeed not discovered by a man overcooking a bunny rabbit. The more I teach, the more I am convinced that elementary teachers sometimes make up stuff.

Friends and Rivers (Episode 2)

2009-06-06T20:57:00.000-07:00

I love my Friends. I love Rivers. I love New Braunfels in the Summer. The first day of Summer, we loaded up the tubes and headed to the river. We threw the tubes in the truck, jumped in the river, floated for a couple hours, and walked back to the car. Then we headed to the local barbque joint and filled up on sweet tea and barbque turkey tacos. It was the perfect start to Summer. Then I went to Mexico.

There really is no way to fully capture the New Braunfels River floating experience. I will try in the next few days to paint a picture, but I will not do justice to the phenomenon called New Braunfels tubing. You just have to experience it for yourself. This is your invitation to visit. Anyway, Mexico was fun, but now I'm back. I look forward to sharing thoughts I have not had time to share in the past couple months. It's been a crazy season. :)

Attention Target Shoppers...

2009-03-26T20:24:00.000-07:00

“Attention all Target shoppers, Kim Berry is indeed not pregnant. She has once again accidentally strolled into the maternity section and has not yet realized her mistake.”

Ok, so I have this problem. I shop in the maternity section. I don’t mean to, it just happens. I do most of my maternity shopping at Target because there is no definitive transition from normal apparel to maternity apparel. One minute you’re looking at a Mossimo tank, then you stroll past the Merona pants, then whoops, you’re prego. I have this minor freak-out when I realize I’ve wandered from the appropriate zone. I have visions that everyone I know is huddled in the corner of the nearby fitness apparel section, all throwing out names as to who the father might be. (I just pictured that scene in my head as I was typing and I can’t stop laughing. Nine of you are standing behind the Champion sports bra display staring blankly at each other in total silence. No names, no one can think of a single name to throw out there.) Target should have more maternity signs, or maybe even a little plastic chain divider thing with a sign, “Stop, evaluate, ask yourself if you are pregnant, if not, don’t shop in this section.” Maybe that’s a little wordy, but you get the idea. Anyway, as soon as I realize my mistake, as nonchalantly as possible, I mosey on to the shoes and continue the usual Target circuit. The circuit always ends with me buying the Tear and Share size M&M bag. King-Sized is called Tear and Share these days so you don’t have to feel like such a fatty eating them. Instead you can just say, “I didn’t feel like sharing.”

Armpits, Torsos, and Photos

2009-03-12T09:26:00.000-07:00

The following 6 photos have a theme...

I was successfully and easily cropped from each of those pictures. Some time ago, one of the above people commented, "Hey, I needed a picture of myself. I found one of us and just cropped you out. You're really easy to crop." I'm not sure what the appropriate response is..."thanks?" or ..."you're welcome?" In any case, here are the pictures from which I was successfully cropped...

Christmas 06

Christmas 08

Shanon's Wedding

New Braunfels Thanksgiving

Badminton Tournament 07

Paul's and Heather's wedding.

Recently, I needed a passport-size photo of myself. I thought, "No problem, people say I am croppable, this will be easy." I quickly realized this whole croppable thing does not work in my favor. Each time I found a picture that could be cropped and used as a passport-size photo, my face was neatly framed by armpits and torsos...

Armpits and Torsos '06

Armpits, Shoulders, Hand '08

Armpit, Torso, Antlers, the UPS Store

Armpit

Torso and Shoulder

Armpit, Hand, Face

Torso

Armpit and I look naked

I realize I could try to zoom a little closer and eliminate some pits. The problem is that at a certain point zooming becomes awkward. You become a floating face like the kid in the yearbook that was clearly absent on picture day. No one wants to be that misproportioned huge-face kid everyone laughs at when reminiscing about the past. Alas, I guess I will choose to embrace the armpit and torso face-framing, and be grateful that my friends have nice pits.

"He pooped his pants."

2009-03-02T22:42:00.000-08:00

I have several friends that have pooped their pants. This thought occurred to me as I was jogging last week. A nice green porta-potty sits at a construction site that I pass when I run. I always think, “If I had to really go and couldn’t make it to the house, I could go there.” It’s kind of a safety net if you will. Last week, the potty was gone. I didn’t need to go, but panic hit anyway when I thought, “What if?” That’s when I started thinking of my friends that, at some point in their adult lives, have pooped their pants.

Now, before you start judging my friends, or decide you do not want to become my friend for fear that you too will someday poop your pants, please know that most of my friends who have pooped their pants have had valid parasite-induced excuses. In fact, most of my parasite laden friends acquired their parasites on mission trips to regions relatively unreached by the gospel. In this case, pooping your pants becomes somewhat honorable. “Wow, you’ve pooped your pants? That’s awesome! I hope I poop my pants someday…” As fun as it would be, I am not writing to tell their names and each of their ridiculously hilarious stories. I am more intrigued at the moment by the actual phrase, “He pooped his pants.”

The phrase itself makes me laugh. About 10 years ago, the word “in” was dropped from the statement, making it exponentially funnier. To say someone “pooped in their pants” is just gross and leaves you wondering why the person made such a socially unacceptable decision. However, to say someone “pooped their pants” instantly turns the situation comical and demands the entire story be recounted to an eager audience. The verbage is just funny. Obviously it would be biologically improbable that someone would literally poop their pants. That would raise serious questions about the digestive inefficiencies of the person involved, and it would certainly not be a joking matter. However, it is, in my opinion, totally funny to use the phrase to explain that someone has accidentally, for some hysterically inappropriate reason, failed to utilize normal sanitation facilities, and has instead, pooped in their pants.

“He pooped his pants.”

It’s just funny.

Becoming a local

2009-02-06T17:45:00.000-08:00

After a recent trip to Colorado, I found myself contemplating the possibility of moving to Winter Park. Obviously, in order to enjoy the move it would be imperative to buy new clothes, learn the lingo, and fit in with the locals. I started considering things that would need to change.

First, I would be forced to purchase a Subaru Outback.

I am both fascinated and confused by the popularity of these Subarus. I’ve always thought of Colorado folks as being adventurous and rugged outdoorsmen, so the abundance of miniature station wagons was very confusing. I did some research. Apparently, this Subaru thing has all-wheel drive, exceptional ground clearance, and the flexibility of a hatchback. Ok, but it’s still a station wagon. You can throw a ski rack or a bike on top and manage to look a little cooler, but in the end, it’s still a station wagon.

However, I would far prefer a station wagon to this:
We arrived in Denver after dark and were assigned the rental car in space 3-E. We laughed that we got stuck with a PT Cruiser, but we didn’t realize until the next day that it was pee yellow. People in Winter Park laughed out loud as we rolled down their Subaru saturated streets. A little old lady outside the ski shop literally giggled as she asked, “Is that your car?” Rude.

Secondly, I would have to make major improvements in my skiing abilities. I like to think of myself as the kind of skier that loads up a camelback with Red Bull, drops from a helicopter, and launches myself from perilous cliffs while X-Games commentators rave about my unbelievable skills. This is simply not the case. I’m convinced that my incredibly fast and reckless skiing causes everyone to assume that I’m wearing an IPod blaring, “Welcome to the Jungle” as my personal ski soundtrack. However, my friends assured me that based on watching me ski, a more accurate soundtrack would be similar to a jack in the box wind up toy. Da doo da doo da doota de do... Rude.

I’m not sure how to improve my skiing abilities while I am still in Texas. I thought about turning on the treadmill really fast on a huge incline setting. I could throw on some rollerblades and face downhill. I think it could work.

Finally, if I want to fit in with the locals, I would need to start smoking pot. I’ve never been a fan of the idea, but fitting in is a big deal. There are obvious benefits in the athletic world (see also blog 11/15/08), and it would probably be beneficial during my Texas treadmill ski training. We’ll see.

Despite the PT Cruiser ridicule, insensitive skiing criticism, and people’s prolific use of marijuana, this was probably my favorite Colorado skiing trip ever. Chad and Shanon, you are so amazing to let us stay for 4 days! I really enjoyed getting to hang out with you guys. Jason and Cheryl, it was great to see you, and thanks for the ski hook up. Andrew, fun hanging out, we’ll see you when the snow melts. Cody, I heard you are like crack-cocaine to youth groups. I guess that’s a compliment. Awkward, but a compliment nonetheless. Marc, fun trip. Great idea. I’d do it again. Oh, by the way, the camper picture was not Chad and Shanon’s house. This is their house and their super cute kid:

Thanks everyone! You guys are awesome. Maybe I'll be a local someday!

-Kim

(disclaimer: I do not condone the use of marijuana or cocaine or any illegal substance. I was simply making observations. Drugs are bad. Do not do them.)

Say What?

2009-01-23T17:16:00.000-08:00

The following are statements that recently made me laugh. There were more, but I can't remember them. Anyway...

“Mis, are you Irish?”
“Well, yes, was it my fair skin that made you think that?”
“No. Hairy arms. I saw your hairy arms.”
(5th grade Hispanic boy talking to the Sub…who is also my roommate.)

“So I had to go to the bathroom really bad, but I wanted to see the pumpkin carving demonstration, so I peed in my pants.”
(Robby…who is currently living on our couch…explaining why wet his pants in Kindergarten.)

“If the thought of kissing him makes you want to throw up, then he’s probably not the one.”
(One roommate giving dating advice to another roommate.)

“Mis, what is circumcision?”
“Uh, well, it’s uh, when uh, it’s….”
(My response to a 5th grader)

“Mis, what is circumcision?”
“Oh just some surgery baby boys have. Who wants to read next?”
(My response the next class period)

“Mis, what is circumcision?”
“You don’t wanna know man… you don’t wanna know.”
(6th grade boy blurting out his answer to his friend’s question)

“So Jezebel died when some people chunked her out of a window and she plummeted to her death.”
(I said that in class today)

The End.

I will explain.

2009-01-13T16:27:00.000-08:00

Documents were recently declassified which detailed my involvement in a particular branch of the United States government. Until this time, I have not been allowed to speak freely about my time spent serving our country. I was part of an elite team created primarily for the purpose of extracting political prisoners from territories hostile to the American government. I was recruited as a 17 year old and left for training the summer after my senior year. Of the 5,000 females recruited, only 8 were eventually selected to train and serve on this elite team. We trained with the Navy Seals, Special Forces, and the Israeli Mossad. We had specialized training in hand-to-hand combat, advanced weaponry, and reconnaissance missions. We were non-military agents serving alongside both the American and Israeli military. Many times, our role was to spend several weeks living in a particular area, gathering information, and preparing the groundwork for prisoner extractions. I’ve had more than 50 passports and identities in 27 countries.

After 3 years, our team was compromised and held captive in an undisclosed country. Our escape and the events that followed have been the subject of international investigation for the past 9 years. During the process, my true identity was eventually revealed and it became clear that my time as a special agent had come to an end. Details mentioned in the documents have caused concern among a number of family members and friends.

I am writing primarily for those of you who have known me for some time and have been made aware of this new information. I have heard some of you express that you feel somewhat betrayed, as though I’ve been lying to you for the entire duration of our friendship. I would like to assure you, the person you currently know as Kim Berry is who I am. Whatever you know about me is true, our friendship is real, and nothing that I have portrayed is a lie. I have, however, omitted any connection to my former service simply because, until now, it was classified information. As more documents are released, I will be free to discuss in more detail my involvement in various situations. Thank you for your understanding, and I look forward to answering your questions.

(I just wanted to explain why I miss exits on the freeway all the time. Sometimes I am a street kid who became an Olympic athlete, sometimes I save planes that are hijacked, but most the time I win Survivor and interview myself on talk shows.)

My Brothers

2009-01-04T08:15:00.000-08:00

I don't have time to write, but I love this picture from Christmas. I think it's hilarious that all my brothers were willing to take this picture. It wasn't even my idea. It was so fun hanging out with everyone!

Friends and Rivers. (episode 1)

2008-12-23T00:13:00.000-08:00

I love my friends. I have been blessed beyond measure by the friends God has placed in my life. The following is the first in a series of blogs that will intermittently explain why I love my friends.

Episode one occurred last weekend.
Location: New Braunfels.
Friends: Marc, Drew, Kimo, and Erin.
Setting: a river, a cliff, and a Volkswagen bus.

Marc drives a Volkswagen bus. I like having one good friend who owns a VW bus. Its just fun and it makes me, by default, really cool. However, if you have several friends who own VW busses, you are probably a weirdo.

We loaded up in the bus and headed to the cliff by the river. Wading across the river is freezing in December, but fortunately this time the water was really low.

Then we hiked to the cliff and and rappelled for a while. It was totally fun.

I’m not a fan of heights. I like adventure, but I hate heights. I also hate snakes. As I was rappelling down the cliff, I got to a section of rock that is covered by this thick green vine stuff. Just as I kicked off the rock, a huge red, black, and yellow snake slithered right where my feet were. I freaked out. Fight or flight gets really confusing in a situation like this. I could let go of the rope and plummet to my death (flight), or land on the snake and risk death by poison (fight.) Instead I just stayed on the rock screaming, “There’s a snake, there’s a snake, there’s a snake!” I realized that when it comes down to it, I don’t give a crap if red and black is a friend of Jack. I’m not hanging around long enough to find out. I’m pretty sure I rappelled faster than I ever have in my life.

Anyway, I love my friends because they are fun. I love that we can load up in a bus, go to the river, hang out, and laugh. I love that sometimes we can be deep and serious, but other times we can jump off of rocks or laugh until we hurt. Yep, I love my friends.

Ok, caption contest. Both of these pictures need funny captions. Any thoughts?

First picture, Kimo and Erin.

Second picture, Drew and Kim.

Please share your ideas. :)

Slightly Imbalanced

2008-12-08T17:28:00.000-08:00

So there I was, minding my own business, when I heard the distinct sound of an imbalanced load of towels spinning in the washing machine. Annoying, but easy to fix. Open the lid, rearrange the towels, restart the washer. No big deal. As I opened the laundry room door, I stepped into an ocean of raging water. The washing machine was bouncing across the room like a pogo stick as water was violently pouring onto the floor. Something had gone terribly wrong. I quickly splashed over to the washer and hit the button to stop the spinning, but the water kept pouring out of the machine. At that moment, the thought occurred to me that I was standing in water with electrical appliances that were plugged in and running. So I jumped on top of the washer. Yes, that was a good move. Always safer to stand on top of electric devices submerged in water. Water was still gushing onto the floor. I knew I needed to turn off the main valve connected to the wall, but I was still concerned about the electric situation. So I grabbed a sock. Yes, always grab a sock when turning off water valves. I’m not sure what I thought the sock would do, but it did give me enough confidence to grab the valve and stop the surging water. I breathed a sigh of relief and splashed back into the pool at my feet. Still standing in water, I was calmly surveying the scene when my roommate Erin yelled, “The dryer is still on!” With swift cat-like reflexes, I lunged toward the doorway and landed on the carpet, barely escaping with my life.

Erin and I stood there for a while, each quietly realizing how much work we had ahead of us. We don’t have a shop-vac, or anything similar. We have towels and trash cans. The carpet situation was serious enough to merit renting a Rug Doctor from the local grocery store. The hallway was soaked and water extended to nearby closets and walkways. We spent the next 5 hours cleaning. During that period, I had time to reflect on the situation. I had cheated death. Certain disaster was about to wreak havoc on me and my friends, but I had saved the day. Ok, I’ll be honest, that’s how most of my daydreaming starts… major crisis, everyone else freaks out, I am a hero, etc…but I’ll explain that another day. Anyway, I decided to call my brother Paul to see if I really could’ve died. He said no. Apparently, I wasn’t in any danger. He said something about valves and hoses and told me some stuff I should check. He knows these things.

Anyway, I am alive and well. My washer still doesn’t work. It’s leaking water from under the bottom of the whole thing…not the hoses, not the connections, but under the whole machine. Feel free to offer insight or thoughts, or to just come over and fix it. Meanwhile, I will keep daydreaming about saving the world and not being afraid of electricity.

Why the chair?

2008-12-01T19:39:00.000-08:00

Location: The teacher bathroom at my school.
Problem: The black chair and the bookshelf.
Question: Why?
Answer: Not sure, but I find them disturbing.

The black chair showed up about a year ago. Awesome. I don’t get to go to the bathroom whenever I want. Teaching just doesn’t allow for it. Finding time to chat with co-workers is also nearly impossible to schedule during a typical day. Imagine my joy when the black chair arrived, and I instantly realized I could chat with my co-workers while using the restroom. Perfect! No thanks. Then, about 6 months ago the bookshelf showed up. Our school has a library, classrooms, teacher’s lounge, and a work room, but somehow the fully-stocked bookshelf landed in the teacher bathroom. I’m a little grossed out by this. Hasn’t everyone seen the discovery channel specials about toilet germs flying out when you flush? I’m pretty sure lots of gross things fly out, swirl around the room, and land on every available surface. I wouldn’t eat a cookie that had been sitting on that shelf all day, so why would I pick up a book that has been collecting toilet funk for months? Anyway, one day when I didn’t have a co-worker to talk to, I checked out some of the titles on the shelf. Searching for God Knows What by Donald Miller is a great book (see photo, top shelf.) I read it a year ago, not in the school bathroom. I highly recommend it. In fact, I can send you a copy if you are interested. When you are finished, you can take a swab sample from the cover and grow things in a Petri dish if you want.

Turkey Worship

2008-11-21T20:25:00.001-08:00

I was a pilgrim when I was 7. I have a picture. I wore a white apron-type thing made from butcher paper and a cool hat. My friends were Indians. They ran around school shouting, “Hiyahyayhiya” and attacked people. It was fun. Since dressing as an attack Indian or a religious zealot is totally not PC anymore, it's nearly impossible to dress up elementary kids for Thanksgiving. So, we decided to be turkeys. I love my students, partially because they are so willing to be goofy. Nothing could’ve persuaded them that their outfits were ridiculous and should not be worn in public. They wore them in the hallways, to the bathroom, to the library and even to lunch. I realized about half-way through chapel that 12 of my students were in full turkey attire singing praise and worship. I couldn't help but laugh. Yep, I was that teacher, and they were those kids, and I loved it.

I'm pretty much Michael Phelps

2008-11-15T10:42:00.000-08:00

Foreign men in Speedos are teaching me to swim. I know how to swim, and I’m quite speedy if I only need to swim 20 feet. I just never learned how to breathe while swimming. I always swim as far as I can while holding my breath, then I stop and doggie paddle until I can garner enough air to swim again. It only seems like a ridiculous strategy if I imagine doing that as a runner. I don’t hold my breath and run as far as I can, jog in place until I can breathe again, and repeat the process until I reach my destination. That is awkward and very not cool, but all my life I have allowed this madness in swimming…until now. Charged with great resolve and determination, I typed in “how to swim” on YouTube. That’s when the nice speedo-donning foreign folks began teaching me swim lessons.

Towards the end of a particularly successful day of swimming (I made it the length of the pool breathing properly,) I was thinking, “I’m pretty much Michael Phelps.” Moments later, exhausted and clinging to the edge of the pool, I remembered all the Olympic infomercials about how perfect Michael’s body is for swimming. I wondered if I had any of the same swim-body perfections. I did some research:

Apparently, Michael is 6’4” and has a 6’7” wingspan, size 14 feet, double-jointed knees and ankles, and disproportionately short legs.

I am 5’3” with a 5’3” wingspan, size 7 feet, and single-jointed knees and ankles. At first glance, that makes us sound significantly different, but let’s not forget the disproportionately short legs. I have a short whole body, which means less drag and a serious advantage against tall people. Combine that with 20 years of anaerobic swim training, and we’re talking serious potential.

See you in London Michael.

kimberrykim...an explanation

2008-11-07T19:00:00.000-08:00

A friend once told me he thought it was weird that people call me Kim Berry. I thought it was weird that he thought it was weird, considering that is my name. He was pointing out that people say both my first and last name when they are referring to me. I’d never noticed. I guess it is a little strange, especially when there are no other Kims around to differentiate between. Other friends call me kimberrykim. At first I wondered why they were throwing another kim on my name, but ok, whatever. It didn’t occur to me until later they were calling me by my e-mail address.

When I got my first yahoo account, I wanted the perfect address, something fun and catchy. I tried various combinations of cutesy e-mail addresses that people would appreciate and remember easily; only to be told repeatedly that someone had already stolen that address. Meanwhile, the system suggested four boring arrangements of my own name no one had yet claimed. I tried for hours to think of the perfect address. I finally gave up, accepted my fate, and became kimberrykim. I obviously didn’t know at the time that I was renaming myself, otherwise I would’ve kept hotchick88 like I planned. Anyway, I’ve grown to appreciate kimberrykim. It’s one of those names that only my real friends call me.

It occurred to me recently that I could officially be kimberrykim forever if I marry a Korean guy with the last name Kim. So, I did some research. Evidently there are 6.67 billion people in the world, 60% of which are Asian. Yay! However, Korea makes up only 1.1% of the world’s population. Bummer. But, I was not discouraged because that’s still 72 million people. I started shifting from idealist to realist to pessimist when I began considering all the factors.
There are:

72 million Korean people, but…
24 million people live in North Korea. I will probably never meet them. But,
48 million people live in South Korea, but only…
24 million are male, and only…
4.3 million are between the ages of 26-36, but only…
516,000 are single, of which only about…
154,800 are Christian, and about…
32,000 have the last name Kim!

That’s awesome!! But consider this…only about….
12,000 appreciate The Office, of which only about…
8,500 are totally into 24, of which only about….
4,700 like playing stupid games with friends, of which only about….
2,500 like camping, of which only about…
540 like waterskiing, of which only about…
4 would be ok with eating green beans and cereal for dinner most nights.

My chances of officially being kimberrykim forever are about .000000000078%.

Anyway, I wanted a cool name for my blog. I tried some other stuff, but nothing seemed right. I still like kimberrykim...but you can call me hotchick88 if you want.

Maybe?

2008-03-10T18:55:00.000-07:00

Maybe I will start blogging soon. Maybe.