The Chronicles of Chloe's Nose: Part Two

For the record, this blog is by popular demand. I don’t really intend to gross you out with detailed descriptions about nose excretions. But consider this your warning.

Ok. So. Gummy bears are great right? It’s a fruit snack on a sugar high, as well as being shaped like an animal. 75% of people prefer food that is shaped like an animal. Why else would anyone eat animal crackers?
Thus, one day, as in today, I decided to eat a pack of gummy bears. With like 100g of sugar per bear, it was good sustenance for my chemistry (aka the happiness vacuum) study session. I happened to be at work in the weight room, sitting at the attendant’s desk, which to paint the picture, is a square fish bowl, complete with 4 glass walls so I can gaze out dreamily at the buff men lifting weights.
I’m not really sure how it happened. One minute I was chomping on the gummy bear herd trying to figure out which color was so pleasantly sweet, when something went awry in the esophagus region. I inhaled at the most unfortunate time and then felt it. Gummy bear had definitely gone up my nose. It was most assuredly lodged.
On the seriousness scale from paper cut to heart attack, gummy exposure is a 7. Maybe you haven’t felt it yet but it’s like something experienced at the dentist. Painful. I got a drink of water and cleared my throat a few times, but the gummy bear remained, sending sharp pings through my sinus cavity. I could feel the gummy bear getting comfortable as my own discomfort increased and I wanted to take a hammer to my head. I huffed a little more, trying to act normal in the square fish bowl. The stubborn gummy bear just wasn’t budging.
I blew my nose. I blew it again. And one more time. And then I felt it. A great satisfying “whoosh” followed by pieces of green gummy bear in my tissue. Yes. It came out my nose.

It’s disgusting, I know.
Beware of the bear.

Let your ____ so _____

I was recently the victim of two do-gooders in one week.

The first incident was on a Monday. I had just finished taking a test. After I retired my stressed-out eraser, I was greeted on the staircase by an odd group of happy people. One of these happy bunch asked me “Did you just take a test?” with a bit much too enthusiasm than a conversation about exams merits. I hesitantly wobbled my head in the affirmative. The happy crowd then burst into flames, I mean applause, and gave me 3 “you did it!” ‘s and 2 “congratulations” and handed me a cookie. They did the same to the other suffering test-taker walking behind me.

It felt . . . good. And I got a cookie.

I was struck again the next day by a phantom bed-maker. I came home and noticed my flattened sheets. I stared quizzically at them like one of those art history people looking at a painting. I will never be one of those art history people, but I did conclude that it was not I who made that bed. Someone had definitely done those tight corners for me.

So thank you to all the do-gooders out there who I may never meet or who may live next door. I’m glad you stopped looking at your facebook, or doing whatever else we/I do, to think about me instead. :)

an ode to skidmore sustenance

Instant breakfast comes in can or it comes in a pouch.
You don’t have to do much, just empty it out.
Pick up a spoon
And you’re likely to croon
As you taste the sweet goodness it’s all about.
It’s fast and it’s easy -- no bowls and no plates
Maybe that’s why I’ve been drinking for 8 years straight.
It’s chocolate, it’s milk, it’s in a glass
So hurry, get up, and don’t be the last
To wake up. Really, trust me, don’t over sleep
Or else you’ll get stuck with the shredded wheat.

thoughts as a ukelele is played outside my window.

What is it with this guitar that didn't drink it milk?

I hope other international instruments become popular too.
Like the didgeridoo.
I actually spelled that right on the first try.

But look,



It almost has the same chick appeal.

Juice Press

One of my professors recently said that the best questions are the ones with no answers.
The best questions are the ones with no answers.
Huh. Maybe it’s just me, but I was blown away, and sat there in class ignoring the geologic history of Utah and instead trying to think if I’ve ever asked a “good” question. Because, call me crazy, but I rather like having answers. They’re warm and fuzzy and fit into neat little compartments like a plastic bead organizer.
It’s like this one time, in math, one of the nerdy -“I love pi” T-shirt -wearing TA’s did a proof that showed 1 +1 does not equal 2. It left me fidgety and uncomfortable, because he basically told me that everything I ever thought I knew was actually wrong.
Anyways, I’m moving my lawn chair outside the box now, and have recently compiled a list of life-changing questions to which I have no answer.

(Not all original thoughts, so sorry if I stole yours)
 Why is processed meat in cylindrical form (i.e. hot dog, sausage) acceptable but not in cube form (i.e. Spam)?
 Why do you grow up thinking there are only two kinds of apples?
 Whatever happened to the scrunchie?
 Are Elvis and Michael Jackson in the same place?
 Why are girls in large groups incapable of making decisions?
 Why does it require scissors to open a new pair of scissors?
 Why hasn’t someone installed the no-touch bathroom door yet?

That’s all I’ve got for now. Send your unanswerables my way.

one day I will conquer it.

Not to make this blog a public forum about stupid things that happen to me, or rather I cause to happen to myself, but some things are too good for me to resist the opportunity to talk about myself.
So I had issues with Dr. Pepper but apparently that’s not the only thing that generally disagrees with me.

Let me tell you a story, or two.
Three days ago my two roomies and I were walking aimlessly by the fenced- in apartment pool when for some reason an irresistible compulsion to climb the fence came over me and I could not ignore it. It was completely illogical; we had a key, which would have been a much easier way to get in the pool, but who wants easy when you can have fun? I just needed to see if I could climb it (foreshadowing: I couldn’t).
So I begin the ascent and discover my imminent success or failure depends on a skillful leg throw over maneuver.
I’ll let this picture do the talking of how well that went:

it bit me!

Both leg and swimsuit got caught on the fence. But considering the swimsuit is far less replaceable, it’s a good thing that one came out unscathed. Thanks be to Kylie for kind of .. um.. unhooking me.

Sadly, however, this is not the first time I’ve been unhooked.
The last time happened out about a year ago.
This time the fence climbing was out of necessity. My sister and I got locked in to our high school track. And since my high school has become increasingly ghetto since I left, there was barbed wire everywhere, except for one small patch of chain link. I climbed it but lingered at the top because I was being a wussy-pants who did not want to jump. Well, the uneven chain link was poking my butt in a rather uncomfortable manner, so I took the plunge. Except mid jump I got caught mid-air, my feet dangling just inches above the ground.
The chain link, had, uh, caught my pants. And yes, I was dangling by my pants that I could hear slowly ripping, as I hung there helplessly, getting the biggest wedgie of my life.

This would be the result of that fence encounter:


Those are my shorts. Those are my hands going through the giant holes in my shorts.

Thanks be to Becki Lyn, for, yes, definitely unhooking me.

True Expectations

I’ve decided something.

He’s Just Not That Into You is one of the worst movies. Like ever. First of all, it was terrifyingly informative. Thanks to it, no one can go on innocently believing that that certain person maybe just dropped his phone in the toilet or was kidnapped by aliens who ate each one of his fingers thereby rendering him incapable of any text messaging abilities.
But really the worst part involves little Miss Scarlett Johansson and her hussy ways. For those of us who haven’t been unenlightened by this movie, let me fill you in. Scarlett Johansson hits on a dude, who she finds out is married, but continues to chase anyway, because after all, as her devoted friend Drew Barrymore tells her –--- she knew someone who knew someone who was married to a “nice lady” for 15 years but had an affair and only then found the love of his life. Wow, hello Selfish. And may I add, yeah right.
Obviously an affair is bad. But the harmful thing to those with consciences is that it shows reality as truth.
I was talking with a friend about this movie, and that part in general, and getting heated as it made me increasingly upset, when he said the most alarming thing:
“Well, it’s true! It happens!”

Whoa. By no means is it true. Maybe it’s real. But not true.

There is reality and there are expectations. There is the POWER of expectations. And then there is the power of expectation tainted by reality but not bolstered by truth.
I could probably find eighteen super Velveeta quotes about what people can become, etc, but I’ll just leave it at one to prove my point:
“If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming."-Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe (German guy who wrote Faust)

We often say that people are greedy.
We say they’re lustful.
We say they’re lazy.
We say that people act on impulses and can’t be trusted.

But consider this:
“Truth is knowledge of things as they are, as they were, and as they are to come. “
As they are to come.

Which I can spin this way: If we expect people to be good; if we expect them to be giving and clean and industrious and trustworthy, then that is what they are to come, and that is true.



"Truth, and goodness, and beauty are but different faces of the same all."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Nostalgia, or a bunch of semi philosophical thoughts that don't make whole lots of sense

I can’t stop myself from thinking about THE END. Not the end of anything in particular, and not the end of all ends, but just the end of some things that do indeed end.

Like right now, it’s the end. Of the semester. And of the archetypal physics TA’s. And of working in the tennis courts every Tuesday afternoon. And of waiting for the old man with shaky knees who’s always had a bag full of tennis-ness.

Even if its’ not sad, even if you want to go, it’s a little hard to leave some places. Most places. Even if the reason you’re leaving is because there’s a puddle of hot tears that’s still pooled beneath that bed. Or even if you are saying sianara to that class which may cause premature gray hairs. When The End rings your doorbell and stands there waiting, it’s a little hard to put on your flip flops and casually walk out the door with him, isn’t it?

It’s because I want to make sure that all the little pieces resonate inside me. That when I leave the leaky fridges or the well-worn pencils, they still buzz around, making up my molecules. That The End isn’t just a benchmark but a culmination. That when The End does ring my doorbell, he reaches out to shake my hand and notices that I didn’t just live, but I lived until life got stuck under my fingernails.

What happened when I blew my nose today

So with a lack on anything important to say, and still having 1, 2, 3, FOUR hours of “work” left (i.e. Facebook/ truth-or-dare with coworkers) I decided to tell everyone that today I had unusually colored snot.

I have a cold which is a. weird because it’s time for hot and b. annoying because lately I have been the #1 gusher of snot.

Anyways, today when I blew my nose, my snot was a starkly different shade of burnt sienna. Like the crayon not Sierra’s imaginary twin.
For a few interesting seconds, I thought I’d discovered the secret mutant power I always knew I had and was working on my X-men alias (suggestions anyone?), but then I realized this puce brown was only due to all the DUST, AND MORE DUST, I’d been breathing today. Yes, because in my quest to become a real geologist, I got to put all the rocks in the Crusher. And the Crusher has caused me to swim in a cloud of sandstone dust that will soon penetrate every hole in everything everywhere. There are two big-giant black-vacuum-sucker- tubey things to suck dust but they are no match for the Crusher. Especially after I broke the switch for the big-giant-vacuum-sucker-tubey things so now instead of turning it to “auto” you have to turn it to “blank black area” for it to work. That was after, of course, I broke BOTH paper towel dispensers. Lesson learned the hard way: when it says pull down with both hands, you should do it. It’s not just a suggestion. Otherwise you may find yourself chasing down the custodians in the women’s bathroom to fix the precious paper towel rolls, while your coworker stands there laughing with a wet rock hammer in his hand.

The Crusher. I think I’ve got the black lung, pop.

Darwinism takes on parking

It was a crazy day at the University Mall. The weather was turning friendly again giving everyone an excuse to indulge in the new summer freedom from things with buttons and long socks and fuzzies and instead buy things that are buttonless, sockless, and fuzziless.

The parking lot was, of course, full, since mall parking lots are always full. But then as I pulled around the corner, I saw a beautiful dream park, only one spot away from the handicap.

It was then that it dawned on me that finding a good parking spot is about more than just parking. Why else would we insist on parking in the really good spot when the weather is kind and it could only be beneficial to walk a few extra feet in charitable sunshine? I know our sedentary lifestyles can get pretty exerting, but really a few more feet? A few more prancing little steps on the only lukewarm asphalt?

The reason is that parking is about more than just parking. There’s a reason why passengers twitch involuntarily when their drivers pass up the good spot.

It’s because parking is about triumph. It’s about success. Parking is survival of the fittest. No one can pass up the good spot because it makes you the alpha parker. You are closer than anyone else, which means that anything that’s going to happen after you park is gonna be good.

Getting the good spot is a success you can brag about it. No good-spot-finder walks hurriedly to their car with their head cast down at the asphalt. They strut, take their time, and dangle their keys with bravado. In a show of mock humility, they can smile, knowing there is probably a pack of thirsty good-spot-scavengers just waiting for them to hurry up and leave.

Then there are those who somehow have all the good spots completely to themselves. They are the ones that guard their territory so ferociously that they will use any means necessary – boot, tow, ticket, torture – to keep you off of it. It doesn’t matter if the lot’s completely empty and its two degrees outside and it’s snowing and you’re in heels and your perfect hair is about to get ruined. It’s theirs. Not yours.

Survival of the fittest.

If only the strong survive, it’s my guess that the first superhuman . . . will be the one that can park.

Not My Thing

Some things are just not meant to be.

Michael Jordan will never be a baseball player, Shaq will never be a rapper, and I will never buy Dr. Pepper without something going terribly awry.

Circa March 1, 2008 I bought a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. It was a prized treasure. Slowly, I rationed each can to stretch the goodness as long as possible. By March 7, there were three cans left. By March 7, I also had to go out of town. But I knew that there waiting for me when I got back, would be three happy little cans, anxious to be consumed. Or so I thought. Upon my return to my dorm room, I found the cans MIA from their hiding place under my bed. My first suspect: the roommate. I watched her suspiciously and analyzed the contents of the trash can, before she confessed that someone across the hall had come in and drank them. Every. Last. One. This Dr. Pepper delinquent promised to pay me back (she didn’t) but failed to see the opportunity costs of a Dr. Pepper when you live in a dorm. They’re worth more than money. No one had cars to access a normal grocery store and there was not a drop of caffeinated beverage sold on campus. I could have bartered to get an iPod with enough Dr. Pepper.

That was incident number one. Incident number two involves another seemingly average 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. This time it’s in an apartment, and instead of stowed under my bed, they were on top of my fridge. Sierra, oh my lovely Sierra, decided to take a Dr. Pepper. But reaching on top she didn’t get just one Dr. Pepper, she unleashed an army of them. Catastrophically, all the cans started rolling off the top of the fridge, bouncing explosively on the kitchen floor. Streams of Dr. Pepper sprayed out like a dancing fountain and flooded the floor with 23-flavored foam. The counter was sticky. The floor was sticky. The wall was sticky. The couch in the other room, somehow, was sticky. There were only three survivors: Sierra and 2 cans of DP.

Two disasters is bad, but just a weird coincidence. Three disasters is a curse.

After winter break, I found a liter of Dr. Pepper, buried in the back of the fridge, a forgotten remnant of my birthday party. It was like discovering I had twenty bucks in my back pocket. With a little too much glee, I grabbed the bottle and opened it. And squeezed it. Plastic must be flimsier than it used to be, because my little love squeeze caused Old Faithful to erupt. This time Dr. Pepper rained all over my clothes and leather boots (it came out – no worries mom!) Hence, Disaster Number Three.

Three disasters is a curse. Four disasters must mean this is a plague that I will pass on to my children and can only be stopped by magic or a really good horoscope.

This week I bought another liter.

I should have known.

After getting the groceries out of the car, I was so excited; I ditched the cup and went straight for the bottle.

I don’t even know how it happened. But the second I unscrewed the lid, there was an explosion. A lateral 3 foot spray of soda fizzed like fireworks. The only sensible reaction was to scream. So I did. It helped. And once again, the counter was sticky. And so was the floor. And the wall. And my face. I commenced to do my previously arranged visiting teaching as a very sticky, but tasty, girl.

By now, I’ve learned my lesson. It took Michael Jordan a really low batting average, and Shaq a couple really bad CD’s for them to get the hint. So after a thief, a meteor shower, and two eruptions, it is finally clear Dr. Pepper just isn’t my thing.

I think I’ll just stick to juice.

A useful transitive property, I'd say

Food for thought:

The holiday season is Thanksgiving to New Years.
But really, the way we eat, the holiday season is from Halloween to Valentine's Day.
And if we're at Valentine's Day we're almost at Easter.
And if we're at Easter we're practically at the Fourth of July.
So that would make holiday season all year.

Calories don't count during the holidays.
Does this mean calories don't count all year?

O.P.T.I.M.I.S.M.

Right now, January 5, 2009, 7:58 a.m. MST, it is 9 degrees outside. NINE. However, the meteorologists tell me it feels like negative 2 degrees. NEGATIVE TWO.
So in an effort to forget that my ears are purple, here are five good things about the cold:
1. Outfit repeating becomes socially acceptable. Or at least less identifiable.
2. I get to discover secret passages that are “warmer longer” and take me through the scary chemistry filled hallways of the Benson building where everyone wears giant goggles and sniffs test tubes.
3. My abnormally slow walking speed has increased tenfold so now I’m at the pace of a regular person.
4. This icicle:

5. There’s ALWAYS something to talk about. (coldness=camaraderie)
a. “Hi, I don’t know you but aren’t you freezing?”
b. “Hi, we’ve reached an awkward part of our conversation, and I don’t really know what else to say so . . . gosh it’s cold isn’t it??”
c. “Hi, I do know you, and even though I’ve belabored the point, I would really like you to understand that I’d probably be warmer if you locked me in the refrigerator.”

This is Sylvia Plath:

She wrote The Bell Jar.
She also stuck her head in the oven to kill herself.
“Do you think that maybe Sylvia Plath wasn’t crazy . . . she was just cold?”
-Lorelei Gilmore