The Pilver

In care package #2163 from my mother last week I received my yearbook from 1991-1992. Oh the memories it brought back. I was at a private school in Minneapolis, called Fourth Baptist. It was quite a strict school as far as they go. We wore skirts every day and they had to cover our kneecaps. If they did not cover your kneecaps you had to go to the office and have a secretary give you a school provided skirt. They were amazingly long. Some were not sewn together but Duct taped. I am not even making this up.
I recall during the year when I was a cheerleader (shut up) we were being giggly on the van ride home from a basketball game. Girls and boys did not ride on the same van for that would have created an opportunity for us to speak to one another or be on the same velvet bench seat. Our coach was not a very good driver, and backed into another car while driving us out of the McDonald’s parking lot. Us girls were blamed for her lack of skills. The specific behavior that we exuded that was so sinful was uttering the word, “fart.” Come Monday at after school practice the head-lady-of-something came and spoke to us. She had a painful looking hairdo and wore a lot of polyester. She told us that in her day fart was the same as a swear word. I was shocked. Not because it was considered so awful, because I had assumed that it was a word my generation had developed and here was this sixty year old lady letting us know that she heard it as a kid. Well, we had to stop traveling to away games. For years after that the Jr. High girls were still not allowed to travel. I think that was the extent of our punishment. I remember for the first time ever realizing that authority was wrong and I was not. There had been times when my parents had not rightfully punished me. In my heart I knew they knew I was right at those times. This was different. The school was using a group of 7th graders as a scapegoat for this womans poor choice to reverse in a vehicle she may have not been capable of driving properly in the first place. So, a small part of my innocence died that day. But onto happier things, I scanned some pictures and stuff from out of the yearbook and I would like to share them with you. And you.

BANGS! If you are male, skip this paragraph. You could not possibly understand the meticulous morning time we had in front of the mirror making our forehead hair do strange things. Sometimes I wish they would come back in style just so that I could fix em again. That was fun.

I decided the wrestling team was not happy enough. So, I decided to make smiles for them. Pre-M.S. paint style

This is typing class….on a typewriter. i don’t know that I ever saw a computer in that school. Yes, it was pre- Internet, but still. Typewriter?!?

That’s my sister. She looks so pretty. She had great hair there.

People signed it too. mostly they are funny, and I am glad for that. Here’s the better ones:

That’s from Mr. House. He was my favorite teacher, maybe ever. Amazingly 16 years later I found him on myspace via another student that went to this school. Now Mr. House and his massive kid filled family. He’s rad just because he said I have quite a brain. You have to squint, but it’s there. Cheers Mr. House!

I don’t remember this.

…and finally, here”s someone remembering that day, when my friends and I became the rebellious Jr high girls. No really, that term was used. Which is funny to me know because at ever other school and place I have been I have been looked at as a goody two shoes. So, to everyone who knows me as square, here look:

I was dangerous.

I don’t watch the news. There I said it. I don’t care about current events. I do however care about what current events may become our world’s history. Deciphering the bologna from the rest of it in our current news media is easy. I still just don’t want to sit through the bologna.

I am well aware that I come off as ignorant when there is a discussion of current events in everyday conversation. Really though, I just don’t care. I vote. I research what I am voting for. I just cannot see what is represented as news as being a needed form of daily intake.

So, today I decided to visit CNN.com and see what the top stories of the day.
Dean prepares to Whack Mexico Again I consider this newsworthy. Extreme weather. Point for CNN.
Also on the list: Topless Carwash leaves some feeling hosed. Further investigation showed that there was a “Topless Carwash” advertised. But the car washers were all men. I think this is hilarious. I do not think this is news.
I could go on, but you already knew the jist of things before I started.
I don’t have cable, cause I am slightly too lazy to sit on the phone with Comcast and figure out when they can trap me at home for a full day waiting on installation. I read uninformative books. They have nothing to do with philosophy and nothing at all to do with touchy subjects. Last year I read “Not Buying it” about the over consumption of goods in our country and others. It depressed the pants off of me for a month. I was constantly thinking about how unnecessary it was that shops bothered to print receipts and why in the world would I ever buy a _____ again. I hated the feeling that book gave to me. I don’t want to read any more like it.
However world culture fascinates me. What they are using in Norway as a means of snack food these days would be great to know. I would love to see current trends in Russia. I like pop culture, the sort of pop culture that does not include young anorexic females. This does not make me stupid. I will never debate politics or religion for fun. Because to me, this is not fun. Of course, I think nothing less of those who do. There are plenty of people who, for fun, discuss these topics.

So, just so you know, I don’t care about the background of the current gas price hike. I would be happier riding my bike. Not because of pollution reasons, I want to ride my bike cause I would be closer to the dirt. Dirt is fun. I need to get some air in my tires. They are quite flat.

I got a new laptop. As of yet it has not had a pitcher of water spilled on it. And it’s pretty. Most of all:

Most days for most people are mundane. Wake up, dress yourself, get kids off if it applies, work, drive slowly on a freeway until at last you are in your home where you will clean for three hours before going to bed and then do it again. I really hate this form of living and am so delighted when the unexpected comes my way, even in the smallest forms. Such as:

Whoops Food
When a cook at work screws up a meal, we (servers) get free food. If you have ever seen chickens pounce on their scratch it is something like that when the plate is set down. Five hungry servers scrounging for a few bites before running out to greet a table is a sight to be seen.

Mail Order Catalogs
Nowadays it seems as nothing is mail order, but for whatever reason when I moved, I began to receive many many catalogs. When I get home from standing on my feet all day and see a new Ikea and Sharper Image catalog in the box I get happy. Although I have zero intention of buying anything from either place, I know I can sit and look at furniture and gadgets for a half hour before I do the dishes. It’s like getting magazines without paying for them

Rain with no Thunder.
Seems to be a rare thing in Midwest summers. But it’s so calm and seems much cooler when there is a steady rain and no worrisome weather that accompanies it.

Getting a new/old Myspace friend.
I imagine all of us nearly every day have a random friend from the past run through our heads. What brings them there varies from meeting someone new with the same last name or stumbling across old photos. But when you get a hey how ya been for the past ten years message in your inbox, it is a nice surprise. even if there is no chance whatsoever that you will ever be more than hey, hello friends.

Text messages.
I don’t know bout you, but I don’t use them much. At least not since I had three high school employees that used text as their main form of communication. So, when I get one it’s a surprise. Not always exciting, but never a bad message come through on the print. Usually it is something to laugh at. And I love it.

A great parking spot.
The nearest grocery store to me is walking distance, and for that reason we usually do walk. Another big reason for that is that the parking lot is very much too small for the amount of customers that patron this store. For a granola crunching city hippie type establishment there certainly is a lot of animosity when it comes to taking a place in the parking lot. But, on occasion, I will stop by in the car on my way home. When I get a spot within a few steps of the door without anyone in sight that also wants that spot, it is a great feeling.

Hidden Chocolate
I love chocolate. Every night I think I get a craving for it. I never keep it in the house for this reason. But once in awhile I will be scrounging the cupboards for a spoonful of peanut butter or something that will substitute for my obsession and I will find the last brownie from a package or a piece of candy that I had forgotten about. Those are good days.

And of course, the twenty shoved deep into the back pocket of your jeans.
Seems as though this money is always spent on a cup of coffee, or a movie rental or something unneeded. It’s like a free outing, so long as you can make an outing out of twenty dollars or less.

So, today I-35W bridge collapsed. Really tragic, and scary. I am extremely selfishly thinking of how this will affect my commute until the bridge is rebuilt. Let’s be honest, it could be years. Many of my friends and family knowing that I commute over the Mississippi between St. Paul and Minneapolis daily called, and I called people who I know do the same. The phone calls were all similar. “Oh, good, you’re OK” Did you see what happened?” My family is all safe, thankfully. They haven’t released any names as of yet, but my heart goes out to anyone having to wonder if a loved one is okay and to those who do know that they have lost someone.
The first call I got from my cousin was while I was in the refrigerator. It has been so hot and steamy here. Being as we don’t eat that much at home I took the little amount of food we had and put it in the doorway of the fridge. Then I took all the shelving and drawers out and me and Max sat inside. Don’t worry I saw that episode of Punky Brewster too. I know that Cheri nearly suffocated while choosing an old fridge as a spot to play hide-and-seek. So we didn’t stay in there very long, but boy was it refreshing. Here’s the video of what the refrigerator looks like from the inside with the lights out and a teeny camping lantern to show you the way.

Refridgerator

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I don’t want to get over philosophical about this, but I want to say it anyways. Whenever I have a dream that involves another person, I feel the overwhelming urge to tell them about it. If a dream makes you feel emotion even if it’s just humorous and there is another somebody involved in that doesn’t it just seem natural to let them know the way they made you feel? Even though they cannot do anything about what they did or said. Like double-you shaped keys, or when that one person was a midget Siamese twin with Dave Attel.
I used to hate these dreams, now I embrace them. I love dreaming because most of the time it is silly and trivial and includes crazy situations. Remember the movie Brazil? I feel like my dreams are three minute sections of a movie that is similar to this one. I cannot remember the plot to that movie, just that there were a good number of odd scenes pieced together.

Well, last night I had a dream about someone who I never can seem to catch on AIM and that’s nearly exclusively the form of communication I have had with this person. So, if you ever stumble across my blog: You were dating one of my co-workers and came to pick this person up and then on your way out the door you gave me a hive five. So, thanks for the high five.

The summer before I entered my sophomore year of high school my parents dropped a bomb on us. They were going to sell the house, pack up and move to Washington State and buy a small town grocery store. Me and my sisters were floored. I liked my school friends after school activities etc. I didn’t want any of it to change. I had a close knit group of friends and the half dozen or so of us were extremely close. I didn’t want to make new friends and I didn’t want to start a new school and I certainly didn’t want it to be in a small little hick town called Oroville.

Being as I had no job or income I reluctantly packed up all my flannels and made sure I had the addresses of everyone I ever knew.

Now, me and my two sisters are very close in age and very good friends. So, this could have been a lot worse. I had two good friends right off the bat.

My mother, wise as she is, decided to send away for the town’s newspaper. After it came we realized just how small a place we were going to. The paper’s circulation, for the whole county, was 3500. The police blogger was in it and we could find out exactly who had arrest warrants and who was stopped for DUIs. Then there was the honor roll. JACKPOT! There were names of many of our future classmates. Certainly we could get a hold of them and chat on the phone before we moved there. This was a few years before the internet and at the time when long distance phone calls ran upwards of 25 cents a minute. So, endless calls to 411 and we had some contacts. Two in particular that we ended up speaking to a few times over the summer. Our phone calls would go something like this,
Us: Hello is _______ there?
Them: Yeah, I’m him/her
Us: Hi, we are moving there from Minnesota in a couple months and we don’t know anybody, so we decided to call ahead and meet some people before we got there.
Them: ….uh how’d you get my number?
Us: Well we have your newspaper and it has your name in it.
them: Did it have my phone number?
Us: No, we just called information to get that.
Them: Mmm, ok.

And then a question and answer section about the technicalities of their quaint town would follow. We moved there a few months later and school started shortly after that. The first day of school I was in my biology class and my teacher was calling roll. He got to my name and paused, “Your that girl who’s been calling my son all summer aren’t you?”

Die I wanted to.

Attention was not something I longed for in front of a group and certainly not this kind. Turns out we called the principle’s kid as well.
I’m over it now. I suppose when I think about it according to today’s standards, with myspace, we would have done the same exact thing today and it would have been less freakish.

Dear August,

I am writing you this letter because I feel as though you have gotten a bad rap over the past few thousand years. Let’s be honest, you get no play. And by play I mean holidays. Sure my sister was born withing the days of your month, but likely now she would rather forget that she is gaining years. Most of the time I loathe your existence. Putting up with you is a torture that one must wade through. You are full of hot steaminess that is far from the steam within the pages of the romance novels I see on the shelves at my local supermarket. When we make it through you we are greeted with the loveliness of September and a promise of a whole new year. Because lets face it, the year always ends with you and not December. The modern school year ruined it for you.
One thing you do have going for you is the State Fair in the fine land of Minnesota. I will declare this the only perk of your time. The anticipation of Pronto Pups and Butter Queens is going to be what I yearn for at the last week of your reign.

I feel it will push me through your month as I push through thick muggy air you force me to live with.
If you would be so kind I would be pleased to make a deal with you: Give me some days with temperatures the sixties and I will begin to celebrate a new holiday in your time as a tribute to the cool air. We’ll call it Augustopia Day and we shall celebrate the fact that you were named after Augustus who defeated Marc Anotony. It was that glorious event that drove J-Lo into Marc’s arms and we were at the end of the media circus known as Bennifer. So in essence it was you, grand month of August, it was you…*sniffle*

Sincerely, Kristiane Bell

P.S. If you can do something to squash the Spice Girl reunion, I will do my best to bring an existing holiday your way. How do you feel about Columbus Day?