Just Whistle While You Work

I have a deep, hidden shame. 

Yes, my friends, it is true. I, Katie Johnson, a reasonably intelligent and talented 21 year old girl, cannot whistle. I can't roll my tongue or cross my eyes either. I can't even lift one eyebrow in a forbidding manner, like my mom can (with great impact, I might add. When I was a kid, all I needed to see was that eyebrow shooting up like a geyser, and it garnered instant obedience. Not that I misbehaved very much in the first place, but you get the idea. All you had to do was look at me sternly and say, "Shame..." and I was a wreck of tears and repentance. Mom looking menacingly at me was far, far worse. I did anything and everything I could to avoid getting the Mom Glare. Well, the glare worked, as did Mom's subtle reach for her purse, where the wooden spoon was concealed from the public eye. But the spoon eventually got broken on Evan, which was fine. The eyebrow thingy was effective enough by itself.). 

But I digress. The point I'm trying to make is that facial contortions appear to be utterly beyond my capabilities. I can snap my fingers, though! Some people have trouble with that, I've heard. I can also do the Vulcan hand gesture with both hands (I taught myself as a child by putting a Barbie beach ball between my middle and ring fingers) and blow bubbles with my gum. But it is deeply disturbing to me that I remain unable to learn how to whistle. Just purse your lips and blow! It can't be that hard to do, and yet I remain stubbornly incapable to to do anything like a whistle beyond a shrill rushing-of-air noise. It's enough to make me have doubts about my intelligence. And I've always wanted to whistle, too. It seems lovely, being able to take music with you wherever you go. I hum a lot, but it's not the same.

So last night, when I had the most vivid dream about whistling, I vastly enjoyed it. I remember I was outside in the backyard petting Frosty (our old dog) when a bird came over. I suddenly started to whistle Simple Gifts, one of my very favorite songs. Whether the bird was magic and had incredible imparting-of-whistling skilz or I just learned by watching it, I have no idea. All I know is that I could feel it in the dream, feel the changes in notes and the pouring of melodious air from my lips. It was lovely. 

Then I woke up and thought in the bleariness of that not-quite-awakeness, "Hmm....wonder if I can do it now?" So I looked around me furtively, making sure that no one was around to watch me making a fool of myself (the only witness to my shame would have been Iris, who was still snoring on my chair) and tried to whistle. And I couldn't. Grrr. All I got was a slightly clearer tone to the whooshing of air, which I suppose was something.

I won't let it defeat me, though. Before I go to my grave, I will learn how to whistle. It seems like such a small thing, I suppose, but dang it, I want to! Whoever said dreams were rational?

Recap

Okay, so I've obviously been less than faithful about updating the old blog over the last two weeks. My apologies, dear readers. I figured that no one would want to listen to me whine about Spanish and the school situation, so I refrained in the interest of sanity, although whose sanity I was refraining for, I have no idea. It is entirely possible that it was my own or y'all's because you couldn't stand my belly-aching. 

So here's a recap of the last two weeks, for all those who may be interested. If you're not interested, tune back in tomorrow for something either sarcastic or....non-sarcastic.

Pros:

-- The weather is currently in the 70's, which is lovely.

-- Thanks to the above lovely situation, I now have a bouquet of daffodils sitting on my dresser. They're my favorite flowers. They introduce cheer and grace to any situation.

-- I received two A's in a row on Spanish tests. This was through the grace of God alone...although, I guess it wasn't alone. I worked my butt off, too. So does that make my butt graceful? Don't answer that.

-- I got paid, which means that I got to go shopping yesterday (two dresses, a pair of pants, three camis and two shirts, all of which were necessary for my continued existence) and that I was able to pay for my Elton John/Billy Joel concert ticket, for which I positively cannot wait. I might faint when Elton John plays "Tiny Dancer."

-- My school might not be dead after all. Ever feel like you're living on a teeter-totter?

--I got to be on TV because of the school thing. Here's the link, since I know you're all dying to see it: http://www.wreg.com/wreg-crichton-college-sold-story,0,6645778.story

Cons:

-- The aforementioned lovely weather makes me nervous. It gives the perfect conditions for the building blocks of a tornado. We like not to jest about twisters here on the edge of Tornado Alley.

-- Who would have guessed it? Spanish! The frustration climaxed in a royal temper tantrum last Thursday after I couldn't tell what classes Julia and Armando were taking from their conversation. Later I realized that they were using words that I hadn't -- wonder of wonders! -- been taught yet! Anyway, my book was told quite politely by me that it should join the rest of its fellows and wander down to the balmy 800 degree temperature of Gehenna. And stay there. Surely Satan wouldn't mind an extended visit? Right? Right?

 -- The school situation. Again with the teeter-totter bit. I don't know which end is up at the moment. Must be because some fat kid that sat down so hard on his end that I got catapulted off into space, which would explain the lack of orientation, considering the utter absence of gravity. 

Anyway, those are the main happenings of my life over the past few weeks. I have to go cozy back up with my Spanish textbook to study for the test on Tuesday. Hey, didn't I schedule myself to have leprosy on that day? Gee, Senorita Tina, I'm sorry, I can't make it to class today....House and everyone are trying to diagnose me here......

Spaces

For the past couple of years now, I've been on a never ending search to write a poem or song lyrics that could qualify as abstract. I like abstract pieces, but I've never been able to create one of my own. A few have come close, but never quite there.

So why, then, was I almost asleep last night and something hit me? I'm not sure if it's abstract, but it's on that same path.

Yeah. And so it goes...

Chorus:

One step up this stream

And I will topple off the beam

A few places down from blue is green

Inches are miles, only one step between.

 

Verse 1:

What’s the difference between a crack and a canyon?

Blue skies are so close to gray

A child gets older day by day

One day a babe, the next day a man.

A clock ticks by minutes, so small yet so great

A frail voice speaks and then screams and sings

How many straws before the back breaks?

A fuse burns quietly until it explodes.

 

Chorus:

One step up this stream

And I will topple off the beam

A few places down from blue is green

Inches are miles with only one step between.

 

Verse 2:

A gap between teeth decides beauty and worth

An acorn contains the promise of grandeur

A single short hour holds both death and birth

Only words come between shyness and candor.

So many little things that become more than they are

Inches are miles, only one step between

What will I say, what will I do,

What tiny thing will push you away?

Sins

Yesterday, God decided to once again show His infinite mercy toward the average college student and granted us a snow day. 

Memphis is interesting when it comes to snow. Whenever so much as half an inch falls from the sky, it's as if the entire city, with a wry wink and a knowing smile, decides that it's "dangerous" and everything shuts down. We Memphians don't have a lot of opportunities for snow days, and even if all it is is a light layer of powdered sugar, we all make an excuse out of  the whims of nature in order to build pathetic snowmen and have slushy snowball fights. The Canadians up at school look at us scornfully as we talk about "icy streets" and "downed power lines." If they closed the city down every time it snowed, the city would only be operational for about three weeks in July. They don't understand us here, which is all right. I don't understand them. I mean, honestly, socialized medicine? Seriously??? And you guys don't even talk to each other in grocery store lines! What's up with that?

I took God's kindness in a stride and proceeded to commit several of the deadly sins during my snow day. It was lovely. I guess first on the list would be Sloth -- this was committed by my staying in bed almost all day and watching House. Great show, although I wonder sometimes how I would deal with House if he were my boss. Part of me thinks that I'd fold up and go home and curl up in a fetal position to cry every night as I sought to find a happy place within my tear-soaked mind. Another part of me thinks that I'd be super sarcastic and would end up getting in trouble. Goodness knows, though, Cuddy would probably be on my side....maybe. 

The next sin on the list: gluttony. And I enjoyed every M&M of it.

Greed: I greedily watched House while ignoring the laundry, and I greedily...um...well, I don't have a lot of greed that comes to mind, but I'm sure it was in my day somewhere.

Wrath: I was wrathful toward my Spanish homework. It had no business being due on Wednesday. Especially on a Wednesday that was also a snow day. It was just plain wrong. Stupid homework! Muy mal!

Envy: I envied Dodger for getting to have this kind of day everyday. He gets to lie in bed and dream about chasing squirrels to his little heart's delight. Goodness knows if he ever caught a squirrel in real life he wouldn't know what to do with it. He caught a chipmunk once and just stared at it like, "Now what? Is this supposed to be interesting or something? No offense, but I that stupid kibble looks more appetizing. Great. I've attained the pinnacle of the suburban dog's hunting prowess, and it was all lies!"

Yeah, I'm going to quit there. I was mostly guilty of Sloth, anyway. 

Spanish -- Shmanish

Any post that I write this evening would probably contain something to do with Spanish. I'm tired of writing about Spanish. I'm tired of thinking about Spanish. I'm tired of translating things into Spanish. 

You get the idea.

The other thing I'm thinking about is the Holocaust, and that's more of a poem type subject, so unless I get all literary, there won't be a post this evening.

My apologies.

-- The Mgmt.

To Love and to Cherish Until the Money Runs Out

I forgot to mention that yesterday's post was my 200th on this blog. Suh-weet!

In any case, I was awoken from an extremely bizarre dream (that was a mix between "Lost" and the Twilight books, oddly enough...I said it was bizarre) by the smell of muffins wafting up from the kitchen directly into my nostrils this memory. In my opinion, there is hardly anything better in the world than getting woken up on a nice cloudy morning by the smell of something hot and scrumptious. Our little foster child, Christina, came down with strep throat last night, so I had decided to stay home from church today so that I could Clorox every available surface in the hopes of keeping anybody else from getting it. This is so not the time to come down with strep, and it's actually pretty dangerous to expose Shelby to it.

So I got up and fixed myself a muffin and sat down on the couch to watch ten minutes of a show while I ate my breakfast. Since CSI, regrettably, wasn't on, I turned to this household's fallback channel: TLC. This channel is the Ultimate of Ultimates in home desire, shopping, and really weird documentaries, usually showing the story of a family with thousands of children or a guy that's half fish. I like the first two and generally steer away from the third. Thankfully, the first option was available for my breakfast viewing pleasure, a show called "Moving Up." The premise centers around what happens to houses when the old family moves out and the new one moves in and redecorates it according to their tastes. The old family is then brought back to their old house and they get to rag on the new owner's shoddy decorating skilz and ultimately work through the five stages of grief. It's not my favorite show -- too many awkward moments, and besides, who gives a care what the old owners think? I totally get the emotional attachment behind a house, but honestly, they chose to move out. It's not their house anymore -- but I was only watching for a few minutes anyway.

I was actually given more food for thought than I would have previously realized. I learned that one of the couples on the show, Rick and Beth, I think, were lottery winners. They had decided to take their winnings and upgrade on their living quarters. A young, single woman named Kira bought their old home to be her first house. Kira, to start out with, struck me very favorably. It could be the fact that I will automatically sympathize with the young, single woman, but she really did seem like a sweetie. She decorated the house herself, came in under budget, and turned the old office into an enormous dressing room, including an elaborate bookcase just for her designer shoes. C'mon, what woman wouldn't love to have a room just for her clothes? And the only time you could get away with something like that was if you were young and single and had a house of your own.  

Rick and Beth came in and immediately started burning Kira's design taste. They didn't like the colors, the furniture was stupid, they hated the fireplace, blah blah blah. Kira was watching a recording of their tour of her house, and she was a lot nicer than I would have been. Rick and Beth acted as if her design choices were some kind of character flaw, and Kira just smiled and shrugged her shoulders, obviously realizing that what Rick and Beth said was pointless because the house was hers now. I swear, the most petulant thing Kira said during Rick and Beth's onslaught was when they saw her closet room. Beth made some snide comment, and Kira replied mildly, "It sounds to me like she misses being single."

And you know what? Kira was right. The more I watched the show, the more Beth and Rick's relationship bothered me. They'd won the lottery, right? In today's material obsession, that should have meant instant happiness for them. They were moving to a new house, decorating it to suit their every whim, and from the sound of them, they were about as happy as two jackals with only one bone between them. 

Rick was one of those quiet, non-confrontational sorts that pretty much let Beth get away with her spleen, but that's certainly not productive for a relationship in the end. And Beth! She griped, groaned, moaned and complained about every tiny facet of the move. Rick worked himself to the bone, doing much of the renovations on their new glitzy house. All Beth could do was b---- about the fact that they didn't have enough money for a hot tub to go in their backyard along with their patio, flat screen TV (outdoor, mind you), pool, and fireplace. 

When they went back to their old house, though, Beth said in every single room how much she missed that house and how much she regretted moving. You could see how much the things she was saying hurt Rick, but he didn't say anything back.  Again, not so sure that's a good thing. 

But wait a second! I thought winning the lottery was supposed to be instant happiness, right? Right? 

Wrong. Duh. 

Beth knew that she had been happier back in her older, smaller, and considerably less glitzy house. Why? Because she had worked for it. She had loved it, and had more than money there -- she had memories. When they moved from her old house and focused on spending money as fast as they could -- by the end of the episode they admitted that they were broke -- they lost their connection with what was more important.  I honestly don't think that their marriage will last long, and that's so sad. I hope that they'll learn to communicate, that they'll refocus on what's important, but that's hard to do when you don't have the Holy Spirit knocking you over with a two-by-four. 

It just made me think about two things, one of which being my sister and her boyfriend. If I had one word for the way Jordan treats Shelby, I would use cherish. Jordan doesn't just love her, he cherishes her. As long as he had Shelby and something resembling walls and a roof over his head and a piano, Jordan would be just fine. Shelby could wear a burlap sack, and Jordan would tell her that she was stunning. I have a feeling that they'll still be making goo-goo eyes at each other when they're a hundred years old and can't remember their own names. But they'll always remember each other's names. Their relationship hasn't been a bed of roses the whole way, but I don't have any fears for them. Their relationship isn't built on money or attractiveness or something else that's stupid alone. It's built on love, trust, and a willingness to forgive. I wouldn't be worried if they won the lottery. 

It also made me think of Crichton. What I wouldn't give to go back to the ratty tables and rented building and regain that pure beauty of education. 

I suppose I'm rambling now. It was just a lot to think about. 

Heart Attack

Today appears to be made up of three things and three things only: Spanish, basketball, and online shopping. I cry "Boo!" to the first and "Right on!" to the latter two. However, such a semi-quiet day has not lacked in excitement!

Since I finally had my Spanish textbook, I had about two weeks of work to catch up on. I started at noon, and worked straight through until three, and I still wasn't done. At this point, I was ready to chuck my textbook out the window, laughing and crying "Hasta luego!" as it went flying gloriously to the ground below. I'm having a little trouble with remembering the grammar of it all, the typical "he is, she is, they are" type crap. I probably just need to make myself some flash cards, although the thought is somewhat degrading. In any case, the old math textbook that I'm starting to review for the GRE was actually starting to look 1/1,000,000th less puke-worthy, and that's saying something coming from the enormous math-phobe that I shamelessly confess myself to be. 

So, I did what any sensible female would do in my place, obviously, which was to go shopping. That was happiness. Even better when the shopping can be done from the comfort of one's own bed. Let's just say that Target's online store ain't hurtin' for dough this evening. Probably half of what I ordered will have to be returned, but I enjoyed myself. 

After the damage had been done, I went down to watch the second half of the Memphis/Tennessee game with Mom and Evan. For those of you who don't know, the rivalry between the University of Memphis and the University of Tennessee can be politely referred to by such kind adjectives as vicious and blood-sucking. The hatred between blue and orange is hereditary and degenerative. There is nothing a dedicated Tigers or Vols fan loves more than watching the other side get put down, hopefully with a good helping of steaming hot humiliation piled on top.  The last time these teams played and Memphis lost, a Vols fan threw a beer can at Joey Dorsey on his way out. If I remember correctly, dang near the entire stadium went to blows. 

FYI, Dorsey is so not the Tiger I would have chosen to throw something at. The reason? Here you go:

Can you picture anything less warm and fuzzy existing outside of Hell itself? He was my favorite player. The guy was a friggin' tank.

The point being, the competition today was fierce. Numerous brawls nearly erupted from the court, and the refs were being pretty stupid. There was one blatant move on Chism's part that should have resulted in a T. Chism acted like a great big baby, made me want to offer him a pacifier if only to shut his whining. Never mind, Taggart got him back later with a body check. Resulted in a foul to U of M, but it made us all feel better.

The game was pretty tense, especially when we got below the minute time mark and things were still close. UT was only one point behind us, and if they scored, we were officially in the crapper. The coaches were using timeouts left and right, and Calipari was teaching me some new curse words that he shouted so emphatically that I was able to read his lips. 

It actually got down to one second. At this point, I was crouched on the sofa peeking through my fingers and Mom was praying aloud to every saint she's never heard of and Evan was speaking in what could only have been tongues. Odd, how a basketball game can become such a spiritual experience. But it all turned out well. We held UT off and won, effectively spanking them in their own stadium. It was a very nice moment, and Mom promptly went outside to the front step to do her obnoxious, yet embarrassingly satisfying, victory dance and screech. I'm sure her, "Go Tigers! Woooo!" thoroughly endeared her to our LSU loving neighbors.

The phone rang then, and I saw that it was my grandmother's number. She was obviously calling to exult over the game. I picked up and started gushing about how great a game it had been when I heard NanNan saying incoherently, "I need someone to take me to the emergency room...heart attack..." Her voice was kind of fading in and out, and I promptly felt panic take me over. I thought I'd heard her say "Don" in there, which is my grandfather's name. Mom saw my eyeballs turn into UFOs and started to flip out at the words "emergency room" and "heart attack", when I heard NanNan finish a few seconds too late, "...because it was such a great game!" 

I proceed to hyperventilate and gasp out, "Never....never.....ever.....ever say something like that to me again...."

Mom mercifully took the phone from me so that I could calmly pass out. 

Ahem. Good games hath unexpected repercussions, I suppose...