Monday, November 17, 2014
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
#CornedBeef
If I had a Twitter account I would probably tell you that I'm at a church fireside right now and that the chapel smells like pure corned beef. This means that a) we're dining on corned beef after the meeting, or b) someone in the room is snacking on a can of it. #MarshallIslands
Do I understand Twitter correctly?
Do I understand Twitter correctly?
Monday, April 8, 2013
Clove
I assumed the small black object on my floor was a mouse or gecko turd. Neither of which would have been alarming or unusual. Upon further investigation however, I was shocked to discover that it wasn't the turd of either animal; it was a clove.
I'm baffled by the mystery of it all.
I smell a conspiracy.
I'm baffled by the mystery of it all.
I smell a conspiracy.
Prayer
I pray at night before I fall asleep. I also tend to read or watch shows at night before I fall asleep. At the moment I'm watching Nashville. Don't judge.
At 1:30 a.m. I had just struggled through one last episode, rolled over into a half kneeling, half fetal position and stumbled through what I intended to make into a legitimate prayer.
A few thoughts and words into my first attempt and I fell asleep. Then I woke up and started again. Then I fell asleep again. Then I woke up one more time determined to get to the end of a prayer, even a short one. In that final attempt I made it to "amen", rolled onto my back, then realized that I had just prayed that God help Rayna James get through her trying time.
Rayna James is the main character in Nashville.
At 1:30 a.m. I had just struggled through one last episode, rolled over into a half kneeling, half fetal position and stumbled through what I intended to make into a legitimate prayer.
A few thoughts and words into my first attempt and I fell asleep. Then I woke up and started again. Then I fell asleep again. Then I woke up one more time determined to get to the end of a prayer, even a short one. In that final attempt I made it to "amen", rolled onto my back, then realized that I had just prayed that God help Rayna James get through her trying time.
Rayna James is the main character in Nashville.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Hobbies
Last night I began tutoring a second student, another Japanese volunteer. I asked him about his favorite hobbies and this was his response:
"My hobbies are Mahjong, playing guitar, watching YouTube videos, and young Japanese girls."
eek.
"My hobbies are Mahjong, playing guitar, watching YouTube videos, and young Japanese girls."
eek.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Not Cats
Living on an island in the Central Pacific has a few perks. For example, every now and then I see a dolphin. When that happens, despite any attempts to remain calm, my inner nine-year-old girl comes out and I instantly turn into my younger sister Stephanie at Seaworld circa 1995. Elation.
How the dolphin managed to steal hearts remains a mystery, I mean it's just big fish. But darn if dolphins aren't lovable. You don't see me waiting hours just to spot a trout, and I certainly don't feel the urge to hug a carp. Dolphins however, make me want to skip.
Recently I ate lunch at Shoreline, my usual lagoon-side fish and chips spot. Unusual however, was the table set up with discounted items for sale. I can't resist a sale and the expired herb-flavored Indonesian Colgate lured me in (I bought five at fifty cents each, a steal), but the Japanese fishing hooks kept me around. The hooks were sizable. Very sizable. "Big Game Hooks!" the label read across the top. And down the sides of the package were listed the big game possibilities: "Yellow fin!", "Marlin!", "Swordfish!", "Barracuda!", "Dolphin!".
Wait. What?
That's still a thing?
Cue fiery hell wrath.
How the dolphin managed to steal hearts remains a mystery, I mean it's just big fish. But darn if dolphins aren't lovable. You don't see me waiting hours just to spot a trout, and I certainly don't feel the urge to hug a carp. Dolphins however, make me want to skip.
Recently I ate lunch at Shoreline, my usual lagoon-side fish and chips spot. Unusual however, was the table set up with discounted items for sale. I can't resist a sale and the expired herb-flavored Indonesian Colgate lured me in (I bought five at fifty cents each, a steal), but the Japanese fishing hooks kept me around. The hooks were sizable. Very sizable. "Big Game Hooks!" the label read across the top. And down the sides of the package were listed the big game possibilities: "Yellow fin!", "Marlin!", "Swordfish!", "Barracuda!", "Dolphin!".
Wait. What?
That's still a thing?
Cue fiery hell wrath.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Cats
Pulling up to my house yesterday after work I almost hit a kitten with my scooter. Frightened, it scurried under the house. And that's when the meowing began. Despite their size, small cats meow with some serious ferocity.
This takes me to a confession: I hate cats.
What's so frustrating about my cat hatred is that cat love is SO trendy right now. And oh, how I long to fit in. I would love to be the butt of cat humor, or visit one of those kitties and coffee cafes in Tokyo. Cat hating alone will prevent me from ever reaching my hipster potential. My birthplace, Oregon, might as well disown me.
In my village there are several stray(ish) dogs. Two of them adopted the area right around my house: Bandit and Sugar Pie. A couple months ago faithful Sugar Pie disappeared. It's not that I missed her, she constantly begged and attracted flies and I actually really disliked her presence, but I had a feeling that she probably wasn't coming back. One hot and windless Saturday a random passerby knocked on the door to tell us that our house stunk. Poor roommate confusedly dismissed him (the occasional drunk comes to our house), but when I went outside to light some charcoal for a barbeque I smelled it too and confirmed his concern; that unmistakable rotten flesh stank was probably permeating the whole island. It didn't take long to locate the motionless black figure under the house. Sugar Pie went out with a bang. And by "bang" I mean she literally exploded under the house. The smell was overwhelming and we called the landlord to "take care" of Sugar Pie. Extracting her from under the house took three men, at least a dozen gags, and one purge. R.I.P. Sug.
I'm rambling per usual, but these are just some of the thoughts that flashed through my mind as I bent down, poked my head under the house, and found what I'm pretty sure were 30 glowing eyes glaring back at me. A shiver ran down my spine and now I was the one scurrying away now; I ran in the house and locked the door behind me, unsure of what to do. The meowing persisted.
Side note: I think the last time I touched a cat was when I was 15 and scored a pet-sitting gig from my next-door-neighbors, the Jensen's. The cats, called Tabitha and Cleo, were a proud pair. And they were obese and required daily thyroid medications.
Also, I'm allergic to cats.
What have I done? Nothing. What am I going to do? Probably nothing. But I just know that a few of them are either already dead or plotting to die under there. You see, that's what cats do, they intentionally look for ways to cause grief and distress. Dying and rotting under the house I could probably deal with, but come on cats, the nonstop 15-part meow chorus is a bit much, don't you think?
Extra side note: An unknown number of dead cats under the house are the perfect ingredients for a great episode of "Hoarders".
And then this happened.
Uncomfortable yet?
This takes me to a confession: I hate cats.
What's so frustrating about my cat hatred is that cat love is SO trendy right now. And oh, how I long to fit in. I would love to be the butt of cat humor, or visit one of those kitties and coffee cafes in Tokyo. Cat hating alone will prevent me from ever reaching my hipster potential. My birthplace, Oregon, might as well disown me.
In my village there are several stray(ish) dogs. Two of them adopted the area right around my house: Bandit and Sugar Pie. A couple months ago faithful Sugar Pie disappeared. It's not that I missed her, she constantly begged and attracted flies and I actually really disliked her presence, but I had a feeling that she probably wasn't coming back. One hot and windless Saturday a random passerby knocked on the door to tell us that our house stunk. Poor roommate confusedly dismissed him (the occasional drunk comes to our house), but when I went outside to light some charcoal for a barbeque I smelled it too and confirmed his concern; that unmistakable rotten flesh stank was probably permeating the whole island. It didn't take long to locate the motionless black figure under the house. Sugar Pie went out with a bang. And by "bang" I mean she literally exploded under the house. The smell was overwhelming and we called the landlord to "take care" of Sugar Pie. Extracting her from under the house took three men, at least a dozen gags, and one purge. R.I.P. Sug.
I'm rambling per usual, but these are just some of the thoughts that flashed through my mind as I bent down, poked my head under the house, and found what I'm pretty sure were 30 glowing eyes glaring back at me. A shiver ran down my spine and now I was the one scurrying away now; I ran in the house and locked the door behind me, unsure of what to do. The meowing persisted.
Side note: I think the last time I touched a cat was when I was 15 and scored a pet-sitting gig from my next-door-neighbors, the Jensen's. The cats, called Tabitha and Cleo, were a proud pair. And they were obese and required daily thyroid medications.
Also, I'm allergic to cats.
What have I done? Nothing. What am I going to do? Probably nothing. But I just know that a few of them are either already dead or plotting to die under there. You see, that's what cats do, they intentionally look for ways to cause grief and distress. Dying and rotting under the house I could probably deal with, but come on cats, the nonstop 15-part meow chorus is a bit much, don't you think?
Extra side note: An unknown number of dead cats under the house are the perfect ingredients for a great episode of "Hoarders".
And then this happened.
Uncomfortable yet?
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Flo
Through collaborative efforts between our agencies, I occasionally work with a woman called Flo, who chews tobacco. This makes me giggle.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Jaluit Hospitality
On my recent trip to Jaluit Atoll, the mayor asked ladies from several of the churches on the island to provide us with meals. In addition to the food, the ladies usually offered speeches and sung songs. I can't remember which church this group was from (Assembly of God, maybe?), but they were impressive. Marshallese hospitality is unreal, and I'm totally inspired by the time, effort, thought, and money that everyone put into making our stay comfortable.
Note the dog.
Jaluit, by the way, was incredible. I'll be sure to post photos, but it was a historian/WWII buff/archaeologist/anthropologist's dream with dozens of mostly intact Japanese structures scattered around the islands. Obviously everything is so well preserved because it's so difficult to get to Jaluit, but I almost wish more people could realize what the Marshall's have to offer.
Watch them sing HERE
Note the dog.
Jaluit, by the way, was incredible. I'll be sure to post photos, but it was a historian/WWII buff/archaeologist/anthropologist's dream with dozens of mostly intact Japanese structures scattered around the islands. Obviously everything is so well preserved because it's so difficult to get to Jaluit, but I almost wish more people could realize what the Marshall's have to offer.
Watch them sing HERE
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Sweet Parasite
A Haiku I wrote the other night:
I was wondering
Could it be, you've disappeared?
But then I sharted
I was wondering
Could it be, you've disappeared?
But then I sharted
English Lessons
I tutor an older Japanese International Cooperation Agency (JICA) volunteer in English twice a week. He is a delight, to say the least. Hardworking, dedicated, personable; I've actually really enjoyed my meager attempt at teaching because of him.
Though I've been in the Marshall Islands for over nine months now, I haven't given away much information about my job, mostly because I'm still confusedly figuring it out. It is unorganized at best. I often feel like a secretary or detective, usually lost somewhere in between unrealistic expectations and translation; a result of our program proprietor's ever changing requirements and my lacking Marshallese language skills. But it's in my power to slowly shape the job into whatever I want it to be; meaning it will always, inevitably be unorganized, but at least it'll keep me interested and busy enough. For example: I just returned from a two-week visit to an outer island in search of unexploded remnants of war; earning a paycheck to go bomb hunting in paradise. Sometimes I actually pinch myself.
The bomb team and I flew from Majuro to Jaluit Atoll on Air Marshall Islands (AMI). Affectionately called “Air Maybe”, AMI operates one 18-passenger plane that is notorious for breaking down and leaving its ticketed passengers stranded. Side note: The Marshall Islands spans an area (land and water included) the size of the continental United States. Think about it. Our one week trip turned into two when the “plane broke” and failed to retrieve and deliver us back to Majuro. After the surprise bonus week of unfulfilled promises to us from AMI, complete with three consecutive 5:00 a.m. airport trips, we opted for the boat. 17 hours it took. SEVENTEEN complete rotations of the clock accompanied by constant 36-foot waves. A less than desirable combo in my opinion. Had I known how horrid the ride would be I would have gladly stayed another month in Jaluit waiting for the plane. Or more. Thankfully, I don't get seasick, unlike most of the other passengers, unfortunately. Some things you just can't unsee. Regurgitated Spam and rice on the boat deck for example, aren't my favorite things to look at; their images however, are burned into my memory for time and eternity.
Upon returning to Majuro, I was welcomed with a slew of emails and text messages from the man I tutor. The messages expressed his concern for my unexplained absence, and questioned the date of our next session. Selfishly, lazily, plain old rudely, I failed to contact him until today, four days after my return, and only after two texts and three calls in a row from him early this morning. Our text conversation went as follows:
Me: “Hey G-- San. I just got back this past weekend. We were stuck for an extra week because the plane broke. Would you like to start class again today?”
Him: “Hello! Matt if you are OK, I will start class from today.”
Me: “OK, see you later.”
--Two hours later--
Him: “Hey Matt I'm sorry sent you mail many times now are you day off? If you so today's lesson cancel don't you? Probably you are very tired.”
Me: “I'm fine. We can do it today or whenever is best for you.”
Him: “I'm OK which tomorrow, next or next week. After restore your vitality let's start lesson! Sorry I'm thoughtless.”
And my heart broke. Thoughtless? Him? As a token of his appreciation the man gifts me fish jerky each session, for crying out loud. Hi, my name is Matt Riding, and I'm a certifiable b-hole.
Though I've been in the Marshall Islands for over nine months now, I haven't given away much information about my job, mostly because I'm still confusedly figuring it out. It is unorganized at best. I often feel like a secretary or detective, usually lost somewhere in between unrealistic expectations and translation; a result of our program proprietor's ever changing requirements and my lacking Marshallese language skills. But it's in my power to slowly shape the job into whatever I want it to be; meaning it will always, inevitably be unorganized, but at least it'll keep me interested and busy enough. For example: I just returned from a two-week visit to an outer island in search of unexploded remnants of war; earning a paycheck to go bomb hunting in paradise. Sometimes I actually pinch myself.
The bomb team and I flew from Majuro to Jaluit Atoll on Air Marshall Islands (AMI). Affectionately called “Air Maybe”, AMI operates one 18-passenger plane that is notorious for breaking down and leaving its ticketed passengers stranded. Side note: The Marshall Islands spans an area (land and water included) the size of the continental United States. Think about it. Our one week trip turned into two when the “plane broke” and failed to retrieve and deliver us back to Majuro. After the surprise bonus week of unfulfilled promises to us from AMI, complete with three consecutive 5:00 a.m. airport trips, we opted for the boat. 17 hours it took. SEVENTEEN complete rotations of the clock accompanied by constant 36-foot waves. A less than desirable combo in my opinion. Had I known how horrid the ride would be I would have gladly stayed another month in Jaluit waiting for the plane. Or more. Thankfully, I don't get seasick, unlike most of the other passengers, unfortunately. Some things you just can't unsee. Regurgitated Spam and rice on the boat deck for example, aren't my favorite things to look at; their images however, are burned into my memory for time and eternity.
Upon returning to Majuro, I was welcomed with a slew of emails and text messages from the man I tutor. The messages expressed his concern for my unexplained absence, and questioned the date of our next session. Selfishly, lazily, plain old rudely, I failed to contact him until today, four days after my return, and only after two texts and three calls in a row from him early this morning. Our text conversation went as follows:
Me: “Hey G-- San. I just got back this past weekend. We were stuck for an extra week because the plane broke. Would you like to start class again today?”
Him: “Hello! Matt if you are OK, I will start class from today.”
Me: “OK, see you later.”
--Two hours later--
Him: “Hey Matt I'm sorry sent you mail many times now are you day off? If you so today's lesson cancel don't you? Probably you are very tired.”
Me: “I'm fine. We can do it today or whenever is best for you.”
Him: “I'm OK which tomorrow, next or next week. After restore your vitality let's start lesson! Sorry I'm thoughtless.”
And my heart broke. Thoughtless? Him? As a token of his appreciation the man gifts me fish jerky each session, for crying out loud. Hi, my name is Matt Riding, and I'm a certifiable b-hole.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
RMI MD
Today is momentous. For the first time since the infamous scabies outbreak of 2007, I visited a doctor.
And I'm not even sick.
And I'm not even sick.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Eichelbergenstein
Here's a classic of Kimberly sleeping soundly in a sweaty Indian hostel. My top 3 favorite things about this pic? 3) Her own sheet on top of the bedding (a savvy traveler indeed); 2) The "I've-traveled-to-Asia-pants" (combined we probably bought 20 pair); 1) Obviously. Her hand is down her "I've-traveled-to-Asia-pants" (what can I say? The lady knows comfort). Amazing.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Precious Moments
Inappropriate movie theater and food experiences that Kimberly Eichelberger and I have shared throughout the years:
1. We were students in Hawaii, and every fortnight or so Kimmy and I would manage the trek from Laie to Kaneohe to feast on pho at our favorite Vietnamese dive. No problem, a bowl of pho, though massive, is a socially acceptable meal. Social acceptability quickly began to sour however, once we discovered how succulent the doughnuts next door at Kaneohe Bakery were. Two doughnuts a piece became the set standard after each pho run. The problem zone hadn't fully been entered until a decision was made that we couldn't leave town without first stopping at Jamba Juice. For a small fruit smoothie perhaps? Just a sip to cleanse the pallet? Never. We (or at least I) went for the beastly 20-something-ounce Peanut Butter Moo'd. Let's just call it what it is: a giant-size milkshake. I mean, part of its name is "Moo".
One sad, lonesome Valentines Day we (and some others) bought all the above to-go (plus a Coke, I'm sure), positioned it conspicuously into Kim's purse (duffel bag?), and sneaked it into the theater where we dined while watching Tyler Perry's "Daddy's Little Girls".
Depressed yet?
2. 2010's "Lottery Ticket". Yes, we paid money to watch it. Yes, I've seen it twice. Yes, it stars Bow Wow (the artist formerly known as Lil Bow Wow) and Loretta Devine. Yes, it would be the perfect movie if Madea would make an appearance. We were in San Diego, and yes, we sneaked Vietnamese baguette sandwiches into the theater. The theater was obviously dark and Kimmy took a bite without realizing that jalapenos were a main topping. The reaction made my life.
3. My favorite food is fried chicken. I like it golden, crispy, greasy, salty. Popeye's, yes. KFC, absolutely. But if you're really looking to tickle my fancy, forget the fancy buckets and boxes and hook your brother up with an 8-piece bag from the Albertson's deli. And I know I'm not alone, Alby's chicken has an upstanding reputation of perfection.
I traded Flagstaff for a warm weekend in Phoenix. Kimmy and I were on our way to a movie and naturally, we craved fried chicken. An Albertson's happened to be in the neighborhood and we bought a bag. Somehow we ended up with our fried chicken watching "Precious". Apparently we're inadvertent racists, Oops.
Until now I didn't realize how much we enjoy movies intended for a Black audience. J/K, I totally did.
1. We were students in Hawaii, and every fortnight or so Kimmy and I would manage the trek from Laie to Kaneohe to feast on pho at our favorite Vietnamese dive. No problem, a bowl of pho, though massive, is a socially acceptable meal. Social acceptability quickly began to sour however, once we discovered how succulent the doughnuts next door at Kaneohe Bakery were. Two doughnuts a piece became the set standard after each pho run. The problem zone hadn't fully been entered until a decision was made that we couldn't leave town without first stopping at Jamba Juice. For a small fruit smoothie perhaps? Just a sip to cleanse the pallet? Never. We (or at least I) went for the beastly 20-something-ounce Peanut Butter Moo'd. Let's just call it what it is: a giant-size milkshake. I mean, part of its name is "Moo".
One sad, lonesome Valentines Day we (and some others) bought all the above to-go (plus a Coke, I'm sure), positioned it conspicuously into Kim's purse (duffel bag?), and sneaked it into the theater where we dined while watching Tyler Perry's "Daddy's Little Girls".
Depressed yet?
2. 2010's "Lottery Ticket". Yes, we paid money to watch it. Yes, I've seen it twice. Yes, it stars Bow Wow (the artist formerly known as Lil Bow Wow) and Loretta Devine. Yes, it would be the perfect movie if Madea would make an appearance. We were in San Diego, and yes, we sneaked Vietnamese baguette sandwiches into the theater. The theater was obviously dark and Kimmy took a bite without realizing that jalapenos were a main topping. The reaction made my life.
3. My favorite food is fried chicken. I like it golden, crispy, greasy, salty. Popeye's, yes. KFC, absolutely. But if you're really looking to tickle my fancy, forget the fancy buckets and boxes and hook your brother up with an 8-piece bag from the Albertson's deli. And I know I'm not alone, Alby's chicken has an upstanding reputation of perfection.
I traded Flagstaff for a warm weekend in Phoenix. Kimmy and I were on our way to a movie and naturally, we craved fried chicken. An Albertson's happened to be in the neighborhood and we bought a bag. Somehow we ended up with our fried chicken watching "Precious". Apparently we're inadvertent racists, Oops.
Until now I didn't realize how much we enjoy movies intended for a Black audience. J/K, I totally did.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Havasupai
Took a trip to the Havasupai Indian Reservation in the Grand Canyon last weekend with a couple friends. A camera obviously can't do the place justice, but hopefully you get an idea for how incredibly unique and beautiful this place is.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Hobby #1
Maybe it's not so much a hobby as it is a necessary natural bodily function. If you know me well you know I can't burp. I just can't. Semi-annually a mini burp sneaks up on me; it's a big deal celebrated with a mass text to friends, a call to my mom, a redbox movie, and a steak dinner.
This, I've decided, is my summer. My summer to unite myself with the other 7 billion humans on Earth, and learn to burp.
But I can't go it alone. I'll need your support, some guidance, and maybe a prayer.
This, I've decided, is my summer. My summer to unite myself with the other 7 billion humans on Earth, and learn to burp.
But I can't go it alone. I'll need your support, some guidance, and maybe a prayer.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
now and future
I admitted my graduation. Now a follow up confession: I miss school. I know, I'm sick. It's just that grad school overwhelmed my life for two years unlike anything else--'cept my mission--and I've realized I'm not over it. Though I was stressed, sleep deprived, without friends, and conscious thanks only to a steady diet of fast food and Diet Coke, I feel like I actually miss the insane amount of reading and writing. I plan to apply for a PhD program within the year.
The crazy thing is that a PhD in anthropology takes an average of seven+ years.
Meanwhile, I have a job. I conduct research, evaluating a statewide initiative that involves school readiness for young kids. I travel throughout Northern Arizona and interview stakeholders and parents. I analyze what they tell me and help compose reports and provide suggestions to the state. I am an applied anthropologist and feel lucky to have a job in my field, but frankly, I'm bored. I'm not motivated by educational anthropology and selfishly can't wait to get back to researching topics directly in line with my interests and curiosities.
Which are what? Food and... well, mostly just food. Producing it, processing it, distributing it, and of course, eating it.
Most of the last year was spent developing my thesis, which focused primarily on the relationship between food and cultural identification. My work was based on insights from an internship I conducted last summer at an urban farm for migrants and refugees in San Diego. I would like to continue similar work and eventually teach anthropology at a university.
Arizona has been good to me and I'll enjoy another year here. Come Fall 2012 though, I'll happily move on. Oregon, Hawaii, Indiana? Shoot, I'll join any program that wants me! (hopefully some program out there will...). Until then I plan to fill my free time with a pile of new hobbies that I haven't thought of yet. Suggestions?
The crazy thing is that a PhD in anthropology takes an average of seven+ years.
Meanwhile, I have a job. I conduct research, evaluating a statewide initiative that involves school readiness for young kids. I travel throughout Northern Arizona and interview stakeholders and parents. I analyze what they tell me and help compose reports and provide suggestions to the state. I am an applied anthropologist and feel lucky to have a job in my field, but frankly, I'm bored. I'm not motivated by educational anthropology and selfishly can't wait to get back to researching topics directly in line with my interests and curiosities.
Which are what? Food and... well, mostly just food. Producing it, processing it, distributing it, and of course, eating it.
Most of the last year was spent developing my thesis, which focused primarily on the relationship between food and cultural identification. My work was based on insights from an internship I conducted last summer at an urban farm for migrants and refugees in San Diego. I would like to continue similar work and eventually teach anthropology at a university.
Arizona has been good to me and I'll enjoy another year here. Come Fall 2012 though, I'll happily move on. Oregon, Hawaii, Indiana? Shoot, I'll join any program that wants me! (hopefully some program out there will...). Until then I plan to fill my free time with a pile of new hobbies that I haven't thought of yet. Suggestions?
Saturday, June 18, 2011
return
I think I'm ready to emerge from retirement. But only to report two things: 1) I graduated (please call me "master" from here on out); and 2) I impulsively bought a ticket to Bangkok last night. I leave October 12 for three weeks and tentatively plan to wander around Thailand, Cambodia and Laos. And I haven't told my boss.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
omg lol
My brother in-law Josh, generously gifted me a Blackberry Pearl for Christmas. Even though I am still deconstructing its complexities I have not slowed my texting habit. This past week alone I sent the following (inappropriate) text messages to the wrong people:
1. "I am still so grossed out that Dougie sampled your lady milk." (sorry emily w.)
2. "ROADTRIP!" (sorry nikki s.)
3. "I wish you were a treasure troll too." (sorry matt m.)
4. "Oh heeeey boo." (sorry bishop walton)
1. "I am still so grossed out that Dougie sampled your lady milk." (sorry emily w.)
2. "ROADTRIP!" (sorry nikki s.)
3. "I wish you were a treasure troll too." (sorry matt m.)
4. "Oh heeeey boo." (sorry bishop walton)
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Love?
The following scene occurred last Sunday at an after-church activity at the bishop's house:
I am eating and half zoned out but catch a girl staring at me. We do the awkward "look-away-and-pretend-it-never-happened" routine, but it happens several more times. Some time passes, I finish a conversation with a friend, and StareGirl approaches me.
Me: Hey
StareGirl: Okay. I don't really know how to talk to people. Well, about anything other than books. So, do you like to read?
Me: Uh?..
Looks like I found a Valentine's date! jk.
I am eating and half zoned out but catch a girl staring at me. We do the awkward "look-away-and-pretend-it-never-happened" routine, but it happens several more times. Some time passes, I finish a conversation with a friend, and StareGirl approaches me.
Me: Hey
StareGirl: Okay. I don't really know how to talk to people. Well, about anything other than books. So, do you like to read?
Me: Uh?..
Looks like I found a Valentine's date! jk.
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