Just MADDENING!

So I ordered some books on half.com the other day.

This was a big step for me because the last time I ordered books from an online bookseller (amazon.com), one of them never arrived. And my account wouldn't allow me to access the shipping information, despite the confirmation email I'd been sent telling me "you're 20 dollar novel has been charged to your credit card and shipped." If the book was ever actually shipped, it must have gotten sucked into an alternate reality by an intergalactic vortex, for it certainly never made it to my mailbox!

ANYWHO, I ordered four novels last week, all of which were part of the same series. I'd read the first one before and enjoyed it, so when I found the rest of the books for 75 cents each, I had to purchase them. I'm a sucker for a good deal, especially on books. And shoes. And blank journals. But that's another story for another post.

WHAT WAS I SAYING? Oh, yes. The books. Sorry. 

To my great delight, the first book arrived within two days of my ordering it, and I devoured it like a ravenous lion. Seriously, I don't read books, I INHALE them. It was just as entertaining as I'd recalled, and so I began to compulsively check my mailbox in eager anticipation for the second book in the series to appear.

ALAS! When I ripped open the packaging surrounding the next book to arrive on my doorstep, I found it contained the third book instead of book #2! This was puzzling, for I'd received the confirmation emails in chronological order, and so had assumed that they would be delivered as such. This benign feeling of confusion was quickly replaced by mild frustration, which rapidly turned into a malignant, burning annoyance. 

I was stuck in literary purgatory, for I held in my hot little hands a wonderful new book, but I couldn't possibly read it without completely ruining the other wonderful new book that I had purchased, but had not yet received. Since patience isn't exactly my strongest character trait, this irritation simmered as I waited for the correct book to appear, occasionally glancing longingly at book #3. 

Today, when I arrived home after class, I was ecstatic to see another book-shaped package in the mailbox. Peace and happiness flooded over me as I began to plan the evening around my new reading material, imagining myself sitting out on the porch, sipping some strawberry lemonade as I lost myself in the novel. However, this serenity was short-lived, for as I tore open the package once more, I discovered that the fourth book had arrived instead of the second!

"AAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!" I cried, throwing my head back with a primeval roar of anguish and rage. I gripped the offending book with shaking hands, my hopes and dreams for an evening of quiet relaxation ruined. Infuriated, I stomped up to my room and tossed book #4 on top of the likewise-discarded book #3. 

And so here I sit, venting on this blog instead of polishing off a good mystery novel. Every once in awhile I pause to glare at those prematurely-delivered books as they call my name like a Siren's song, tempting me to my own destruction. 

It's only going to be worse when book #2 arrives, because then I'll have three books whispering "Read me. Read me. READ ME," while I'm trying to study for my Wednesday exam. 

Figures.

It's really not THAT bad I guess.

I went for a run tonight, and I must say, it was a somewhat pleasant experience. 

For all of you who know me, this statement might be a little bit of a shock. You see, I've always insisted that I hate, hate, HATE running. I've never been able to understand those who claim to enjoy a nice long run. In fact, I don't think the words "nice" and "long run" should even be used together in the same sentence. That said, tonight's jog was markedly less terrible than I'm used to.

It might have something to do with the perfect weather, or the cool breeze that accompanied me as I trudged along. It might be due to the wonderful new running shoes that were on my feet, or perhaps the fun, motivational itunes mix blaring through my earbuds. 

Amazingly, I did not want to kill myself at any point in the run, nor did I feel like collapsing onto the grass like a dead fish when I was done. Sure, I was sweating profusely and I got a cramp in my side that half-paralyzed my diaphragm. Sure, the second half of my route seemed to be at a 45-degree incline and I had to spit out massive amounts of unnecessary saliva along the way (as daintily as possible, I assure you). But, overall, my misery failed to overshadow the endorphin rush that came from doing something purely physical; something to get my heart pumping and adrenaline surging. It was a battle to convince myself to even get out the door, but once I did, I was glad for it. 

And while I'm fairly certain a marathon is NOT in my future, if nothing else, I'll sleep well tonight. 

Dear Weather Radar,

You are the bane of my existence. 

The ONE night a HUGE storm system barrels across the plains, headed straight for Chicago, you are "down for maintenance." For as much as I once loved you, I now curse you. How dare you deprive me the joy of monitoring cloud front progression or analyzing lightning activity?!? In my hour of need, you have abandoned me, Weather Radar. It's over between us.

Don't bother calling. Nothing you can do or say will make me forgive this grievous injury. I've moved on...to Brook's portable Weather Tracker. 

"Swinging" refrigerators

Today I witnessed an amazing feat of strength and strategy, the likes of which I have not seen since the 2010 Winter Olympics.

Two guys from Sears brought us a new fridge. 

Now, you might think that the previous two statements are unrelated, but in fact, they describe the same event. For not only did the two 20-somethings (Benny and Sergio) hand deliver our beautiful new refrigerator, but they managed to wrangle our gigantic old fridge out of the house and into the garage using nothing but brute strength and a couple of straps. 

How did they do it, you ask? Well, by "swinging."

Yes, that's the technical term... and yes, it did quickly digress into a snarky joke among the four of us. These guys proudly claimed to be "Professional Swingers."

So, basically, they intertwined two large straps, looped them under the fridge and over their shoulders, and then hoisted it off the ground. As if this wasn't hard enough, they proceeded to slide the massive machine through our narrow 1950's-sized door frames by alternately opening and closing the fridge doors as they adjusted the angle of the large metal box, squeezing it neatly through the doorway without a dent or a scratch. 

Even more impressive, they managed to do it without cussing at each other. 

But most impressive was their uncanny ability to manage all this while simultaneously flirting with us. 

AMAZING.

In other news, Nate the Plaster Man also spent the afternoon at our house, fixing and painting the kitchen ceiling. Due to all this excitement, yours truly was stuck babysitting all (two) of our valuable possessions while strange men came and went from our abode. Just to be clear, spending a Saturday trapped in my own home, ticking away at an endless, boring to-do list is not enough to keep me mentally occupied. So if you notice an unusual amount of activity, by myself, on certain social networking websites, it's because I was going flippin' stir-crazy. 

Please don't judge me. 

Am I the only one?

While visiting some good friends last week (in FLORIDA...more on that later), I found myself in strangely familiar conversational territory. While we were getting pedicures (Ritzy, right?), a familiar tune started playing through the salon's speakers. 

"Hey, who can name that tune?" I asked my friends, feeling certain that they'd recognize it straight away. Instead, all I got in response were dual blank stares, then furrowed eyebrows, followed by that curious, quizzical look I get sometimes when people are questioning my sanity.

"I don't know!" one said, and my jaw dropped.

"Seriously? It's the theme of Man From Snowy River!" I exclaimed, fully expecting her to smack her forehead and wonder how she could've forgotten. 

More quizzical looks ensued.

"You guys have seen that movie, right?" I asked into the cricket-chirping silence. 

Both shook their heads, glancing at each other and shrugging.

"What's it about?" one asked.

"Well, it's about this mountain cowboy whose dad dies and the other cowboys say he can't live up in the mountains anymore because he has to earn his status as a real man, and in the meantime he falls in love with the daughter of the rancher that he's working for, but then he tries to chase a herd of wild horses and loses a really expensive horse..."

About halfway through my summary I'm hit by a realization: This movie sounds REALLY DUMB. And I can tell by the looks on my friends faces that they think so too.

"...but, yeah. It's actually a pretty good movie, so, um...and the soundtrack is really good too...yeah, so..." I muttered, trailing off in embarrassment. 

The girls blinked at me, looked at each other, and I stared intently at the person painting my toenails, trying to come up with something clever or witty to change the subject.

"So, are we going to play Euchre again tonight? That was fun yesterday, huh?" I finally managed to squeak out, effectively ending the awkwardness. 

All of this got me to thinking, and my thinking turned into musing, and musing into blogging (naturally): Does anyone else have a few movies that they genuinely liked, but are ashamed to admit it? Now, I'm not referring to "Adult Movies" here (because we like to keep it PG-13 here on Kate's Little Adventures), but your typical guilty-pleasure flicks, or even just some obscure or older movies that it seems like nobody else in the world has seen. If a summary of the plot reminds you of a certain Kraft pasta product (it's the cheesiest), it belongs on the list.

For your reading pleasure, I'll post a few of my personal faves here in hopes that you folks will add to it via the comments part of this blog. Let's go interactive, people!

1. The Man from Snowy River -- 'nuff said

2. Mulan -- Disney's first real attempt at an empowered female lead character.

3. The Newsies -- a young Christian Bale singing and dancing? Yes please.

4. Twister -- I always wanted to be a storm chaser. So sue me.

5. Romancing the Stone -- a 1984 film starring Michael Douglas. So bad and so good.

So, I'm sure I could come up with more, and I will post them as I do, but feel free to add your own personal favorites. I promise no one will judge you... or at least if we do, we'll keep it to ourselves. :)

HEALTH

1. Drink plenty of water

2. Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a beggar


3. Eat more foods that grow on trees and plants and eat less food that is manufactured in plants


4. Live with the 3 E’s — Energy, Enthusiasm and Empathy


5. Make time to pray and read your Bible daily


6. Play more games


7. Read more books than you did in 2009

8. Sit in silence for at least 10 minutes each day


9. Sleep for 7 hours
a night

10. Take a 10-30 minutes walk daily. And while you walk, smile.

A study in contrasts:

Things I did last week Monday:

~woke up early

~crammed for a 10:15am final exam

~took a final exam

~ate lunch while studying for the second final exam of the day

~took another final exam

~ate dinner 

~studied for the other 6 exams I had to take that week

~laid in bed for hours, disturbingly awake, my brain buzzing with information

~finally fell asleep, exhausted and filled with dread for the coming days

Things I intend to do this week Monday:

~sleep in late

~go for a run

~eat a leisurely breakfast

~go to the library and pick out a few good novels 

~meet up with friends for lunch

~wander around Target in search of some new flip flops

~cook dinner for my parents

~attend my little sister's choir concert

~read my new library book until my eyes won't stay open any more

~drift off to sleep with a smile on my face

P.S. Here is a picture of my new house. Yes, I realize it's pink. Yes, the neighbors probably all laugh at us behind our backs. Yes, I am completely smitten with it. And yes, these beautiful tulips popped up out of the earth all on their own, right next to the front steps. Lovely, aren't they? They even match. 

Heebie-Jeebies

Brook found this little guy's cousin in our trash can this evening. 

"Kaaaate!"

"Yeah, Brook?"

"There's a weird bug in the garbage can."

So I went over to have a look (along with Amanda, who happened to be visiting), and the creepy-crawly thing was clinging to the liner, flexing its spindly legs in waves as it tried to get out.

"What is it?" she asked, peering into the can as if it contained a severed human limb or something equally horrifying.

"It's a little alien." I said, examining it. "Or a centipede."

"Gross." she said, wiggling her shoulders in that strange way you do when you imagine something creepy scurrying up your back. 

"Stand back. I'll be the man of this household and get rid of it." I said boldly, grabbing a paper towel. But as soon as I approached the bucket to bravely dispose of the little sucker, Brook threw in a nausea-inducing comment.

"Good. Because I hate that crunching feeling of killing bugs."

I swallowed hard, imagining how all those legs would flail and snap between my fingers. Suddenly I was not so keen on my original plan. Especially when I got closer and the insect looked up at me with those beady little eyes. 

A chill shot up my spine, and I strategized an alternate plan of attack. Folding up the paper towel into a sturdy roll, I decided to flick it down into the bottom of the trash and simply bring the whole business outside to the bin. With Brook watching over my shoulder, I hesitantly moved to push the spindly bug off of its perch. But to my horror, instead of falling down, the creeper grabbed onto my paper-towel-flicker-thingy with several of its many legs.

I panicked. 

Screeching, I dropped the whole thing like it was on fire (thankfully, into the bag), and slammed the cover down, dancing away from the trash can with accompanying hoots and hollers of mixed surprise and disgust. This caused a very similar reaction in Brook, who shrieked just as loudly as I, recommencing her previous "get it off! get it off!" motion, plus a few hops away from the trash for good measure. 

After this moment of purely irrational behavior, we dissolved into hysterical laughter, and I moved back toward the garbage can to finish the job. Unfortunately, when I opened the lid I discovered that the multi-legged insect had begun to ascend the side once more. Knowing that I had to act quickly, I ripped the bag from the can, cinched up the opening, and sprinted out to the bin by our garage. I hurled the whole mess, bug and all, down into the big green can, and turned to cheer my victory. 

It was at that moment that Brook's two dogs caught up with me. 

I didn't get totally taken down by the ecstatic canines, but that's only due to the unusually large amount of adrenaline coursing thru my bloodstream, giving me momentarily-heightened reflexes. Winne and Jackson attacked me with excitement for a good 60 seconds before I could convince them that the ordeal was over, and I'd conquered the vile bug. All the while, Brook laughed from the safety of the kitchen. 

Give me a moldy human head in a bucket any day. I can handle that. But creepy-crawly bugs with too many legs? No thanks.

I said this wouldn't happen.

But it did. 

I have been shamefully absent from this blog for far, FAR to long! 

My deepest apologies, friends and readers, who have not gotten their "Kate's Little Adventures" fix for the past few weeks. I know it must have been rough on you. It has not been smooth sailing on this end either, believe me.

Now that I have confessed my guilt, I shall entertain you with a brief update regarding my biggest news of late; my new living arrangements!

At this very moment I am seated at my desk in my new bedroom, which is in my new house, which is on my new street, which is, believe it or not, in my new neighborhood! (and the green grass grew all around, all around... Camp song reference. Sorry.) 

Yes, my room is a disaster of unpacked boxes and unwashed laundry. Yes, the main floor looks like an episode of "Hoarders" (Piles of rubbish intersected by little paths going from room to room). Yes, I will continue to ignore both issues until after finals next week. 

Honestly, I'm just happy to be HOME. After feeling displaced for months and months, my heart is full of joy every time I drive up to the little pink box that will be my residence for the next two years. You read that correctly. My house is PINK. I'll put up pictures after I clean up the rest of my life... after finals. Patience is a virtue.

In the meantime, here is a literary snapshot of why I love my new house:

This afternoon, while home for a quick lunch between classes, I sat outside in my HUGE backyard, basking in the Chicago sunshine and munching on some gluten-free toast smothered with almond butter. Closing my eyes, I leaned back and sighed, for what glory didst grace my ears but the sound of church-bells, tolling the hour. If that wasn't amazing enough, the heavenly peals continued on, playing the tunes to several familiar hymns, their tones ringing brightly thru the spring air. I was instantly transported back in time and space to a sunny courtyard in the Netherlands where the very same sounds floated thru the air from the high steeples of magnificent cathedrals. 

As if to add bass notes to this treble-symphony of bells and birds, the rumble of a passing train grew louder and louder, sounding its mournful wail and clacking in percussive waves across the tracks just a block from where I sat. 

"There's something mysterious and romantic about that sound." I thought as it faded into the distance. The bells ceased their chiming as well, leaving me alone with the birds and the sunshine once more, but the chorus of the afternoon kept playing in my head for many hours later. And I smiled, knowing that tomorrow afternoon I would get to hear that same symphony again. And again. And again. Because this is my backyard, at my house, on my street, in my neighborhood. 

God is good.

Reliving the Dream

I used to be in an amazing choir. 

Singing with The Capella of Calvin College was arguably one of the most defining aspects of my undergraduate experience, heck, my life in general. Most of the friends that I still keep in touch with from college sang with me in this amazing choir, sharing the ups and downs that come with participating in an elite musical ensemble. I learned a great deal from my esteemed conductor, whom I consider a mentor and a beloved friend, not only about making music but about living a life of humility, grace, and passion. And I was blessed to travel the world with these friends, competing on the international stage in Europe!

If you aren't catching on, I'll spell it out for you: I loved my time with Capella.

Tonight I had the opportunity to see them perform, and my love for the choir was rekindled once again. A friend and fellow former member of the choir drove down to Demotte, Indiana with me to see the choristers give an afternoon concert, and our 60-minute drive was well rewarded. 

The first half of the program was a delight. However, I was even more excited to hear the second half because the choir was singing a piece that we had performed two years ago in France, a personal favorite of mine. Watching those young people sing brought back countless memories. I could almost see myself standing in their places, surrounded by all my friends as in years past. I sighed, a sense of melancholy coming over me with the knowledge that I would never again have the opportunity to sing with this choir. However, I was still smiling when our conductor walked to the microphone to introduce my favorite piece, but I was utterly floored to hear the words that came out of his mouth.

To my astonishment, he extended an invitation to my friend and I to come up and sing the piece with the choir, even going so far as to announce our names from the stage! My jaw dropped, and I immediately lost all ability to produce saliva. Already a nice shade of pink, I managed to make my way up to the front and find a place at the end of a row without falling over. My legs were like jell-o, I was starting to sweat, and I couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. And to top it all off, I was breaking the number one rule of singing: I had gum in my mouth. Perfect, just perfect.

 The girl next to me opened her music, but I didn't even look at it. My eyes were glued to my conductor because I WAS TERRIFIED. Sure, I could have sung the piece in my sleep, but when I opened my mouth to come in with the first entrance, no sound came out. Not even a peep. I was still so completely unprepared to sing, so out of practice, so unused to the thrill of performing that my voice rebelled for a brief moment in pure protest.

"Ok, Self." I thought, trying to keep the panic from my face. "You've done this a million times. Just sing. This is SO not a big deal."

"Uh, It is TOO a big deal!" my Self replied. "It's been two long years, honey. Are you sure you've still got it?"

"Yes, I've still got it!" I boasted to my skeptical Self. "I'll show you, too. Just as soon as my voice decides to cooperate."

Thankfully, my hesitation only lasted a moment, and I was able to sing the piece with gusto and emotion, reliving so many glorious moments in the process. My conductor smiled at me wryly as we sang, probably just as surprised as I was that I could produce any quality sound after two long years away from his tutelage. But (as always) the end of the piece came too quickly, and I found myself back in my seat, breathless and sweating. 

After the concert I fully intended to scold him for throwing us such a curveball, but when I finally got to talk to him, all I could do was thank him over and over for the opportunity to sing for him again. His reply: 

"Wow! I can't believe you've still got it!"

Neither can I, Dr. Navarro. Neither can I.

She's BAAAACK!

It's true, I have rejoined the land of the living (and the land of the blogging, for that matter).

I took my boards this past weekend, and while I have absolutely no idea how that whole thing will turn out "pass-wise," it feels great to have that weight off of my shoulders. The fact that I was at school, hunched over a desk, trying my darndest to remember obscure trivia about the human body for 10 hours may or may not have left me dazed, sore, and unable to feel my right index finger. For the life of me, I can't figure out what day it's supposed to be. It's amazing how the complete loss of a weekend can screw with your brain. It's been a time-warp kinda week.

In other news, we had a midterm exam on Wednesday. Yes, you read that correctly. The week after boards my jerk-face professor gave us a midterm. And just so you know, "jerk-face" is the very nicest name that I heard him called at school on Wednesday morning.

NEVERTHELESS, this too did pass. (No word yet on if I passed the midterm, but you catch my drift)

To continue the random nature of this post, I am taking an exercise class. And this is not just any exercise class. It's ZUMBA. 

Those of you who know what Zumba is are already laughing, for the mental image of yours truly participating in said activity is certainly hilarious, if not slightly disturbing. I assure you, I am just as awkward and uncoordinated as you imagine.

For those of you who do not know what Zumba is, let me try to help you picture this phenomenon. Think of the most painfully clumsy contestant on Dancing With The Stars (over age 40), dress her in yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt, throw on some Ricky Martin and try to teach her how to dance like J-Lo. That's Zumba, folks.

The truly funny part about this situation is that I didn't think it would be difficult. Honestly, I was expecting to waltz in there, one of the youngest, hippest kids at the park district, and shake my groove thing like a pro. FALSEHOOD, my friends. UTTER LIES. The moment the music started, it was as if the upper and lower halves of my body decided to sever all connections and go off in their own directions. I could barely follow the steps, much less coordinate my shoulders and arms with the instructor. I have a great sense of rhythm, really, I do. But this took every ounce of focus I possess just to make sure I wasn't going to elbow my neighbor in the face with my flailing and stumbling. All that, plus I was out of breath, sweating, and trying not to laugh out loud with my friends at the ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS picture we made.

Samba? Reggeton? Cha-Cha? I can barely polka. Who was I kidding? 

Our fabulous instructor assures us that we'll get better, that it's just about having fun and getting exercise, but I'm not going to quit my day job. All you dancers out there, brava. I hope you get the credit you're due, because this little girl sends you props upon props. 

"The most wasted of all days is one without laughter" ~ e e cummings

Attaining Perspective

So sorry that I've not been keeping up with this blog lately, but I'm up to my eyeballs in studying at the moment. I'll admit to feeling a range of emotions this past week: frustration, anxiety, boredom, and even a touch of despair. Sometimes I feel utterly and completely overwhelmed by the tasks set before me, and sometimes I wonder if it will be worth it in the end. But when I find myself plagued by doubts, I turn to this song, and it gives me comfort and perspective. Here are the lyrics, but I highly recommend taking a listen. It's sung by the phenomenal Brian Stokes Mitchell, written by Stephen Schwartz for the movie "Prince of Egypt."

A single thread in a tapestry
Through its color brightly shine
Can never see its purpose
In the pattern of the grand design

And the stone that sits on the very top
Of the mountain's mighty face
Does it think it's more important
Than the stones that form the base?

So how can you see what your life is worth
Or where your value lies?
You can never see through the eyes of man
You must look at your life

Look at your life through heaven's eyes

A lake of gold in the desert sand
Is less than a cool fresh spring
And to one lost sheep, a shepherd boy
Is greater than the richest king
If a man lose ev'rything he owns
Has he truly lost his worth?
Or is it the beginning 
Of a new and brighter birth?

So how do you measure the worth of a man
In wealth or strength or size?
In how much he gained or how much he gave?
The answer will come
The answer will come to him who tries
To look at his life through heaven's eyes

And that's why we share all we have with you
Though there's little to be found
When all you've got is nothing
There's a lot to go around

No life can escape being blown about
By the winds of change and chance
And though you never know all the steps
You must learn to join the dance
You must learn to join the dance

So how do you judge what a man is worth
By what he builds or buys?
You can never see with your eyes on earth
Look through heaven's eyes
Look at your life
Look at your life
Look at your life through heaven's eyes

Shame on me.

I have a confession to make. 

Tonight, in a moment of weakness (ok, several moments), I fell off the wagon. 

At the beginning of last week I determined that the only way for me to stay sane through the rest of this term was to focus on healthy living. Inspired by my Yogi tea bag, I was determined to "eat right, walk right, and talk to myself right" every day so that my stress level would be kept as low as humanly possible through boards, moving, and finals. 

And I've been pleasantly surprised by the results. Sure, sometimes I feel like one giant ball of anxiety, but for the most part I have been able to keep my head on straight and my blood pressure within normal limits. 

But tonight, I just couldn't take it. Having spent the whole day in class, I was not looking forward to another night spent at my desk. Especially because awaiting me on that desk was a fat stack of Biochemistry notes. I loathe Biochem, mostly because it doesn't come naturally to me, so the painstaking process of re-memorizing enzymes and pathways and vitamins (and God knows what other bits of trivia I'd managed to completely forget) filled me with a deep dread. 

Nonetheless, 7:30pm found me studying away dutifully, only pausing to grumble under my breath every few minutes. I could feel the mix of terror and rage building as I stared at pages of information that I should know but only vaguely remember, and began to mentally search for something, anything, to soothe my irritated psyche. That's when it hit me: 

Ben and Jerry's. 

My lofty goals and ambitious ideals forgotten instantly, I put down my highlighters and threw on a sweatshirt, braving the cold, damp Chicago air to Jewel-Osco. To my great delight, the pints of deliciousness were even on sale. The stars had aligned, and my fate was clear. I could do nothing but accept this as a divine sign... and so I bought two. One for Janna, one for me. 

Do I regret my decision? Not really. Do I feel guilty? Naturally. I was raised in the Christian Reformed Church. We specialize in feeling guilty. But it didn't stop me from enjoying the delicious scoop of half brownie, half cookie dough ice cream that made me feel that everything was right in the world, if only for a moment. It didn't stop me from enjoying the second scoop, either. And I'm sure that tomorrow night I will enjoy another scoop just as much.

Of course I'll be eating nothing but veggies for the next three days just to counteract the caloric content of my indulgence, but right now it seems worth the sacrifice.  

P.S. Those of you who know me will appreciate the irony of this statement, considering how much I hate gender stereotyping, but sometimes I'm such a girl. 

The "Jeanius"

In case you weren't aware, Gap is going green. 

From March 5-14th, Gap stores have been promoting recycling... of your old denim! The deal goes like this: bring in any old pair of jeans, any brand, and receive 30% off your purchase of a new pair. Those faded, ripped, holey duds are transformed into cotton housing insulation and donated to needy families in the community while you strut your stuff in a nice, new pair.

So tonight Janna and I grabbed our outdated and overworn scraps of denim and went to hunt down a deal. Both of us wear our clothes til they are threadbare, especially jeans, and the two pair that I alternate between have been looking especially tired lately. It was time. 

However, the scene that met us at Gap was a bit intimidating. There were at least 10 styles of jeans to choose from, all in varying shades of indigo and varying stages of distress. Why stores feel the need to mutilate their jeans before selling them is beyond me, but that's a whole different issue that we won't get into here. 

Trying not to be overwhelmed, we picked through the stacks, looking for the size and style that we hoped would best suit us, bringing armloads back to the fitting rooms. As a side note, fitting rooms are pretty close to my own personal hell. There, I said it. Moving on. 

Next comes the part where both of us put on a pair, show each other, and try to appraise them without injuring each other's self-esteem. The first few I tried were failures, but after a few changes I found a pair that I liked. They were my usual size, similar to the other pairs of jeans I own, and acceptable in the mirror. I emerged, as did Janna, and she showed me the pair that she liked. We agreed with each other's choices, but found minor issues with each pair. Mine were a little shorter than I liked, and hers were too loose in the waist.

This is where things got interesting.

As we stood in the hallway of the fitting rooms, the "Jeanius" walked up. At that point I did not realize that this Gap employee was a magician in disguise, so when he approached I didn't pay him any more attention than I normally do a fitting room attendant. His appearance (and, er, flamboyance) should have tipped me off right away, for he was sporting skinny black jeans, a white v-neck shirt, several bracelets, and very fashion-forward sneakers. He asked us if we were finding everything alright, and we nodded, but the look he gave us from over the rims of his über hip glasses made it obvious that we were not alright. 

Declaring that we needed an impromptu fitting session, he addressed Janna's issues first. After a brief interview, analysis of her current jeans, and discussion of options, he disappeared for mere seconds, returning with two pair of jeans in hand for her to try. Not only were they the right color and style, but they were several sizes smaller than the jeans she had previously tried. The amazing thing: they were perfect. They were flattering, comfortable, and fit so much better than the ones we had picked. 

Having succeeded with Janna, the "Jeanius" turned to me. I could see the gears in his head turning as he scrutinized me, not in a mean-spirited or judgmental way, but as if he was performing a complicated surgical procedure and needed the entirety of his concentration to get me out alive. Finally, he suggested the same style of jeans that Janna had tried. 

"Here, Kate. I think I have a pair in my fitting room." Janna said, rooting around in the pile. "Oh, they're not your size."

"I bet you could wear those." the "Jeanius" interjected, and I rolled my eyes.

"No way I'm getting into them." I muttered, but I obediently closed the door, preparing myself for the worst. You already know what happened next, don't you? They were PERFECT. Perfect, I tell you, and 3 sizes smaller than I'd been wearing before. Trust me, I checked the tag several times, just to make sure it wasn't a mistake.

"It's a miracle!" I cried, twirling to show Janna. 

"I know! Me too!" she replied, flaunting her own amazing new jeans. "I swear, I have no idea where he got these. They are definitely not on the shelf."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he created them out of thin air. Like a Genie!" I marveled.

"Yeah! A Jean-ie!" she said, and we both cracked up. But seriously. He could've been. 

We were still in a state of shock when the "Jeanius" was ringing up our purchases, but he just smiled, telling us how many customers end up with ill-fitting pants because they think they know their size. 

I'm pretty sure it was his nice way of saying "I told you so."

In other, very uninteresting news, I have been studying my life away. That is all. 

Told you it was uninteresting. 

A day in the life...

6:45am~ my alarm goes off. I blindly grope around until I'm able to grab my phone and shut off the offensive beeping. I go back to sleep.

7:00am~ alarm goes off again. I turn it off again. I go back to sleep.

8:00am~ I wake up, this time in tears, due to a vivid and heart-wrenching dream. Does this only happen to me? I think my morning/dozing dreams are the most potent, and I often wake myself up because I'm crying. Rarely can I remember what was so sad, which is probably a good thing. Tell me I'm not the only one, please. 

8:30am~ in the middle of my morning walk/run I realize that the song "Survivor" by Destiny's Child is the only reason I'm still putting one foot in front of the other. That and the horror of swimsuit season, approaching with terrifying speed.

10:45am~ in class, wondering why I'm listening to my professor read powerpoint slides instead of studying for boards. Oh yeah, it's that pesky conscience's fault. Blerg.

12:04pm~ sitting in front of the heater at home, eating lunch, and watching a video clip of Apolo Ohno's interview at the local Chicago news station from that morning. I notice that his voice is much lower than usual, he sounds congested, and he looks tired. I consider tweeting my "professional" recommendation (Vitamin C, Echinacea, and Monolaurin) for that imminent head-cold, but then I remember that I deleted my twitter account... and more importantly WHY I deleted it.

2:21pm~ more class. More droning by my professor. More facebook stalking.

4:00pm~ free at last, I zip over to Trader Joe's for some groceries. I once again resist the urge to purchase a bouquet of flowers. Putting them right by the entrance of the store like that should be illegal. 

4:18pm~ I have already consumed half a bag of trail mix by the time I reach home. 

5:00pm~ I find that dinner is scheduled for 6:30, which makes me happy because I can now justify my previous snack attack. My life is full of delusions. 

6:30pm~ Just me and a bowl of "dinner concoction" in my room (all I know is it involved orzo, broccoli, canned toamatos, and ground beef). Highlighter, board exam review notes, and panic.

8:23pm~ I emerge from my hermit-cave of a bedroom, staggering and bleary eyed, to fill up my mug of tea. I wonder what the rest of the world has been doing for the past three hours before deciding it doesn't really matter. There is no world. There is only my desk and my book. And my highlighters. 

9:56pm~ In my frenzy to review for boards, I have neglected my assignment that's due for tomorrow afternoon's class. This realization is accompanied by a physical jolt of adrenaline, which causes my teeth to clench, my heart to jump, and my traps to knot up into little angry trigger points. Don't you just hate that feeling? It's almost like being pinched, or like getting an electric shock, or being ambushed by your little brother who is hiding in a dark closet. I know this well, believe me.

10:12pm~ I fold up the laundry I'd forgotten in the dryer, contemplating what it would be like to have a maid, or a personal assistant, or both. I determine that my clothes would be a lot less wrinkly and I would never run out of shampoo again. After this thought, I remember that I'm too much of a control freak to make proper use of a personal assistant and instead decide to hire a chauffeur instead. When I'm rich and famous, that is. What would you rather have? Any other ideas? I know you've thought about it. Don't be shy.

11:17pm~ In my bed, wearing my pj's and glasses, I wrap up this blog post with an interesting, if not surprisingly pertinent quote:

"The unexamined life is not worth living" - Socrates

Foodish Thoughts

I'm not usually a fruit person. I mean, it's not the first thing I reach for when I'm hungry. It is a rare occasion indeed when I crave fruit. Chocolate, yes. Oranges, never.

That said, I've been on a fruit salad kick lately. It's just one of those magical things where you take a mish-mash of otherwise uninteresting food, cut it up, stir it in a bowl, and suddenly it's an amazing culinary masterpiece. Chefs throughout history have taken advantage of this kitchen hocus-pocus to make eating interesting, fun, enjoyable, and DELICIOUS. And I have been tricking people into thinking I'm a good cook for years by doing just the same thing.

Take, for example, tonight's Bible study potluck. 

I remembered approximately 2 hours before the event that I'd promised to bring a dish to pass. Mind you, this epiphany came just before I was about to take a midterm exam. I think of the craziest stuff right before tests. 

Obviously I began to panic a little. Not about the test, but about the potluck. At this point in my life I'm much more frightened by my peers' critiquing taste-buds than my professor's red pen. Judge me as you will, I'm just speakin' the truth here, folks.

My anxiety, dulled for the half hour I spent filling in bubbles on my test paper, returned in full strength as I exited the classroom. What was I going to make, considering I only had one short hour? 

And then it was as if I heard the very voice of God booming over the clatter of recipes swirling madly around my frantic brain:

"FRUIT SALAD!"

It was an epiphany, and just in the nick of time, for my mind had already begun wandering down the shameful path of store-bought bean dip and a 2-liter of Diet Coke. (shudder)

Bopping over to Jewel-Osco, I selected (practically at random) several otherwise boring types of fruit, and upon my arrival home chopped them into bite-sized chunks and tossed them into a bowl. What emerged from this utter chaos was a sight to behold: pieces of golden nectarine nestled next to bright staccato kiwi, delicate pear offset by bold raspberries, the entire composition dotted here and there by plump blueberries... it was a work of art. 

And the thing about fruit salad is that 1 + 1 does NOT equal 2 in the taste department. A stupid peach thrown together with a handful of dumb blackberries miraculously multiplies the "wow factor" of each individual fruit by 10! So when the girls in my Bible study group dug into my 30-second fruit conglomeration, the result was the same as if I'd spent all day creating my dish. They couldn't get enough! 

"For some reason, the fruit is especially good." One of the more perceptive ladies commented, her opinion seconded by "mmm's" of approval from the rest of the group. 

"Well, it's fresh!" I said modestly, not wanting to lead anyone to believe it actually took skill to create a yummy fruit salad. Because that would be lying. And everyone knows it's not a good idea to lie at Bible study. 

Besides, technically fruit salad was God's idea, not mine.

Just call me "Lame-sauce Kate"

Friday night rolls around every week, or so I've noticed.

At least I've noticed that my calendar says FRI above the date, which leads me to believe thusly. 

That said, for me there is absolutely nothing else that distinguishes a Friday night from any other night of my week. Sure, I don't have class the next day, but that doesn't affect my schedule much, considering I spend most of my Saturday hunched over my desk, studying til I'm blue in the face. Make that purple. 

But tonight, oh, tonight was different. I went ALL OUT.

It started with the list I'd written on the back of my hand. It read: 

Print Extremities Notes

Trader Joe's

Sunglasses

Pens

I pondered my options as I left class for the afternoon. I'd already printed notes, so I walked right on past the library. I didn't really feel inclined to grocery shop, so I ignored that item too. But I did notice myself squinting on the sunny trek toward my car, and suddenly had a brilliant inspiration. 

I would go to TARGET.

A spring in my step, I hustled to my car, cranked up some tunes and sped away from school toward the land of endless possibilities, otherwise known as Target. I smiled to myself, thinking,

"Nice work, Self! You're going for an outing on a Friday afternoon! You deserve this, and it's going to be great."

And it was. 

I browsed to my heart's content, ending up with an armful of items at the cash register instead of the two things on my "hand-list." This always happens at Target.

Whistling a merry tune, I strolled back out to my car with a bag full of goodies: three pairs of socks, new yoga pants, a pack of gum, highlighters, pens (a 3-pack each of colored and black), and sunglasses. All was well with the world. 

Upon my arrival back at the homestead, I found out that Mr. and Mrs. Sytsma would be gone for the evening, so I was on my own for dinner. Figuring that I was on a roll with my fun Friday night, I walked over to the nearby Emperor's Kitchen, scoring a small order of cashew chicken in less than 10 minutes. This I enjoyed while flipping thru channels (and sitting in front of the heater), happy as a clam. 

Of course, after dinner things rapidly took a turn toward the mundane as I spent the next 4 hours studying such topics as Osteochondritis Dessicans and the Open/Closed chain kinetics of the hip joint. But for a brief, shining moment, I had a fun Friday night. 

And if I really think about it, sometimes its nights like these that make me thankful to be a student. Sure, many of my working friends are probably out on the town, meeting new people and letting loose because they have a whole weekend of nothingness ahead of them. But somehow that pales in comparison to the simple pleasures of my somewhat-boring Friday night. Who else besides a poor graduate student can truly cherish a half-hour spent wandering the aisles of Target, or a 5 dollar box of rice and veggies? Being one who is easily annoyed by cliches, I still can't deny the fact that sometimes the little things in life are the best. The everyday grind makes that brief moment of "out-of-the-ordinary" shine like a pearl in a sea of pebbles. 

Maybe it is lame-sauce. Maybe my life is every bit as uninteresting as popular culture would have me believe. Maybe I'm growing more and more boring by the minute. 

But I kinda doubt it. 

Emotions: study of a student

Last night:

This morning:

After several hours of studying:

Again a bit later:

Finally:

Woe is me. Woe, I say. Woe.

Scratch that. Reverse it.

As a correction to my previous post, I actually don't have a twitter account. 

I'm trying to forget the whole thing ever happened.

My first reason for saying goodbye to twitter was the failure of the most important feature; the part where you search for other twitter users that you know. This annoyed me almost to the point of hysterics.

Secondly, but perhaps more importantly, I had my account open for exactly 48 hours and it was already taking over my life. In all seriousness, folks, twitter is a dangerous, time-sucking monster that wants to steal your soul. 

I am ashamed to admit that I actually believed I could handle another social networking site in my life, but boy was I wrong. Not only did I find myself updating my status every time I turned on my computer, but I started responding to other people's tweets like it was going out of style. 

The extra-tricky thing about twitter is the fact that you begin to believe the celebrities and corporations whom you "follow" actually read what you tweet. Shortly after this, you begin to believe that they actually CARE what you tweet. And it's all downhill into a sad world of dark delusions from there. 

Thankfully, I was able to free myself from the quicksand that is twitter before I was out of reach of the solid tree branch called REALITY. But it was a close one. 

I'll stick with facebook for now. At least until school is done and I can afford an iphone. :)

In other news, after an evening of frantic study I still don't speak very good "Pharmacoleese" but, gosh durn it, I'm gonna fake it til I make it!

Ok, March, hit me with your best shot!

I've been dreading this month for awhile now. 

Mostly because I'm terrified of Chiropractic National Boards Part 1. 

But this evening on my three-hour drive back to Chicago after a weekend back home in Grand Rapids, I realized that the key to my survival is time management. The past several weeks of midterms have been rough, especially because of the distraction of the Olympics on television. And while I'm sad that the games are over, a part of me feels like I'm getting my life back. Perhaps I invested too much time and energy in cheering on the US Olympians. Perhaps I shouldn't have scheduled the past weekends around my favorite events. Perhaps it was inappropriate of me to run screaming around my living room when the US men's hockey team scored a tying goal with 24 seconds left in the game against Canada. 

But I think not. 

After all, the winter Olympics only come around every 4 years, and it would be un-patriotic of me not to watch. 

Just call me Kate "I-rationalize-all-frivolous-behavior" Lyzenga. 

HOWEVER, my goal in the next few days is to get my life back on track. And that starts with turning off the TV for a good long while. It continues with getting a solid hour of exercise at least 5 times a week. It means waking up at 7am every morning instead hitting snooze until 8:30. It means abstaining from junk food and drinking more water. 

Lindsey Vonn, Shaun White, and Apolo Ohno might be ready for a vacation right now, but I'm just beginning my own personal Olympics. And it's going to take every ounce of strength I possess. 

Unfortunately for all you folks at home, NBC is not interested in providing media coverage for all the exciting events taking place in my Olympic games this month (at least that's what I'm assuming, considering they won't return my calls). So instead I will do my best to keep you updated, reporting the thrills and spills that are sure to accompany these next four weeks of my little adventures. 

You can follow along on this site, as well as on facebook and twitter (yes, I finally caved) for the most up-to-date info including my medal count, my event schedule, and of course any and all inspirational revelations that I happen to have along the way. 

Oh, and if anyone knows of an interested sponsor, I've got a pile of student loans that need to get paid. AT&T? Nike? Vick's? Anybody?

Motivations

Watching the Olympics has caused me to ponder the motivations behind some of my actions. Athletes speak of "giving their all" or "the love of the sport" as the driving force propelling them to greatness. Some of them, like my favorite Olympian, want only to have "no regrets" at the end of competition, knowing that they did their best. 

All of this inspirational fru-fra made me wonder...what are some of the things that motivate me? 

As a warning, I'm about to be painfully honest here, so for all of you who think I'm a perfect person (all zero of you, that is), read at your own risk.

Sometimes I'm motivated by competition. I do things so that I will become better than my peers. The scholastic system is arranged to perpetuate this motive, and after 18-odd years of studenthood I have learned it well. More often than I'd like, I study for a test with the goal of "above average" or "better than the rest" instead of studying to really learn the material. I don't believe there is anything inherently wrong with the spirit of competition, but there is a danger of losing something precious in the process. Often, I get so caught up in being better that I forget solidarity. I forget that my colleagues will someday be my biggest asset, not just another hurdle to jump. Being part of a team is crucial for the learning process, and group effort has been at the heart of society since the beginning. While I will undoubtably always be a competitor at heart, I also hope to grow into a better teammate, partner, and colleague. 

Often I'm motivated by another's example. I see a successful doctor and I want to study more. I listen to a beautiful musical performance and I want to sing more. I read a good book and I want to write more. I watch an amazing athlete train and I want to hit the gym. Obviously, I do not pursue all of those impulses (especially the last one), but at least for a while I am inspired to better myself due to the dedication and skill of another. What's really fascinating is how these motivations ebb and flow as life moves forward. The drive and determination to follow through with a dream, a goal, or even just a small resolution has to be rooted in something deeper than the idolization of someone else for it to succeed. The day in, day out grind that is required of anyone who achieves personal victory is impossible unless one's motivation comes from within, not without. 

The fear of failure is a HUGE motivation in many aspects of my life. This is an especially dangerous motive because it frequently keeps us from trying new things and exploring our boundaries. Pushing the limits of one's ability is the only way to discover how high one can rise, but with it comes the risk of learning how far we all can fall. There have been many instances in my life where I've chosen the safer path because I was motivated by fear. Once upon a time, I considered a career as a singer. Blessed with a natural gift, I was admired and encouraged to pursue avenues in musical theatre and vocal performance. But I never had the guts to take even one voice lesson. I was so afraid of criticism and disappointment that I never stepped into the spotlight. On the flip side, I had an incredible collegiate career with our top choir, even traveling to compete in Europe with my fellow choristers, but part of me will always wonder if my fear of failure cheated me out of something special. But isn't it our nature to wonder about the past? Getting stuck there is what brings us down and takes our focus away from tomorrow. In the words of Lewis from the film "Meet the Robinsons," we just have to "Keep moving forward!"

Did I mention that I'm also highly motivated by funfetti cupcakes? Oh, and peanut butter M&M's. 

My new favorite Olympian

I'm a sucker for the Olympics. 

I'm not exactly sure why.

It might be the epic soundtrack that accompanies every event, or perhaps its the juxtaposition of crushing defeat and exhilarating victory. Or maybe its the record-breaking feats of athletic prowess that inspire me to personal achievement. 

It is, after all, the greatest sporting event in the world.

And yes, every 2 years I miraculously grow a spirit of patriotism...that lasts until about a week after the closing ceremonies. 

I think the real reason I buy into the Olympic hype is because of the athletes themselves. I love being able to live vicariously thru their journeys to greatness. The countless interviews that piece together their individual stories, tell of their dreams come true, and describe their dedication to their sport make me feel as if I was with them all along. The three-kleenex featurettes that dramatize the athletes' humble beginnings, personal struggles, and super-supportive families are relatable and ring true to me. 

For instance, during the 2008 summer Olympics in Beijing, you couldn't find a bigger Michael Phelps supporter than I. His quest for gold became my quest. Every race he swam felt like the greatest moment in history. I screamed at the television. I jumped up and down. I bit my nails to the quick. And I loved every moment of it. 

But the thing about Michael was, well, that he was Michael. His interactions with the media were a touch awkward, and he wore a blank expression (if not a sullen scowl) thru many of his interviews. He was standoffish, quiet. All arms, abs (wow, what abs), and feet, with precious few smiles offered to those of us watching his rise to the top. And once he was there, on the Wheaties box with his 8 gold metals displayed on his bare chest, he almost immediately tarnished his image. No one could blame the kid for his "party-hearty" rampage shortly after the games wrapped up, but when somebody took his picture while he was sucking on a bong, there was fallout. Sure, he still does the occasional Subway commercial, but personally, I've lost a lot of respect for the guy. Accurate or not, the Olympian that I was introduced to on TV was not the same Michael away from the pool. An amazing athlete, of course. A god among men, perhaps. Somebody I'd like to hang out with...probably not so much. 

IN CONTRAST, my new favorite Olympian would make a great best-buddy. In many ways, he is equally famous, equally dedicated to his sport, and equally physically fit. At 27, he is one of the oldest of his peers, and still consistently wins races. At this year's winter Olympics, he made history by collecting the 6th and 7th medals of his career, the most of any American winter Olympian. (know who I'm talking about yet?)

Besides this, Apolo Anton Ohno is a genuinely nice guy. 

With a quick smile and infectious giggle, Apolo has managed to bring publicity to a previously forgotten sport. Chaos has followed him in his three consecutive Olympic games, drawing attention to the volatility and drama of short track. He is the first to point out that anything can happen during a short track race, and his persistence has won him a few lucky medals, the latest example being the silver medal he won at these 2010 Olympics when the two Korean skaters ahead of him tripped each other up, turning his 4th place into 2nd. 

And I have to say, though he's sticking to the soul patch, he has finally decided it's ok to do an interview without a bandana on his head. Thank God. 

Did I mention he can dance? Well, he can. He fricken' won Dancing with the Stars. Now that's a guy who is secure in his masculinity. 

He's a well-spoken, glass-half-full maniac riding a pair of 17-inch knife blades at 40mph while wearing a butt-hugging lycra jumpsuit. What more could a girl want in a 7-time Olympic medalist? How about making that 9 medals, Apolo? 

Two more races to go, and you better believe I'll be watching them. And screaming. And jumping. 

No shame here. GO USA!!! GO APOLO!!!

Zzzz...

There are several forms of exhaustion. 

Tonight, I'm experiencing the mental variety. After a day of classes and an evening of cramming for tomorrow's cardiology midterm, the only synapses still firing with any organization are those vital to survival. The rest of my brain is an electrical storm of random activity, causing bits of information to swirl willy-nilly round my head despite my attempts to fall asleep. Yes, I am tired. But when mentally exhausted, sometimes dreamland is the hardest place to find. 

Last night, I experienced the physical variety, which I find to be much more pleasant. In fact, there's something wonderful about being good and tired at the end of a active day. I woke up early Monday morning, ran errands, got a massage (which is more like a workout than you'd imagine), and spent 4 grueling hours gripping the steering wheel of my car as I traveled from Grand Rapids to Chicago in whiteout conditions. At one point the stress overwhelmed my usually-pragmatic sensibilities and I found myself alone in my car, screaming, "WHERE IS THE DAMN ROAD?!? I CAN'T FIND THE ROAD!!! I'M GOING TO DIE!!!"

Not my proudest moment, I assure you. 

That considered, it was with much delight that I collapsed into bed, my limbs wobbly and my eyelids half closed, falling asleep almost instantly. Delicious. 

Emotional exhaustion is another animal altogether, but an equally potent sleep tonic. The dreamless slumber that follows a good cry is our soul's ultimate protective mechanism. When we just can't take any more grief or stress or anxiety, we find refuge by crawling under the covers. Granted, it might not do a thing to eradicate the source of said emotional exhaustion, but occasionally the old adage, "Everything looks better in the morning," is true. 

Learned that one from my mommy. Yes, sir-ee. 

Somewhat random thought: is anyone else creeped out by the Sandman folklore? I would never, EVER tell a child that a strange man was going to come into their room at night and sprinkle magic dust into their eyes. I mean, who thought that was ok? Is the Sandman a cousin of the Boogy-man? 

Quake, Rattle, and Roll!

Guys, you will never believe this. 

Last night, an earthquake hit Chicago. Ok, so technically it was early this morning, and technically nothing "got hit" or even remotely damaged by the measly 3.8 earthquake. NONETHELESS, it happened. And I felt it. Here's my story:

I fell asleep early last night, exhausted from an evening of studying, and slept like the dead until about 3:58am. When I opened my eyes, it was dark and quiet in my bedroom, and yet I was suddenly wide awake. 

"Hmm, that's curious." I thought. "Self, why are you awake?" 

AND THEN IT HAPPENED. 

I heard a distant rumble, and it was as if a giant, gentle hand nudged the house. Well, maybe it was more of a firm shove, because everything rocked back and forth, up and down for perhaps three seconds.

"Woah." I whispered as my bed continued to bounce even after the terra firma stopped doing so. And as I lay there, trying to reconcile what just happened with the logical part of my brain, my illogical self spoke up instead. 

"So, Self, next the house is going to collapse, and then you are going to die. I wonder when that part happens. Do you think it will hurt much?"

"Don't be stupid." piped up my logical self. "It was just a big gust of wind...or something."

"Oh, no it wasn't." replied Ms. Illogical. "You should probably run screaming into the street. Save yourself, for heaven's sake!"

"Now, calm down." I said aloud, fighting the stream of adrenaline that had been injected into my circulatory system. "This is ILLINOIS. There's a foot-and-a-half of snow out there! Besides, there's no faultline in Illinois. Go back to sleep."

And so I rolled over, shivering at the thought of poking one toe out of my bed, much less dashing outdoors (even if it was to escape my impending doom). Instead I snuggled back under my covers, already halfway back to slumberland. I had almost faded out when that pesky illogical voice made its final point.

"But, what if..."

"FINE! Fine." I relented, grabbing my phone from the headboard and checking the time. "4:00am, on the dot." said Logic smugly. "We'll see who's right in the morning."

Ms. Illogic, even you can get lucky sometimes. 

The "Warm Fan"

The furnace in my childhood home made a very distinct noise right before it turned on, and from a young age I learned to love that sound. At that characteristic "Woaw-woaw-waah," my ears pricked up, and I would grab a blanket and run to the nearest register, cocooning myself so that its warmth would be trapped around me. Sometimes, on especially chilly winter mornings, my two younger siblings and I would sit by the kitchen register together, soaking up the heat until our cheeks were rosy red and we unzipped our little footy sleeper outfits in a desperate attempt to regulate our rising body temperatures. Being a verbose youngster (imagine that, right?), I decided that the machine creating all this delicious heat should be called the "warm fan." After all, that's pretty much what a furnace is. 

Later in life, when waking up in the morning meant getting ready for grade school, I would place my socks in front of the register before hopping in the shower so that they would be toasty by the time I put them on. There were mornings when I was so miserably cold and cranky that I put all of my clothes in front of the register, just so that I would have a reason to get dressed instead of crawl back under the covers. 

Even today, I must admit I'm attracted to heaters and registers. The wonderful family that I'm living with has already deemed the floor in front of their heater "Kate's spot" because I frequent it so often. After all, a decent space heater is a poor man's fireplace! Even a microwaved beanbag can suffice, especially when warming my feet at the end of my bed or easing the strain on tired shoulders after a long day of studying. 

But there's nothing I love better than sitting with a blanket and a good book by the "warm fan." And that little furnace noise? It's music to my ears.