Mom and Dad, you'd better not read this post. This is a fair warning.
Growing up in Orem, aka Family City USA, aka Happy Valley, aka The Highest Percentage of Mormons Ever Assembled Since 1847, life was good and clean. The biggest problem was the consumption of caffeinated sodas, but that was stopped by the Prohibition Act of 1988. That opened up a whole new bootlegging industry, but that's for another post.
This one is about swears. In Orem, especially at the Hansen household, I grew up not knowing what swears were. In fact, at my house, you couldn't say the following words:
Butt
Crap
Shut Up
Fart
And you sure as fetchin' HECK couldn't say any swears. And, for some reason, there was no punishment for saying the wrong words. No soap in the mouth and no swear jar. Us kids had no problem with this, because we had appropriate substitutes (in respective order):
Rump
Grunt
Be Quiet
Bep or Big G
Most of you are familiar with the first and third on the list, and I'm not going to explain number 2 (I swear I didn't do that intentionally), but the fourth? You deserve an explanation.
I'm not really sure where Big G came from. I just know that when somebody tooted, the rule was that you said "Excuse me" to all offended parties. When nobody claimed a certain stench, Mom would say, "Who had a Big G?" Thinking about it now just cracks me up.
Once, when we were driving to Salt Lake, we saw this G on the mountain in Pleasant Grove, just like the Y in Provo. So us little kids, probably 6 of us crammed in the carpeted back section of the station wagon (no seats and certainly no seat belts back there), saw it and enthusiastically yelled, "THERE'S A BIG G ON THE MOUNTAIN!!!!" and laughed all the way to Salt Lake about it. Then, on the way back, right when we were just about to forget about the impossibly hilarious Big G on the mountain, we saw it again and renewed our laughter. Our parents probably had been wishing that we'd never connect our euphemism with the actual Big G.
I'm not entirely sure about the origins of "Bep", either. I know my brother Brian invented it, but I'm not sure how. All I know is that when he said it, it just felt right. It was a great word, and it quickly replaced Big G as the main euphemism.
Because we were so well-trained, I never used those words. Although there was one time when my older brother Craig was playing us twerps in basketball, 3 on 1 with a mini ball. Craig was about 15 at the time, and we were 11, 9, and 7. He was having a horrible night and then, after he'd missed his umpteenth shot in a row, he took the ball, punted it about 563 feet in the air, and yelled, "gosh-DARN it!!!". We twerps looked at each other with quivering lips, as if we'd just witnessed a stabbing. "Is this what it was like when Bambi died?" we asked each other. The terror of that moment made me that much more committed to a Life Without Swears.
That changed. When all the kids in 3rd grade were saying "butt" with impunity, I felt left out. If I said "rump", I'd look like a fool. So I just avoided it altogether. But sometimes, you HAVE to say it. "Where's that sticker?" My friend would ask. "Oh, it's on your...", I hesitated, just like when you know you're about to do something wrong, "...BUTT." "Oh thanks."
Can you imagine what would've happened if I would've said "rump"?
Friend: Where's that sticker?
Me: Oh, it's on your rump.
Friend: My what?
Me: Your RUMP.
Friend: What's a rump?
Me: You know, what your grunt comes out of.
Friend: My what?
Me: Your grunt.
Friend: What's grunt?
Me: It's like a Big G, but in solid form.
Friend: Like a what?
Me: YOUR RUMP IS YOUR BUTT!!!
Friend: You call this a rump? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Hey everybody, guess what Kent calls a butt? A "rump"!
Entire School: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
Me: BE QUIET!! EVERYBODY JUST BE QUIET!!!
Entire School: What does "be quiet" mean?
Can't you just imagine? Of course, this scenario must have been avoided at all costs. So I quickly learned to say "butt" at school and "rump" at home. It's obvious now that although "butt" is not really that profane a word, it's what the experts call a "gateway swear", a swear that will lead to other, much worse swears, possibly leading to a lifelong addiction of profanity.
It's true that my willingness to say "butt" led to my first actual swear. We were in the 4th grade, preparing for the 4th grade play. We would go over to the Jr High to use their auditorium. I was a "Royal Dancer" for a meaningless 2-minute scene that got 40 kids a chance to get their names on the program. Then the rest of the time I would sit in the chorus and sing all the dumb songs we had to sing, like "Lavender Blue", for the 5 billionth time. It was worse than singing time in Primary. Well, we got bored of it and snuck into the bathroom, where we did Gosh-Knows-What in there for hours. Finally, Miss Nelson got word of it and burst into the bathroom, which was dark because we were telling ghost stories or something. She yelled, "ALL OF YOU BOYS BETTER GET BACK INTO THE AUDITORIUM OR YOU'RE GOING TO THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE!!!" and then left. I whispered to my friend:
"She's an @#*"
The moment it fell off my tongue I regretted it. First "butt" and now THIS? I was on the slippery slope. I repented immediately. And by repented, I mean I didn't tell anyone and showed no remorse.
Fast forward to the end of 7th grade, my first year of Jr. High. I was quickly becoming a nerd, despite my best efforts. I was in the Math Club and was in Algebra whereas most of my peers were in Pre-Algebra or that lower math class for the incredibly popular and stupid. My dad was the bishop, and all my siblings were Perfect Children. I didn't want to be the goody-goody or the nerd. That wasn't going to get me noticed by certain girls. I wanted to be the Bad Boy. I had to do something drastic. I need to start saying swears.
At first, it was just awkward, forced, and ill-timed. I'd say something out of context, like "I think that kid is a dang" just so I could swear. I tried to keep it to the mild ones like heck and durn until I mastered them. I was sure that I'd never stoop to the fetch level.
Even though I'd pretty much started on my own, I started spending time with a certain someone in my neighborhood, let's call him Tyler Fudd, who swore so much that even the bishopric knew about it. He was reckless with his swears, saying every which word at any which time with such eloquence and diction, it was as if Mr. Darcy had begun a career as a rapper. I learned from him, taking actual notes and asking him later what certain words meant. "Oh, I can't tell you that," was his reply.
This summer also coincided with other devious activities, much worse than swearing. But this isn't a confession of PT's. But by the end of the summer, I had mastered the art of cursing like a sailor, and was proud of it. I couldn't wait to go back to school and start dropping swears and watching the girls swoon.
I was the best at keeping it quiet. Even though my aforementioned devious activities were discovered by my parents (and I was appropriately punished, mind you), the swearing wasn't. I wasn't doing bad things anymore, but I could still be a bad boy by appearing bad and rehashing my devious activities at opportune times. But when I got home, I was never in trouble as long as my grades were up and my chores were finished. I checked my mouth at the door.
Once, however, I was playing basketball with my brother, Brian. I was playing miserably and missed shot after shot (why is it always basketball?). Somehow, I let a swear get out. "Dang-NAB it!" It was easily loud enough for him to hear. He confronted me about it in the kitchen. "Do you swear, Kent?" "That's the only word I say, I promise! Don't tell Mom and Dad!" He then gave me the scornful eye, but he never squealed.
I slipped! I was losing my edge. Then, one Sunday in Teacher's Quorum, Br. Parker taught a lesson on swearing. I swore (yukyuk) I would kick the habit. I started keeping track of the swears I said each day and tried to beat that record. It took a few months, but I got so good at it that I completely stopped swearing, even when I was angry.
I'm not sure when I started swearing again. I think it was sometime after college. I moved to Boston, and everybody here swears, even at work. ESPECIALLY at work. I'll be in a meeting with the partner and f-bombs will fly. Well, I'm not proud to say that I've picked up the durn and heck words again, and occasional bigger ones, usually involving road rage or pain. And definitely basketball. I think I'll need to start counting again, but I don't know if that will work because I say "dangit" under my breath so often. Maybe we could start a swear jar. Because when I would watch my soccer coach get upset, he would cuss and I was always proud that I never heard my parents swear. So I'd like to think that Hendrik would be proud.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
You might be a bad driver if...
We all spend a ton of time in our cars. Most of that time is spent singing loudly along with Backstreet Boys (or NKOTB, if you prefer), digging through your console for your hand's free device, or shaking your fist yelling "Just GO ALREADY!!"
Yes, I realize I have Road Rage. I, personally, prefer the term Avenue Annoyance. Because, frankly, all this bad driving annoys me. It's not like we're all bad drivers, in fact, call me an optimist, but I think most drivers are good. Otherwise we'd be getting in accidents once a week and cars would be made out of pillows and the speed limit would be 2. So after much deliberation (with myself), I've decided there are 3 types of drivers:
1. Drivers who are mostly good drivers who have lapses of bad driving and a few bad habits (most of us)
2. Drivers who are bad drivers who still insist they are good drivers (5% of the general population, 90% of the teenage population)
3. Drivers who recognize they are bad drivers, and drive accordingly (3% of the general population, 95% of the geezer population)
Of course, what is "bad" and what is "good" driving? For simplicity's sake, bad is "unsafe, slow, and/or unpredictable" and good is "safe, fast within reason, and predictable". I think predictability is the key here. If you have turned on your blinker, we can safely predict that you will be turning in that direction. If you are in a lane on the freeway, we can predict you will stay in that lane until you turn on your blinker.
Now, since all of you are pleased at this point, lumping yourself in the number 1 position as a good driver, let's discuss the lapses of bad driving.
First of all, don't deny that you have lapses. We all have lapses where we are lost in thought, talking on a cell phone, frantically changing the station to avoid the Shane Company commercial, or frankly not paying attention as well as we should. Driving, for the most part, is boring. So we make it more interesting by listening to talk radio, painting our toenails, calling our friends, or screaming at our kids. We can all try to limit these by trying to pay more attention:
1. When the light is red, let's maintain eye contact with the light until it turns green. Let's not use every red light to send out a text, tie our shoes, or punch our children. If you absolutely must punch your child, don't get all huffy with me because I honked at you for sitting at a green light. It was a "Hey, dear kind friend of mine in the Dodge Caravan with Simulated Wood Paneling, I'm just politely letting you know that the light is green, and if you could please stop punching your ingrate of a son, who certainly deserves it, we could all start getting on with our child-punching lifestyles" honk, and not so much of a "Hey, buddy, get the #$*& out of my way!" honk.
2. When you're driving through an unfamiliar area, or making a difficult maneuver, it's probably best that you didn't make that phone call just then. I'm sure it's urgent and can't possibly wait another second, but your BFF will just have to wait another 5 minutes to hear what insanely cute thing your little Jeffrey did with his poop.
3. Check your blindspot. Always. While you're at it, check mine. I'm too tired to check it right now, but I'm sure no one's there, so I'm going to change lanes.
And here are some bad habits, which of course you are never guilty of:
1. Breaking at every green light, you know, just in case
2. Slowing down almost to a stop without any sort of a turn signal or motion toward either side of the road
3. Not staying in one's lane
4. Not being able to choose a lane
5. Swerving right to make a left turn and vice versa
6. Not leaving enough room for the people behind you to go around you while making a left turn.
7. Tailgating
8. Driving just a smidgen (by smidgen, I mean "CHEESE AND RICE YOU'RE GOING TO KILL SOMEBODY") faster than you probably should be
9. Taking corners on 2 wheels. This only annoys/scares the bejangles out of me if I'm in the car making said corner WAY too fast
Because I live in Massachusetts, it's tempting to blame this bad driving on the people here, but that's just not fair. Although there is definitely a unique culture of driving here, probably like every other state.
One of the most irritating things about driving in Mass is how each stoplight, in every direction, will turn red when a pedestrian presses the button to cross the road. Forget the fact that they can just wait for a green light and cross. Nope, we ALL have to stop and wait the 30 seconds for the 1 pedestrian to cross.
Now you may be thinking, "Well, Kent, isn't it better that everybody stops for that person, so that we can make sure that Dear Old Grammy can wobble across the street without getting flattened by Mr. White Trash in his Ford Heavy Duty truck with Fox Racing stickers across the back?"
I'm glad you asked. This, in theory, is a legitimate point. Although I consider most old people to be a drain on society, they still have a [small] right to live, and I don't necessarily want them flattened. But do you know what happens instead? Dear Old Grammy (DOG) doesn't press the button! Instead, she just waltzes straight into the intersection, regardless of light color! And it's not just DOG. It's EVERYBODY! It's me, it's you, we're all impatient pedestrians who will cross the road as soon as we want. Some people have the patience to at least wait until no cars are coming to cross (I include myself in this group), but a lot of people just assume everyone will stop at a green light for them, the Almighty Pedestrian. Once the Almighty Pedestrian has caused all the cars to stop at the green light, he then proceeds to saunter at a leisurely pace across the street. This is usually when I mumble "Serenity Now" under my breath rapidly.
Mass drivers also don't understand the concept of "Right of Way". It is common to be cruising along yet-another 2 lane highway behind a long line of cars at, say, 40 mph. A Silver Subaru with hippie earth-saving stickers, about a block ahead of you, pulls next to the main highway from a grocery parking lot. He just pulled up, there is no long line of cars waiting to get onto the main highway. Instead of just WAITING for 15-30 seconds for the long line of cars to pass, Mr. Silver Subaru simply does not have that kind of time. He starts inching into the road, waiting for Mrs. Black Minivan to completely stop and let him in. This is great for Mr. Silver Subaru, who doesn't have to wait for all of us who are less important, and also great for Mrs. Black Minivan, who can pat herself on the back for being so considerate. Of course, the 15 cars in line behind Mrs. Black Minivan are all unimportant, inconsiderate jerks for obeying the rules of the Right of Way when we should be stopping on a dime for any car or pedestrian who even considers getting in our way. Serenity Now!
The worst instance of this is what I alluded to in the last sentence. A pedestrian will be hovering near the crosswalk, maybe crossing the street, maybe not, but not really showing any signs of "I'm definitely crossing this street so unless you want a huge lawsuit, you'd better stop". However, Nervous Nellie in front of me, driving a Buick LeSabre, doesn't want to take any chances. He stops. But the pedestrian isn't crossing! Nellie waves to the pedestrian, as if saying, "Look, I've stopped! It is now completely safe for you to cross! Aren't I so considerate?" At this point, it is clear that the pedestrian has no intentions of crossing the street. They don't even notice that Buick Nellie has stopped, because they are just goosestepping on the sidewalk, probably waiting for someone to meet them there at 7 pm so they can do some comparison shopping for crappy produce at Stop N' Shop and/or Shaw's. But Buick Nellie is now determined to not have stopped in vain. He even honks at our pedestrian, finally getting her attention. But she waves him off, and Nervous Nellie drives on, scouring the sidewalks and side roads for someone else to stop for.
A red Jetta now approaches the street Nervous is driving down, which Nervous is thrilled about. "Now I can fulfill my good deed of the day!" Nellie stops to let the Jetta in. However, the teenie-bopper driving the red Jetta is on her cell phone, not exactly thinking about her next driving move, more about the extremely poignant conversation she's having with Jenna about which Twilight hunk is the "dreamiest". Nellie is again waving frantically at Red Jetta, trying in vain to feel good about how courteous he is, ignoring the dozens of cars behind him containing people who actually do not want to spend the entire evening in their car. But Red Jetta doesn't realize this until Nellie flashes his brights and honks at her, to which she turns in front of him and acknowledges him with her only free appendage, a wiggle of her nose.
This happens so frequently, that it's almost rare that people DON'T stop to let you turn in front of you. For example, most cars will assume you'll stop for them when making a left turn from the opposite direction. Once, I was in Wichita on business. My coworker was driving, and we needed to make a left turn. We pulled out, signaled, and waited for the long line of cars to pass from the opposite direction so we could safely turn left. However, this line was pretty durn long and my coworker, from Mass, got impatient. He started inching into the oncoming lanes of traffic, a normal move in Mass, but not in most other places I've driven. The people in Wichita all gave him dirty looks and got into the other lane to go around him, as he was blocking the left oncoming lane. He then exclaimed "What is everybody's problem here?!?! Nobody will let me in!" I didn't have the heart to explain the Right Of Way laws.
Another thing that we have here is the dumb "No Turn On Red" signs. Has anybody else seen these? It's to prevent people from turning right at a red light. I'm not sure why the rest of the country is able to turn right at a red light without complications, but I guess the government here just doesn't trust us enough with our right-turn abilities. The funny thing is that there some lights without the No Turn On Red sign, and everybody always knows which ones, so we turn right there like it's going out of style. We barely even stopping to check for oncoming traffic, we're so excited to turn on red. Sometimes, I'll stop on green just so I can turn on red.
Other than the whole no turn on red, the Right Of Way issues, and the pedestrian thing, the Mass drivers are just like everybody else.
With that said, Old Spice has the funniest commercials currently on TV.
Yes, I realize I have Road Rage. I, personally, prefer the term Avenue Annoyance. Because, frankly, all this bad driving annoys me. It's not like we're all bad drivers, in fact, call me an optimist, but I think most drivers are good. Otherwise we'd be getting in accidents once a week and cars would be made out of pillows and the speed limit would be 2. So after much deliberation (with myself), I've decided there are 3 types of drivers:
1. Drivers who are mostly good drivers who have lapses of bad driving and a few bad habits (most of us)
2. Drivers who are bad drivers who still insist they are good drivers (5% of the general population, 90% of the teenage population)
3. Drivers who recognize they are bad drivers, and drive accordingly (3% of the general population, 95% of the geezer population)
Of course, what is "bad" and what is "good" driving? For simplicity's sake, bad is "unsafe, slow, and/or unpredictable" and good is "safe, fast within reason, and predictable". I think predictability is the key here. If you have turned on your blinker, we can safely predict that you will be turning in that direction. If you are in a lane on the freeway, we can predict you will stay in that lane until you turn on your blinker.
Now, since all of you are pleased at this point, lumping yourself in the number 1 position as a good driver, let's discuss the lapses of bad driving.
First of all, don't deny that you have lapses. We all have lapses where we are lost in thought, talking on a cell phone, frantically changing the station to avoid the Shane Company commercial, or frankly not paying attention as well as we should. Driving, for the most part, is boring. So we make it more interesting by listening to talk radio, painting our toenails, calling our friends, or screaming at our kids. We can all try to limit these by trying to pay more attention:
1. When the light is red, let's maintain eye contact with the light until it turns green. Let's not use every red light to send out a text, tie our shoes, or punch our children. If you absolutely must punch your child, don't get all huffy with me because I honked at you for sitting at a green light. It was a "Hey, dear kind friend of mine in the Dodge Caravan with Simulated Wood Paneling, I'm just politely letting you know that the light is green, and if you could please stop punching your ingrate of a son, who certainly deserves it, we could all start getting on with our child-punching lifestyles" honk, and not so much of a "Hey, buddy, get the #$*& out of my way!" honk.
2. When you're driving through an unfamiliar area, or making a difficult maneuver, it's probably best that you didn't make that phone call just then. I'm sure it's urgent and can't possibly wait another second, but your BFF will just have to wait another 5 minutes to hear what insanely cute thing your little Jeffrey did with his poop.
3. Check your blindspot. Always. While you're at it, check mine. I'm too tired to check it right now, but I'm sure no one's there, so I'm going to change lanes.
And here are some bad habits, which of course you are never guilty of:
1. Breaking at every green light, you know, just in case
2. Slowing down almost to a stop without any sort of a turn signal or motion toward either side of the road
3. Not staying in one's lane
4. Not being able to choose a lane
5. Swerving right to make a left turn and vice versa
6. Not leaving enough room for the people behind you to go around you while making a left turn.
7. Tailgating
8. Driving just a smidgen (by smidgen, I mean "CHEESE AND RICE YOU'RE GOING TO KILL SOMEBODY") faster than you probably should be
9. Taking corners on 2 wheels. This only annoys/scares the bejangles out of me if I'm in the car making said corner WAY too fast
Because I live in Massachusetts, it's tempting to blame this bad driving on the people here, but that's just not fair. Although there is definitely a unique culture of driving here, probably like every other state.
One of the most irritating things about driving in Mass is how each stoplight, in every direction, will turn red when a pedestrian presses the button to cross the road. Forget the fact that they can just wait for a green light and cross. Nope, we ALL have to stop and wait the 30 seconds for the 1 pedestrian to cross.
Now you may be thinking, "Well, Kent, isn't it better that everybody stops for that person, so that we can make sure that Dear Old Grammy can wobble across the street without getting flattened by Mr. White Trash in his Ford Heavy Duty truck with Fox Racing stickers across the back?"
I'm glad you asked. This, in theory, is a legitimate point. Although I consider most old people to be a drain on society, they still have a [small] right to live, and I don't necessarily want them flattened. But do you know what happens instead? Dear Old Grammy (DOG) doesn't press the button! Instead, she just waltzes straight into the intersection, regardless of light color! And it's not just DOG. It's EVERYBODY! It's me, it's you, we're all impatient pedestrians who will cross the road as soon as we want. Some people have the patience to at least wait until no cars are coming to cross (I include myself in this group), but a lot of people just assume everyone will stop at a green light for them, the Almighty Pedestrian. Once the Almighty Pedestrian has caused all the cars to stop at the green light, he then proceeds to saunter at a leisurely pace across the street. This is usually when I mumble "Serenity Now" under my breath rapidly.
Mass drivers also don't understand the concept of "Right of Way". It is common to be cruising along yet-another 2 lane highway behind a long line of cars at, say, 40 mph. A Silver Subaru with hippie earth-saving stickers, about a block ahead of you, pulls next to the main highway from a grocery parking lot. He just pulled up, there is no long line of cars waiting to get onto the main highway. Instead of just WAITING for 15-30 seconds for the long line of cars to pass, Mr. Silver Subaru simply does not have that kind of time. He starts inching into the road, waiting for Mrs. Black Minivan to completely stop and let him in. This is great for Mr. Silver Subaru, who doesn't have to wait for all of us who are less important, and also great for Mrs. Black Minivan, who can pat herself on the back for being so considerate. Of course, the 15 cars in line behind Mrs. Black Minivan are all unimportant, inconsiderate jerks for obeying the rules of the Right of Way when we should be stopping on a dime for any car or pedestrian who even considers getting in our way. Serenity Now!
The worst instance of this is what I alluded to in the last sentence. A pedestrian will be hovering near the crosswalk, maybe crossing the street, maybe not, but not really showing any signs of "I'm definitely crossing this street so unless you want a huge lawsuit, you'd better stop". However, Nervous Nellie in front of me, driving a Buick LeSabre, doesn't want to take any chances. He stops. But the pedestrian isn't crossing! Nellie waves to the pedestrian, as if saying, "Look, I've stopped! It is now completely safe for you to cross! Aren't I so considerate?" At this point, it is clear that the pedestrian has no intentions of crossing the street. They don't even notice that Buick Nellie has stopped, because they are just goosestepping on the sidewalk, probably waiting for someone to meet them there at 7 pm so they can do some comparison shopping for crappy produce at Stop N' Shop and/or Shaw's. But Buick Nellie is now determined to not have stopped in vain. He even honks at our pedestrian, finally getting her attention. But she waves him off, and Nervous Nellie drives on, scouring the sidewalks and side roads for someone else to stop for.
A red Jetta now approaches the street Nervous is driving down, which Nervous is thrilled about. "Now I can fulfill my good deed of the day!" Nellie stops to let the Jetta in. However, the teenie-bopper driving the red Jetta is on her cell phone, not exactly thinking about her next driving move, more about the extremely poignant conversation she's having with Jenna about which Twilight hunk is the "dreamiest". Nellie is again waving frantically at Red Jetta, trying in vain to feel good about how courteous he is, ignoring the dozens of cars behind him containing people who actually do not want to spend the entire evening in their car. But Red Jetta doesn't realize this until Nellie flashes his brights and honks at her, to which she turns in front of him and acknowledges him with her only free appendage, a wiggle of her nose.
This happens so frequently, that it's almost rare that people DON'T stop to let you turn in front of you. For example, most cars will assume you'll stop for them when making a left turn from the opposite direction. Once, I was in Wichita on business. My coworker was driving, and we needed to make a left turn. We pulled out, signaled, and waited for the long line of cars to pass from the opposite direction so we could safely turn left. However, this line was pretty durn long and my coworker, from Mass, got impatient. He started inching into the oncoming lanes of traffic, a normal move in Mass, but not in most other places I've driven. The people in Wichita all gave him dirty looks and got into the other lane to go around him, as he was blocking the left oncoming lane. He then exclaimed "What is everybody's problem here?!?! Nobody will let me in!" I didn't have the heart to explain the Right Of Way laws.
Another thing that we have here is the dumb "No Turn On Red" signs. Has anybody else seen these? It's to prevent people from turning right at a red light. I'm not sure why the rest of the country is able to turn right at a red light without complications, but I guess the government here just doesn't trust us enough with our right-turn abilities. The funny thing is that there some lights without the No Turn On Red sign, and everybody always knows which ones, so we turn right there like it's going out of style. We barely even stopping to check for oncoming traffic, we're so excited to turn on red. Sometimes, I'll stop on green just so I can turn on red.
Other than the whole no turn on red, the Right Of Way issues, and the pedestrian thing, the Mass drivers are just like everybody else.
With that said, Old Spice has the funniest commercials currently on TV.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Serious Hendrik time
Welcome to Hendrik time! Meet our main subject, Hendrik, with his pal King Striples.
Nyet picture, you stupeed American! You tink I like dees pictures? You tink I guilty in the war crimes? Nyet! Nyet, nyet, nyet!
You stupeed Americans and you stupid Mac-uh-donald, you not know how cook real meat sandvich! I give you meat sandvich right in nose!
My old mission comp, Kevin Gertsch, graced us with a visit a couple of weeks ago with his family. His daughter, Jillian, loved to pay Hendrik quite a lot of attention, just like he gets at church.
Mel, Hench, Peter, Chelsea, Kevin, and Jillian in front of Old Ironsides.
2 little ones admiring each other.
It was the coldest day of the month!
Avast ye scurvy dogs! Yarrrrr!
In front of the city he was born in.
Harvard-Kent! What a great match!
Guess who cleaned up with the spoils of Easter? Guess who didn't give a flying hoot? (Hint: It's the same person)
Last Wednesday, the stars aligned and we took Hendrik into work with us and it also happened to be almost 90 degrees in the city. So we walked around the Common and took pics.
Just let me finish up this report and I'll be right with you.
Buy, buy, buy!!! Wait...sell, sell, sell!!!
Where's Hendrik?
There he is! Now where the H are his parents?
One of the reasons why it's been so long since we posted is because our basement flooded 3 times in the last month. We got 19 inches of rain in March, the 2nd wettest month in Mass history, second only to August 1955, when we got 2 hurricanes! We're pretty sick of rain.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Calling All Captions
While I sort through all of the photos I just uploaded, give us your best captions for these pictures:
#1
#2
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Underrated
You were probably thinking to yourself today when you clicked on my blog, "I wonder what's going on with Kent and Melanie and Hendrik? We haven't heard from them in a while."
And then you saw the new post. "Great! Now I'll find out what's been going on!"
Brace yourself for disappointment. Nothing about us in here. Just more of my opinions shoved down your throat.
I want to pay a little tribute to an underrated band and an underrated TV show: Cake (the band, not the dessert), and Malcolm in the Middle.
Cake, to me, has always been somewhat of a guilty pleasure for me. They seemed like nothing more than a novelty band, with one quirky hit an album. Even though I bought Fashion Nugget in high school, and enjoyed it immensely, when their next album, Prolonging the Magic, came out, I didn't bother checking it out. No way it was better than Fashion Nugget, I thought. It wasn't.
But it was still good! A few good songs, that, to this day, I still enjoy.
That was it for my Cake days. It would seem that 2 albums chock full of clever lyrics interwoven with toe-tapping bass lines wasn't enough to warrant my loyalty. They weren't worthy of my devotion, instead banished to the cold grip of "Just friends" status. I wasn't sure they could be much more--they seemed too shallow, too flippant, to be considered for a serious relationship.
Then, as I worked at TGI Friday's, a couple songs from their latest album, Comfort Eagle, found their way onto the Friday's playlist. These songs were awesome, so I went out and found someone who owned Comfort Eagle, and had them burn me a copy. I only listened to it a few times through, not really giving all of the songs a chance, only the 2 I heard at Friday's. Then the CD got buried in my Giant Pile o' CDs, now obsolete due to the MP3 format.
I had to dig out my GPOC because I was using Mel's old CD stereo while finishing the basement. This forced me to listen to the CD's the entire way through, as I wasn't going to go wash my filthy hands every 4 minutes to swap out a CD. I then discovered the beauty of Comfort Eagle, and repented. Most of it is now on heavy rotation in my iTunes library, and it's not going anywhere soon.
Here is a small sampling of the subjects of Cake's songs:
1. An Austrian nobleman commissioning a symphony in C
2. A vain opera singer
3. A long line of cars, thanks to you
4. A guitar being chucked out a high-rise window
5. Stick shifts
Malcolm in the Middle is my favorite underrated TV show. I always dismissed it as a kid's show, thinking that it appealed to teenie boppers and adolescents, and I'm not going to stoop to that level. Well, not today, at least.
Then I started catching episodes on FX every so often, usually in the morning as I was getting ready, and I started laughing at some of the episodes. As an avid DVR-er, I'm always looking for something to watch when there's nothing else to watch. Usually a series of some sort, something in syndication or whatever. I usually watch all the episodes and then move on. First it was Scrubs, then Futurama, then This Old House, then Sweat Equity, then House Hunters, then Modern Marvels. As you can see, the last 4 were more or less educational, so I got tired of learning and decided to find something that required less brain. I settled on Malcolm.
The more I watched, the more I realized that each character is more complex than I thought. And I certainly can relate to growing up in a messy house with penny-pinching parents. My favorite characters are the parents, and Hal (the dad) is hilarious. In one episode, Hal has a dialogue with his early adolescent son Dewey, who wants to buy a watch off of the back of the cereal box:
"See, it says 12.99, but that doesn't include the hidden costs. Shipping, handling, box tops, by the time you're through, you're paying on the high side of FIFTEEN dollars. I've never owned a 15 dollar watch."
"But I NEED one, Dad!"
"Son, a cork and a piece of string make a perfectly fine sun-dial. AND, a nice conversation piece with the ladies!"
Then, later, after Dewey comes home complaining he missed the bus because he didn't have a watch, Lois (the mom) retorts, "You wanna know what time it is, Dewey? It's half past a roof over your head, clean clothes and 3 meals a day. THAT'S what time it is!"
Malcolm is a bit Seinfeld-esque (especially in the last seasons, for both shows), because each key character has their own story line that eventually comes together at the end with all the other story lines. It's also a bit Seinfeld-esque in the sense that the first couple of seasons were just not as funny. I watch it and think, "How did this show get renewed after the first season?" I guess it was groundbreaking at the time (still talking about both Seinfeld and Malcolm).
Now, don't get me wrong: there's a reason why these are underrated. Cake is no Pearl Jam, and Malcolm is certainly no Seinfeld. But if you're looking for some alternative tunes to listen to while doing the dishes, then I would recommend Cake. And if you need a new TV show to watch when all of the reruns are rerunning, then DVR Malcolm.
I don't think I've learned my lesson about underrated entertainment. I still don't have the "newest" (2004) Cake album ("eh, it's probably not that good"), and I'm sure I've dismissed a witty TV show or 2 without a chance (like Sealab, for example--is that still on TV, Kurt? Was it ever?). But maybe I'm just saving those things for 10 years from now, when I need some different but familiar tunes, or a new TV show to DVR.
And then you saw the new post. "Great! Now I'll find out what's been going on!"
Brace yourself for disappointment. Nothing about us in here. Just more of my opinions shoved down your throat.
I want to pay a little tribute to an underrated band and an underrated TV show: Cake (the band, not the dessert), and Malcolm in the Middle.
Cake, to me, has always been somewhat of a guilty pleasure for me. They seemed like nothing more than a novelty band, with one quirky hit an album. Even though I bought Fashion Nugget in high school, and enjoyed it immensely, when their next album, Prolonging the Magic, came out, I didn't bother checking it out. No way it was better than Fashion Nugget, I thought. It wasn't.
But it was still good! A few good songs, that, to this day, I still enjoy.
That was it for my Cake days. It would seem that 2 albums chock full of clever lyrics interwoven with toe-tapping bass lines wasn't enough to warrant my loyalty. They weren't worthy of my devotion, instead banished to the cold grip of "Just friends" status. I wasn't sure they could be much more--they seemed too shallow, too flippant, to be considered for a serious relationship.
Then, as I worked at TGI Friday's, a couple songs from their latest album, Comfort Eagle, found their way onto the Friday's playlist. These songs were awesome, so I went out and found someone who owned Comfort Eagle, and had them burn me a copy. I only listened to it a few times through, not really giving all of the songs a chance, only the 2 I heard at Friday's. Then the CD got buried in my Giant Pile o' CDs, now obsolete due to the MP3 format.
I had to dig out my GPOC because I was using Mel's old CD stereo while finishing the basement. This forced me to listen to the CD's the entire way through, as I wasn't going to go wash my filthy hands every 4 minutes to swap out a CD. I then discovered the beauty of Comfort Eagle, and repented. Most of it is now on heavy rotation in my iTunes library, and it's not going anywhere soon.
Here is a small sampling of the subjects of Cake's songs:
1. An Austrian nobleman commissioning a symphony in C
2. A vain opera singer
3. A long line of cars, thanks to you
4. A guitar being chucked out a high-rise window
5. Stick shifts
Malcolm in the Middle is my favorite underrated TV show. I always dismissed it as a kid's show, thinking that it appealed to teenie boppers and adolescents, and I'm not going to stoop to that level. Well, not today, at least.
Then I started catching episodes on FX every so often, usually in the morning as I was getting ready, and I started laughing at some of the episodes. As an avid DVR-er, I'm always looking for something to watch when there's nothing else to watch. Usually a series of some sort, something in syndication or whatever. I usually watch all the episodes and then move on. First it was Scrubs, then Futurama, then This Old House, then Sweat Equity, then House Hunters, then Modern Marvels. As you can see, the last 4 were more or less educational, so I got tired of learning and decided to find something that required less brain. I settled on Malcolm.
The more I watched, the more I realized that each character is more complex than I thought. And I certainly can relate to growing up in a messy house with penny-pinching parents. My favorite characters are the parents, and Hal (the dad) is hilarious. In one episode, Hal has a dialogue with his early adolescent son Dewey, who wants to buy a watch off of the back of the cereal box:
"See, it says 12.99, but that doesn't include the hidden costs. Shipping, handling, box tops, by the time you're through, you're paying on the high side of FIFTEEN dollars. I've never owned a 15 dollar watch."
"But I NEED one, Dad!"
"Son, a cork and a piece of string make a perfectly fine sun-dial. AND, a nice conversation piece with the ladies!"
Then, later, after Dewey comes home complaining he missed the bus because he didn't have a watch, Lois (the mom) retorts, "You wanna know what time it is, Dewey? It's half past a roof over your head, clean clothes and 3 meals a day. THAT'S what time it is!"
Malcolm is a bit Seinfeld-esque (especially in the last seasons, for both shows), because each key character has their own story line that eventually comes together at the end with all the other story lines. It's also a bit Seinfeld-esque in the sense that the first couple of seasons were just not as funny. I watch it and think, "How did this show get renewed after the first season?" I guess it was groundbreaking at the time (still talking about both Seinfeld and Malcolm).
Now, don't get me wrong: there's a reason why these are underrated. Cake is no Pearl Jam, and Malcolm is certainly no Seinfeld. But if you're looking for some alternative tunes to listen to while doing the dishes, then I would recommend Cake. And if you need a new TV show to watch when all of the reruns are rerunning, then DVR Malcolm.
I don't think I've learned my lesson about underrated entertainment. I still don't have the "newest" (2004) Cake album ("eh, it's probably not that good"), and I'm sure I've dismissed a witty TV show or 2 without a chance (like Sealab, for example--is that still on TV, Kurt? Was it ever?). But maybe I'm just saving those things for 10 years from now, when I need some different but familiar tunes, or a new TV show to DVR.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Why Girls Need Girlfriends
Girls need girlfriends because their husbands just don't cut it. Not in a bad way, they can be AWESOME husbands, but they just aren't able to fill the girlfriend void. We want to be best friends with our spouses and tell them EVERYTHING, but the reality is that while we don't keep secrets we don't have to try and discuss every topic with them.
During our first year of marriage I learned a lot about talking to a boy vs talking to a girl. BIG difference. I love Kent. I can talk to him about anything. Whether or not he enjoys the conversation is another story. So I learned quickly that he didn't want the gossipy, juicy details about my day at work, a simple grunt and "ok" would be a perfect answer to his, "How was your day?"
There was one particular instance that really defined this "girlfriend" thing for me. I was talking to Kent about some other girl I knew (and liked, maybe even loved), but I was conveying a truth that was perhaps unkind. I even prefaced the comment with, "I know this is so mean, but..." and finished up with an "I should feel bad for saying that." Now, ladies, we all know that whenever someone finishes like that it is our job as the listener to promptly follow up with an "I know, but the truth hurts sometimes" or an "I know, but you have to be honest with yourself." You know, something that makes the other person feel like less of a jerk. Here is what Kent responded with:
"Wow Mel, that is mean. You probably should feel bad."
Uhhh....
To which I responded, "Kent, you're not a very good girlfriend." He didn't understand what I meant, but of course he didn't! He has no experience as a girlfriend! But moments like that have taught me to save certain comments/conversations for my girlfriends and not my best friend of a husband.
One other key difference is that girls like to get together. We like to hang out and talk, possibly for hours. Whenever I come home from hanging out with my friend Lauren, or really any girlfriend, the following conversation almost always takes place:
Kent: What did you guys do?
Mel: Hung out, talked.
K: Talked? For 2 hours? About what?
The answer is anything and everything, my friend.
One thing I love is how womens' conversations just flow from one subject to the next. Topics that don't seem related when listed out individually somehow find themselves side-by-side in a girl's conversation. Have you ever caught yourself in the middle of a conversation and wondered, "How did we get on this topic?" I've actually attempted to trace my way back through the conversation to the beginning - try it sometime, it's fun. It's really no wonder why men look so confused if they are ever stuck surrounded by Chatty Cathys - they can't follow the train of thought.
And finally, I need girlfriends because they are just as crazy as I am. Girls, embrace it. We women are crazy. It's just how we're built. That's why we need Girls Night Out or Ladies Who Lunch. After you've been spending lots of quality time with your main man, who is logical, unemotional, and simple, you start to feel really ridiculous. Like maybe you are the craziest person in the world. So then you turn to your lady friends, spend a little time with the girls, and you realize, "I'm not crazy, I'm normal!" And then you can make it through another week without ripping your poor, loving husband's head off.
During our first year of marriage I learned a lot about talking to a boy vs talking to a girl. BIG difference. I love Kent. I can talk to him about anything. Whether or not he enjoys the conversation is another story. So I learned quickly that he didn't want the gossipy, juicy details about my day at work, a simple grunt and "ok" would be a perfect answer to his, "How was your day?"
There was one particular instance that really defined this "girlfriend" thing for me. I was talking to Kent about some other girl I knew (and liked, maybe even loved), but I was conveying a truth that was perhaps unkind. I even prefaced the comment with, "I know this is so mean, but..." and finished up with an "I should feel bad for saying that." Now, ladies, we all know that whenever someone finishes like that it is our job as the listener to promptly follow up with an "I know, but the truth hurts sometimes" or an "I know, but you have to be honest with yourself." You know, something that makes the other person feel like less of a jerk. Here is what Kent responded with:
"Wow Mel, that is mean. You probably should feel bad."
Uhhh....
To which I responded, "Kent, you're not a very good girlfriend." He didn't understand what I meant, but of course he didn't! He has no experience as a girlfriend! But moments like that have taught me to save certain comments/conversations for my girlfriends and not my best friend of a husband.
One other key difference is that girls like to get together. We like to hang out and talk, possibly for hours. Whenever I come home from hanging out with my friend Lauren, or really any girlfriend, the following conversation almost always takes place:
Kent: What did you guys do?
Mel: Hung out, talked.
K: Talked? For 2 hours? About what?
The answer is anything and everything, my friend.
One thing I love is how womens' conversations just flow from one subject to the next. Topics that don't seem related when listed out individually somehow find themselves side-by-side in a girl's conversation. Have you ever caught yourself in the middle of a conversation and wondered, "How did we get on this topic?" I've actually attempted to trace my way back through the conversation to the beginning - try it sometime, it's fun. It's really no wonder why men look so confused if they are ever stuck surrounded by Chatty Cathys - they can't follow the train of thought.
And finally, I need girlfriends because they are just as crazy as I am. Girls, embrace it. We women are crazy. It's just how we're built. That's why we need Girls Night Out or Ladies Who Lunch. After you've been spending lots of quality time with your main man, who is logical, unemotional, and simple, you start to feel really ridiculous. Like maybe you are the craziest person in the world. So then you turn to your lady friends, spend a little time with the girls, and you realize, "I'm not crazy, I'm normal!" And then you can make it through another week without ripping your poor, loving husband's head off.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Junior High Kent
There's nothing funnier to me than thinking of how I used to be. 5-year old Kent was funny. 10-year-old Kent was even funnier. But they've got nothing on Junior High Kent.
When I arrived at Canyon View in the 7th grade, I was still in my elementary mindset. I had my worn out t-shirts, faded terry cloth shorts with holes in them, dorky H.I.S. jeans, etc. I didn't care how I looked in elementary school. I usually wore my soccer jersey on game days, and when I was younger, my cub scout shirt on den meeting days.
I shared a locker with the super popular Shawn Hansen, who expected me to go halfsies on a $2.50 locker room shelf when my yearly income was $10.00, $9.00 after taxes and tithing. Shawn had a sleek black Polo shirt (an actual Ralph Lauren) tucked into his awesome Girbaud jeans, complimented by a nice bowl haircut, parted neatly down the middle (the infamous "butt-crack" haircut that I eventually had until halfway through my mission). Somehow he had tons of friends already, even some that were girls, when all my elementary friends had somehow disappeared.
I deduced that his fashion sense was the reason for his success. I started looking around, paying attention to what everybody was wearing: Jean shorts were the biggest thing, and if you were especially rich, you had Girbaud jean shorts, long enough to roll up a few notches. Most of the kids wore polo shirts, or some kind of collared shirt that was always tucked in. If you wore a t-shirt, it'd better be a Mossimo, No Fear, or Big Johnson. Everybody that was anybody had a Jansport backpack, and the rich kids could afford the ones with the leather bottoms. If you didn't have a Jansport, then you'd better not show your face around with a no-name brand of backpack. The only acceptable shoes at the time had swooshes.
I consulted my wardrobe, and discovered that I was seriously lacking. 7th grade Kent had accumulated NOTHING, and I was totally unprepared. I asked a popular kid in my ward, JR Cook, how I could be popular:
"You don't have to buy $100 Girbaud jeans. You can probably just get some cheap $50 Lucky jeans at The Copper Rivet."
Oh. Just $50. Let me check my budget...
Since I didn't have the scrilla for the duds, I had to beg Mom to take me to the mall. Of course, we didn't go to any of the cool, small, trendy shops, we didn't even make it past Mervyn's, where the brand in our budget was Cheetah. So we got one pair of jean shorts and one pair of khaki shorts. We then spent about 8 bucks on a black polo shirt. I begged my mom to get the longer pair of jean shorts to leave room for the roll-up, but she balked at the idea: "You don't need shorts that stretch to your calves!"
I wore the polo shirt the next day, tucked in neatly to my khaki shorts, and, to my great disbelief, a popular girl in my English class said, "You look nice today, Kent." Which, when heard by a hormone-driven 7th grade boy, is roughly translated to: "I have a GIANT crush on you, Kent, and so does every other girl in this school!"
Nice!
Propelled by the adrenalin from the self-esteem boost, I knew I couldn't show up the next day in my crappy old clothes, and I also couldn't wear the same ones. No way Susan was taking me back to Mervyn's (or, as she called it, "Mervyll's") again. So I panicked, and ransacked my house, looking for clothes that would potentially get me another compliment. The best I could do was a red polo shirt that I stole from my older sister JoEllen's closet. The buttons were on the wrong side, but who cares? They went perfectly with my jean shorts. I could even get a tiny roll-up if I wore them a few centimeters low on my waist.
The next day came and went with no compliments from anybody, which, when analyzed by a hormone-driven 7th grade boy, roughly means: "You are the ugliest kid in the school, and we'd prefer if you never showed your face around here again."
Compliments became a drug that I depended on. And not those superficial compliments like "You're good at math" or "You're a nice person with a good heart". I KNOW I'm good at math and that I'm a great person!! How is that going to help me land Jolene Shaw, the pretty 8th grade brunette in my Algebra class?! I needed real, juicy compliments like "I like your shoes" or "Nice shirt". Jolene will notice how good-looking I am and follow me around school. She will know that she can see me near the vending machines after 1st period as I walk to 2nd period, and also remember that she can see me outside the gym after 5th period.
One of the hardest things to learn was how to do my hair. All through elementary school, I barely even touched my hair, let alone run a comb through it. Now all I cared about was my hair. The cool kids had the bowl haircuts, combed so it was right down the middle, perfectly straight the whole way. My hair is naturally wavy, so I couldn't get it to go straight without hair spray or gel. The problem with that was that P.E. was 1st period for me, so after the mandatory showers, I had to do my hair with no hair spray or gel. I wasn't about to ask Mom for my own personal thing of gel, so I went into their bathroom with a sandwich bag and filled it with gel. I kept this little baggie of gel hidden in my P.E. locker, but my archnemisis Kyle Clindt (more on him later) saw it and mocked me in front of the whole class.
"Kent has a bag of goop in his locker that he puts in his hair! What is it even?!?! Is it [not suitable for reading on a family blog]? Or is it [unmentionable]? Gross!!!"
I hated that kid. He was the fat jerky kid that somehow was popular because of his clothes and his obscene languages and vulgar jokes. He's one of the popular kids that is probably still holding on to his Junior High glory days because he dropped out of high school. I'm much better than that. I hold on to my Junior High glory days because they were so hilarious. Although I found his profile on Facebook and he's a Colts fan, so I guess I can forgive him.
That year's Christmas was a gold mine. I begged Mom for all sorts of clothes, and she got me some very nice collared shirts. One was this Arrow-brand collared shirt that became my go-to shirt. It went nicely with the royal blue-dyed High Sierra jeans I begged for (colored jeans were all the rage-denim jeans were dorky, unless they were jean shorts). I wore it as much as I could without being conspicuous about it, sometimes every other day. Then one day, Kyle Clindt observed mockingly, "Didn't you wear that shirt yesterday?"
"What?!?! This shirt?!?! NO!! I've never worn this shirt twice in a row. Plus, I have 2 of them! No, 3!"
The jig was up. I could never wear the same clothes in the same week again! I started keeping a wardrobe calendar to keep track of what I wore. At the beginning, I only had enough "cool" clothes to last a week, but my birthday was coming up, and that just meant a whole lot more begging!
I got a lot more clothes, but as my dependency on clothes became stronger, I became more particular about clothes. One item my mom refused to buy were the baggy jeans, which were becoming all the rage. So one day I tried on a pair of my dad's jeans, a khaki shaded pair of Bass brand jeans. They were size 36 waist. I was about 5'3" at the time, and 30" waists were big on me. But if I didn't tuck in my shirt, nobody would notice the bunched up belt loops around my waist. Plus I had plenty of room to roll up the legs.
8th grade was much better than 7th grade. Now that I had a decent wardrobe, I only needed to add a few things here and there, and before I knew it, I had 2 weeks' worth of clothes (I still kept my calendar). I also got a few odd jobs here and there, and saved up money to buy my own clothes. First purchase: A snow-white pair of Levi's 501 jeans (button-fly). This was clutch, because the girl I was in love with this year was Julie Hocking, and I was sure she had a thing for white jeans. In fact, one day I noticed that inside my blue English folder, the class that Julie shared with me, there was written in girl's handwriting:
"Kent is the cutest boy in the 8th grade, all the girls LOVE him!"
No way! I mean, I kind of saw it coming, what with my incredible sense of fashion, but wow! Who did it? Was it Julie herself? Or was it her annoying friend Lindsey who was the only girl in the class who talked to me? For weeks, I was perplexed at who had written that. I tried to sneak peeks at Julie's handwriting to analyze. I mean, come on, I caught her looking at me a few times, there's NO WAY she wasn't into me.
Then, one day at home, my sister JoEllen, the same one that pointed out each and every zit on my forehead, asked me: "Have you seen the note I left in your folder?"
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
Talk about destroying all of my dreams. She could've just kept quiet and I wouldn't have struggled with my self-esteem all year. Oh, who am I kidding? All 8th graders struggle with their self-esteem.
I never did talk to Julie, nor Jolene, my 7th grade crush. So when I started 9th grade, I was determined to do something about my new crush, Katie Heward. She was this hot new girl in my 3rd period history class, and I couldn't stop dreaming about her. 9th grade I think is the most obsessive of all grades, I'm not really sure why, but I was totally in love with Katie. I would hatch up these fantasies of us meeting in random places, and her totally falling for me, and we'd ride off into the sunset. These fantasies were not unlike the ones I'd had for Julie and Jolene, but with Katie it was different, because I was determined to do something about it.
The worst part about my crush with Katie is that she sat RIGHT NEXT to me. Like 3 feet away. And I COULDN'T TALK TO HER! I'd never, ever, talked to a girl I liked, and I didn't know how to do it. I figured she would be so amazed by my good looks and bad boy image (which I was working DARNED hard on), that she would be overcome and just surrender her love to me. Surprisingly, this didn't happen.
So I went with plan B: talk to her friends. However, I didn't know any of her friends. I mean, I knew who they were, for crying out loud, I knew EVERYTHING about Katie that I could possibly find out (don't pretend like you weren't as obsessive about your Junior High crushes). But I couldn't talk to them, so I had to talk to someone who knew them. Because of my bad-boy image I was trying to maintain, I got sent to PASS (Positive Alternative to School Suspension) quite often, and the PASS lady, Robin, was this 20 year old college girl who was more interested in hanging out with 9th graders than disciplining them. Me and my friends took full advantage of Robin, and got sent to PASS as often as possible. Robin knew that I loved Katie, so she schemed up a plan to get Katie sent to PASS. Once this happened, Robin sent me to PASS to tell me about their convo:
Robin: So, Katie Heward and her friends were in PASS today.
Me: Keep talking...
Robin: I asked them what they thought about Kent Hansen.
Me: Tell me more, tell me more!
Robin: They said you were "totally cute".
SCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!!!!
Me: Okay! Alright! Here we go!
Robin: So I said that you totally had a crush on Katie, and were going to the Christmas dance on Saturday, and you could meet then.
That was on December 14, 1994. Why do I remember this date? Cause I went sledding with my friends at Rock Canyon park and I broke my arm after going way too fast over a jump, and landed right on my wrist. I stayed at home for the next week, missing the dance, missing my only chance at true love.
I was desperate to unite with my princess, so I did everything I could to find out where she was going to be on New Year's Eve. I went over to her stake dance a few blocks away, but she wasn't there. My buddies found out she was at her friend Jessica's house, so we invited ourselves over there. Jessica opened the door to about 5 of us, and let us into the living room. Our older and cooler friend Logan did all the talking as I tried to figure out where Katie was. There was lots of girls laughing in the kitchen, but a wall separated me and my lover. It wasn't to be, apparently, as Jessica said that "we're in the middle of a game" and "boys aren't allowed". Don't you mean that "Men aren't allowed"? We told her that we'd be at the stake dance so we went back. I spent the rest of the dance staring at the doors waiting for Katie to arrive, but she never did.
I never did end up even so much as talking to Katie, but every time I saw her in the halls after that, I knew she was thinking, "It's too bad he broke his arm, because we'd have been married by now!" Or maybe not. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to ever talk to her or make an actual move on her. Don't worry-that didn't stop me from stalking her for the next few years.
And that's why Junior High Kent makes All Growed-up Kent laugh.
Note: I slightly changed everybody's names in this post so they can't Google themselves and find this. Also, I've found out since then that my one true love was Mullanie McKindondale.
When I arrived at Canyon View in the 7th grade, I was still in my elementary mindset. I had my worn out t-shirts, faded terry cloth shorts with holes in them, dorky H.I.S. jeans, etc. I didn't care how I looked in elementary school. I usually wore my soccer jersey on game days, and when I was younger, my cub scout shirt on den meeting days.
I shared a locker with the super popular Shawn Hansen, who expected me to go halfsies on a $2.50 locker room shelf when my yearly income was $10.00, $9.00 after taxes and tithing. Shawn had a sleek black Polo shirt (an actual Ralph Lauren) tucked into his awesome Girbaud jeans, complimented by a nice bowl haircut, parted neatly down the middle (the infamous "butt-crack" haircut that I eventually had until halfway through my mission). Somehow he had tons of friends already, even some that were girls, when all my elementary friends had somehow disappeared.
I deduced that his fashion sense was the reason for his success. I started looking around, paying attention to what everybody was wearing: Jean shorts were the biggest thing, and if you were especially rich, you had Girbaud jean shorts, long enough to roll up a few notches. Most of the kids wore polo shirts, or some kind of collared shirt that was always tucked in. If you wore a t-shirt, it'd better be a Mossimo, No Fear, or Big Johnson. Everybody that was anybody had a Jansport backpack, and the rich kids could afford the ones with the leather bottoms. If you didn't have a Jansport, then you'd better not show your face around with a no-name brand of backpack. The only acceptable shoes at the time had swooshes.
I consulted my wardrobe, and discovered that I was seriously lacking. 7th grade Kent had accumulated NOTHING, and I was totally unprepared. I asked a popular kid in my ward, JR Cook, how I could be popular:
"You don't have to buy $100 Girbaud jeans. You can probably just get some cheap $50 Lucky jeans at The Copper Rivet."
Oh. Just $50. Let me check my budget...
Since I didn't have the scrilla for the duds, I had to beg Mom to take me to the mall. Of course, we didn't go to any of the cool, small, trendy shops, we didn't even make it past Mervyn's, where the brand in our budget was Cheetah. So we got one pair of jean shorts and one pair of khaki shorts. We then spent about 8 bucks on a black polo shirt. I begged my mom to get the longer pair of jean shorts to leave room for the roll-up, but she balked at the idea: "You don't need shorts that stretch to your calves!"
I wore the polo shirt the next day, tucked in neatly to my khaki shorts, and, to my great disbelief, a popular girl in my English class said, "You look nice today, Kent." Which, when heard by a hormone-driven 7th grade boy, is roughly translated to: "I have a GIANT crush on you, Kent, and so does every other girl in this school!"
Nice!
Propelled by the adrenalin from the self-esteem boost, I knew I couldn't show up the next day in my crappy old clothes, and I also couldn't wear the same ones. No way Susan was taking me back to Mervyn's (or, as she called it, "Mervyll's") again. So I panicked, and ransacked my house, looking for clothes that would potentially get me another compliment. The best I could do was a red polo shirt that I stole from my older sister JoEllen's closet. The buttons were on the wrong side, but who cares? They went perfectly with my jean shorts. I could even get a tiny roll-up if I wore them a few centimeters low on my waist.
The next day came and went with no compliments from anybody, which, when analyzed by a hormone-driven 7th grade boy, roughly means: "You are the ugliest kid in the school, and we'd prefer if you never showed your face around here again."
Compliments became a drug that I depended on. And not those superficial compliments like "You're good at math" or "You're a nice person with a good heart". I KNOW I'm good at math and that I'm a great person!! How is that going to help me land Jolene Shaw, the pretty 8th grade brunette in my Algebra class?! I needed real, juicy compliments like "I like your shoes" or "Nice shirt". Jolene will notice how good-looking I am and follow me around school. She will know that she can see me near the vending machines after 1st period as I walk to 2nd period, and also remember that she can see me outside the gym after 5th period.
One of the hardest things to learn was how to do my hair. All through elementary school, I barely even touched my hair, let alone run a comb through it. Now all I cared about was my hair. The cool kids had the bowl haircuts, combed so it was right down the middle, perfectly straight the whole way. My hair is naturally wavy, so I couldn't get it to go straight without hair spray or gel. The problem with that was that P.E. was 1st period for me, so after the mandatory showers, I had to do my hair with no hair spray or gel. I wasn't about to ask Mom for my own personal thing of gel, so I went into their bathroom with a sandwich bag and filled it with gel. I kept this little baggie of gel hidden in my P.E. locker, but my archnemisis Kyle Clindt (more on him later) saw it and mocked me in front of the whole class.
"Kent has a bag of goop in his locker that he puts in his hair! What is it even?!?! Is it [not suitable for reading on a family blog]? Or is it [unmentionable]? Gross!!!"
I hated that kid. He was the fat jerky kid that somehow was popular because of his clothes and his obscene languages and vulgar jokes. He's one of the popular kids that is probably still holding on to his Junior High glory days because he dropped out of high school. I'm much better than that. I hold on to my Junior High glory days because they were so hilarious. Although I found his profile on Facebook and he's a Colts fan, so I guess I can forgive him.
That year's Christmas was a gold mine. I begged Mom for all sorts of clothes, and she got me some very nice collared shirts. One was this Arrow-brand collared shirt that became my go-to shirt. It went nicely with the royal blue-dyed High Sierra jeans I begged for (colored jeans were all the rage-denim jeans were dorky, unless they were jean shorts). I wore it as much as I could without being conspicuous about it, sometimes every other day. Then one day, Kyle Clindt observed mockingly, "Didn't you wear that shirt yesterday?"
"What?!?! This shirt?!?! NO!! I've never worn this shirt twice in a row. Plus, I have 2 of them! No, 3!"
The jig was up. I could never wear the same clothes in the same week again! I started keeping a wardrobe calendar to keep track of what I wore. At the beginning, I only had enough "cool" clothes to last a week, but my birthday was coming up, and that just meant a whole lot more begging!
I got a lot more clothes, but as my dependency on clothes became stronger, I became more particular about clothes. One item my mom refused to buy were the baggy jeans, which were becoming all the rage. So one day I tried on a pair of my dad's jeans, a khaki shaded pair of Bass brand jeans. They were size 36 waist. I was about 5'3" at the time, and 30" waists were big on me. But if I didn't tuck in my shirt, nobody would notice the bunched up belt loops around my waist. Plus I had plenty of room to roll up the legs.
8th grade was much better than 7th grade. Now that I had a decent wardrobe, I only needed to add a few things here and there, and before I knew it, I had 2 weeks' worth of clothes (I still kept my calendar). I also got a few odd jobs here and there, and saved up money to buy my own clothes. First purchase: A snow-white pair of Levi's 501 jeans (button-fly). This was clutch, because the girl I was in love with this year was Julie Hocking, and I was sure she had a thing for white jeans. In fact, one day I noticed that inside my blue English folder, the class that Julie shared with me, there was written in girl's handwriting:
"Kent is the cutest boy in the 8th grade, all the girls LOVE him!"
No way! I mean, I kind of saw it coming, what with my incredible sense of fashion, but wow! Who did it? Was it Julie herself? Or was it her annoying friend Lindsey who was the only girl in the class who talked to me? For weeks, I was perplexed at who had written that. I tried to sneak peeks at Julie's handwriting to analyze. I mean, come on, I caught her looking at me a few times, there's NO WAY she wasn't into me.
Then, one day at home, my sister JoEllen, the same one that pointed out each and every zit on my forehead, asked me: "Have you seen the note I left in your folder?"
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
Talk about destroying all of my dreams. She could've just kept quiet and I wouldn't have struggled with my self-esteem all year. Oh, who am I kidding? All 8th graders struggle with their self-esteem.
I never did talk to Julie, nor Jolene, my 7th grade crush. So when I started 9th grade, I was determined to do something about my new crush, Katie Heward. She was this hot new girl in my 3rd period history class, and I couldn't stop dreaming about her. 9th grade I think is the most obsessive of all grades, I'm not really sure why, but I was totally in love with Katie. I would hatch up these fantasies of us meeting in random places, and her totally falling for me, and we'd ride off into the sunset. These fantasies were not unlike the ones I'd had for Julie and Jolene, but with Katie it was different, because I was determined to do something about it.
The worst part about my crush with Katie is that she sat RIGHT NEXT to me. Like 3 feet away. And I COULDN'T TALK TO HER! I'd never, ever, talked to a girl I liked, and I didn't know how to do it. I figured she would be so amazed by my good looks and bad boy image (which I was working DARNED hard on), that she would be overcome and just surrender her love to me. Surprisingly, this didn't happen.
So I went with plan B: talk to her friends. However, I didn't know any of her friends. I mean, I knew who they were, for crying out loud, I knew EVERYTHING about Katie that I could possibly find out (don't pretend like you weren't as obsessive about your Junior High crushes). But I couldn't talk to them, so I had to talk to someone who knew them. Because of my bad-boy image I was trying to maintain, I got sent to PASS (Positive Alternative to School Suspension) quite often, and the PASS lady, Robin, was this 20 year old college girl who was more interested in hanging out with 9th graders than disciplining them. Me and my friends took full advantage of Robin, and got sent to PASS as often as possible. Robin knew that I loved Katie, so she schemed up a plan to get Katie sent to PASS. Once this happened, Robin sent me to PASS to tell me about their convo:
Robin: So, Katie Heward and her friends were in PASS today.
Me: Keep talking...
Robin: I asked them what they thought about Kent Hansen.
Me: Tell me more, tell me more!
Robin: They said you were "totally cute".
SCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!!!!
Me: Okay! Alright! Here we go!
Robin: So I said that you totally had a crush on Katie, and were going to the Christmas dance on Saturday, and you could meet then.
That was on December 14, 1994. Why do I remember this date? Cause I went sledding with my friends at Rock Canyon park and I broke my arm after going way too fast over a jump, and landed right on my wrist. I stayed at home for the next week, missing the dance, missing my only chance at true love.
I was desperate to unite with my princess, so I did everything I could to find out where she was going to be on New Year's Eve. I went over to her stake dance a few blocks away, but she wasn't there. My buddies found out she was at her friend Jessica's house, so we invited ourselves over there. Jessica opened the door to about 5 of us, and let us into the living room. Our older and cooler friend Logan did all the talking as I tried to figure out where Katie was. There was lots of girls laughing in the kitchen, but a wall separated me and my lover. It wasn't to be, apparently, as Jessica said that "we're in the middle of a game" and "boys aren't allowed". Don't you mean that "Men aren't allowed"? We told her that we'd be at the stake dance so we went back. I spent the rest of the dance staring at the doors waiting for Katie to arrive, but she never did.
I never did end up even so much as talking to Katie, but every time I saw her in the halls after that, I knew she was thinking, "It's too bad he broke his arm, because we'd have been married by now!" Or maybe not. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to ever talk to her or make an actual move on her. Don't worry-that didn't stop me from stalking her for the next few years.
And that's why Junior High Kent makes All Growed-up Kent laugh.
Note: I slightly changed everybody's names in this post so they can't Google themselves and find this. Also, I've found out since then that my one true love was Mullanie McKindondale.
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