New Hobbies with Old Friends

Last Friday night, in the riveting town of Independence, three 22 year olds got rowdy. By three friends I mean two of my roommates and myself and by rowdy I mean we knitted. That’s right ladies and…more ladies (I’m fairly certain only females read my blog) I am proud to announce that I can knit. This was not a declaration I could have made at the beginning of that eventful Friday night.

My Pinterest-savvy roommates Alison & Wendy were busy crafting the day away and knitting their own headbands when I joined them in the living room. I sat staring at the TV twiddling my craft-inept fingers when future teacher Wendy asked if she could teach me how to knit. At first I thought, “Psh, yeah right, good luck with that!” but then I remembered it was only about 6pm on a Friday night and we had no other plans, so challenge accepted. My second challenge of the night came when my sister called and, after telling her my plans of learning how to knit, told me I should live-tweet my first knitting experience. The rest of the night went like this:

K8Arnold Kate Arnold

2 things I never do that shall occur tonight: knitting & frequent tweeting. Let the knitting live feed commence!

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This is what my intense knitting face looks like: 

K8Arnold Kate Arnold

Rows 1-3 down. Looks like a cat mangled some yarn. I hear it doesn't get better until row 4.

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K8Arnold Kate Arnold

So, I think I forgot how to knit between rows 3 and 4. Sucks.

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Somewhere around this point in the night I had to call on the knitting master herself. Celebrity knit from WB:

K8Arnold Kate Arnold

Oh dear, I began with 18 stitches in my knitting and now I'm at 25. I've managed to make an already difficult task 1.39 times harder.

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K8Arnold Kate Arnold

I've taken to beating myself with knitting needles.

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K8Arnold Kate Arnold

Holy knit this is hard! Realization: learning to knit may not be a one-night dealio.

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After all that tweeting and tangling of yarn I ended up with this beauty:

I decided to call that good and cast off (check me out using real knitting terms). I knit a canoe. Or a banana holder. Or a bracelet. It's a very versatile piece of handiwork. 

Despite my lack of knitting skills during that initial endeavor, I stuck with knitting and went on to buy more yarn in order start a trendy headband of my own the next night. That's right, not only did we stay in and knit on a Friday night, but we made it a double header and did it on Saturday night too. And the best part is our party multiplied (Shout out to Avery!):  

In case you were curious, I've gotten a lot better in the last five days: 

(Completed project one in purple and new project in progress in sage) 

Truthfully I should have just taken it from Pheobe and known knitting was "Too hard! Too hard!"  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrWQO4SwGfw

Only in a Daycare

Here’s a little installment I like to call “Things That Would Only Happen at My Job”:

1.       Topless Tuesday and Naked Thursday (Ok this one might happen at other forms of employment, but only at my job can it happen and be purely innocent). Sometimes we eat really messy things for lunch, things like spaghetti with a red sauce, pudding, or any kind of juice. Since those items are a hazard to clothes and kids can’t seem to figure out utensils, the solution is to take their shirts off during lunchtime. But once the shirt is off and lunchtime is over the kids only manage to lose more clothing. So by the time their parents come to pick them up, they’re either down to their skivvies or running wild with their bare bums out. For a kid, everything’s just more fun in the nude.

2.       Public making out. The kids are at an age where they’re learning how to express love. The only thing they know on the matter is that their parents kiss them in order to show familial affection. So when they want to show their friends at daycare that they love them, how else would they do it besides kissing them? The only problem is that the kissing is unhindered. They all kiss each other: girls kiss boys, boys kiss girls, girls kiss girls, boys kiss boys. That’s not so bad, but they do it all the freakin’ time and for extended periods of time. They’ll just sit there with lips pressed to one another and eyes open and checking things out for the duration of Circle Time. My boss is like a broken record throughout the day teaching, “Please don’t kiss your friends. Kissing spreads germs. You can hug your friends or show them gentle pats, but please stop kissing each other.” 

3.        Poop Show & Tell. Typically in any other job people would go to extreme lengths to keep what goes on in the bathroom as private as possible. Not at my job. We routinely clap and cheer when a youngster makes wee wee or poops in the potty, which is weird enough at a place of employment, but the other day things got even weirder. A little girl called for assistance in the bathroom and I found her sitting on the regular-sized toilet. She exclaimed, “I pooped in the potty!” To which I responded with lots of encouragement and then handed her a piece of toilet paper and told her to wipe her bum. She took the TP, wiped her freshly poop-free bottom, and then handed the TP wad back to me and said, “here you go.” There’s no way I was touching that. I told her TP goes in the potty and she was big enough to do that herself.

Next time you’re in your place of employment, I encourage you to take a good look at your coworkers and supervisors and think about what it would be like if they partook in Naked Thursday, Public Making Out, or Poop Show & Tell.

“I just wanna bang my head”

Kids are funny. Truthfully they’re just unhindered tiny people. At my job, I get a kick out of watching two year olds solve problems.

For instance, the other day one little boy, let’s call him Jimmy, was playing with a three-piece train set. As he was playing, one of the parts of the train came unlatched and was left behind. Jimmy kept toting the other two parts around and didn’t seem to notice the missing link. That is, until Bobby came along. Bobby unsuspectingly took the lone train car and started playing with it. For a moment the boys played trains together, but once Jimmy realized Bobby’s toy was originally part of his own, he flipped. There was a hop and a scream and something indecipherable like “Waaah, that’s my, that’s my, it’s miiinnne, andIwantitbacknowwww!” uttered from Jimmy’s tiny, yet powerful, mouth. Bobby didn’t have a clue what was going on, but he was mad about it. The solution? A screaming match. The boys just started screaming at the top of their lungs at each other. No words were exchanged or hits or anything, just high-pitched screeches. I think they forgot what they were screaming about after some point because, let’s face it, playing who can scream the loudest is way better than playing trains. Eventually an adult stepped in and broke up the scream-off and later on the boys successfully played trains together.

I think the hardest part about being a two year old is figuring out what emotions are and sorting through them. Jimmy is a prime example of this. On a separate occasion from the train set incident, Jimmy was super into building a really high tower out of blocks when lunchtime rolled around. The daycare is on a tight feeding schedule that’s the same every day: 9:00am breakfast, 11:00am snack, 12:00pm lunch. The day revolves around eating. Anyway, when lunchtime was announced, Jimmy didn’t want to stop building his tower (I couldn’t blame him, he’d almost successfully used all the pieces available and it was looking pretty legit). The main woman who runs the daycare, Mrs. D, told him he had to stop playing or he’d be forced to forgo lunch. Jimmy was torn. Continue building the world’s greatest tower or eat the food he undoubtedly wanted in his tummy? Jimmy was so frustrated by the scenario that he started to panic. He wiggled and squirmed and started to huff and puff during his inability to process his emotions. The decision-making conversation went something like this:

Mrs. D: “Jimmy, just breathe. What do you want to do? Come join your friends for lunch or keep playing?”

Jimmy: “Uh, um, uh, ummmm. I just wanna bang my head.”

Then Jimmy proceeded to bang his head on the kitchen floor until deciding to eat lunch. Perhaps next time I’m up in arms about making a decision I’ll try the Jimmy method and just bang my head on something until the answer is clear.

Progress.

About 2 ½ months ago I was cooped up on the couch nursing my bloody knees and sulking in my unemployment. Now I’m partially employed and functionally healed.

(Don’t mind my gangsta check-ma-scars face. Also, yes those are Halloween boxers I’m wearing.) 

I had two interesting conversations recently. One was about the fact that unemployment is difficult. I know, I know, how can doing nothing all day every day be so difficult? But doing nothing was the hardest thing I ever had to do. It’s a perpetual feeling that you should be occupied. And everyone asks, “what do you do?” and as an honest individual you’re required to answer, “absolutely nothing,” or as a clever individual you get to answer with something like, “I contribute to society by shopping local,” or “I’m getting really into crocheting,” or “I convert oxygen to CO2 on a momentary basis.” Moral of the conversation, being unemployed is ridiculously obnoxious and extremely tolling in the do-it-yourself/constantly-better-yourself US culture.

The other interesting conversation was about having good health. I was talking to a 60 something woman who recently went through mystery health problems and experienced internal pain for about a week. After that week of pain was over, she said she had energy to do everything. She wasn’t in crazy better health or anything, it was simply that she’d experienced life with pain and then was uber appreciative of life in a healthy body. Occasionally, since healing from my longboarding accident, I’ll look down at my body and realize I’m completely healthy and I’ll just stand there and revel in it. One day my roommate Wendy caught me staring at my hands for a solid minute. She asked me what the heck I was doing and I proclaimed, “The human body is an incredible thing!” because it’s true. A couple months ago I had half a hole in my left hand, couldn’t use my wrist, and was unable to walk. Then my magical body healed itself. Go body!

So if you’re currently employed, even if it’s a tedious job, and you’re rockin’ a healthy body just look at yourself and cheer. Maybe high five your able body. Seriously. Because once you’ve been immobile and unemployed even being able to get up and go to a job of any sort feels like the greatest accomplishment. I may not be fully employed by a job that puts my education into practice, and I still have some gnarly scars on my knees, but I’d say it’s progress. 

New Characters in My Life

Due to the obtaining of my job, a lot of new characters have been added into my life. I see approximately eight children on a regular basis throughout the week. They’re all beginning to develop individual personalities in my eyes. And I gotta say, babies and toddlers are an odd bunch.

I’ll explain to you a few of my favorites, er, perhaps favorite isn’t the correct word:*

1. First, there’s The Baby Pusher. The Baby Pusher just turned two, and upon that birthday she promptly earned her sassy pants. She thinks she’s big news around the daycare and uses this attitude to push down babies. I really mean that. There are a few nearly one year olds that are barely learning how to stand and they stabilize themselves on tables and chairs and whatnot until The Baby Pusher comes around and knocks them right down to the ground. Those babies must be thinking, “I’m doing it! My legs are sustaining me! The next step is mobility!” and then BAM—The Baby Pusher strikes again.

2. Second, there’s The Potty Dancer, who’s a little boy close to three years old. I don’t remember this special phase in life, but apparently when you’re first learning what it feels like to need to pee your body does peculiar things. When The Potty Dancer gets the urge to go, he can’t quite seem to control his wiggly movements. He starts doing this little squirmy, twitchy, antsy potty dance and everyone in the room knows what he’s gotta do. The most humorous part of all this is that The Potty Dancer would much rather pop, lock & drop it in place than stop what he’s doing and give into his body’s urges by going to the restroom.

3. Lastly, there’s The Bully. The Bully isn’t too much of a bully to everyone else, but he certainly is one to me. He’ll be playing all fine and dandy and then suddenly he’ll stop, seek me out, point a tiny yet stern finger directly at me, and yell “NO!” for no apparent reason. Or, while on his way to do something else, he’ll make a special pit stop purely to b-line it for me and hit me. Granted, it’s a fairly powerless hit, but still, no one likes to be sought out for a sucker punch. Perhaps this all comes with me being the new kid. I gotta earn my in with this munchkin crowd.

*I didn’t use real names because I felt like that would break some unforeseen law of child exploitation. 

The Next Step of My Future: MIT Program

Good news everyone, I’ve begun something that will occupy much of time. It’s an MIT program. At this point you must be thinking, “Wow, Kate, how impressive that you got into the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I didn’t know you were such a tech-savvy genius!”…but that’s not quite the same program. Rather I’ve begun what I like to call the Mother In Training program. Ok, ok, enough joking around the bush. Moral of the story, I got a job! I’m now employed as an assistant teacher at an in-home daycare in Corvallis, or more like a training course of how to mother seven children at once.

Here’s how the obtaining of the job went down:

Last Sunday I was teaching preschoolers in DoxKids (like Sunday School at my church), and one of my fellow teachers informed me that she runs a daycare out of her home. I asked her plenty of questions about it simply out of curiosity and without any alternative motives. She asked me what I do in life and the conversation went something like this…

Me: “Well I just graduated from Western Oregon University back in June and I’ve been searching for a job ever since to no avail…blah, blah, blah, useless English/writing degree, blah, blah, standard post grad sad life spiel…”

My now current employer: “You want a job? I’ll GIVE you a job!”

She offered the position to me in that kind of you-don’t-know-what-you’re-asking-for voice, but she was nice and I was desperate so the rest is history!

Except it’s not really history because now I’m living it. Plus I’m going to keep telling you about it. I started the job on Monday and then continued to work the rest of the week. It’s only a part-time position (my official hours are 9am to naptime) and I really only have work when there are a lot of kids, so it’s a need-basis kind of a deal. But basically I chase around 1-3 year olds and hold babies for half the day. It’s great and pretty much exactly what I’m looking for right now in life.

While I was sitting in all those literature and creative writing classes just a few short months ago, I never thought to myself man it’d be great if I could use this knowledge to eventually go into a job of diaper-changing. But it’s a job, it occupies my time, and the kids are really stinking cute. So I may not have earned my MRS in college, but I’ve moved on to the higher education of a Mother In Training program. 

Technicalities

This is my, er Katie Arnold's, official job rejection letter:

Technically, technically I didn’t get rejected from that credit union I interviewed with. Katie Arnold did, not I, Kate Arnold. What a slap in the face. Not only was I rejected on a premature phone call to the company, but two weeks later I was also rejected via snail mail in a standardized letter and the only personal touch to whole thing was incorrect. I guess I didn’t make as good of an impression on them as I thought I did. It’s ok, I don’t want to work for anyone who calls me Katie anyway.

In other news, in my hunt for a future career or a passion/direction in life, I considered being a mentor. I tried typing “become a mentor” into the google search bar, but instead google guessed I wanted to become a mermaid. I ran with it. I’ll be getting my scales in seashell bra in no time. 

Attempting to be an Oregonian

For about four years now, I’ve been a Californian masking as an Oregonian. Sometimes I think I was meant to be an Oregonian, and other times I think they should kick me right outta this state and back down to the big ol’ golden state. As far as I can tally, there is one reason why I’m a close to being an Oregonian and two reasons why I can’t shake the CA stamp on my forehead.

Reason 1 for being considered an Oregonian: In an attempt to become more like a real Oregon resident, I bought a Bi-Mart card. I’m aware that Bi-Mart isn’t necessarily a super Oregonian thing, so let me explain: you need a Bi-Mart card to get into the store, and for four years of college I refused to spend the $5 to become a lifetime member because I didn’t think I’d be in the state for life and because I’m cheap. Once I moved into a real-person house in Independence and was no longer a student but rather a townie, I decided to make the leap and splurge for the card. I’ve used my coveted green piece of plastic about three times since making the purchase and I already feel more like a perma-Oregonian. Plus it’s green, so I consider it my green card for the state. Worth it.

Reason 1 for being considered a Californian: Speaking of plastic cards, my CA license makes me feel like a 17 year old with a fake ID every time I try to buy alcohol in Oregon. I’m 22 years old and yet I still get twitchy and nervous when I go to buy a six pack of beer or a bottle of wine. Every checkout person takes about a full minute (I’m really not exaggerating) to examine my license. They usually can’t find my DOB or they bend and twist it a lot to see if it’ll burst into flames revealing all its fake glory. The other day I actually had a young register attendant ask me, “um…where’s your birthday?” and I had to point to the highlighted & centered DOB. So every time I try to buy a little 21-and-up beverage, I’m blatantly reminded of my California roots.

Reason 2 for being a Californian: Getting gas still makes me awkward (and I’m not just referring to the bodily kind). For those of you who don’t know, in Oregon it’s illegal to pump your own gas. You actually have to be waited on while a gas attendant pumps it for you. So. Awkward. I still can’t get down the sequence of events for proper gas retrieval. Is it car in park, ignition off, radio off, card out of wallet, window down, card to attendant, gas request? Or window down, car in park, ignition off, radio still on, card out of wallet, gas request, then card to the attendant? Am I forgetting some steps? Did I do too many things? Does every attendant I deal with get a kick out of my awkwardness? Probably. I’d really just prefer to drive to any other state border and do it myself.

-Final score-

Oregonian: 1

Californian fo life (and an awkward one at that): 2  

Middle Schoolers Are a Weird People Group

I had the privilege of chaperoning a middle school dance at the Boys & Girls Club of Corvallis last night. Apparently schools stopped hosting dances a couple years ago, so the BGC started putting them on as a way to provide safe weekend activities as well as an outlet for all that pent-up dance frustration that middle schoolers harbor. It was a hilarious good time. I used to think airports were the best place for people watching, I now think any gathering of middle schoolers is.

Allow me to set the scene of the night: There were about 450-500 middle school age kids from all over the area. The hundreds of kids dispersed themselves among four different rooms that were open for the night. Room one was a small gym for basketball and volleyball, room two was a game room with foosball type activities, room three was the Teen Room that consisted of computers and videogames, and room four was the main attraction of a dance floor. The theme of the night was a black light party, which meant neon colors, white clothing, and special highlighters for body decorating were abundant (most of the boys drew mustaches on themselves since facial hair is still about a decade away for them). The dance floor and Teen Room were both black-lighted for the evening. I spent my night rotating between the Teen Room, the dance floor, and hallway patrol.

There’s no way to recap all the awkward awesomeness that was last night, so instead I shall mark my top five highlights:

1. In the Teen Room, my first post of the night, a girl walked into the room with the brightest neon yellow shirt with some kind of animal print on it. It was potentially the most obvious shirt of the night. About ten minutes later, after that girl left, a guy came in wearing the most brilliant neon yellow pants. Later, while I was on hallway duty, I spotted those two walking down the hall holding hands. I was glad they neon-completed each other.
2. As I moved to the dance floor, I quickly realized I was too short to be a chaperone of anyone over the age of five. The majority of the room was taller than me, so I really didn’t have much authority when I tried to tell the kids they were dancing too close (I actually never had the gumption to do that—I did yell at a boy for slapping a girl’s butt though, now that Mama Kate shall not stand for). And for those of you who are curious, no I did not get asked to dance. I may be short, but I either have an old face/stance or I’m still not appealing to middle schoolers. 
3. Middle school boys smell. Bad. A lot of the boys didn’t really know how to dance, but they did know how to fist pump, which caused a pumping of odor throughout the room. I had to back myself into a corner near the door just to breathe.
4. It was interesting hearing the music that kids dance to these days. Most of it I listen to or it’s just popular on the radio. Two songs were shockers though. One of which was “SexyBack”. I was so proud that my JT, though out of the music bizz for nearly five years now, is still bumpin’ on the dance floors. The other shocker was Rebecca Balck’s song “Friday”. I thought that song was a joke, not a real play-it-at-dances song. And all the kids knew the words and sang at the top of their lungs. I still can’t get over the lyric about trying to decide which seat to sit in. Most of these kids are still too small to sit in the front seat of their mom’s minivan, so easy choice there.  
5. One of the best awkward moments encompassed everything that makes middle school great…and awkward. In the hallway, I caught the tail end of a convo in which an elaborately decked out girl was apologizing to a boyishly dressed girl. Her apology went something like this: “I’m so, SO sorry! I really thought you were a boy! I’m so sorry I hit on you, it’s just you looked kinda like a boy, and a cute one too! Like totally the ones I usually go for. I’m so sorry GIRL!” It was pure hilarity. Normally I would feel really bad about this incident, but the boy/girl had a Justin Bieber kind of haircut and was wearing exactly what all the boys were wearing. The boy/girl wasn’t phased by it and just wanted to get away from the weird hitting-on-her girl and go dance. Oh middle school, what a special, magical, awkward time in life. 

Goodbye facial piercings, hello…continued unemployment

Ok, Interneters. I’ve been keeping something from you. A couple of weeks ago I had two job interviews with a local credit union for the part time position of a teller. This job had everything I want right now in life: a salary that pays the bills, real person benefits, customer service interactions, the draw of the potential dangers of bank robbery, and much more. Once I got the second interview, I thought I was in. I was so convinced of this that I went around telling every brother and their mother about the interviews (simply because I was excited to tell people something more than “I’m just searching for a job” when asked what I’m doing in life). I also took out all my piercings: the rook, the lip, the nose—everything except two classy pearls studded in my lobes. I got my hair cut, I neglected to paint my nails any brash colors, I pondered an entire new professional wardrobe…the whole corporate shebang. But, as you probably could have guessed by the title of this blog entry, I was kindly rejected from the position. I was in a park next to a river when I got the rejection news, and if it weren’t for the old lady walking/talking to her dog I probably would have burst into tears right then and there. I was crushed. But the more I thought about it the more I realized I wasn’t actually crushed. I stared into the flowing Willamette before me and I was overwhelmed with these hymn words:

“When peace like a river attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll,

Whatever my lot,

Thou hast taught me to say, 


It is well, it is well with my soul”

And then I realized I was not crushed. I was momentarily thwarted, but certainly not crushed. For a period of time, I had put my hope in that potential job rather than in something much more hopeful. I don’t even want to be a credit union teller. From this small experience, I’ve learned that I want to help people. I don’t even need to get paid for it (of course, I say that mid-month when I don’t have any bills to pay and my cupboards are fully stocked), I just want to make people feel good about themselves and to make days brighter. So that is what I shall seek: a way to brighten days and The Hope that I know is more long-lasting than any part-time position.

“So I commend the enjoyment of life, because there is nothing better for people under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad.” –Ecclesiastes 8:15

 As a small rejection coping method/professional rebellion, I painted my nails all the colors I could find. 

It’s Official: I’m Not a Runner

About two months ago I signed up for a race. This was pre longboarding accident and also right when I was in the thick of reading that book that caused me to go on the fateful longboard ride. That booked really screwed me up, but I still recommend it. Anyway, so a couple months ago, mid motivating book, I was inspired to sign up for an organized run. I thought about being ambitious and pushing for a 10k, but then I chickened out and signed up for the 5k run/walk. I’ve run 5ks in the past and I do 3 mile loops fairly regularly, so in theory this wasn’t supposed to be a difficult run, but then I went and effed up my knees and stopped running for a month. Oops. Subconsciously I think I signed up for the 5k because I knew I’d eat it somewhere between registration and race day.

Enough lead up, on to the real story: today was race day. I woke up at 6:00am sharp, ate a psych up breakfast of multi-grain cheerios, changed into my prearranged race outfit, and I was out the door by 6:45. I made it to the race location at 7:12am, which I thought was good timing because online it said registration was from 7-8am. Turns our the 5k wasn’t scheduled to start until  9:00am. Yeah. In the world of runners, 5kers are a joke. There were three different runs with three different start times: a half marathon with an 8am start time, a 10k with an 8:30 start time, and then the 5k at 9:00am. This makes complete sense to start the race in such a staggered fashion as to attempt to get all the runners to finish at around the same time, but really it just felt like the race was for half marathoners, the 10kers were semi-respected, and then it was like “oh, yeah, you left over old people and moms with strollers can run in circles if you want after all the real runners clear out.” At least, this was how I felt for my painstakingly long hour and 48 minute wait between arrival and race time. Although, I can’t say I wasn’t entertained during those near two hours. The race was for Habitat for Humanity and it was staffed by the most hilarious elderly people. As I was going to get my bib and free stuff from a table of four adorable grey-haired women, an intense half marathon girl was in front of me and asked them in an all-business tone, “where’s the start line?” The women looked at each other, chuckled in that hearty old lady way, and one responded, “oh honey, you expect us to know that?” That intense girl seemed frustrated, but she ended up winning the half marathon for females, so I guess she found the start line. I just hope she ran off some of her aggression. I was also entertained by the elderly announcer man. He announced the entire day like it was the Olympics, or something else of high importance. He also had a massive white fluffy dog with him, and when the race got really hard later on I wished I could ride his dog instead of run.

Speaking of me running, I should probably speed this up and get to the part where I actually do that. Ok, so after the half marathoners triumphantly strode off, and the 10kers trotted after them, and waaaay after my multi-grain cheerios wore off, it was finally time for us 5kers to start. I positioned myself behind a mom with a stroller and next to a woman well into her sixties. A guy rang a cowbell (which I didn’t particularly care for since it made me feel like a fat farm animal) and we were off. The course began on a slight incline that evened out onto a nice, flat, shaded road. After rounding the first corner, a volunteer was standing at the base of large gravel hill. I thought, “oh good, I’m glad she’s there to keep us from accidentally going up that steep hill, that’d suck if someone accidentally did that.” But I was wrong. That woman was the devil. She directed us straight up the steep grade and did so with a cheery smile that said “I’m glad it’s you and not me, suckas.” I continued up the hill at a snail’s pace, but my goal during runs (since I’m neither fast, nor a distance runner) is to always keep running and never walk. So even though it was probably the same pace as a walk, I did my best attempt to imitate a jog the whole way up. Somewhere after the hill and before the finish line, I became a beotch of a runner. I kept doing this annoying thing where I’d tuck in behind someone, stay awkwardly on their heels, and then pass them after too many minutes of stalking behind them. I ended up doing this on the last stretch of the run behind that same older woman I started next to. She was an excellent pacer and motivation. But then I left her in the dust once the finish line was in sight. Suck on that, grandma (I don’t mean that, in all honesty I wanted to hug her at the end and thank her for pacing me, but I resisted because I thought it’d be sweaty and awkward). My other motivation at the finish line was my support crew: my roommates Wendy & Alison. They showed up just after I started the race, cheered me on at the end, and then went out to breakfast with me afterward. They’re the best.

Oh, this is out of place, but at the halfway point on the run there was a water stand and even though it’s only three miles and my body didn’t technically need water I decided to grab it because it was there and a smiley old woman was offering it to me. This was a bad idea. I choked on the water and spat it everywhere. Luckily, I survived and prevailed because I ended up getting 3^rd in my gender/age division…I think. I’m not actually sure if I read the results correctly. Meh, you people will never know, in which case I GOT FIRST PLACE FOR EVERYTHING EVER!!

Overall it was a good experience, one worth noting, but not necessarily one worth repeating. I’m simply not a runner. I don’t love waking up early, I don’t love the pre-race jitters, I don’t love slipping up gravel hills or choking on water, and I just don’t love running. I like it, we’re in a healthy relationship, but I’m just not ready to make the commitment to declare myself a runner. I do, however, love the race paraphernalia.

It was worth it for all the goods.

Shenanigans in the Hood

I’m living in a new neighborhood now and a new neighborhood means new problems. In our old place, we shared a wall with our neighbors and came across problems like hearing them party into the late hours of the night. In our new place, we don’t share any walls, but we do share a street. Our street is technically a circle and on this circle there are children: a lot of children.

Within hours of moving in, we met two neighborhood kids. Each day since then I’ve met at least one more. They range in age from 4 to about 12…or however old you are in sixth grade. These kids are the most forward bunch I’ve ever met. They routinely knock on our door just to ask us simple questions like “whatcha doin’?” or “what time is it?” or to express other pressing concerns. When I was their age (says 80 year old Kate), you couldn’t force me to talk to anyone other than my sister or my exclusive neighborhood set of friends, and you certainly wouldn’t have been able to get me to approach the new college-age neighbors. But that’s not the case with my new neighborhood hooligans. Apparently these kids used to be friends with the college guys who lived in our house before us, so they feel like that grandfathers them in to befriending us. Since they see so many college kids come and go in our specific house, it seems as if they feel a sense of ownership over our house because they’ve grown up with the place and we’ve only been here a week or so. I’d equate it to a child growing up with a single mother and watching her reel through boyfriends. But enough psychoanalysis, on to story time:

The other day I was moving the last bit of stuff from our old place to the new one. When I pulled around the corner to enter our circle, a brigade of children came out of the bushes, out from behind cars, off of roofs, and materialized out of thin air in order to greet me. It was both terrifying and oddly flattering. The leader of the pack, a little sixth grader named Caelen, was waving frantically at me and shouting “HI KATE!” before I could even get out of my truck. Then, once I exited my vehicle, Caelen summoned the others and called “Let’s do it! Now! C’mon!” I was fairly certain the “it” they were going to do was kill me. I imagined them as the Lilliputians and me as the giant about to be tied down to the ground with ropes and strings and painful things. But then, only slightly to my relief, they instead formed a barricade at my front door in order to prevent me from entering my house. I bantered with them for a minute or two before declaring game over and asking them to knock on my door for me, as my hands were full of boxes. Unfortunately, my two roommates inside didn’t answer. Turns out they were screening knocks because these kids had been banging on the door all day. After a few more tiny-fisted knocks, Alison, my roommate, answered the door. We hurriedly attempted to unload my truck as Wendy, my other roommate, (who was called out by one of the neighbor kids for hiding inside) distracted the children at the door. Us three semi-grownups then created a barricade of our own in the doorframe as to prevent any wiggly bodies from wriggling their way inside. Eventually we told them it was dinnertime and securely locked ourselves in the house while the young voices slowly drifted off in the distance.

This was only one of many, many neighborhood shenanigans. I’m sure there will be more stories to come with these bold hooligans. For now, I’m just going to sit inside my dead-bolted home and make as little noise as possible.

Come on baby, make it hurt so good! Sometimes [running] don’t feel like it should.

Please excuse the cheesy title remix, but that song is on a CD in my truck…and I ran today*! It was my first time running in about a month (I’m aware it’s only been three weeks since my wee little incident, but I didn’t feel like running the week before that). While I was couch-ridden, I never wanted to run more in my life simply because I couldn’t. The human mind is a crazy thing. And today I was motivated. I am able to fully bend my knee, and I’ve been moving across town for the last four days fairly capably, so I figured no better time than the present. Slight problem: it was about 90 degrees. Between my lack of exercise/movement for the last month and the heat of the day, I only made it a mile. But still, I ran! Woot! I consider that one small step for Running Kate, and one giant leap for Healing Kate.    

*I ran & started writing this blog entry on Saturday, which is not today, but I didn’t publish this until now and I was too lazy to change the word “today” as well as any tenses. However, I am never too lazy to add an asterisk.  

In other accomplishment news, I’m almost entirely moved into my new house. This new house is only about two miles away from the old house, but it’s in a completely different town and zip code. I lived in the old place for three years during college and it was the best place ever. That might sound like an exaggeration, but I really believe it. It was close to campus, plenty spacious for college living, had uber affordable rent, was in a college-y neighborhood, we only had to call Handyman Glen on a few occasions, and, most importantly, that place housed countless memories from my college career. I tallied it up the other day and realized I’ve lived with eight different girls in that house. EIGHT. That’s craziness. Pretty much every female I really, truly befriended during college ended up in that house at some point in time. Anywho, all this rambling is to say I’m going to deeply miss that place. It treated me well during my college years. I can’t wait to grow up and eventually drag my own kids back to Monmouth and tell them all the famous stories of my 547 Catron St. townhouse. Ahhh, reminiscing in the future. 

I Jumped Off A Cliff

And it wasn’t even a metaphorical cliff, well, I could squeeze some metaphors out of the experience if I really tried.

Anywho, on to the story: last Saturday marked two weeks since my longboarding accident. On Saturday I was feeling pretty good about my healing wounds. It had been a week since I could walk normally with weight on both legs and I was down to minimal bandaging. Saturday night my roommate Robin asked me if I wanted to go boating with her friends’ family the next day after church. I was hesitant because I knew I couldn’t do anything with my crippled knees and a slightly tweaked left hand, and I also didn’t want to be “that girl” that held everyone back. After some coaxing, Robin convinced me it’d be fine and before I knew it Sunday afternoon rolled around and I was in a Safeway bathroom out in the tiny town of Sweet Home changing into my bathing suit gearing up for an unknown adventure. I had my swim gear on, a towel in hand, and sunscreen lathered on my pasty white flesh, but I was still under the impression that I could get by with just sunbathing on the shore with only my toes dangling in the water. Before I had much of a chance to ponder getting my toes wet, we pulled up next to a bridge that ran over the Santiam River. One of the two guys in the car asked if we were going to jump off the bridge. I thought that guy was nuts for even toying with the idea. The other guy, and leader of the current adventure, said it was technically illegal, so we were going to jump off the rocks/cliff face next to the bridge instead. WHAT. At this point I realized I wasn’t traveling with your average river loungers, but rather I’d gotten tangled up with some thrill seekers. And the worst part was the guy wasn’t even kidding.

We parked the car, ditched our belongings, and approached a rock edge that looked down over the heavy flowing Santiam River. As the five of us stood gathered on what can only be described as a cliff in my mind, the tiny people floating & boating below looked up at us like “are those idiots really going to jump?” We became the spectacle of the river to the small handful of a crowd below. I so desperately wanted to be part of that crowd rather than my own elevated one. Somewhere during that thought process of taking in the ant-like people below, the first guy of our group leapt off the rock. We watched him sail into the water, swim to the other side, and emerge to say, “it’s a little colder than I thought,” as he held his shivering body. After that, the other guy/leader of the crazy pack took a running start to cannonball into the icy waters. Just us three girls were left on the cliff, but before I knew it my roommate Robin—despite claiming she could never take the leap and would have to find another way down the steep grade of the river walls—ran off the rock and plummeted into the river like a champ. I looked at the other girl left atop the cliff, then over the edge of a cliff higher than any high dive I’ve ever been on, then down at my bum knees, and said I didn’t think I could do it. There was no way I could go from two weeks of being couch-ridden and taking such ginger care of my knees to all of a sudden leaping off a cliff and swimming against the currents of a freezing river. But then it occurred to me that this was a real, true life experience. I can only use my knees as an excuse for so long before the scars fade and then I’m just a healthy wimp. So I went for it. I screamed from the moment my legs started running all the way down to the second before I plunked into the river. But you know what? It felt incredible. Even as I was screaming bloody murder (and flailing my legs uncontrollably, as I was later told by all others in my party) I thought I’d never felt so free. I fell for about five solid minutes, or so it seemed, and as I sunk into the depths of the biting water I beamed with joy. When I reemerged on the surface I wanted to belt at the top of my lungs “I’M ALIVE!” but I resisted because I thought the audience surrounding me might think I’d been in actual life-threatening danger at some point. As I backstroked my way to the shallow shore I realized I’d been bending my knee to swim—something I hadn’t done since my longboarding fall. When I got out of the water, my right knee was dripping blood because all the bending had caused the thin layer of skin masking as a scab to split open. But I didn’t care. I’d jumped off a cliff. Score. And I’d bent my knee. Double score.

All this crazy cliff jumping and knee bending made me realize I’m capable of more than I give myself credit for. There’s a chance I’ve been able to bend my knee all along, but I never would have known for sure unless I jumped off that cliff and had to swim. I shall apply this newfound knowledge to my unemployed life. I hereby declare to start putting myself out there more and to take a leap into the “real world” (hey, there’s that metaphor I said I’d squeeze in). 

Things I’ve Come to Realize

I’ve recently discovered a few things and I’d like to share them with you, if you’d listen (er, read).

Firstly, I calculated it and it turns out I’ve spent about $30 on bandaging supplies for my wounds from my wipeout. I would never pay $30 to go on a ten-minute longboard ride. That’s preposterous.

Secondly, I figured out why I haven’t been getting any jobs. Turns out I’ve been writing my name Kate Hitler Arnold. This works out well for any jobs requiring organization skills, but it doesn’t bode as well for all those childcare jobs I applied for. Silly mistake. 

Thirdly, I noticed my leg hair around my banged-up knees is disgustingly long. Solution? I had my roommate (and health major, might I add) give them a trim with scissors. I hope you’re thoroughly disgusted by this. I, however, will cherish it as a bonding moment forever and always.

Fourthly, on a less joking level, I realized it was about a year ago that I had a conversation with a friend of mine about what he was going to do after college. He said something along the lines of he didn’t know, but he hoped it would be meaningful and God’s will. I attempted to encourage him and said it’s not like God will have you do nothing. After that, I sort of adopted that as my doctrine when talking to my peers about what they were going to do in post-grad life. I threw around “it’s not like God will have you do nothing” so much that I think God is laughing at me now as I sit in my months of nothingness. Regardless, I believe He is using me even in my mundane days, whether it’s for self reflection and betterment or a greater good I cannot yet see, I believe The Big Man is up to something. 

I’m Starting to Lose Faith in the Internet

Both my intrigue and trust in the World Wide Web are on the decrease at the moment, and here is why:

1. I’ve gotten bored on the internet lately. I can only check my fbook, twitter, three email accounts, and numerous bookmarked blogs so many times before I start to realize I’m trying to live my life through my computer screen. Then I start to think about what a sad life I lead…then I find a wedding to stalk on FB and am content for another 15 minutes. Stalk, rinse (aka clear history), repeat. 

2. I got Google +, but I was too lazy to read the intro when I first signed on, so now I don’t know how to work it and I keep “+1-ing” things and commenting to my nonexistent circles. Seriously, they’re nonexistent. I click a button that I think will show me the equivalent of the Facebook newsfeed, but there’s nothing there even though I have at least 7 friends in two different circles. Also, I write posts, but when I go to find evidence of said posts there is nothing to be found. What the heck magical Google + vortex of social networking confusion.

3. Craigstlist burned me, and it burned me bad. Craigslist is pretty much my main source for job hunting right now. Between last week and today, I’ve lost track of how many jobs I’ve applied for. They’re mostly generic receptionist positions in Salem, which means I’ve been able to use my same cover letter, resume, references, and standard email for all of them. Today, that backfired. Not only has this rapid applying failed to get me an interview, today it put my Facebook account in jeopardy. Heaven forbid. I received an email that informed me one of the companies wanted to set up an interview with me next week. I got all excited thinking I’d finally gotten my first interview—a step in my mind meant I practically had my foot in the door. But then, as I read farther down, the email also said to check out the company’s Facebook page to get more corporate information. I thought I was being granted special access to something. In hindsight, I seem so naïve (even though this was just a few short hours ago, I’ve grown so much since then, how touching!). After clicking that link, logging into my Facebook, and being directed to some general realty page, I realized I may have made a mistake. After consulting my roommate, my parents, and my own gut one more time it really registered that I had made a mistake. I quickly changed my fbook password, took my hopes down several notches, and stepped back into cruel, unemployed reality. Even though Craigslist warns users of scams, I’m still really mad at Craigslist (mostly just myself, but it’s less painful to be mad at a website). I feel like Craigslist and I got into our first fight. I’m going to lay off that form of job hunting for a while.     

After posting this blog, I’m going to take an all-things-internet break for a bit, go sit on my back porch (er, 4 foot slab of cement), and crack open a beer as well as a good old fashioned book. Ah, the olden days. 

I’m Such a Punk

I realized today that I’m an accidental punk. I have a hoop in my nose, my lip pierced, and a bloodied body from a longboarding accident. If that doesn’t scream punk, I don’t know what does. Oh, and I have two tattoos, not real ones (don’t worry, Mom), but rather two temporary ones. I decided to spruce up the gore of my 3-year-old-look-alike knees with two shiny fairy tatts. I like to think of them as my tiny guardian angels. Although, I’m already injured, so guardian fail.

With this injury, I experience a different kind of pain every day. Yesterday was bad. I tried bandaging my right knee with “non-stick” bandages a day earlier, wrapped it in gauze, and slept on it. The next day I went to undue what I thought was a very nicely done bandaging job and the so-called-non-stick bandage had become part of my wound. That’s right, the bandage went transformer status on me and morphed into my puss-filled knee. My roommates, Wendy & Alison, stood beside me as we debated that whole “rip it off like a band aide” theory. I went for it and howled bloody murder as a few tears escaped from my eyes. The wound, which had only oozed puss until this point, started dripping deep red blood. Yowzers. It’s safe to say I stopped using that “non-stick” stuff after that.

Those very same roommates who stood by me as I unveiled my bloody wound, have listened to me gripe about the pain for 6 days now, and have bought me ice cream & bandages, also went ahead and washed my truck today. Aren’t they the best? I’m surrounded by the most loving people even in my week of incessant complaining.


Also, I finished that book, the one that told me to get off the couch and make my day memorable. It was good. Although, I must admit I was slightly bitter during the last 50 pages or so since the very book that urged me to get off the couch also caused me to be couch-ridden for nearly a week. Now that's irony, my friends. After finishing the novel, I watched the newest episode of Jersey Shore. I figured I'd been prestigious enough in finishing that book, so I had to balance it out with a little crap TV.  

Job Hunting in the Wild

It’s been approx. 60 days since I’ve graduated and I’ve applied for 10 jobs. I’ve heard back from zero. Yes, that’s right, a big fatty zip have even desired to acknowledge my interest in their companies or existence as a human being. Let’s assess the situations and figure out where I’ve gone wrong:

First 4 jobs applied for: Western Oregon University entry-level positions.

Assessment: Now there’s a joke—“entry-level.” Entry, in my mind, would imply the lowest of low levels. But no, apparently entry-level means at least two years of experience in the field and/or many more years of education than I have. So those 4 are out due to my underqualification.

5^th job applied for: Barista at The Beanery in Salem.

Assessment: This is a job I secretly want more than I’m willing to let on. The big joke around the universities is that a BA in English equates to becoming a well-read barista. This application was my way of submitting to those stereotypes and living up to my snobby barista potential. Plus I uber love coffee. With this job, I walked into the establishment, shook hands with the manager, put on my best peppy smile, gave her my application & resume, and assured her that I will indeed be available full time and am not secretly a full time student. Despite a promising introduction, no word from her…yet. I shall fulfill my coffee serving dreams one day.

6^th job applied for: Another WOU job.

Assessment: Yeah, I already got rejected 4 times from WOU, but that didn’t stop me from pestering them with yet another general application and copy of my resume. This time it was a receptionist position at Western, which I’m totally qualified for. It required no prior experience and I’m a former student, so I figured I had a leg up. Wrong. The WOU website informed me they are now interviewing for that position. All I do all day is tap my iphone and check to see if I got a new message or call. But regardless, I guess I missed your call, WOU. It’s cool, it’s a small campus, I’ll just stalk the interviews in progress and weasel my shining face in there and charm their pants off. 

7^th & 8^th jobs applied for: OSU Federal Credit Union Teller.

Assessment: A woman from my church told me about a teller position that opened up at the OSU Credit Union in Corvallis where she works. Craigslist told me that was true. Craigslist also told me there was a teller position available at the Dallas branch (another nearby town) as well. I submitted online applications to both and so kindly got an automated response via email that my application had been received. Ok, I guess I lied earlier. That automated email was a form of acknowledgement. However, it wasn’t even personalized enough to fill in my name in the introduction of the email, which means a machine acknowledged me. Whooptie-doo. That’s more a win for technology than for human existence.    

9^th job applied for: Random receptionist position in Corvallis.

Assessment: This craigslist gem was amongst the vaguest of vague entries. It was something along the lines of “mysterious company searching for qualified individual to guess what the job requirements are and fulfill them to unstated expectations.” Ok, it wasn’t that sketch or blunt. It was vague though. I still really want it.

10^th job applied for: Macy*s associate…er, sales rep? Something else standard sounding?

Assessment: I also found this posting on craigslist. Man, craigslist rules. Anywho, I went to the Macy*s site and began what appeared to be a simple online application. Yeah, it wasn’t. It included about seven different sections, one of which was a 12 part questionnaire. That questionnaire was long and repetitive. It was one of those strongly disagree, disagree, neutral, agree, strongly agree deals. It asked tons of questions about my character and morals and business values. Dude, I’m trying to sell perfume to people at best, not run the whole friggin’ company. An example of such griping questions: “The best business solutions are the ones that work.” I strongly disagreed with that just based on the other kinds of questions asked throughout the process. I think, according to the Macy*s questionnaire, the best business solutions are the ones that took a crap ton of heart, risked everyone’s jobs & safety, and didn’t stand a chance at success. Way to go, you crazy Macy*s sonsabeaches.

So there you have it, my 10 jobs I haven’t heard from and most likely won’t get. My future’s so bright I have to wear shades...well, that or I need to wear shades to conceal my unemployed tears. Wah, wah, wah. 

Yesterday, I fell on my longboard. Today, I started a blog.

Ok, first lie of the blog: technically I fell on Saturday and now it’s Tuesday, but I had the idea to start this blog on Sunday and thought that title sounded nice. Now on to the real story…

On Saturday August 6^th, I was lying on my couch, home alone, reading Donald Miller’s A Million Years in a Thousand Miles when I came across this line: “When we look back on our lives, what we will remember are the crazy things we did, the times we worked harder to make a day stand out.” After reading this line I was inspired…inspired to take an hour-long nap. But after that nap I was fully rested and truly inspired. I thought about turning on the TV and watching another season of How I Met Your Mother, Facebooking, and checking out the internets—but no, it was time to make the day memorable. I turned off the TV, got up from the couch, grabbed my longboard and headed to a hill across town I’d always wanted to carve down (don’t worry, I’m aware of how trendy/tool-ish I sound). I approached a hill before the hill I wanted to ride down and started pushing. At this point, I was feeling really good about myself. I’d gotten out of the house, was doing something I’d told myself I was going to do for a long time, and I was going to push the bounds of my longboarding skills. As I rounded the corner from the pre-hill to the hill I wanted I go down, I started to gain more speed than desired. I thought about stopping, or slowing myself with the brake of my Rainbow sandal, but then I was too high-and-mighty on my I-made-it-off-the-couch-mindset to halt the growing speed. Then I was faced with the hill. I hadn’t taken a look at it before going down it, I just went for it—big mistake. My speed only increased and my board became more and more wobbly. I attempted to carve from one side of the road to the other in order to regain control, but my board only grew ricketier with each swerve. I got scared. I imagined the board slipping out from under me, my tailbone being thrust to the ground, sprawling out my wrists in an attempt to brace myself, but shattering them instead. My imagination and fear got the best of me and I decided to bail. I leapt off the board thinking if I’d made the leap on my own accord--as opposed to gravity doing it--it would be more graceful and less painful. I was wrong. Gravity still won, that jerk. I rolled several time in a blur of road pavement and exposed legs. After the shock wore off, the adrenaline kicked in. I walked about a mile back home with my board under my arm, my head hung low, and the scrapes of my knees filling with blood.

Moral of the story and the point of this blog: I’m not the adventurous type. I wasn’t meant to make my days memorable by being daring on a longboard. I’m much more comfortable behind the safety of my Macbook screen, tap-tap-tapping away on the keys and producing writing. Bringing any of you readers up to speed on my current life situation, I graduated with a BA in English/Writing and a minor in linguistics and I’m 100% qualified to be unemployed. This blog is my way of coping with my recent entrance and grand welcome into what people call the “Real World”. I don’t want to fall on my longboard again, I don’t want to run a marathon, and I don’t want to be someone I’m not. I don’t want to do anything besides apply for jobs I’m not qualified for & ones I’m overqualified for while keeping up my writing skills by blogging on a regular basis. So I invite you all to follow my overly tame adventures in navigating the real world from the safety of my couch. 

Also, an update: it's 3 days after my wipeout and I'm in quite possibly the most pain I've ever been in. I can't bend my knees. The wounds are trying to scab and are causing a pins & needles sensation in the process. I walk like an old lady. And I'm pretty sure my left hand will need to be amputated in the future. That's what I get for leaving the couch.