Things that make me happy.

Peanut butter.

Funny boys.

And running into my freshman year BFFs at the volleyball game. And then taking a really fuzzy picture with a phone because we were so excited.

Monsieur Le Pew

Following this short introduction, I will leave you with an official accounting of my experiences with Pepe. Pepe LePew, to be exact, but Pepe for short. That is what I have officially christened the skunk truck. And yes, Pepe is a male.

I don't think anyone would dispute his gender. I am grateful to my parents who are letting me borrow this truck until they feel like they want it back. We have a special new friendship, the truck and I. I overlook Pepe's weaknesses (general skunk-like appearance, loose driver's door that falls partially open if not locked, manual transmission, etc.) and try to focus on his strengths. I mean come on, he has a shell. The possibilities are basically endless.

Official Stats:

Year of Pepe's birth: 1984

Days I have been in possession of the skunk truck: 3

Days of experience driving a stick shift all by myself: 3

Number of successful trips: 3

Feet needed while stopped on a hill: 3

Number of stalls experienced total: 5

Number of stalls experienced on a hill or driveway: 2

Number of stalls experienced with a car waiting behind me: 0

Number of honks received for crappy driving: 1

Number of visible birds flipped at me: 0

Number of approximate non-visible birds flipped: 5

Number of near-collisions as result of me rolling backwards at a stop light on a hill: 1

Average increase in heart rate while driving: 50%

Vehicles or objects struck while driving: 0

Sense of accomplishment felt when I parallel park and walk away unscathed: Immeasurable.

Quote of the Day

A young mother came into our office the other day with her 3 or 4 year old son and asked if they could use our bathroom. We showed her the way and she walked back to the bathroom right as I was clocking out for the day. When I walked into the bathroom to change from my skirt into some jeans, her son was in a stall while she waited by the sinks.

He was making small talk with his mom through the crack in the stall door when all of a sudden he paused and matter of factly proclaimed:

"Mom, its okay when I get poop under my finger nails."

No inflection or questioning. His mom looked at me embarrassed and I tried to reassure her by suggesting: "At least he isn't one of those kids that cries when that happens...."

To which the little tot replied: "Why would I cry?"

Thank you, little man. And uh, please wash your hands.

Cuz I'm the Leprechaun!

I didn't even realize it was St. Patrick's Day yesterday until I got to campus for my first class. I was wearing red (the antithesis of St. Patty's Day fashion) in a sea of emerald. How dorky BYU is. Most of the world wears green on St. Patrick's Day, I know, but most of the world gets completely and totally smashed on St. Patrick's Day too. Not the BYUers. We just wear green for the sake of wearing green in hopes that we won't (gasp) get pinched!

For the record, I was wearing green. It just wasn't visible.

So yesterday I was having a discussion with some of my coworkers about St. Patrick's day, and I became troubled when I realized that I openly believed in leprechauns until I was in the 5th grade. Much longer than I believed in Santa, or the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy. After that I still secretly hoped leprechauns existed, but I kept that on the D.L.

My friends and I used to go on massive leprechaun hunting safaris on the playground at good old Glenmoor Elementary. We used to set leprechaun "traps" by placing flowers (weeds) in front of leprechaun burrows (snake holes) that we found around our decrepid tanbark pit of a playground. I don't really remember the logic behind that strategy. I think we were trying to lure them out to just look at them, not to trap them. In reality, seeing a tiny angry ginger in a green top hat running around wearing little buckled shoes would have made me lose control of all of my bodily functions out of horror.

Speaking of horror, Lets take about the movie "Leprechaun" that came out in the early 90s. I had always pictured leprechauns as being about the size of a hamster standing on its hind legs. The movie previews featured a leprechaun about as tall as a my-size-barbie, which challenged all of the factual leprechaun lore previously agreed upon by me and my safari posse. Luckily, my knowledge of the TRUE nature of our tiny Irish friends made it easy for me to dismiss the gross monster leprechaun as a work of mere fiction. I didn't like watching the previews because the leprechaun was ugly and creepy, but its not like I lost any sleep over it.

My older sister Tami, however, lost quite a bit of sleep. She was TERRIFIED of the nasty my-size murderous leprechaun with the lumpy face. As in, she would cry when she thought about it. I'm pretty sure in one instance my parents asked her what was wrong, but instead of telling the truth I think she told them that she was afraid of Satan. Nice cover, Tami, but here I am 17 years later laying all of your leprechaun secrets out for the world to see. That's what you get for burying that little red devil figurine in our back yard and convincing me that you knew where to find some "buried treasure."

It scared the bejeebers out of me when I dug it up. Goo. Shudder. That was mean. But now it's funny. So whatev.

Nice bum, where ya from?

Dear Neighbor,

The front of our apartments look like this:

You know. Windows and the such. The back of our apartments look like this:

Oh look! More windows! My kitchen window is about 20ish feet from yours. Your attempt at doing the robot was funny. I chuckled. I knew you could see me eating my chips and salsa. I thought, oh what fun neighbors we are! It was getting dark. My blinds were open. And so were yours. My kitchen light was on. So was yours. I was talking to my roommate. You were talking to yours.

And then, you decided to moon your roommate.

There you were, just wagging your white rump at whoever else was in the room. Kudos for doing a little dance while your bum cheeks enjoyed a little fresh air. They should really rethink the placement of windows between men's and women's apartments. Thankfully, I only caught a side view of your atrocious fanny flaunting performance.

And then, we decided to close our blinds.

You can kiss any neighborly feelings that may have ever existed between my eyes and your bum goodbye. We are through.

Love,

Kristin

Whistling A Different Tune.

I've been trying lately to be less of a crabby cathy / debbie downer / negative nancy. With this decision has come the stifling of many a blog idea. I apologize for the pause in substantial posting. Today I'm going to comment on a few things that have reminded me that sometimes positive things entertain me far more than the negative things. So here goes an attempt at focusing on the positive:


Every time I hear this song:





I picture someone like this:

Dancing and mumble-singing the song to himself. Minus the creepy bee head. You know how I feel about those...

Also.

I dropped my phone. Down a flight of stairs. Made of concrete. Outside. After dark. And I located it almost instantly to find that it had only one scratch on the side. It is otherwise in perfect condition. It was a miracle.

Also.

There is a "sculpture" on campus between the Museum of Art and the Fine Arts building that makes me giggle almost every time I walk past it. It is a giant black block adorned with a flaming stainless steel mustache entitled "Self Portrait." Oh, what's that? You don't believe me? Feast your eyes on THIS:

And we all know how I feel about mustaches. This may be an attempt at serious art, but to me it's kind of an ugly joke. Especially when people roast marshmallows on it. Because don't worry, its been done.

Also.

My family has a new puppy named Lady. Short for Lady GaGa. And she ADORES me.

That's all.

Quote of the Day

Girl (to boy): "You have a really weird thumb."

Boy: "Ya I know (pause). But its good for grabbing people."

Me: " ... "

...followed by my uncontrollable laughter.

Then. He grabbed my arm. He wasn't kidding. He seriously could have snapped my wrist in half with one hand. Super creepy. But also kind of awesome.

P.s. I know both of these people really well. But it probably would have been cooler if some creep off the street grabbed my arm in a ferocious manner. The end.

Thank You, Universe.

We did a dating panel a couple weeks ago for a church activity. For one part of it, we passed out papers to all the boys in Sunday School and asked them to write down things they like about girls and the positive things girls can do in the dating world. My roommate was in charge of compiling all the data. She ran up to my room and had me look at this piece of paper:




"Just Be Yourself

Kristin Booth does a great job at this. She is a great example.
(I really appreciate you for this Kristin.)"

Sigh. Totally unsolicited and completely awesome compliment by an anonymous young man?

Check.

Thank you, Universe. I needed that.

FP

Body Image.

Why does it matter so much? Why is my self esteem inversely related to the fluctuation of my dress size? Why does it have that kind of power? Why do even the nicest of boys put things like "FP" on their list of things to avoid in future spouses. What is "FP" you ask? It stands for "Fat Potential." As in, the likelihood that a certain girl will let herself go and end up being a fat wife. Because heaven forbid she gain a single pound after bearing children and dealing with life and the stress of motherhood.

I learned about "FP" tonight while talking to a couple of guys who I thought the world of.

Several things in the last week have eroded my faith in humanity and snapped the last skinny little thread I've been hanging onto my self confidence with. Not to mention the nearly complete obliteration of my belief that it just may be possible for someone to fall in love with me exactly the way I am. But no, not in this town. I have Fat Potential written all over my thighs and I always will.

Dear Brandon

Dear Brandon...

I was always so excited to play at your house when I was little. I'm sure a good amount of that excitement came from Jackie, who told me there were frogs living under your deck. I never saw any. I was also very jealous of your pets and the tree swing in your backyard.

One night, my mom let me and a couple of my sisters sleep over at your house. I woke up in the middle of the night. It was really hot, and I had a rough time trying to get back to sleep. My edginess transitioned into absolute panic when my beloved blue silly putty slipped through a crack in the bed frame. I watched in horror as it rolled under the trundle bed, away from the glow of the nightlight. That's when I completely lost it. I started crying and crying. I know everyone in the house probably heard me screaming, and yet you were the only one who came to see what was wrong. After rescuing my silly putty from the dark abyss, you asked if it would be okay if you put it on the bookshelf. That way I could see it, but it would be safe from being dropped and lost again. I agreed. After I calmed down you went back to bed. Before I fell back asleep, I rememeber thinking it wouldn't be so bad to have a brother.

I'm sorry I never said thank you for saving my silly putty. It's one of the fondest cousin-memories I have from my childhood. I'm sorry you were so sick for so long. I'm glad you are in a better place now.

Love,

Kristin