The one where I make a mess of metaphors.

A wise person once said, "Dress for the job you want, not the job you have." This is especially important when you don't have a job. Otherwise, I'd be going around town in a Sunset Strip Emperor's New Clothes scenario, which would garner plenty of attention, but not the right kind. Or, alternately, I suppose I could stay in my pajamas all day, and shuffle around like the women pushing their shopping carts up and down Fairfax. But I promised my mom I would come home before that happened.

So, every day, I wake up and I dress like I have a job. Then, I make a list of things to do that includes things like, "Buy cotton balls," and "Eat lunch," and "Where is the ATM?" These mundane tasks have become the cornerstones of my day. That's okay, for a little while. And I've got a few forges in the fire, too. Is that the expression? "forges in the fire?"...

--Okay, after about twenty minutes in the bowels of the internet, I can tell you that it is "irons in the fire," but the hearth in which those irons are fired up is sometimes called a forge (and also a smithy). (Usually, though, the word is used as a verb, meaning to shape or mould). Anyway, I'm sure I've totally bored any of you who've stuck with me thus far. Sorry. I fancy myself a wordsmith, and this slog is my smithy (forge).

Back to business. I've got a few irons in the fire. And trust me when I say that I'm going to strike while the iron is hot. Etc. Etc.

While I wait for the irons to get hot enough to strike, little things keep reminding me that I've made the right choice. Exhibit A: the magnets on the fridge at my apartment.

The thing is: these aren't my magnets. They were already here. But they express the very underpinnings of my own heart. Aren't they BEAUTIFUL??

Sartorially, magnetically yours,

Kendall

Exit Strategies

When I was younger, I used to like throwing a blanket over my dog. Anyone else? Once the blanket was over the dog, she lowered her front legs, kept her butt in the air, and started walking backwards in an attempt to escape. Apparently, a dog's DNA tells it this is the way to respond to being covered in a blanket. It didn't work; usually she'd walk into something. The blanket stayed where it was. The whole performance was awkward, ungainly, and highly entertaining. Then, my anemic little conscience would assert itself, and I'd take the blanket off.

When I thought about leaving Moscow, I decided I didn't want it to be like that. I didn't want to do the equivalent of an awkward, backwards dog-walk out of Moscow. I wanted to leave forwardly, with my butt not in the air but rather right where it should be, behind me. I wanted to say goodbye to everyone and everything with grace and finesse.

It worked. Mostly. (There were some unnecessary tequila shots; I witnessed a strange, awful experiment in gastro-intestinal control, as well as an ill-fated tree-climbing attempt; I played a never-ending game of Buck Hunter at the Alley, where I would've done better if I'd understood sooner that killing "cows" is, in fact, how you lose the game. In each of these instances: little grace and even less finesse.) But there was also low-key, high-quality time spent with friends; a final, reflective run through the arboretum; last glances at a little downtown I've come to love; all my favorite food--because for the rest of my life, when I hear the word "Moscow," I'll salivate--I have never eaten so well; a festive backyard party; a chocolate cake; some stellar mixed tapes; and a sunny drive home on the interstate.

My car is packed beyond all reason, which reduces my visibility to nonexistent, and every time I have to lane change to the right, I have to do it mostly blindly. It is frightening! But each time, I take a deep breath and tell myself I'll be just fine: after all, so far, I've been so lucky.

Just who do you think you are?

(this is how I cop 'tude. Baditude.)

Yowza. Yowza. Yow. Za. I'll tell you what, Slog. Right now, I don't even recognize myself. Who am I? For the past five days, I've done nothing but surprise myself. I mean, you hit twenty-seven, and you think you've finally got the beginning of a semblance of what makes you tick, and Blammo! You're not who you thought you were. To wit:

I've been in Utah for the past five days. I don't go to Utah. I've never been there in my life. And I went for a blogging conference. What? I don't even blog?!?! I slog once in awhile, but you could hardly count that as qualification for attending a conference. While in Utah, I did all sorts of things that I DO NOT DO.

1. I ate drive thru. And liked it. Oh, I liked it. Hamburgers, french fries, chicken wraps, you name it. If you can order it through a hilariously outdated speaker in a lit up menu-board from the comfort of your car, I will eat it! I had no idea.

2. I counted stake centers. In Utah, you'd be wasting your time playing "Slug Bug" (everyone drives SUVs), but turns out, I've got quite an eye for spotting stake centers (brick meeting places for the LDS church--if you didn't know). (LDS is Mormon for Mormon--if you didn't know). (I know--I know lots of things.)

3. I wore a laminated name tag. It had the name of this slog on it. (The name of the slog is too long, btw. Nobody could read it, and if they read it, they probably didn't remember it. And if they read it and remembered it, then they came up and asked, "Oh, what sort of stuff do you do?" and I had to say, "No, no. The title is ironical. I don't do anything.")

4. I attended panels about niche blogging (my niche is: I've got no niche), turning your blog into publishable writing (fat chance), and blogging about faith (I've got faith in television, and fast food, it turns out--and I'm too scared to contemplate anything further). I took notes that said things like "nepotism is your friend," "write to your ideal reader" (that's you!) and "you must be as a duck." I don't totally get that last one, but I love how it sounds.

5. I karaoked, sober, with a new group of friends who do not, on principle, partake of the fire water. It took about three hours for me to screw up the courage (my new friends were brave enough right out of the gate), and I waited until the bar was virtually empty, but the two people that were left were profoundly moved by our interpretation of Ace of Base. (Because all that she wants is another baby...)

6. I (courageously!) hit on a sizable, ukelele-wielding musician after he finished his set at the Blogger Orientation Party. His set, so we're clear, was played in a half-lit conference room full of about sixty or so women, all of us hopped up on sugar, many of them pregnant, almost all of them married. As a token single woman, I was encouraged (read: hazed) to approach this tall drink of water. I tried to be especially suave, but our exchange went like this:

Him (genuine): Nice to meet you. You should friend me on Facebook. Send me a message.

Me (so, so witty): Nah, I'll just stalk you instead.

--Pause.--

Me (back pedal): I mean, like on the internet. You know, through social media.

Him (cool as cucumber): Well, if you decide to really stalk me, I'd prefer you come with an axe or a machete. No chain saws.

Me (lost): Well, maybe a double-bladed axe. Or a calicula.

Him (lost): Caligula?

Me (panicking): Calicula.

[That's a weird axe that they used in Fiji in ancient times, I read it in a book once. FYI.]

Me (again): I just wanted to say you did a good job, and now this got all creepy and violent.

Him: It did. But nice to meet you anyway.

(FAST EXIT.)

New Blogging Friends: So?!? Did he fall in love with you or what?

Me: Yes. Sparks flew.

And throughout each of these strange new undertakings, there was a voice in my head asking me, "Who are you, Kendall? What on earth are you doing here?" And I said to the voice, "Voice, I've got no flipping idea, but it feels good." Because I was taking a vacation not just from Idaho, but also from myself. And here is the weird turn-about that I took away from all this blogger-blather:

It is unexpected, but sometimes I feel the most like myself, when I am doing things that I've never done, or wouldn't normally do, or have no business doing at all, and I just roll with it. Being open to whatever unlikely opportunity presents itself is something fundamentally authentic (a big word at this ole' conference) about me.

So, if anyone finds themselves with a free ticket to, oh, anything, ask me. I'll probably want to go.

Open-mindedly,

Kendall

Just like a Chinese food casserole.

Here's something I remember from childhood. We were a Take-Out Family. Sure, some meals were cooked at home, but the meals my brothers and I most looked forward to came in paper boxes and plastic bags from restaurants in the neighborhood (sorry, Mom, Dad, thanks for everything you did for us, etc.). I'll tell you one of our very favorites: Golden Crown. Chinese Food! The greasiest, saltiest, not much at all like actual Chinese food I'm guessing, bloat-you-so-you-can't-wear-shoes-for-a-week kind of take-out.

Never a family for moderation, we'd order: pork fried rice, chicken chow mein, mu shu pork, broccoli beef, eighteen servings of lemon chicken (seemed like), and pot stickers. It was enough to feed an army, but we were only a family of five. SO,

On the weekend, after the leftover Chinese food had spent a few days congealing and stinking up our fridge, my dad would take a break from paying a mountain of bills (how clearly I remember him sitting at the head of the table and working through such a daunting stack of bills! and always in a blue sweatshirt. my mind, it's like a steel trap, I tell you.), and he'd make--Chinese food casserole.

Everything, everything from Golden Crown, in a single pyrex casserole dish. It...wasn't pretty. But, oh my god, it was so delicious. The mashed up, congealed, four-day-old takeout was actually better than when it had been fresh and organized into its appropriate boxes. And, not only is that a metaphor, on some level, for my beautiful leftover-casserole of a family, it is, conveniently, a metaphor for this blog post, which will now consist of some stinky, leftover thoughts that have been congealing in my mind for the past four days.

CASSEROLE:

1. Spring is here! I have a very scientific way of determining when, exactly, spring happens. Here's what I do: I look at my car. If it is covered, covered, in bird shit--I KNOW it's spring. Every window, in at least two distinct locations, must feature a uniquely shaped and colored bird "deposit." When that is the case--as it is now--spring has arrived! If you saw my car, you'd see it's a virtual constellation of bird excrement. So, Happy Spring, everybody.

2. Maybe it's Spring Fever, but lately, I've been really entertained by what I like to call the "Hall of Cyrus." Who is Cyrus? He is apparently the offspring of an instructor here at the college, who is extremely proud of EVERY piece of school work young Cyrus does. So, it gets posted to the wall right outside the women's restroom. And because I'm always going to, or coming from, the restroom, I feel very invested in Cyrus's ongoing academic achievements. Today, may I just offer you Cyrus's spelling test, on which he appears to have done exceptionally well:

I saw a big crater.
A comet is a huge mass of gas.
My brother is lazy.
There is a place called Rapid City in South Dakota.
Bacon is yummy!!!!
I like music.
I am a human.
When it's cold, I shiver.
There is a river near the school.
I am very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very clever.


3. I ate borscht for the first time. Something I really believe, truly, is that when someone asks you, "Do you want to try this food I made?" You SAY YES. So yesterday, when Jeff said, "Hey, I made some borscht today. Do you want some?" I didn't say, "What's borscht, again?" Or, "Do you think I'll like it?" Or even, "I'm not all that hungry because I just loaded up on free food at a reception." I said, "YES." And, as is always the case here where I live, it was really, really good. It was also hot pink (thank you, beets!). Like, exactly the color of a lipstick I have that is called, "Pomposity."

Are you on the Beet Train? People, are you? Get on the beet train! It makes for the best colored food, plus they've got such a satisfyingly soft texture, and they are so pompous. If you're not on board, get on board. Take a ride on the Beet Express. You won't regret it.

4. Here is the best thing that has happened to me this week: KW came to town! She's only one of my oldest friends, who has seen me through my bad perm, my bad braces, those awful tapered jeans with the zippers on the ankle, my crush on Matt Damon, et al. And she was a keynote speaker at a conference. Keynote! AKA, Very Important Person.

What I found out is: there is no better feeling, for me (I don't know how you feel, but you're free to tell me in the comment section of the slog), than watching someone I love do the very thing that they love to do. The thing that they're the very best at. I mean, KW, she had a room full of strangers eating out of her hand. I was eating out of her hand, too. I was so proud, I swelled up with pride the same way I swell up after eating a mountain of sodium in the form of chow mein.

Want to know what she talked about? Check back tomorrow, because it was so interesting I'm going to blog about it after I finish making this casserole!

So, there you have it. My slog casserole. Was it as good for you as it was for me?

Kendall

Oh, Canada Part 2 (Part Deux, for those French Canadiens out there).

People:

Mon Dieu! What the what? It turns out that I may actually BE a Canadian citizen. Really? I don't know. There's all sorts of complexities and intricacies and nuances to determining citizenship. But people have been whispering that maybe I am, in fact, Canadian! I've got two Canadian grandparents, who had a daughter while living in Massachusetts: she's a Canadian citizen, but born in the US, ergo, also American. Then, she marries some American (lame) (just kidding) in Portland, and gives birth to a dark-haired daughter at a Portland hospital in 1982. Is that daughter a dual citizen? A part-time Canuck?

Who am I? Where do I come from? As a child, when I memorized the song "Fifty Nifty United States," should I also have memorized "Thirteen Nifty Canadian Territories and Provinces"? What are the provinces? Manitoba. That's one. Quebec. That's another. Prince Edward Island. British Columbia. Instead of having my bedroom in college bedecked floor-to-ceiling in American flags (anyone remember that masterpiece?) should it have been covered instead with maple leafs and hockey pucks? Saskatchewan! That's another province.

This possibility of citizenship is blowing my mind, obviously. I need to focus my energies on something less baffling. And we might as well just pick up where we left off, because some astute readers, and my own brains, have come up with a few more absolutely essential Gifts-From-Canada.

11. Tim Riggins (Taylor Kitsch in real-life). All I can say is that I'm sorry for leaving this one off the list. I hope you can forgive me, but mostly, I hope Riggs can forgive me. Go Panthers! Texas forever.

12. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police (Mounties). Which, apparently, inspired a TV show called Due South. Which, apparently, features someone named Paul Gross, who is NOT gross. Apparently, I'm going to need to do a little more research.

13. Friends. Reader SB is Canadian, and I had no idea! Also, my friend Lib is a gift from Canada on account of her father being Canadian, which I knew but also forgot. (Lib, are you a Canadian citizen? Should we take a voyage to the Motherland together?)

14. Lucy Maud Montgomery, author of Anne of Green Gables (which is so good), and EMILY OF NEW MOON (which is brilliant and melancholy and changed my life for-e-ver).

15-28. All these celebs: Jim Carrey, Ellen Page, Nelly Furtado, Celine Dion, Mike Meyers, Michael J. Fox, Jay Manuel (from ANTM), Sarah McLachlan, Eric McCormack, Kim Cattrall, Neil Young, Feist, and Ryan Gosling.

29. Bilingual peanut butter. One thing I remember very clearly from visiting my grandparents in British Columbia is the fact that their peanut butter (Adams), already very different from the Skippy on which I was raised, was made all the more exotic by the French writing on the label. I remember eating breakfast with my grandfather, looking at the French words on that peanut butter label (cremeux, non sale), and thinking, "Wow. I'm really in a foreign country."

30. Roots poster, featuring one Matt Damon. (Really sorry I don't have a visual on this one.) Two blog VIPs reminded me that I'd left this off the list. When I was sixteen, I went to Canada, as per usual. My mother and I hit up a shopping mall, where there was a store called Roots (all the Olympic gear you've seen this year is made by Roots). I probably would not have gone in--it was too sporty--except that there was a huge, smiley poster of Matt Damon, wearing a Roots sweatshirt, shining down on me from the display window. I pretended to shop, but really just wanted to keep one keen eye on my future-life-partner and toothy-dreamboat-forever. Then...

The salesperson: "Is there anything I can help you with today?"
Me (young, awkward, bad haircut): "No, I'm just looking."
Mom (where'd she come from?): "Actually, she'd really love that poster of Matt Damon."
Me (horrified): "Mom."
Mom (feigning innocence like moms do after they've embarrassed you): "What? You love Matt Damon."
Salesperson: "Actually, we were going to take that down today, so if you want it, you can have it."

At which point, the salesperson took Matt Damon out of the display window, rolled him up, and handed him to me. That is how MD came to live in my bedroom for the next four years, and how I decided that Canadians are the nicest people ever.

Sincerely hoping I'm part Canuck,

Kendall

Oh, Canada.

I love a world in which curling exists. Talk about a ridiculous, and ridiculous looking sport. A sport that has existed since the 1500s! That is old. And it is still very, very popular in Canada--land of my ancestors. Now, can you imagine my surprise, as I was watching the curling semi-finals of the Olympics, to encounter one John Morris, Curler:

That's him, second from left. Cute. John Morris. What? You're not convinced?

Bam! (Notice: his dumbbell is actually two curling stones. And, NB: good curling stones cost about $1500 per stone, because the granite they use is so rare). Curling is not just for your Canadian grandparents anymore, kids.

This got me thinking. What else has Canada given the world? I've constructed a partial list.

1. Me. If my grandparents had not both been in Canada to meet one another (and in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan no less), there would be no Rhonda (perish the thought), and therefore, no me. So, Canada, the world thanks you. My blog thanks you.

2. John Morris. We've covered that.

3. Macintosh toffee. (It comes in the loveliest plaid box, and when you purchase it, you have to SLAM it against something, to break it into bite-sized pieces. Words cannot express the satisfaction of hammering your candy against a counter top in order to eat it.)

4. Alice Munro. One of my very favorite short story writers. In fact, I've been reading her stories all day. (Prove it.) Okay, I will.

5. Bryan Adams. Four words: Waking. Up. The. Neighbors. Oh, sorry, Neighbours.

6. Best Accent Ever. Don't get me started. That Canadian accent turns me to a puddle of mush in about four seconds. I'm not kidding. It makes me swoon.

7. DeGrassi High. Before there was "My So-Called Life," or "Gossip Girl," there was DeGrassi.

8. Alanis Morisette. I got Jagged Little Pill as a Christmas gift in the 8th grade. I listened to it continuously for about six months, and found out that I was really, really pissed off about a lot of things. Without her album, I might never have known. I certainly wouldn't be a writer.

9. White Spot. They serve their kids' meals in a PIRATE PACK. And, they don't look down on you if the only condiment you want for your fries is mayonnaise. In Canada, at White Spot, mayonnaise as condiment is totally acceptable.

10. Ryan Reynolds. As far as I can tell, my readership is about 99.9% female. But that male .1% out there, even you can appreciate that Mr. Reynolds is not too hard on the eyes.

In conclusion: THANK YOU, CANADA.

(What am I forgetting?)

Kendall