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About kb

free spirit, lover of red wine, bacon, sushi, the ocean, and adventure. I work in the legal field, do freelance writing, and take care of children.

On Nails, Beautifully (Optimistically?)

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I used to have acrylic nails in high school. I loved them. At the time, I’d get a French manicure, but with black tips instead of white. (Because I was such a dark, edgy lady. *cringe*) They’re a bitch to maintain, expensive and they break, and once they’re off your fingernails, you’re left with sad, broken nail beds that are ridiculously weak.

I went back to my regular nails, which aren’t all that much stronger, and have been working to come to some sort of happy medium where I paint them regularly and try to keep them from breaking. But….usually, I just have the nails of a 12-year old boy, destroyed and neglected (the nails, that is).

I got gel nails yesterday. They’re artificial nails, long and cumbersome, because my ultimate goal is to stop picking at my skin (it’s such an unconscious stress-based habit that sometimes, I don’t even realize I’m doing it). In theory it’s much harder to pick at (and ultimately break) skin with fake nails.

However, after years of having stubbly, bitten nails, I now feel like my new accessories are becoming dangerously close to being reptilian claws. It doesn’t help that they’re painted a muted shade of green called “Mermaid’s Tears.” Nothing makes me feel more optimistic than painting my nails a color that invokes visions of sad mermaids crying out viscous sea water. Oh dear. Imagine how the animal rights activists would react once they get a hold of that story. “Seal Pup Pets Stolen By Nail Polish Industry: Mermaids Reduced to Tears for Corporate Profit.”

From the google:

(image taken from google image search – click to go to original image URL)

On Oven Mitts and Internet Shopping, Disappointedly

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I’ve recently decided that I want to spend a bit more time making our house into an adorable home. So of course, that meant that I found myself sad and staring at an email announcing $5 magazine subscriptions and now I am happily subscribed to several design magazines. I’m hoping that exposure will slowly turn me into the cute, crafty, DIY-er I imagine I could someday be.

A few weeks ago, I purchased some lobster claw oven mitts. I was ridiculously excited. Why? I’m not sure. Now that I think about it, my expectations may have been unrealistically high. I mean, lobster claw oven mitts are most likely going to be a guaranteed letdown, like funnel cake or concerts.

They arrived. I tore open the package, thinking “Lobster claws!” And then I put one on. The material was not necessarily sub-par, but also not nearly as commanding as I had imagined. The mitt itself is not as red or bright, more like faded t-shirt your mom sewed into the shape of a lobster claw because you needed something to wear for Halloween….20 years ago.

It’s cool, though. I can get down with the mediocre claw.

And then I put on the other one. My worst fears were realized. (I actually did think about this before I purchased them online.) The other mitt was also a right-handed mitt. The logical solution would be to turn it around and use it on your left hand, but there’s an uncomfortable bunching at the innermost point of the claw that puts an undue amount of pressure on the space between the thumb and index finger.

So…I’m less excited. I imagined myself wearing an apron and holding big roasting pans with my perfectly fitted lobster-claw oven mitts. Instead, I’m now imagining sharing the mitts with a friend – does this mean I’ll begin cooking meals? – and then high-fiving jubilantly. That’s all I’m going to get. So I’m going to make the best of it.

 

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You’ve no doubt heard about the rape of a sixteen-year old girl and the subsequent media circus (and trial) of two of the young men who were involved. I’ve been following this story for a while, and while I’m pleased to hear about the verdict, I’m sickened by some of the responses on the internet (of course I’m also sickened by the media coverage and their sympathy for the young men convicted). My hope is that we can teach our young people not to rape rather than trying to put the blame back on the victims. Here’s a post I stumbled across, and thought worth sharing:

Lauren Nelson's avatarRethink the Rant

TRIGGER WARNING:

The following includes descriptions, photos, and video that may serve as a trigger for victims of sexual violence.
Please be advised. 

Someone asked me today, “What is ‘rape culture’ anyway? I’m tired of hearing about it.”

Yeah, I hear ya. I’m tired of talking about it. But I’m going to keep talking about it because people like you keep asking that question.

Rape culture is when a group of athletes rape a young girl, and though there are dozens of witnesses, no one says, “Stop.”

Rape culture is when a group of athletes rape a young girl, and though there are dozens of witnesses, they can’t get anyone to come forward.

Rape culture is when a group of athletes rape a young girl, and adults are informed of it, but no consequences are doled out because the boys “said nothing happened.”

Rape culture is when a group…

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On Emotions and More Adoption, Belatedly

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Every now and then, I find myself completely and utterly out of words.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve started at least ten drafts of blog posts. Normally, I just write them and post them. I don’t plan them or edit them or add to them; I just type away until I’m done. But the past two weeks have seen fits and starts of half-formed ideas, a tangle of political and social rants, emotional outpourings, and matter-of-fact recaps.

And I’ve been unable to get any further than those first few sentences. I’m just not sure what to say. I think that lately, I’ve been experiencing some disquieting emotions – the kind that aren’t necessarily bad or good but are profound and unquantifiable. I assume it’s yet another of those pesky growth points, the slipping away of adolescence and the uncomfortable emergence into adulthood.

***

Mike and I spoke on a panel for prospective adoptive parents on Saturday. We were both excited to do it, and I hope we were helpful to some of the parents. The focus for the group was more international adoption rather than domestic, and so I think we weren’t nearly as exciting as the other two panel members, two teenagers who’d been internationally adopted when they were young.

Regardless, it was kind of fun to be able to do that. I love that there are so many families who want children enough to go through the hassles of the adoption process and as I grow up, I love being able to lend my experiences to their information pool.

The parents asked good questions: does being adopted make Mike and I less close/closer/doesn’t matter? We answered doesn’t matter – we used to fight a lot and are now super close. They asked about naming. They asked about school. They asked us how we were told we were adopted and neither of us remember not knowing. There was never a sit-down discussion about it; it was just a fact.

Mike and I told them that if they work it in as a part of their children’s lives, adoption isn’t a scary thing or a big thing at all. They can start small and build on the explanation over the years. Mike made a really astute observation that I actually had never thought about – he talked about how the circumstances that prompt the adoption aren’t always the rosiest, and that when kids ask, to just tell them what’s age-appropriate and then elaborate later on.

We discussed the idea of open adoptions. I told them very honestly that I was filled with jealousy when Mike got to meet his birth father. I told them that as I age, the curiosity about who my father is only grows. We both agreed that sometimes open adoptions are the best thing, but that sometimes, they’re not right. And when they’re not right, it’s best to leave it alone.

I hope that they came away more sure of their plans to adopt. I know that they’ll all make great parents – we stressed honesty and transparency as the building blocks for great parenting. I think they’re right when they say that no matter how well you’ve prepared, you’re never really prepared.

On Being Away, Quickly

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I’ve been super slammed with life this week (last week, too), so there’s been no time to post anything. I promise, you’ll have a real post now. (African time now, like maybe now, maybe soon, or at some time in the distant future.)

***

We have a Pope! I’m at 33% for my “Pope Wish List”: he’s South American, yay! But he’s also 76 (approaching octogenarian status) and pretty conservative when it comes to stuff like the gays (the whole “move the church into the 21st century” thing isn’t going to be happening any time soon).

***

Madeline and I played trivia last night for the first time in forever. Our only goal was to end the game not in last place. Mission accomplished. We ended up in the middle of the pack after somehow successfully completing the visual round which was naming the country of origin of some baseball players. Damn, we’re good, because it was a shot in the dark for us. We also did excellently in a few other categories. We did not fare so well at British slang or the first audio round.

 

On Mike, Because He’s 23.

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“Guess who said it,” he yells. He’s reading from his little book of quotations. He’s previously told me that if he ever dies, the book contains everything I’ll need to know about his life. And my life. And life, in general. “‘No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love…'”

I’m frantically running around the house trying to find clothes and put on makeup – it’s 10:20 pm on a Friday night and I swore to the boys that I’d be ready to leave by then. (Surprise, surprise: I’m not.)

“Mandela!” I yell back. I pause, suddenly unsure, but still pretty sure. “Or Gandhi. Or Mother Theresa!”

“Mandela!” he yells back. His friend laughs. He’s been watching my frantic getting ready with amusement – he has an older sister, too. I love having this time to banter with my brother. Sometimes, I forget how lucky I am to live with him – even though we’re both super busy with jobs and/or school and life, I still get to see him. I imagine that I’ll be really sad when someday, it’s not the same anymore. I take it for granted and I know that.

My first Cubs game! 2010

My brother and I could not be more different human beings: he’s the calm, reserved one. I’m the take-charge, emotional one. He lets things go; I don’t.  I live in a fast-paced world with no time for slowing down; he spends time meditating and reflecting. He cleans the house. I make sure the administrative details (bills, ew!) are handled. In truth, we complement each other very well. We both learn from the other and take care of each other. We’re both surprisingly protective – if someone were to hurt my brother, I would hope they understood the hell that I would unleash on them.

South Africa, 2010

We’re 22 months apart. I don’t remember how I felt about getting a brother, but I do remember how much fun we used to have playing together as kids. (And fighting, of course. I’m a little bit tougher than I look because I grew up fighting Mike.) We used to dig holes in the garden, trying to make a swimming pool (frustrating process, let me tell you). We would play baseball against the wall of the house. I used to dress him up and make him play dolls with me.

My most regrettable failure as a big sister was the day he sat on a nail. We were eating lunch outside on the back patio (pb&j and Cheetos), and I didn’t want him to sit at the picnic table with me (because I am a terrible person), so I told him to go sit on a pile of boards. Well, as it turns out, some of those boards had nails sticking out of them. And he sat on one. (I’m currently alternating between typing and covering my face in shame. Even now, I feel awful.)

Mike’s my partner in crime. We used to sneak out of our rooms during nap time and slide down the stairs on my mom’s exercise mat. We used to sneak into the neighborhood pool for night swimming. We used to play this game where we’d flip each other off at the dinner table when our parents weren’t looking. The first one to get caught lost. (I don’t lose.)

When we were in high school, my friends and I thought we were so cool because we had a freshman. Mike was our freshman. (We weren’t cool; we know that.) We used to call Mike “fruitypants” – ugh, long story, but it’s something a guy I once dated used to yell out of the windows of a moving car just because – and it stuck. To this day, whenever he runs into our old Creative Writing/English teacher, the teacher always calls him “Fruitypants.” Mike looooves that. But somehow, it stuck. Sometimes, we still call each other “Fruit” out of habit.

Mike is one of my best friends. I’m so grateful that he’s my little brother. He’s one of the wisest people I know. He’s got such a big heart, and he’s so smart. He’s thoughtful and kind and funny. Everyone who meets him loves him. He was always looking out for me in South Africa.

In our family, we always tease each other about being “the worst guy.” Mike started it; my mom and I picked it up. It’s usually used in a teasing way, out of exasperation. “Oh, you’re the worst guy!” my mom will say, and there will be a lilt of laughter in her voice. It’s the kind of warm expression that radiates love and family.

I love them. They’re the best worst guys ever.

Happy birthday, Mike! It’s your Michael Jordan year and it’s going to be so good!

On Spring, Expectantly

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What is it about the first hints of spring that incite a need for motion? I feel as though the minute the scent of the forthcoming growth stings the nostrils I have the urge for adventure, for chasing the dawn, for stars and night frisbee. (Night frisbee is my weakness. It gets me every time.)

This weekend brought warmth and the promise of summer heat – that first day that makes you shed your shoes and run outside, only to find that the ground is still cold and damp. Those are the days when you don’t care, you let the mud seep up between your toes and you relish it, knowing that soon enough, you won’t be cold.

Last night, as I left the restaurant where I was having second dinner with a couple of friends, I smelled summer. In my mind, I was no longer walking down a dark street in early March. I was suddenly walking down a dark street in June. It’s that smell that transports you, that reminds you of soft streetlights and sangria shared with friends. It’s the smell that calls you to the park, to sit on blankets, to listen to jazz. Oh, it’s the best.

When I was little, there was always that first really warm day before spring. I’d open all of my bedroom windows and run out to the backyard, where I’d begin to dig around in the still-frozen garden. My toes would be freezing because I was (still am) always barefoot and too stubborn to put on real shoes.

I had a dream last night about that garden, and about the wild green onions that used to grow there, and how I’d pull them, and chop them, and put them into pretend stews that I’d create using mud and sticks. My hands would reek of onion for days, but it was always so worth it. In my dream, they were there, growing sooner than ever, their green tops sticking out of the earth. They were wonderful. I smelled the spring and I woke content.

***

Speaking of things from the earth (what? totally legitimate seque, I swear), Katie and I juiced yesterday. She’s into making juices and I am into drinking juices, so this was bound to happen eventually. We ended up at the grocery store, loading up on fruits and veggies, before heading back to her house and breaking out the juicer. It’s quite the ordeal, with all the cutting and washing and juicer setup taken into account.

I had so much fun and I only cut myself once – great success. We made two different kinds – one green, one beet/orange. (I have such a thing for beet juice, but have never tried to do it myself since I’m intimidated by fresh beets. – That’s not weird at all, either.)  I think it’s something I may have to look into getting into. It could be fun. Or alternately, a piece of kitchen equipment that hangs out in my cabinets, collecting dust.

On the State of the Church, Heretically

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I’m really not sure why I hate the Pope so much. It’s not all Popes, just Benedict. (Fun fact: John Paul II and I have the same birthday, which we share with Tina Fey. Yeah, I’d be jealous of me, too.)

Benedict was always too conservative for the good of the Church – the tide of losses in both your youth and already established bases isn’t going to be helped by electing a Pope whose hypocrisy and lack of transparency serve to make the Catholic Church the butt of jokes the world over while alienating many of the faithful with your antiquated catechism and refusal to adapt to modernity. I’m not wrong here.

Don’t sit there thinking, “Oh, but tradition!” (In your best internal British accent…for some reason.) I think it’s high time we called Vatican III and sorted this out. I really think we can do something about the issues plaguing Catholics around the world. Also, a good shaking up in the ranks of the Cardinals wouldn’t be the worst thing. They’ve gotten far too comfortable.

The Church has gone through some rough periods after missteps by its leaders. However, the Church carries on – but it’s up to its leaders to make sure that the Church stays on the right moral path. (Think of the souls currently rotting in hell – if there is one – because they thought their purchased indulgences would save their souls. The Church definitely got the last laugh there – tons of cash money and a less-crowded VIP section heaven.)

My prescription for the Church: 1. Vatican III 2. A pope from either Africa or Central/South America. 3. A pope who’s not approaching octogenarian status. Just a thought.

Additional reading: These two articles made me laugh this morning, contributing to my excellent mood.

On Snow and the Oscars, Randomly

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As Denver lay frozen under a blanket of desperately needed snow, Mike and I found ourselves both at home at the same time for the first time in quite a while. We shoveled together, him heaving shovelfuls of snow in my direction, me trying to sneak attack when he wasn’t looking. (I did manage one direct hit!)

After, I curled up on the giant bean bag and started trying to figure out how to use our new television remote. Buttons, man. A new remote is terrifying, uncharted technological territory. I feel like my grandpa, lost somewhere on Internet Explorer 6.0, errantly pushing keys and hoping something happens.

We decided to watch the Oscars, switching over to James Bond during commercial breaks. (All things James Bond make me happy. As a child, we watched all of the films, and I aspired to be the calm, suave gentleman/secret agent that he was. I realize now that I don’t have the heart for murder nor will I ever have the whole cool-under-pressure thing down – I panic and tell the truth when cornered. It’s usually a good thing, but in an MI6 situation, probably not the best.) 

The Oscars failed to hold my attention, but made me want to start making films again. In college, I hung out with a bunch of film students, so I participated in a slew of projects, from the ridiculous to the slightly more prestigious.

I had a blast – at one point, I was assisting one of my film professors with a short he was working on and I got to read with a woman who’d been in R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet videos. If you haven’t seen them, find them. Your life will be forever changed. (Not necessarily in a good way.) Film was fun, and even though I never took it as seriously as I should have, I learned a great deal.

So here’s where this is going to get oddly confessional – I get so engrossed in media. I cry at most episodes of Modern Family and The Walking Dead (it’s totally normal, I swear). That stupid, stupid Budweiser commercial with the Clydesdale from this year’s Super Bowl? Every time. It’s not even a minute long, and halfway through it, I’m looking up, furiously pretending that I’ve got something sedimentary in my eye.

I love the idea that people can communicate such an array of human experiences and emotions through film. (For the purpose of this post, it’s solely film.) Every time I see a movie in theaters (rare, but it does happen), I come out playing out my life like it’s a movie. I imagine camera angles and I begin to create the script of my life as I’m living it. This feeling lasts for about ten minutes before I think, “This is stupid,” and go about my business.

But to make films is to be able to capture elements of the soul. I think that films have helped to change and inspire, inform and educate, and most importantly, connect us all. Regardless of your feelings about the ceremonies, the starlets, and the general Hollywood problem, you must admit that at some point in your life, there was a film that touched your soul.

And then, of course, there’s Stepbrothers. I’ve yet to meet anyone who hated that movie. If community showings of Stepbrothers don’t bring us together, I’m not sure what will.