Monday, February 25, 2008
It all began in August, when I attempted to use our dishwasher for the first time. Unfortunately, cavernous basement homes that smell like mildew and lack heating or AC should also come with warning labels for the kitchen appliances. Unbeknownst to mine self, using the dishwasher whilst having the crock pot plugged in AND having the lights on was just too much for the ancient electrical circuits ... long story short, I managed to blow every fuse in the kitchen.
Fast forward a little bit. Six months and one exploded toaster oven later, I had managed to mostly avoid any more major crises in my kitchen. However, one day last week our dishwasher accidentally got set on the "Pots and Pans" setting, which I think is code for "Unearthly amounts of plastic-melting heat" ... long story short, half of our plates and cups came out slightly "remodeled."
But oh, what to do with such beautifully warped dishes? One roommates trash is another roommate's treasure, I say! So, I formulated a plan in my head to build a creation out of these "treasures." With a vision in my head, I determined that my first step would be to drill a hole through the middle of the plates. You would think that plates that had warped so easily wouldn't be made of indestructible plastic ... but oh, magically enough, they were.
My first attempt involved hammering a nail through the middle ... no luck.
My second attempt involved heating the nail to heat a hole through the middle ... no luck. (And one small stovetop fire. No harm done.)
It was time for more drastic measures, so I called up my friend and asked to borrow a power drill. Turns out his family keeps their power tools at their airplane hangar (yes, they own planes). So, with my car chillin' on E, I picked up my buddy and we drove to the airport. (Which was creepy and dark at night.) Upon arriving at the hangar, we discovered a light was on inside, at which point I decided drug dealers must have taken up residence.
Turns out it was just his dad, so all was well. (Except for the awkward explaining about why me and his son had driven to a dark corner of the airport, alone, late at night. Yikes. haha.)
This story has gotten much too long....suffice it to say, the power drill didn't end up working, turned out one of the boys upstairs had a power drill the entire time, and bada-bing bada-boom, I created my masterpiece.
Bet you wish YOU had a windchime (windclunk) made out of warped dishes ... but only the lucky few have a dishwasher high-tech enough to allow such a treat.
The end. (There you go Mandy. I told you it was a long story...)
Friday, February 22, 2008
by: katie e. hawkes
I’m the kind of person that cynical people love to hate, particularly on one certain ooey-gooey day of the year.
Feb. 14 is a holiday of happiness in my book. The truth is, I have a soft spot in my little heart for both glitter and symmetrical things, two elements that permeate this once-a-year day devoted to love.
When it comes to the time of year that other prominent holidays have passed and Wal-Mart converts its seasonably-alterable aisles to lanes of pink-and-red joy, I am without fail drawn in that direction like a magnet.
I tend to wear pink and red to school on the day of celebration, and, if I find the time, I will inevitably mass-produce batches of heart-shaped sugar cookies.
I can eat conversation hearts in large quantities, and yes, I actually take time to read the messages printed on them.
Along the same theme, the Black Eyed Peas’ “Where Is the Love,” is a favorite anthem of mine that I rock out to on a daily basis. Actually, let’s be honest, if you ever see me walking around campus with my iPod plugged into my ears, it would be safe to guess that that is the song I’m jamming out to.
Before you write me off as a hopeless romantic who must have had 21 years of good luck with securing a significant other just in time for the day of flowers and romance, please, let me enlighten you.
I will take you back to second grade, Mrs. Dodgson’s class, where 8-year-old little me is sitting at my desk with my self-decorated Valentine box. (It turns out I also really like decorating things and using glue-sticks, so the Valentine-box creation process is always a delightful activity.)
As is standard in the elementary school years, every one of my classmates had brought a Valentine for each and every other little boy and girl. (Albeit a forced tradition put in place to protect our tender, pre-hormonal love lives, it was always a nice gesture, nonetheless.)
In a random spout of bravery and reckless abandon, I had made sure that whilst distributing my mass-produced generic love notes, a certain little boy would receive a certain particularly mushy Valentine.
The boy’s name? William. The Valentine? I think it involved two panda bears hugging. The result during Valentine opening time? A resounding “Ew,” which I could plainly hear from across the room.
This incident (and the resulting teasing that ensued for at least a week following) probably should have left me jaded and pessimistic of any and all affectionate traditions. And, in all honesty, it’s not like Cupid has shown me a large amount of mercy since then.
But, what can I say? Valentine’s Day still arrives near the top of my list of favorite days of the year, right under the 4th of July and (forgive me) my own birthday.
Call me crazy, but I honestly do look forward to the day that many other people loathe. Some of the more sneering critics have even spitefully renamed it “Single Awareness Day.”
What a shame! There are 364 other days in the year for people to commemorate their singledom – why choose to defame Feb. 14 in particular?
If you think that a lack of flowers on your doorstep or the absence of a diamond rock on your finger is enough to prevent you from enjoying Valentine’s Day, then I would say you’ve missed the point, amigo.
I have had a few people tell me that they no longer enjoy this holiday because it stopped being fun once elementary school ended and real-life relationships began.
My response to that is, why let the good old days die?
If I may suggest, check out the Valentine cards for sale the next time you go grocery shopping. I have been gleefully handing out Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cards for the last few years, and I’ve been eyeing a box of the Power Rangers variety for a couple weeks now.
And, if you dig the homemade genre, dig out a glue stick and box of construction paper for old times’ sake. Nothing is better than receiving a homemade, glittery heart, emblazoned with a cheesy poem.
But please, if you must remain cynical and wallow in your less-than-desirable relationship status, try putting a smile on your face and keeping your pessimistic comments to yourself until at least Feb. 15.
In the words of the Black Eyed Peas, “Let your soul gravitate to the love, y’all.”