Gas Station Friends

 I stop by the gas station semi-regularly to pick up a donut on my way to school or work. You wouldn't think gas station donuts would be particularly good, but this gas station sells donuts from a local donut shop that is glorious. We don't have a Krispy Kreme in Fairbanks. There's one in Anchorage, but of course, that's several hours away, and certainly not worth going for just a donut. I've actually never been to the Krispy Kreme in Anchorage. The few times I've been to Anchorage, the Krispy Kreme had a line out the door and down the street. I imagine the line doesn't get quite as long in the winter time, but I avoid the trip to Anchorage in the winter, if I can. Come to think of it, I think I've only been to Anchorage twice in the last five years.

Anyway. Where was I going with this? Oh, right. So the gas station donuts are great and all, but I'm well aware that donuts have a ton of sugar and saturated fats and really aren't that good for me. But the people at the gas station are super friendly and I just enjoy stopping by a little place often enough to be a "regular." This summer, when I was passing through at 6:30 a.m., I would get there before the donuts had even been put out yet, and they would pull the donut fresh from the box for me. One day they were training a new girl, and when I walked in, the lady training her made sure she knew to pull out a Bismarck when she sees me. Another employee, who I privately call Nerdfriend, looks and takes like a quintessential gaming nerd, and he often recommends new energy drinks or snacks I might like to try.

The first guy who started recognizing me as a "regular" is a guy I just call Gas Station Guy. I think Gas Station Guy is the manager. Assistant manager, maybe? Something like that. I know his real name, but I always privately just call him Gas Station Guy. He's a large, friendly dude who swaps Dad jokes with me whenever I go in there. Most recently, he told me the following joke:

Three dinosaurs were running through the jungle when they saw a bacon tree. The first dinosaur ran straight up to it, and then the bacon tree jumped on him and ate him. The second dinosaur turned to the third and said, "That's no bacon tree! That's a hambush!"

Nyuk nyuk.

Look Who's Back

 Well... I guess it's time to write again.

It's fall in Alaska, and everyone is finishing up their construction projects. The other day, in my normally-ten-minute drive to work, I went through four different construction zones. That's fun. The potholes on the dirt road I live on are not appreciated by my car's suspension. No one's going to bother fixing it, though, since once it snows, it won't matter until spring, and then spring will completely destroy the road anyway. 

There's some kind of blight or bug or something that's been attacking the trees around town, meaning that instead of the leaves turning brilliant yellow or red, a lot of them are just going straight to brown. It's sad, since the pretty fall colors are a big part of what makes this season so great. I enjoy fall more than I used to. Maybe because the season is so short. 

Two young moose were hanging out in my yard chomping on the willows. They were definitely young enough that they should have been with their mama, but she was nowhere in sight. On the one hand, it's cool being able to watch young moose without the fear of their mom getting mad and murdering everyone, but on the other, it's a little sad because it's hunting season, and that seems a likely reason she's not with them.

A few important updates since I last wrote: I divorced Boy several years ago, and he kept the dogs. Since then, I acquired a cat, Monkey, a different and better Boy, and a dog, Tut.

I'm also in my last year of getting a degree in engineering, and have an internship at an awesome company, so that's cool. And I'm working on recovering from an ankle sprain that happened mid-February. They may have to do surgery to stitch a tendon back together. More info on that soon. I think that should be enough to catch up to make sense of things I reference in future posts.

Historically, writing has been kind of therapeutic for me, so I'm going to try to start writing regularly again. We'll see if I can stick with it.

The Adventures of Karl the Potato, Part I: The Magic Shoe

Once upon a time, there was a potato named Karl. Karl was a very smart potato, which is like a smart cookie, only healthier. In fact, if you were to scoop out Karl's insides, they might have resembled brains... if you colored them and sculpted them and squinted and used your imagination.

Karl's earliest memories were of dirt. In fact, most of his memories were of dirt. Having lots of eyes doesn't really do you much good when most of your time is spent totally underground. He might have been able to see earthworms sometimes if it weren't so dang dark under there. If you're wondering how Karl got so smart when his whole life was spent in the cold, dark, and quiet of hanging out in one spot underground all the time, then remember, Karl was only very smart for a potato. Most potatoes aren't very smart. In fact, potatoes are known for laziness and watching TV. Some of the most ambitious potatoes succeed in eventually becoming french fries.

What made Karl so special was that some of Karl's eyes were actually ears, and after he was harvested from the ground, he quickly picked up on the art of language. Of course, with no mouth, Karl had no way of speaking, but being unable to speak often makes one a marvelous listener. He heard all sorts of discussions, and the market where he waited to be bought was frequented by college students and professors who loved to talk about how smart they were and exactly what made them so dang smart. It's difficult to listen quietly to these kinds of discussions without learning something, and Karl had nothing better to do but listen, so as a result, he learned quite a lot. For a potato.

After Karl was bought, he didn't have as many people to listen to anymore. He tried communicating with his fellow potatoes, but potatoes aren't much in the way of conversationalists. Karl watched as his fellow potatoes were eaten one by one, and he knew one day it would be his turn. But as he waited, he grew more and more bored. Around the time he started thinking he couldn't stand the waiting anymore, he remembered a story he had heard a mother in the supermarket tell her fussing children. The story featured a young woman who called on her fairy godmother, who gave her magic shoes. So Karl wished as hard as he could for the Potato Godmother to come help him. It wasn't long before poof! The Potato Godmother appeared.

As it turns out, Big Bird has a side job as the Potato Godmother. It's not a very difficult job, since most potatoes don't have the presence of mind to summon her. Him. It. Whatever. Karl was as delighted as potato can possibly be! He related to the Potato Godmother the story of the girl with the magic shoes as well as he remembered it (telepathically, of course, since that's the only way potatoes can communicate), and the Potato Godmother asked, "So... all you want is magic shoes? Not a dress and a horse and carriage and so on?"

"Yes yes, just the shoes will be more than enough!" exclaimed Karl eagerly. And telepathically.

"Well golly, shoes are the easiest part of the package! I bet I could make you magic shoes that last well past midnight! In fact, if I did only one shoe, I could make it last even longer!" So the Potato Godmother waved her/his/its magic wand and with another poof! the Potato Godmother was gone and Karl now had a magic shoe!

To be continued...

Doors that open inward

I keep meaning to post something, but I keep putting it off because I haven't decided whether I want to start a new blog now that I've returned to Alaska or just start writing in this one again. Indecision has rendered me inactive, I'm afraid. I hate it when that happens. So for now, I guess I'll take the path of least resistance and write here.

But what to write? Writer's block is the worst. I hate it when I want to write something, and I'm totally ready and motivated, but it's like the words of half-formed ideas are trying to shove their way out of my head so fast that they clog the way and nothing ends up coming to me. It reminds me of one of the rare history lessons I actually remember from grade school. I think it was my sixth-grade social studies teacher who taught us about some big building or other, I think in NYC, that caught fire. Everyone inside was panicking, pushing and shoving to get out of the building, but the doors opened inward, and the people at the exits didn't have room to open the doors so everyone could get out. Consequently, a lot of people died. I think she said after that, a law was passed saying that certain kinds of buildings had to have doors that opened outward for that reason. Obviously the door leading from my thoughts to my hands opens inward. But if that's the case, then obviously my thoughts can't be that bright, if they aren't even smart enough to just take a step backward so the door has room to open. That's one of the problems with quantity over quality, I guess.

Doors are funny things. I know a lot of writers that contemplate the meaning of doors. Some people like to hypothesize that doors are some kind of magical portal because they can magically get you from one place to another. These people are often high, I think. Doors are just empty space with an outline that holds the wall out of the way. Nothing magical about that. Unless the doorway has been enchanted, of course. You know what is magical about doors? If you close the right ones at the right times, you can keep the dogs from stealing your food.

One time I tried to open a door inward, but I was half-asleep at the time. The door swung open faster than I meant it to, rebounded off my big, clumsy foot, then crashed into my head as I tried to move forward through the door. It kind of hurt. Stupid door. If I had been two people, the one watching it happen to the other would have laughed hysterically, though.

Excerpt from an old journal entry

October 10, 2009
The first thing I would like known about me is that I do not pronounce the word "pen" the same way I pronounce "pin." Also, I hate neon orange gel pens. Yellow and green are atrocious too, but the orange ones are the metaphorical leaders of the gang, and so I hate them the most. They're abusive and sadistic. Also, they kick puppies. I've seen it. Therefore, I propose all forms of discrimination and persecution be redirected toward neon orange gel pens as well as their manufacturers and distributors.

Octopuses are really funny-looking. I bet being octopused to death would be really painful. Seriously, how bad would it hurt to have an octopus latched onto your face, gouging your eyes out with its beak? Hey, that's like something from an Alien movie, minus the part where the babies burst out of your chest and kill you. Oh yeah, and kill everyone else, but you wouldn't really care, because you would be dead.