Attempt at a Children's Story

It was the 25th anniversary of the Happy Valley Aquarium, and the humans threw a big anniversary party!  After the party, they were too tired to clean up, so they left it for the morning.

Much to the luck of the animals, they had planned a party too that very same night, and the penguin hosts were quite pleased to find snacks, refreshments, and pleasant decorations already set up.  All they had to do was sweep up the place, and discretely tuck their herring snacks in a private location, so as not to offend the fish guests.  

Meanwhile, the other animals were busy preparing for the party.  The sea nettles were donning their finest ruffles; the sea lions were swimming laps, so they could squeeze into their suits; the sea otters were collecting sea stars to wear as jewelry.  The sea stars begrudgingly obliged, for they hadn’t received a direct invitation and had no other means of access into the party. 

The only animal in the aquarium who wasn’t attending the party was the octopus.  A shy creature, the octopus preferred to dwell in the shadows of his tank, where no one could find him.  He also didn’t know how to dance, which made attending parties a big bother.  The other animals knew these things about the octopus, but still insisted that he attend the party.

“Octopus, won’t you come to the party?”  asked sea otter.  “I found a sea star especially for you!”

“I have other obligations,” the octopus lied.

“Octopus, won’t you come to the party?” asked sea lion.  “There’s going to be great food!”

“I’m watching my weight,” said the octopus.

“Octopus, won’t you come to the party?” asked sea nettle.  “There’s live music and a dance floor!”

“I don’t know how to dance,” replied the octopus.

The other animals gave up on encouraging the octopus to attend, because the party was about to begin.  The penguin hosts were dressed in their finest tuxedos, and carried around platters of freshwater hors d’oeuvres.  The jellyfish arrived first, and immediately hit the dance floor; the piranhas came in a swarm, and devoured the snack table; the sea lions arrived last, dressed in skin-tight suits.  In less than ten minutes tentacles, bits of food, and buttons were flying everywhere.

By 10 o’clock, the party was in full swing, and it was time for penguin to make a toast.  At the ting-ting-ting sound of penguin tapping a spoon against glass, the animals stopped dancing and the music ceased.  Penguin opened his beak to deliver the toast, but realized that no eyes were on him!  Instead, they were on the octopus, who had just entered the room.  He was wearing a bow tie, and he had turned beet-red. 

“Octopus!  You’ve arrived after all!” exclaimed the sea otter.

“I thought I would...branch out a little,” octopus said sheepishly.  “But with all eyes on me, I would rather disappear...”  Octopus began to change color, blending in with the colorful streamers hanging behind him.

“Nonsense!  You’re going to dance with me!” exclaimed a jellyfish, and she grabbed him by the tentacle and dragged him to the dance floor.  The music started playing again, and the rest of the animals resumed dancing.  Pleased with the success of his party, penguin refrained from quieting the animals, but instead made his toast over the noise.  “To the arrival of octopus!” he exclaimed.  

“To octopus!” everyone cheered.  Octopus’s cheeks flushed red again, but this time it was not from embarrassment--it was from dancing!  

League of BOB challenge 5: Thanksgiving

Note: I apologize for the tardiness of this post.  This should have appeared a day ago.  


Strangely enough, however, if I would have posted a day ago, the topic that sparked my interest wouldn't have been apparent.  That is: Black Friday.  Or more specifically: the sock-mongers at Fred Meyer.


On a strange whim, I decided that this morning would be a good time to attend Fred Meyer.  My train of thought was as follows: "I want to purchase tights; Black Friday means sales!; Fred Meyers is within walking distance of my house!; Yay!"  What my train of thought should have been, however, is this: "I want to purchase tights; the tights are right next to the socks; Fred Meyer is known for attracting crazy, sock-hungry beasts on Black Friday; I will not go."  Unfortunately, the latter, more logical thought pattern never entered my mind (until now), so I trekked to Fred Meyer, happy and ignorant of what was to come.


Upon entering Fred Meyer, I encountered rows of big, white tables.  Big boxes full of socks perched atop these tables: white socks, colored socks, dress socks, athletic socks, holiday socks, knee socks, ankle socks, fuzzy socks, and more.  Whatever type of sock the human brain can dream up, Fred Meyer had it that day. 


What was more apparent, however, was not the immense variety of socks in stock, but the hoards of ravenous, blood-thirsty people surrounding them.  These people treated sock hunting like they were starving forest dwellers, searching for wild game.  They dug their paws into the boxes of socks and thrashed about, throwing the less attractive socks aside, in a whirlwind of sock mayhem.  The unattractive socks lay on the ground like fallen soldiers; collateral damage in the Great Sock War.  The attractive socks were hoarded and shoved in grocery bags, under armpits, or clutched tightly to the chest.  As I waded through the mess towards the tights rack, I could have sworn I saw one man foaming at the mouth.  They were aggressive, they were abundant, and they meant business.  


I eventually got what I wanted out of the trip (four pairs of tights for only 16 dollars! Ooooh yeah), and suffered only minor injuries.  More importantly, I saw what humankind is like when exposed to cheap socks in a limited space.  

BOB Challenge Number 4

I realize that lately I have taken a leave of absence from this blog thing.  This could be due to the excessive amounts of history reading I have been physically stuck under lately.  Yes, I mean it--piles of papers on top of my head, and I keep reaching, reaching through them, hoping to see some shred of light through the historiographical essays on the dimension of various buildings.  And so far I haven't reached the light.  Until now.  Yes, fellow bloggers, I have escaped!  Or maybe I'm just more willing to stay up late than I have been in the past.  Or maybe its due to the fact that my boyfriend is in India and not distracting me (let your mind wander).  In any case, I'm here now and ready to blog.


I always find non-presidential elections incredibly unsatisfying.  They ask me to vote for things I don't necessarily care about/knew existed, such as the watershed committee.  It especially lowers my enthusiasm when there is only one individual running, so my only choice is either to be a jack-ass and pointedly not vote for the person, or vote for the person simply because they have no competition and let them win the cheap way.  But I always have to wonder--to what lengths did they go to make sure their name was the only one on the ballot for their chosen position?  How did they eliminate the competition--through MURDER?  I suppose the only way to know for sure is to look deep into the eyes of the person who's running--into the eyes of their picture in the voter's pamphlet, of course.  


The photos in the voter's pamphlet are actually my secret key to voting.  Sure, it doesn't work for the measures, but it most definitely works for the people.  Do you really want your senator to be a man with a handlebar mustache?  What about the lady with the double-chin, is she really qualified to represent your state in any way, shape or form?  If they can't take care of themselves, how can they run a country?


Also, certain physical features simply reveal a lot about a person, particularly how well they will handle a governmental position.  Take the Oregon governor race, for example.  It came down to the wire, with Kitzhaber squeezing the win out by a few thousand votes.  I never lost faith in the man, however, and you know why?  He has the friendliest mustache any citizen could ask for.  I trusted that mustache, and I knew other Oregonians would trust in it too. Plus, his opponent Chris Dudley has a giant chin that automatically gives away his tendencies to be a tool.  I for one don't want the governor of my state to be a tool.


When my flawless voting techniques fail me, however (which they surprisingly do sometimes), I go to my older sister for the answers.  She was a political science major in college.  'Nuff said.

League of BOB Challenge #1: Regrets

When I think of regrets, I think of an unhealthy preoccupation with the past.  In my mind, the word regret conjures the image of Hamlet:  in contemplation of all possible outcomes of his future actions, Hamlet rendered himself unable to act, anticipating possible future regrets, and eventually died.  This is the ultimate consequence of regret: death.  

League of BOB Challenge #1: The Halloween Spirit

In continuance with the theme I started (and took a long hiatus from, due to blog laziness), I will approach the Halloween spirit by presenting a case study of someone who lacks the spirit of Halloween, at least in the traditional sense.  This person is none other then our beloved friend, Danielle Berry.  


One well known fact about Danielle is that she refuses to dress up.  This trait proves frustrating for me, chiefly because I am her roommate and I love to throw themed parties, such as Death Eaters at the Beach, or 1984 Debutante Rave.  Danielle attends my parties gladly, but always refuses to don a costume.  I speculate that the only theme she would participate in would be "America," but this would hardly be considered dressing up, for Danielle sports American-flag inspired garb at least once every three days.  


Danielle's constant refusal to dress up naturally proves problematic on Halloween, her self-declared "favorite holiday."  The curious case of Danielle extends beyond the fact that her favorite holiday is centered around an activity she refuses to do: she also claims to dislike candy and scary things (though she watched a film called Zombie Strippers recently, in which a zombie stripper bites off a man's penis.  If this is not considered a "scary thing," I don't know what is).  


Last Halloween, Danielle dressed up as a "college student"; that is, she wore the same pants she always wears, coupled with the same shoes she always wears, and the same type of shirt she always wears (probably American-inspired).  The origin of Danielle's resistance to costumes is unknown.  Though not for Halloween purposes, Danielle once dressed as a hot pocket, so we are aware that she once had no qualms with dressing up as a flaky, microwave pastry.  Whether her refusal to dress up is associated with a traumatic event, or simply due to stubbornness, Danielle remains firm in her conviction, and continues to ignore the importance of dressing up at my parties.  


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Danielle has a grand opportunity this Friday to impress me and all of our friends by dressing up for our Political Tyrant Soiree.  Time will tell whether she seizes this amazing opportunity or not.  

Love of Wizards

At the tender age of eleven, Danielle Berry awoke to find an owl scratching its talons on her window.  The owl was entrusted with a letter from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Danielle was flattered by the invitation, but not surprised to find out she was a witch;  things had been occurring in Ogden, Utah that were of a strange nature.  For example: while Danielle was staring at a sand cat in the Salt Lake City zoo, the glass mysteriously melted, releasing the rabid beast on the Pope and his "choir" boys.  Danielle was perplexed by this incident, but shrugged it off as a matter of divine intervention.  Another example: During a heated discussion at the local Denny's, Danielle accidentally turned her friend Katie into a ferret, and proceeded to drop her down the pants of the nearest elder.   


Despite these strange occurrences, Danielle was too apathetic to give a shit.  She kept living her life on the edge, hanging out with her pals Ryan, Nathan, and aforementioned random female.  But when this mysterious envelope arrived via owl, Danielle's apathy began to waver.  She was fully aware of the perks of attending Hogwarts: hot wizards with British accents, flying on a stick, and using magical sticks to make life pleasurable.  She was, also, however, aware of the drawbacks: Harry Potter was a whiny, punk-ass bitch, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to deal with that shit.


As Danielle clutched the letter, she expected to be overcome with joyous emotions; however, Danielle was no ordinary girl.  She had exceptional capacity for apathy, and found herself not giving a damn.  Danielle looked down at the letter, shrugged, and threw it under her bed, somewhere between Risk and her discarded, disheveled emotions.  She then proceeded to play Tetris.  To this day, the letter from Hogwarts collects dust, along with Danielle's denied emotions.  

Danielle: A History, In Parts

 As a tribute to my amazing roommate Danielle, I present to you Danielle: A History, an exploration of the life of my beloved roommate, gleaned from various stories and observations.  The History will be written in installments, this being the first one.  I hope you enjoy it.


The date March 14th, 1991 was a remarkable day for several reasons.  It was remarkable because a very remarkable being was born on this day, a Miss Danielle Gloria Berry, in Orange County, California.  It was also remarkable because this remarkable being was destined to be a math major, and the date of her birth numerically, that is, 3/14, made up the first three digits of pi.  What made this day not quite extraordinary was that the next four digits were quite off; some scholars see this as a sign of Miss Berry's generational misplacement.  In fact, most historians assume that Danielle's birthdate was supposed to be March 14th, 1592, placing her in the midst of Reformation, Russian anarchy, and the eventual 30 years war.  Scholars speculate about the possible connections between Danielle's historical displacement and her double major in political science.  


GLORY DAYS
Danielle grew up in Ogden, Utah, devoid of virtually any Mormon contact.  Instead, Danielle spent her days with her Catholic classmates in an intimate Catholic school.  In her younger years, Danielle met a young man who would change the course of her life forever.  His name was Ryan, and he threw amazing parties. The boy also had amazing aim: one day, he threw a penny so hard, it left an imprint of Abraham Lincoln on the back of his sister's neck.  He was bad-ass.


Ryan was remarkable for two different reasons: 1. He threw a Harry Potter themed party featuring sorting-hat shaped breads, and 2. He was the bad-ass leader of grade-school crew.  Everyone wanted to befriend Ryan; everyone wanted an invitation to his fabulous parties.  But Ryan was cool precisely because these invitations were so rare and coveted; receiving one was like achieving celebrity status.


Danielle was one of the few to receive these invitations, repeatedly.  She was a member of Ryan's selective crew, comprised of a boy named Nathan, another female, and Danielle.  Together they would partake in mischievous activities, such as stapling Nathan's hand.  Long after the group disbanded, Danielle and Nathan would meet on fishing trips and reflect on their "glory days" with Ryan.