Wal-Mart Adventure

"Well hey you guys, my name is Katie and i'm going to be sharing a toilet with you for the next several months." —This is the first message I ever received from one of my freshman roommates in college. She had decided to take the initiative and e-mail me and the one other girl she would be rooming with.  We e-mailed back and forth several times before we got more domestic and got each others numbers so we could text.  Each email was dripping with exuberance as we both tried to make the most positive impression we could on our soon-to-be apartment-mate.

Katie e-mailed me something cute and up-beat like, "I'm on a scholorship for drama this year but don't get too freaked out i don't take myself very seriously. I got a chance to look at our appartment.  Its one of the closest to the bus stop and we have a nice view out of our room windows. Your room has a normal closite and a largish walk in closite with a buch of shelves and there is another closite in the hall." With another e-mail adding, "dang i didn't spell check that.  you guys might as well know that i'm embarrassingly bad at spelling.  sorry i'd had hoped to keep that to myself until you had at least seen me in my pajamas."

Kidnapping

I grew up thinking I was a very boring person—which is to say I never did anything too extremely dangerous.  I have no broken bones from falling out of trees or doing flips on the trampoline (all I've ever had in fact in the way of broken bones is a fractured leg).  I've had the normal speeding ticket and parking ticket . . . and that just about sums up my dangerous and unlawful practices.  That is, until I went to Disney Land this summer . . .

I have to admit I am a bit self-righteous, I have never attempted stealing anything—let it be as small as a pack of gum from a convenience store or hot-wiring a car—let alone actually stolen it (that I can remember). In fact the story I am going to relate to you was an accident. Yes, it was.  I accidentally tried to kidnap a child, and the story goes like this:

Once upon a time in a land that was full of princesses and princes (sort of) . . . and theme rides and expensive popcorn.

The Stove

Throughout my life I have had many strange incidents with fire—which is a beautiful way to start any blog post. I have not died, or burned down a house though, so I feel relatively confident sharing some of these experiences.

I went through a phase of my life where someone who didn't know me well would have thought I was suicidal.  I had burns up and down my arms because I would forget sheet pans out of the oven were hot or I'd accidentally slide cookie sheets into my arms.  It almost become a source of pride to have at least two or three burn scars on my arms.  I have four brothers, scars are cool.

Beginings

When I was a young eighteen-year-old going to college for the first time I had a complex—this complex was something like being bi-polar.  I took turns being very overly confident in my maturity and capability as a newly independent adult, and being completely terrified out of my mind at being away from home.

In high school I was one of those dorky, nerdy, quiet kids who studied a lot, had about a total of two friends, and was very uninvolved in popular activities like watching sports games.  To make up for my social awkwardness though, I was very smart.  I graduated from high school at 17 with a high school diploma AND an Associates of Science.  —So of course I felt very secure in my academic prowess.  And, as most teenagers think, if they are good at one thing they will be good at everything.  I was ready to take on the world!