Tuesday, May 31, 2011

not be televised

In the past year I have purchased at least seven different shirts with blue and white horizontal stripes. I'm never aware of my duplication until I pull the new shirt out of the shopping bag and place it in my closet next to a row of nearly identical tops. I don't know what it is in my subconscious that's drawing me to the same shirt over and over. Maybe it's quarter-life-onset-obsessive-compulsive-disorder. Maybe it's due to the years of blue and white repression, since during my time at BYU I refused to wear anything that would make me appear to be a sports event attending zoobie. Or maybe, deep down inside, I've always dreamed of being a sailor. Living life on the sea, observing maritime law, and randomly breaking into song and dance (sailors do that, right?).

Saturday, May 28, 2011

How to be a Good Puppy

A complete Guide by Oliver Walter.

-4:30am is the best time to start the day. Start whimpering and nibbling fingers. If this proves ineffective, a low growl and a few yelps should do the trick. The One with the Yellow Hair will get out of bed, attach the leash, and escort you outside.
-Take your time outside. It's a beautiful morning and you deserve a few minutes of grass sniffing, bird chasing, and stick chewing.
-After returning back inside, repeat the process, but this time target The Tall One with the Glasses. After a few sharp barks, he will slowly get out of bed.
-Wait about an hour (at this point it should be 7:00am), then start howling. The One with the Yellow Hair and The Tall One with Glasses don't know that it's time to be awake and they need your help. Continue to howl until they respond. You will probably hear things like "knock it off" and "You're being a poopface." They're telling you how much they love you, and how glad they are that you have helped them wake up. But they will probably remain in bed, so it's time to entice them with all your squeaky toys. The really loud ones. Squeak them. Loudly.
-Show them how fun it is to be awake by repeatedly running from one side of the apartment to the other, increasing speed with every lap.
-Show them how much they want to eat breakfast by devouring your entire bowl of food in one sitting.
-Run back and forth again.
-Throw up your breakfast.
-Watch The One with the Yellow Hair clean up your now regurgitated breakfast. Try to stop her by nipping at her hand.
-Spend the next thirty minutes destroying the living room. Things that are placed just out of your reach are meant to be a challenge. Jump high, grab, then chew. Magazines are meant to be shredded. Bills to be ripped apart, and bags to be thrown around. At the end of this thirty minutes, the room should look like the aftermath of a robbery or natural disaster.
-The One with the Yellow Hair will now be awake (8:00am) and ready for a run.
-While running, be sure to mark every tree, bush, lamp post, and mailbox you see. Your supply is impressive. Also, be sure to periodically sit down and refuse to move. This is adorable. It is best to be simultaneously impressive and adorable.
-Break free from your leash and chase any bikers or pedestrians. You have marked every tree, bush, lamppost and mailbox, and they have no right to be on your territory. Again, this is impressive.
-Give up running and insist on being carried the final block. The One with the Yellow Hair will appreciate the opportunity to hold you tight. When she says "Bad Puppy," She means "I love you so much and want to hug you forever."
-It's 9:00am. You've worked hard. Time for a nap.

Friday, May 27, 2011

you, cheenge your mind

Friday morning is the worst when it comes to almost there but not quite. The worst.
I hope this helps. Grab a chilled Diet Coke (Dr. Pepper also acceptable, Pepsi only if you're completed desparate. Like it's only you and a Pepsi machine left on Earth), take a break from working/parenting/harvesting humans to take home to the mother ship/whatever it is you all do, and enjoy both videos. Both as in 2. 2 because I love you.
Happy Friday.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

let you down

The dermatologist looked at the spot on my face and said,
"It doesn't look like cancer...yet."
There is nothing worse to say to a hypochandriac. I already think that every zit is the beginning of a tumor and every bruise a symptom of some incredibly rare disease that starts with bruising and ends in death and I'm the only case in the Northern Hemisphere.
Dr. Saystoomuch only made it worse by adding,
"You're still young."
Which I interpreted to mean: it's not cancer now, but with every passing year the once harmless spot will turn real nasty and eventually be your demise. Age will not only bring wrinkles and weight gain and a loss of interest in the music you once loved, but also a killer blemish.
Good luck.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

time flies

I would like to issue an official statement to the bird community:
This morning your message was received loud and clear. It is apparent that this was a deliberate assault, and you should prepare for retaliation. One splat might be an accident (we've all been there). But fiteen? No. You planned this.
I cannot imagine what I or my automobile have done to provoke such drastic measures. Perhaps it's my dog's fondness for chasing your kind that prompted the attack. You should know that Ollie does not have the aversion to poop that most others do. He will be intrigued at least and ecstatic at most when he sees the new design on our car. I, however, am neither intrigued nor ecstatic, but instead livid with your thoughtless actions.
It's too late for apologies. Counterattack plans are in the works. I've played Angry Birds and know what I'm up against.
You have been warned.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

i'm gone

The sweetest years of my childhood were those when I was tall enough to seat in the front seat and my brother Nick was too short. Every errand we ran with mom, be it a drive around the block or a day trip to Salt Lake, there I was at her side,chatting like the grown-up I believed myself to be, trying my hardest to pretend that Nick, shorty stuck in the back, did not exist. It was a perfect world. But all good things must come to an end. Nick, always the diligent vegetable eater, grew taller, and suddenly my permanent passenger seat priveleges were challenged. It was upsetting, to say the least. Nick sitting in the front front seat meant a complete disruption in the familial pecking order. He might soon usurp my authority in other realms of kiddom. He might learn that when we were tasked with cleaning the playroom, I often tricked him into cleaning the thousands of legos on the floor while I slowly arranged pillows on the couch. He might realize I was taking extra turns on the SEGA. He might start beating me in CandyLand. It seemed a slippery slope, and I couldn't let the subordinate learn of his own power. So every time Mom announced we were going anywhere, it was a dead sprint to the car. Punches were usually thrown. Car doors were slammed in faces. Tears were shed. Finally, in an effort to prevent a sibling homicide, Mom and Dad taught us the rule of Shotgun. Shotgun soon became the peace pipe. It wasn't that we weren't disgruntled if the other called shotgun first, but we knew better than to fight for it. Rules were rules. If Nick called shotgun I'd sit in the back, probably pout, plot how I could call shotgun first next time (maybe in the wee hours of the morning), but I would never challenge. It was a system that worked. Then one day our cousin visited. He heard me call shotgun. Apalled, he turned to Nick, and said "She didn't say Shotgun Cadillac!". Cousin Derek had older brothers and knew more about the complicated laws of the childhood world. Nick took immediate action and screamed "SHOTGUN CADILLAC!". I sat in the back seat fuming. Then I just started lying. "Actually, it's not just shotgun cadillac. It's shotgun cadillac no rock." It was a complete fabrication. But then Nick, not wanting to be the only child without an intuitive knowlege of shotgun calling then added, "Spaghettios. You have to say spaghettios at the end or it doesn't count." We believed each others lies and the strangest Morley tradition was born.
To this day, when someone wants to sit up front, they must declare:

Monday, May 23, 2011

good good

I'm never more split-personality then when making a big purchase. Over the weekend I purchased an ipad. The inner dialog in my brain was text book pschysophrenic, and went as follows:

-I've been working full time for a year. I deserve this.
-That's what you said about those boots in October. And the puppy in February.
-Obviously, I need to keep rewarding myself.
-You do realize that most people work to feed their families, right?
-Yes, but...
-Is this really the most financially sound decision?
-Yes. See there's this app that will help me balance finances.
-And you plan to use that app?
-Not really.
-Do you know how many children in Africa you could feed for the cost of the ipad?
-Stop it.
-Do you know how many pairs of shoes you could buy?
-You're the worst.
-Shouldn't you be saving?
-It's an investment.
-Shut up.

Then I just went for it. Of course I also had to go for the keyboard and the case and seven pairs of shoes plus I don't know how many starving African children later, I was a confused ipad owner. I nearly threw up on the car ride home. But then I drew this and felt better.

Friday, May 20, 2011

bread is the paper of the food industry

Sometimes I want children just so I'll have an excuse to watch Sesame Street every day.

Happy Friday.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

somebody told me

I try not to brag on my blog. It's unbecoming. But somethings I just can't not share. So I'm sorry for the jealousy you are about to feel. I guess we can't all be amazing like me.
When I was working as a bagger at Harmons Grocer, the managers decided to hold a bagging race. All baggers were to compete, and be judged not only on speed but technical skills (proper placement of items in the bag). Well guess who placed first in the paper bagging competition...yeah. Believe it. If I remember correctly, I won a gift certificate for $30 worth of groceries. At the time I was in high school and living with my parents, so I didn't have much need for such a certificate. And though I don't remember what I did with the prize, lets assume I gave it to someone in need (I probably lost it). Greater than the gift certificate, however,  was the huge boost in pride. To this day I hold my head higher, and when I watch some wannabe  put my bread in the bottom of the bag, I maybe feel a little bit superior knowing I could do it better.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

have you seen her all in gold?

I have an undiagnosed condition and I'm not sure if there's a cure. Any time I speak, am spoken to, meet anyone new, see an old friend, or even make eye contact, my face turns bright red. It wouldn't be such a problem if blushing weren't associated with love. But it is. So everyone I talk to most likely thinks I'm madly in love with them. Coworkers, friends, fellow church attenders, librarians, cashiers, hair dressers, salesmen, saleswomen, waiters, neighbors, dogs, etc. I've tried thinking about snow. I've tried underdressing so I'm only cold. But no. My body heat rises by what must be a hundred degress, and I become the tomato-faced conversationalist.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Bacon Maple Sunday

The old picture is back. What can I say? I married my ex-boyfriend. Sometimes it just takes a period of separation to feel good about a spouse or blog header.

Now, a confession.
Once a month for the past year In Style has arrived in our mail. But it's not our mail. The subscription belongs to one Robin Gnesa. I don't know Robin. I don't know where she lives. I don't know if she's missing In Style. Each month I keep the magazine. I like In Style. I know that it's Skipper to the Vogue Barbie, but honestly I always preferred Skipper. She was more relatable, because I knew I would never be a curvy woman like Barbie, and would always resemble little sister Skipper. I was an incredibly self-aware and body concsious child.

Plus, In Style is readable and full of fun tips, while Vogue is boring and condescending. For example, I bought one of those hipster-eque straw hats. I know that In Style will help me learn how to accessorize appropriately. Vogue will make me feel bad that I don't have the $300 hat and that I haven't lost those five pesky pounds yet.
How grave is my sin? Am I committing a felony? Should I immediately delete this post, create a fake passport and go into hiding in Iceland?
More importantly, does Hell fire await?
Robin Gnesa, if you're reading, I'm sorry. I have your magazines. Feel free to come pick them up anytime. I assume you know the address.

Monday, May 16, 2011


Kids are the best. Most kids. I know there are some kids like Sid on Toy Story, but most kids are super great.
We took Ollie to a park yesterday so he could run off his energy. It wasn't long before three children approached us. I love that. I love that there was no hesitation. If I saw a puppy running in a park, I would think "I really want to play with that puppy." I would spend the next half an hour watching the puppy from across the park, wishing I had the nerve to walk over there. But not these kids. They immediately began petting Ollie, throwing the ball, and racing the puppy. Then they started telling stories. Every story the knew about every dog they had ever known. There were three children, each telling about three stories, all at once. It went sort of like this:

"My uncle, when I lived in Idaho, he had a dog"
"Can I pet him?"
"Don't give your dog a lemon"
"This guy hated dogs and loved cats"
"I want to throw the ball"
"And he knew how to rollover"
"Lemons make dogs mean"
"He would move cats out of the street, but run over dogs"
"So mean that they try and attack people"
"He's so soft"
"He ran over our dog"
"Paulie is a pomeranian"
"My mom sued him"
"Will he bite me?"
"But we shaved him"

It went on for a while. We tried to respond, but were mostly just mystified by their ability to fire off anecdotes. Then suddently they rode away on their razor scooters. They disappeared just as quickly as they appeared. Like thiefs in the night, but actually kids in the day.

My brother says he likes the old blog header better. Do you agree? Please. I need your input. My blog's livelihood depends on it.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Informing all the goverments

Guys. The Blogger Monster ate yesterday's blog.
Maybe he'll vomit soon. It's hard to say.

This bee rode on my window through most of Provo. I took the picture at a stop light, so settle down.

Happy Friday.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

dolla dolla bill, yo

The rusty pickup truck with a barbed-wire license plate frame had a bumper sticker that read,
"Some people are only alive because it's illegal to kill them."
Here's what's amazing about that:
1. One day Mr. Slogan writer thought to himself (or herself, I'm not here to judge), "Some people are only alive because it's illegal to kill them." Then, as if the original thought wasn't scary enough, he/she thought, "Hot damn! That would make a great bumper sticker!"
2. A manufacturer agreed, yes, some people are only alive because it's illegal to kill them. And yes, what a great bumper sticker that will make.
3. The store owner saw the bumper sticker and knew he would sell enough to turn a profit. More than one person is likely to buy this sticker.
4. Pickup driver decided he just had to have it. He's had that thought so many times, there are so many people that he would kill if it were legal, that he absolutely needs to mark his car. Essentially tattoo his automobile with the sentiments of a madmen. I don't know if you have any experience removing stickers from a car, but if you haven't I promise it is no easy task. He could have purchased a T-shirt with the same slogan, and worn it only on his angry days, but instead he wanted this thought to be permanent. and he wanted all other drivers to be warned.
The really good news is, judging by his route, he lives in my neighborhood.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Torah Torah Torah

We at the Walter home have had enough of the gray skies. I personally have resorted to wearing the same sweatshirt for weeks, eating at Burger Supreme two nights in a row, and going to bed at 10:00.  Stephen has experienced a significant increase in Mountain Dew need, and we both have little desire to do anything but watch The West Wing. Even Ollie is grouchier than usual. Last weekend the sun made a surprise and short lived appearance. For about 30 hours Provo exploded with summertime activity. People running around in swimming suits, gardening and washing cars. Then it rained, and it was back to netflix and canned soup. It's ok, I guess. Who needs happiness?

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

doo da dippity

Stephen and I went and saw Jane Eyre. A few seats down from us was another couple, about thrity years older. It wasn't more than twenty minutes before the husband starting expressing his confusion. "Where is she?" he'd ask louder than he meant to. "Who started that fire?" Dude was really not getting it, and despite his wife's best efforts she could not keep him quiet, bless her heart. When exiting the theater, our new friend nearly tumbled down the stairs. Apparently he had had a few before the show. I understand getting drunk before Fast Five or Thor, but a dry British period piece consisting almost entirely of dialog? It was also only 6:00. And Provo. So yeah.

In an unrelated but awesome note, the store down the street from my office is named Humphrie's Taxidermy. Sounds like even more fun than a drunken viewing of Jane Eyre.

Monday, May 9, 2011

ranting and raving

I guess it was our fault. We left our puppy Ollie home alone longer than usual. So he slept longer than usual, and then was not ready to sleep at his normal bedtime. Understandable. "He'll just play for a while," we said. But Ollie is not a solitary kind of puppy. He has no fun at all unless there is a person throwing a ball or rubbing his ears. He's pretty needy. And if he's not being paid the full attention, he feels he deserves, he is incredibly vocal about it.
"Ollie go to sleep..."
Occasionally he was distracted with a toy or a shoe, and he'd be quiet just long enough for Steohen and I to drift back into dream land, then
This went on until 4:00 am. As it turns out, Wee hours of the morning prove I'm not nearly the patient person I like to think I am. I never got physical or loud, I just got crazy illogical. I forgot that Ollie is a dog and neither speaks nor understands the English language.So I started lecturing.
"You are being very inconsiderate. I'm running a race in the morning and I need to get to sleep. This is not how a good puppy acts. Please go to sleep." At this point I was getting weepy. Which for some reason, sort of worked. And he went to sleep. Three hours of sleep and an Excedrin later, I ran the race. No harm no foul, and now  Ollie the puppy understands that a woman's tears mean serious business.

Friday, May 6, 2011

both your arms are broken

Happy, sunny Friday.
Enjoy this. I mean, click the word "this" in that sentence. Because I can't make it turn into a fun color, I don't know why.
K bye.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

we used to be friends

Have you ever taken a multi-vitamin on an empty stomache? I used to be healthy and take multi-vitamins at breakfast. But one night I had quite a few tacos and woke up the next morning still too full to function. So I took the Centrum to make up for the nutrients I was missing from my usual oatmeal and banana. I washed it down with a Diet Coke, of course. Then I called my dad because I had something important to tell him. And then things got weird. It must have been midsentence when I said "Oh no. I'm dying." Dad, a little confused, tried to ask why it was that I was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. The only response he got was a moan and gargle. I hung up the phone, thinking maybe I should have said a final good bye? And the next thing I knew I woke up on the carpet next to the bathroom. I'm assuming my thought process went from "This is the end" to "I need to get to the bathroom NOW" to "Nope, still dying" and then a loss of consciousness. After waking I ate some toast and fully recovered. But it was too close a call. No more vitamins.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

you will know

Every time I have a wrinkled article of clothing and decide to use the shower steam method for removing said wrinkles, there is no hot water in the shower.
Every time I sort of have to go to the bathroom and decide that I can hold it until I get to work, I get stuck in traffic.
I'm not necessarily saying that the universe is conspiring against me, but it's a bit Alanis Morrissette, don't you think?

Neither she nor I really understand irony.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

leave a mark

At what point does the phrase "you're a good little eater" go from being a compliment to an insult? I think it's the first time someone says it to you on a date.

Nearly a year ago, I saw something in our apartment parking lot. At first glance, I thought it was another one of the MANY cats that camp near the dumpster. At second glance, however, I realized it was chubbier and waddlier and rodentier. My best guess was a muskrat. But then I didn't see it again, and no one believed me. It was my own personal possibly imagined monster living in the Loch ness of Provo's gutters. I saw it once, and I never lost hope.
Then yesterday, as I pulled into the drive way, there was Nessy. Staring right at me. It looked a lot like this:

It scurried away, back into the gutter, and I was left once again without proof. Who knows how to catch a muskrat?

Monday, May 2, 2011

vocational trades

I don't read that often. I know, I KNOW, I was an English major. I should just devour books. I should talk only of the great poets and critical theories. But I like television.

I do, however, every once in a while find a book that I literally can't put down. I ignore everything else in life. It's happened a few times in the last year, with The Help and Elna Baker's book, the title of which I can never remember. I'm like one of those people who never eats sweets except on special occasions and ends up eating the entire birthday cake.

This is my latest binge:

I bought Bossypants Saturday afternoon and completed the book Saturday night. I also just ate an entire Cafe Rio salad, so obviously moderation is a principle I have yet to master. I love Tina Fey. I loved this book. There is some reason-king's-speech-was-rated-R type language (and then some), so this is not a recommendation. Just an admission that I have problems with pacing and should probably get professional help.