Assignment #3

           The glass bottle of tomato-red hot sauce stands straight, tall, and resolute.  Its design is simple, smooth straight glass from bottom to top, with a slight bend inward about ¾ of the way up forming a neck.  The cork is made of sanded blonde wood, and functions as a screw.  The bottle is not tall, about the same height as drinking cup.

            There are two labels, one surrounded the neck, and the other wrapped halfway around the body.  The neck shroud has a background of banana yellow, with two banners of bright red, one on the top, and one on the bottom framing the tiny drawn pictures of red, green, and yellow tomatoes. The second wrap is of the same basic banana yellow color, but this second, larger label features an attractive Latina woman who is gazing up at her viewer.  She is cooking, and above her head hover the bright block letters, “Cholula” in red. 

            As the blonde cork is unscrewed, the tangy sweet smell swirls up to meet my nostrils, and upon tipping the bottle, the sauce inside effortlessly succumbs to gravity and evenly cascades toward my outstretched pointer figure.  Upon contact the bottle is quickly righted, and placed back down on the vanity, the cork forgotten, lying askew beside its keeper.   

            My finger meets my mouth in a blaze of tang, sweet and spicy.  The sauce finally fulfilling its purpose.  

Assignment #2

            Looking at the glass bottle from my position on the bed, the viewer can only see half of the bright yellow label, half of the attractive Latina women I know to be smiling up at me, half of the brand name bolding declaring, “ula” in red, block letters.  This particular glass bottle, stoppered with a smooth,  blonde, wooden cork belongs with its comprades in the downstairs kitchen cabinet, los amigos who sometimes go by the name “hot sauce” around town. 

            The afternoon sun, filtered by a multitude of green and yellow autumn leaves finds its way into the room, lighting up the side of the bottle facing me.  It leaves a streak of skinny light down the glass bottle’s side, allowing a reflection of the outside world in, a minute tree, the asphalt on the road below, sandwiched between the tomato-red hot sauce.

The glass bottle, in its pristine condition, has sat on the vanity for weeks, like a queen in a game of chess, knowing her time to move is nigh, but allowing the player to think.  Waiting to knock down the glass-bottled perfume acquaintances that surround her, that have forced her into a world of makeup, hair, fresh scents and glamour to which she has never belonged.  Anticipating the day when she will once again be reacquainted with the rich smells of cooking, the sounds of grease sputtering when it gets hot.  But above all, she awaits the day when she will be once again be reminded of the exquisite feeling of being tasted by a tongue.  

Assignment #1

I haven't had much time as of late to blog, so I thought it might be fun to post my non-fiction writing assignments.  They are, hmmm. Close to my usual subject matter.

Let them forever be enshrined here.

           With the doors and windows closed, my bedroom takes on a musty, trapped smell that is created by a combination of the long, late morning slumbers of two people deeply breathing in a small space with no air flow, and an animal with free reign of the bedroom.  The layout of the room is such that upon entering, the eye is naturally drawn to the well-used vanity standing next to the south window. The vanity is littered with perfume bottles both empty and full, cups of makeup brushes, wooden boxes from far-away places I have never been to, jewelry draped haphazardly over the mirror and its wooden supports, as well as earring cardboards and a plethora of pictures stuffed in the small slit between the mirrored-glass and the wood encasing it.  A fine dust of translucent, powdered makeup can be observed covering the length of the table and its occupants.

            Further investigation of the cluttered scene uncovers an intruder among the perfume bottles-a tall, upright, unashamed bottle of Cholula hot sauce, complete with a wooden stopper.  Its label is bright and cheery, yellow and red with an attractive Latina woman smiling up at her audience.  The contents of the bottle nearly reach the top, and there are no telltale signs of usage, no streaks of hot sauce running down the inside of the glass, back to the waiting and welcoming hot sauce pool gravity has drawn together.  The bottle, clearly not perfume, has been waiting patiently for its owner (myself) to reunite it with its hot sauce companions down in the kitchen cabinet for quite some time now, but until I do, the tolerant bottle must wait.

            Sitting atop the wooden mirror, a tiny, rotund, red, also-wooden Buddha carefully reigns over the bedroom.  He is easily recognized as jovial by the wide, open-mouthed grin splitting his face, although at his size the viewer may have to squint to fully appreciate his joy.  Although not often noticed by many, his good fortune continues to bless those that dwell in his presence.  

Fears I Never Knew I Had

I am not your regular girl.
Yes, I wear heels to work.
Yes, I wear makeup almost everyday.
Yes, I like to cook, and I actually enjoy cleaning.
Yes, okay, I listen to Justin Bieber and the Backstreet Boys (only in moments of insanely high spirits and hope for life and the world)
But--I am NOT your regular girl.
I have never thought of myself as (ugh) girly. I was practically a tomboy in high school for Pete's sake! So when my boyfriend played a dirty, mean trick on me in the car (pretending a bug is on my foot is, in fact, a dirty, dirty trick) and I screamed like a (clears throat) girl-I was a tad bit surprised with my own blood-curdlin', body jerkin' reaction. As it so happens, I didn't know I was so afraid of bugs because I have been avoiding them my whole gol-darn life.
The fear was only solidified when that same weekend, in the same car in fact, an actual bug was on me, and I screamed, jerked, and flung the bug as far away from my person as possible-and on to my trick-player boyfriend who was all too aware of Karma at this point.
But the real story starts when I am all alone, in the front yard of my home, the sky just dark enough to be ominous..
I was repotting my two house plants with fresh Miracle Grow potting soil.  I was working diligently, whistling away and enjoying the feel of earth between my nails and fingers, working its way into the cracks and crevices of my hands.  I finished the smaller plant, and moved on to the large rubber plant that works so hard to clean the air in my bedroom.  As I lovingly dumped the old soil onto the front lawn, a squirming worm poked its head up from the stuff and sniffed the air.  I couldn't believe my hard-working eyes: an unknown house guest had been living in the same room with me for years! He seemed to sense my wonder, and buried himself back in the soil he had just been aerating.  I figured that I probably still wanted him to live with us, that dear sweet little aerater soul, and began searching in the soil for his little limp body.
Now keep in mind, I had just discovered a deep and abiding fear for anything buggish.
My search became feverish, as I just had to have him back in my (and my dear plant's) life. Just at the moment I noticed him in my cupped heads-my fear arose:
My open mouth smile quickly turned down into a scream of horror, my hands held high and triumphant, with the worm resting majestically on top of his dirt pile, turned into a catapult sending him far from me. The search began again.
I finally relocated the bugger (pun most definitely intended) and made sure dirt surrounded my hands on all sides from any contact with him and he was quickly tossed into the pot.  It had all happened so quickly, what with my eyes blurred with stress tears, and my heart pounding in my chest, that I had to search yet again in the pot's soil just to be sure I got him.
I bless him with many hermaphroditical children, and may they ever keep my plant happy.

Luck O' the Irish

I don't care what anyone says, St. Patrick's day IS lucky!
I was eradicating the mold that has taken up residence in my vehicle, like any good car owner.
I was just wrapping up the process, when I decided to give the moldy-mold one last good ol' fashioned bleach water spritz.  I returned the seat to its full, upright, and locked position, when a glint of silver and turquoise caught me eye:

It was my lost earring from over a year ago.
And these aren't just any old earrings, they were given to me by my father, and prized most of my earring possessions.
Worn religiously, until one fateful night, the earring was ripped from my ear, and thought to be lost in the bowels of Portland's rainy streets and sewers.
As only St. Patrickian luck would have it, I had also kept the unripped and unlost pair, hoping against hope that they would one day be reunited, safely in my ear holes.    

On Humanitarian Effort

Let's start with a little history:
Zach, my lovely boyfriend, had discovered a zit behind his ear.  Upon picking it, it burst.  Following the initial outpouring of internal fluids, it started to bleed.  Feeling behind his ear, pulling his hand away, discovering blood upon his finger, he extended it towards me and stated, "Look! I'm bleeding!" I leaned towards it disgustedly, eyeing and sizing it up, and promptly licked it.  I laughed, after the shock passed from his visage, he laughed, and we all had a good time.

It was a blustery day, and I was walking across campus, away from my last class and towards the library. As my eyes surveyed the scene that lay before me (mostly dead trees and muddy, spotty green ground), my ears were filled with the upbeat dance music that, from my iPod, threaded through the earphone cord, commonly found its way into my cerebellum.
My gaze, catching a large, white RedCross truck, was coincidentally paired with a swell of music and crash of cymbals.  And I thought to myself, "I should really donate blood."  and the next thought, "well, I've got time now!" and I headed over.
The volunteer staff was more than happy to see me, and helped me with a smile.  I was set up with a number and a "I make a difference!" sticker, somehow mistakenly labeled with my middle name, "Catherine".  After a short wait, a nurse led me to a small curtained room, where I was pricked with a needle and my blood tested for abnormalities (very high hemoglobin level!) The nurse then left me to answer several questions about my lifestyle (including vacations spent outside of the U.S., sexual history, and contact with others).  One particular question caused alarm, "Have you had contact with someone else's blood in the last year?" I could not tell a lie. Yes.
I indicated to the volunteers that I had completed the survey, a nurse came back into the room, interrogated me about the blood contact: "Tell me what happened."
"..well, my boyfriend was bleeding the other day, and I, uh, well I licked it to be funny."
Her face pulled into a grimace, "Yeah, you can't donate blood for a year."
At least I now know how to act altruistic without actually being such.

The Golf Stream's LAST CHANCE

It all started in the summer of 2009, when I bought my, shall we say "cute" '97 white Volkswagen Golf.  I was tempted by it's, "cuteness" and lunged at the opportunity when I talked the seller out of a measly two bills ($200, for you less up to date).  I was excited that I owned a vehicle, and couldn't care less that the gas light blinked on right as I drove out of the previous owner's drive.  I putted (pun intended) over to the nearest gas station and shoved the nozzle into the tank.  As I began to fill, the gas machine kept automatically turning off, like the tank was already full.  Becoming a little concerned, I called the seller, and a man on the other line chuckled, "Oh, the gas light has been broken for ages. The tank should be full"
And the was just the beginning.
That very afternoon, the car stalled, died, and simply refused to start back up, let alone run again.  After many failed attempts to restart my vehicle, she finally sputtered to life, and I drove the ol' girl home.
Thinking she needed rest (as well as fearing for my life and pride), I didn't touch Golfy again until later that week.  A second rendezvous out on the town, led my poor sorry body into the middle of a major intersection, where again, my car died.  I just sat in the car and cried.
After having a mechanic take a look under the hood, and take off with a stack of Benjamins in his back pocket,  I packed all of my belongings into the car, and began the 12 hour voyage to Portland, OR where I would be attending college. Only the gods know how my little car made it all the way, for when we finally saw Portland on the horizon, my car's muffler fell off.  Another mechanic, another neat sum, and my car was "good as golden"(maybe that cheap gold plated crap--don't tell my car I said that).
My car lasted for some time during those first months in puddletown, possibly due to the fact that I tried my very best (and all to Jamie's (my sister and roommate at the time) chagrin) to NEVER DRIVE, EVER. Fun fact: it lasted that first winter, although I barely did, as heater in the car didn't work, and I drove everyday to work and school.
It wasn't until the spring time was blossoming that my car decided to give out once more.  Smoke billowed out of the engine, and I had my car towed (thanks to roadside assistance, I love you USAA!) to a mechanic, where it was discovered that I needed a whole new set of tubes in the dang thing.
It on it went, my car knowing the mechanic for what he was, an estranged family member that we frequently visited to check up and spent time with.
And now we come to this, the final straw in my adventures with my little Golf Boy:
I had recently spent a handsome amount making my car driveable to the cold chills of SLC, and it had made it there and back with next to no problems (the check engine light isn't a problem, right? Especially when it turns on and off, right?)
My less-than-trusty steed and I had driven my boyfriend and I to a local English pub to meet some friends.  A fun time was had by all, and as the night grew late, the more constant were our yawns, and we decided to high-tail it home.  Out of the goodness of our hearts, we had encouraged others to ride with us.  We all trudged out of the warm, light into the cold night, and we looked longingly back at the yellow glow that was the bar.  We located my parking space, I stuck my key in the lock, turned the key, opened the door, and my alarm when off.
and off
and off
and off
and off
I didn't even know I had an alarm.
and off
and off
and off
people were yelling from their cars, passerbys were laughing, openly, an old woman with a handkerchief on her head leaned out of an upstairs window and angrily informed us her baby was trying to sleep (exaggeration).
I tried everything I could think of to turn it off, keys turning frantically, locks pushed up and down, emergency lights flashing, trunk hatch unlatched.
My car has a feature that locks the engine when the alarm has been set off, so I couldn't, try as I may, start her.
Eventually the alarm was silenced, and I tried to back away slowly, locking the door as I left. The alarm sounded again
again
again
again
again
until finally it was silenced.  We thought the battery may be exhausted from sounding the car so loudly, and tried to jump it, to no avail, that action just set the alarm off once more!
more!
more!
more!
Finally, my oh-so-trusty friends and I pushed the dumb thing to a safe locale, and left it there.