tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70842959032131308912024-03-21T05:17:39.482-05:00Sarcasm is a Virtue.MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-46874467281900208812010-11-25T12:52:00.003-06:002010-11-25T13:38:11.793-06:00For lack of creativity.Due to my apparent lack of inspiration over the past few months, here's a little Thanksgiving treat for you. <div><br /></div><div>Things Carla Sawatski is thankful for:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Grace. Because I've screwed up a time or two.</div><div>2. The Razorbacks. The hope they give me. The hope they take away from me. </div><div>3. Friends who send personalized holiday text messages. </div><div>4. A dog who loves me, but hates mankind. </div><div>5. Budweiser Light.</div><div>6. My ability to continue to exemplify humility, even after I slaughter all of my Words with Friends opponents. </div><div>7. <a href="https://www.shurley.com/">The Shurley Method</a>. The educational tool that is largely responsible for my grammatical proficiency, thus providing multiple opportunities for me to bestow correction on those less fortunate. </div><div>8. Apple electronics. </div><div>9. The ability to identify a person by his or her phone number... and not be creepy about it.</div><div>10. My mom and dad's decision to build a house on top of a mountain, so that I can improve my cardiovascular health on my Thanksgiving morning run. Otherwise known as The Thanksgiving Death March of 2010. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mostly I'm thankful for the people in my life. My sister, who makes my life funnier. My brother, who allows me to live in the comfort of his shadow. My mom, who is the most generous and selfless person on God's Earth. My dad, who provided a nearly impossible standard for any man to live up to. And my generous supply of friends, even those that send mass text messages.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Thanksgiving. I'm going to go eat myself stupid now.</div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-12943186192382014182010-08-30T21:49:00.017-05:002010-08-30T23:03:45.893-05:00Cut off.I'll be the first to admit that this has been a slow process. I might even venture to say it's been a long time coming. Either way, as of August 2010, I have officially been cut off. Over the course of the past year, my mother has slowly but surely cut away any and every financial tie that she once had to me. <div><br /></div><div>It started subtly. When making a trip to Little Rock for the weekend, the time will inevitably come that one must fill her vehicle with gasoline in order to make it back to her previous location. And if you can't figure out who the "her" is in this scenario, well... I really have no words for you. I digress. One such day rolled around in May 2009. Master's degree in hand. Paycheck in the near, but not near enough, future. After my Sunday afternoon nap, I casually eyed my mom's purse as I told her that I would probably hit the road after I filled my car up with gas. Her response was as follows: "Ok, well it's been nice having you here this weekend". Uh oh. Avoidance at its best. It was all too clear where this was going. "Well, can I use your Sam's card?", I replied. This was my passive-aggressive way of asking for the American Express that rested on top of that Sam's card in T-Money's wallet. When she said I could, my heart fluttered with joy. Praise the Lord. However, when she made a beeline for her purse and only handed me one card, I felt like I did when she told me that my beloved goldfish, Goldy (my creativity astounds even myself), of 3 faithful years, had passed on to the other side. And as I filled my car's tank with gas and watched that meter climb and climb and climb, I felt it... Snip.<div><br /></div><div>The second blow came exactly six months after I finished graduate school. I know this because apparently you get a six month grace period before you have to start paying back your student loans. Student loans? Ohhh, so <i>that's</i> where that money came from. Snip.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll admit I brought this next one upon myself. I wanted an iPhone. And I wanted one badly. In fact, I wanted one so badly that I abandoned my family's plan, switched providers, and knowingly began paying my own phone bill. But, I'm not going to even act like this was a mistake. I have Words with Friends. And you know, you really can't put a price on that. Snip.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here we are in August of 2010. A couple weeks ago, I made the trek to Little Rock to see my beloved mother. Exhausted from working all day and making that monotonous drive for the billionth time, I opened the door to the familiar smell of the house I grew up in. Ah, home sweet home. I cruised straight back to the room where I spent the better part of my childhood, dropped my bags, and sorted through the mail that my mom had neatly stacked on my dresser. Wedding invitation, baby shower invitation, wedding invitation, requests to donate money I don't have to my respective alumni associations, wedding invitation... And then, there it was. Right there at the bottom of the pile. The bill for my car insurance. Well damn. My life as a dependent was officially over. That was the final straw. A straw to the tune of three-hundred-and-some-odd dollars. Snip. Snip. Snip. Crash. Burn.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here I am, just me and the real world. Overwhelming people with my mediocrity on a daily basis. </div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-57127708255793153002010-07-21T18:39:00.003-05:002010-07-21T19:35:32.275-05:00Back by popular demand.Let me start by stating the obvious. It's been close to 4 months since my last post. Due to countless phone calls, numerous cash offerings, and masses of picketers standing outside my door requesting my return, I've decided to finally make my highly anticipated comeback. <div><br /></div><div>When I sat down to write this blog, I literally had no idea what I was going to write about. That is absolutely still the case. And you can take that to the bank.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, we'll start with the personal. What have I been doing for the past 1/3 of the year? Well, during the time of my sabbatical, I have moved. Twice. I have gotten cable in my room for the first time in 14 months, but who's counting? I have committed to, and subsequently renounced my commitment to running another half marathon in September. I have been scheduled to attend 10 nuptial ceremonies. Of which I have attended 5. If you're reading this and I didn't attend your wedding, I hope you went ahead and proceeded with the ceremony. And, your gift is on the way (read: your gift is resting on a shelf the store, but will be purchased shortly). </div><div><br /></div><div>And we're going to end with the personal. Because that's all I've got. </div><div><div><div><br /></div></div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-52455561556745875802010-03-31T22:51:00.023-05:002010-04-01T22:25:24.163-05:00I make awkward look good - 2nd edition.Here's what you've been waiting for, folks. The second edition of a look into my life as a pre-teen. As I was scanning through some of my old posts, it occurred to me that following the title of a blog with "1st edition" not-so-subtly implies that there will be a second edition. And I always deliver on my promises, in my own time. So, here it is. Enjoy.<div><br /></div><div>When I think back to 7th grade, there are three things that stick out to me like Kirstie Alley would at... well anywhere really. At the forefront of the memories I have of the 7th grade are my overalls. I legitimately remember having four different pairs of overalls, and I allowed myself to choose from my assortment one day per week. If Friday came along and I had somehow managed to pull together four different private-school-dress-code-appropriate outfits that week, overalls it was... no questions asked. The second thing I remember about 7th grade was my desperate need for some sort of hair-straightening device. At some point before <a href="http://www.folica.com/brands/chi_2.html?s_kwcid=TC%7C6678%7Cchi%7C%7CS%7C%7C4017760851&gclid=CNLr8brO5KACFRUd5wodHh-6CA">God's gift to woman-kind</a> came along, my mother should have broken the bad news to me that my hair was unsuitable to the public eye, laid my head on the ironing board, and actually ironed my hair flat. But we've already discussed my hair issues at length. Pun most definitely intended. The last thing I remember about the 7th grade was that I was a tomboy. And I don't mean your Erin Andrews type of tomboy.</div><div><br /></div><div>All three of these memories culminated into a moment that changed my life forever. It happened in Ms. Walker's 2nd period Social Studies class. Everyone in my class was assigned to write an essay about what we wanted to be when we grew up. What this had to do with Social Studies? Your guess is as good as mine. But nonetheless, there I sat... a tomboy in overalls with unmanageable hair. Now that you have a mental picture...</div><div><br /></div><div>I can imagine that this was a fairly difficult assignment for most 12-year-olds. Not for this one. You see, I had just recently defeated the defending champion of the one-on-one tournament at Christian Competition's fourth session summer basketball camp. Clearly I was made for big things. Namely, the WNBA. Yes, you read that correctly. The Women's National Basketball Association. The fact that I stood at a grand total of 5 feet, 2 inches tall (if I'm lying, and 5 feet even if I'm being honest) and had a vertical of no more than 6 inches was completely irrelevant. As was the fact that I was, and would always be, white. None of that mattered. This was my destiny, and I finally had the chance to let the world know about it. I went home, whipped up my story, and headed back to school the next day.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I could tell the 7th grade version of myself anything, anything at all, I would tell her to be just a smidgen less cocky about her dreams of dominating the WNBA. That way, what was coming next wouldn't hurt so much.</div><div><br /></div><div>We were required to read our stories aloud to the class the next day. My classmates jabbered about their dreams to be teachers, doctors, and lawyers. Ho-hum. I actually felt sorry for them. Healthcare? Please. I was going to save this world one jumpshot at a time. So I stood up, cleared my throat, and informed twenty-two 7th graders of my fate in this world.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd be lying if I said I wasn't expecting a standing ovation followed by an impromptu autograph session. I'm sure you will all be shocked to hear that neither of these things happened. I was as baffled then as you are now. After all, I was always picked first for trashketball.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was nearing the end of the class period, and my teacher had the floor. Everyone was all ears. She commented on the nobility of a girl's dream to be a veterinarian, the grandeur of another's aspirations to be a firefighter, and then she laid her eyes on me. Without flinching, she politely (read: venomously) told me that "there isn't a very good chance that you'll make it to the WNBA"......... <i>WHAT</i>?! No seriously, <b><i>WHAT</i></b>?! I felt the blood rush from my face, and I subsequently broke into a cold sweat. Who <i>is</i> this lady? And since when is a 12-year old not allowed to dream? Am I even still living in AMERICA? So many questions left unanswered. Ms. Walker was saved by the bell.</div><div><br /></div><div>I left the class and gave myself a pep talk. Well, that's fine. That's just one person's opinion. It would be my motivation, provided that an awkward, junior high girl is easily motivated when an authority figure, for no reason at all, removes the wind completely from her sails. It was the beginning of a long, slow death to my dream.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ultimately, I do blame this teacher for why I'm not currently making it rain from 20 feet out while rubbing shoulders with Lisa Leslie and Sheryl Swoops. However, I'd also like to extend my sincerest gratitude to this same teacher for not allowing me to become a part of the mockery that is women's sports in general. Besides, four years later, I made the executive decision that coming home after school and taking a nap was far superior to running the circumference of the football field in less than a minute ten times and being expected to live.</div><div><br /></div><div>So Ms. Walker, no harm, no foul. I guess I can finally admit that you were right. I didn't make it to the WNBA... yet.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-25484110252422726802010-03-07T20:59:00.030-06:002010-03-08T15:43:22.047-06:00Here goes absolutely nothing.The purpose of this entry is certainly not to boast. However, in a much more real sense, it absolutely is. I ran 13.1 miles this morning, and I only wanted to hurl my body into oncoming traffic one time. And if I'm being honest, it would be more like three times. Judging by the fact that I'm still living, I'm chalking this one up as a W. <div><br /></div><div>But it didn't start out that way. The race packet kindly suggested that runners arrive to the race 45 minutes early to A.) find their corral and B.) give them an adequate amount of time to completely freak out about their impending doom. Well, luckily it didn't have to come to that for my sister and me. When we were approximately .2 miles away from the start line I casually asked my sister, "Did you already put the time chip on your shoe?". What I received as a response was a look of horror and disgust along with the words, "YOU SAID YOU HAD IT!". Uh oh. In my defense, those words actually never came out of my mouth. I told her I put everything that was laying on my bed in my packet. Unbeknownst to me, that didn't include the one thing we actually needed. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Plus, it's about time that girl learn some responsibility. Geez.</div><div><br /></div><div>Long story short, Treva purposely ran a red light (just want that to be on the record), and we made it to the start line with 25 minutes to spare. Typical Sawatski style. Never late. Never on time. Always early.</div><div><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446112582756617986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJQvqXgqnPBXDDBSPIK4mZXTmPIGR_AEo4S0WvsaML3znwJ24izPa41Wm_Ae-JPAHEt354FD9QgetLqzl2LVOhYRxLRHiTMsbV5LStYq9A24sT11UqUp07vApSDGttliCHZY-5dUrM8hE/s320/CIMG1924.JPG" /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Crisis averted. En route to the race for a second try, time chip in hand.... or on foot.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>So for <span style="TEXT-DECORATION: line-through" class="Apple-style-span">your enjoymen</span>t my narcissistic tendencies... a brief overview of the race:</div><div><br /></div><div>As we're standing at the start line, trying to act like we know what we're doing, we take it upon ourselves to poke fun at most people around us. We casually joke about wishing we had brought our ankle weights... just to make this a challenge. We laugh at the fanny packs containing bottled water and energy gels. Must be a rookie. Little did I know that an hour and a half later, I would have literally knocked someone upside their head, stolen their fanny pack, and left them for the buzzards. Lucky for them, I couldn't find someone with a fanny pack when that urge struck.</div><div><br /></div><div>Miles 1-7 were pretty standard. I felt pretty good, and after going over the Broadway Bridge I actually formed this sentence, "this isn't so bad". Famous last words. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm holding mile 8 personally responsible for my first thoughts to take my own life. I had been told that the course is basically flat after you go over the Broadway Bridge. I should have asked that person to define "basically". What that person failed to inform me about was the steady incline on mile 8 leading up to the Capitol. It was painful. Partly because I didn't expect it, but more-so because it sucked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Immediately after climbing that hill, we came to a water station where someone was handing out GU energy gels. At that point, it could have been crack cocaine and I would have gladly ingested it if it was going to give me a boost of energy. After downing the packet of vanilla flavored hair gel, I thought I might expel it and the rest of the contents of my stomach onto the street due to its absolutely atrocious aftertaste. Luckily, the people around the corner quite literally saved my life with 1/8th of an orange. It was clutch, and after that I was good to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>For about 2 more miles. I had absolutely no idea what mile we were on at the time, but I was thinking we had to be getting somewhat close to finishing. Then how could we still be running <i>away</i> from the finish line? Oh, it's because we still had a 5k to go. So as I approached the mile 10 marker, and even more rapidly approached my untimely death... I set my eyes on the lucky fella' who was going to give me my Gatorade. Even in my muddled state, I noticed that this person looked strangely familiar. As I got closer, I realized that the place that I had seen this person was on TV. That person with my Gatorade in his hand was Jim Bob Duggar. And that, my friends, was the fuel I needed to finish those last 3.1 miles. Thank you, Jim Bob.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't remember the specifics of the last time I wanted to throw myself off a bridge, but it definitely happened... of this I am sure.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, in summary, I got to cross something off my bucket list while beating my own personal record of.... never having run a half-marathon before. So, I've done it. And for the record, Johanna and I finished with the exact same time, but I placed one ahead of her. Some may say that it's because of some alphabetic issues, but I don't believe that at all. Boom shaka laka.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446113724322211394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh39KOi5EXLrmgms-lzib1nIt_7I7dRJ_NpfGiQkCqdsKJnvYwTaNGNkkFKLSSdGjGtktIQFYNSDc-y6cFLKUQduE6oYIbLWe7x8FBYFPGIVOJkKUpA5kULH5odejFevrKrDxG8ADr0M0PN/s320/CIMG1928.JPG" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-24387508370859591762010-02-08T20:17:00.015-06:002010-02-08T22:49:56.431-06:0025 for 25<div>Lord have mercy, I'm 25. And in honor of this momentous occasion, I've thought of 25 things that I want to do when I'm 25. Because I think that has a nice ring to it. And I need some things to do.</div><div><br /></div>1. Run a half-marathon. Old news.<div>2. Read one book per month for a total of 12 books. For the nerd in me.</div><div>3. Be the object of someone's "missed connection" on craigslist.</div><div>4. Fly somewhere alone. But more than that, I'd like to mysteriously lounge at the airport bar stirring my cocktail with the straw and then seductively eat the olive off the toothpick. Who is this girl? Why is she alone? And why is she drinking at 7 a.m.? Is she meeting up with friends for a vacation? Going to visit her sugar daddy? Interviewing for a fancy job in a trendy city? Actually, none of the above, you creeper. </div><div>5. Go to a Cardinals game. Because it's a crying shame, and frankly quite hypocritical, that I've never been to one.</div><div>6. Go to at least 3 places I've never been. </div><div>7. Go to fewer weddings than I did in 2008 and 2009, which is 17 and 14, respectively.</div><div>8. Have 25 followers on my blog. This one is up to you, people. Bite the bullet and admit that you read it.</div><div>9. Conquer Super Mario Brothers, Wii edition. Dream big, kids.</div><div>10. Fit into my prom dress. Cue suck-in.</div><div>11. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: line-through;">Use my friends </span>Go visit my friends who live in cool places.</div><div>12. Conduct an undercover investigation on why I lose a sock every <i>single</i> time I do laundry. More than anything in this world I'd like to solve this mystery and put those socks in their place. Which is in my drawer, rolled tightly with their mates.</div><div>13. Start answering my phone and responding to text messages in a timely manner. Because I hear that's what having a phone is for.</div><div>14. Stop judging people based on their grammar. </div><div>15. Talk about cutting down on the number of "that's what she said" jokes I make but not actually doing it because it because it's too hard.... long pause.... that's what she said.</div><div>16. Buy a pair of skinny jeans. And wear them.</div><div>17. Take tennis lessons and play competitively if it turns out that I don't suck.</div><div>18. Go into Target one time and <i><b>not </b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">come out with a V neck t-shirt. Just one time.</span></i></div><div>19. Finalize my list of "celebrities I'm allowed to cheat on any boyfriend with".</div><div>20. Not go green.</div><div>21. Keep breaking hearts and taking names.</div><div>22. Come up with 4 more things to do during my 25th year on this earth.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ba-deep-ba-deep-ba-deep that's all folks. Stay tuned.</div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-91111090239101836762010-01-10T15:34:00.013-06:002010-01-11T12:47:13.813-06:00Arkansas in all its glory.It's no secret that I'm head over heels in love with my state. The great state of Arkansas. The Natural State. Some people don't appreciate Arkansas as much as I do, and I feel that it's my personal responsibility to convince them otherwise. But that can't be done without allowing me to be your tour guide. So Sara and Sara, this is for you. Y'all should abandon Memphis immediately, jump on I-40 west, and make the journey to Fayetteville, Arkansas. The following are the top 10 reasons you will not be disappointed: <div><br /></div><div>10.Do you eat Tyson chicken? Shop at Wal-Mart much? Come see where they started. Doesn't get more exciting than that.</div><div>9. As of September 2008, Little Rock, Arkansas was the farthest West that Sara Harvey had ever been, courtesy of yours truly. I'm all for expanding people's horizons, even if it is just an additional 200 miles. </div><div>8. <a href="http://www.wildwildernessdrivethroughsafari.com/">The Gentry Drive Thru Safari</a>. Duh.</div><div>7. While nothing in our history together makes me think that we would want to go hike a <a href="http://spencerlimb.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/ozark_mountains_1.jpg">mountain</a>, the opportunity would be there should we so desire. </div><div>6. You'll hear the famous Hog Call a minimum of 15 times over the course of the weekend. And I know you've missed that. Woo Pig Sooie.</div><div>5. Possible celebrity sightings: The Duggar family. That's really it. But there's 21 possibilities right there. </div><div>4. You can see the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQD3ucZ2n6RXPkafi51_1rJw9nlYLj8-kO_E93OMW2ih77bP5JNj8Bpk8X-hXMCcwu2cDVWaKvi6kfxJhrxktv_SE_GpRMzR-oXIFhyphenhyphenZcsOfAnDgto1z9smFJGK_20NAgveKCbDGkwRw/s320/BUMP+its.jpg">poof</a> in its natural habitat. Sans Bump-It.</div><div>3. Dickson street. A less... urban Beale Street.</div><div>2. You could go an entire weekend without having to dodge a single motorized wheelchair on the street. Plus, your chances of living increase exponentially.</div><div>1. I turn a quarter-of-a-century years old on February 8th, 2010. And you two coming to Fayetteville would be the best present I could ask for. That, or an iPhone.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think I've made my case.</div><div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-30311043582194529032009-12-13T20:45:00.026-06:002009-12-14T15:04:24.524-06:00Back to realityYeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I haven't written a blog in a while. In a long while. During the time of my absence you could have conceived, birthed, and raised a child. I get it, and I apologize.<div><br /><div> <div>I was on top of the world back in October when I placed 4th in a <a href="http://clubtrillion.blogspot.com/2009/10/fan-appreciation-week-story-4th-place.html">writing contest</a>, as I'm confident you'll remember. Since then, I've been dodging paparazzi, adopting children from Africa, shaving my head, and getting chased down by Swedes bearing golf clubs.... you know, typical famous people stuff. But I want my old life back. I'm sick of the fame. Sick of the fortune. I'm a normal person, just like you. I just want to be <i>Carla</i> again. <div><br /></div><div>This is precisely the reason my sister and I have decided to set a totally normal-person goal for ourselves. A <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: line-through;">fairly lofty</span> remarkably long goal actually. Thirteen.point.one miles long to be exact. That's right. The Sawatski's will be running in their first, and likely their last, half-marathon on March 7, 2010. Why? Because I always said I never could. And who better to prove wrong than yourself?</div><div><br /></div><div>I consider myself a fairly athletic person. Whether or not my high school box scores reflect that is beside the point. I have professional athletes in my immediate family. And I'm not one to brag, but if I was, I would mention that I have five, count them FIVE, intramural championships under my belt. But like I said, I'm not one to brag. In light of this, up until about a month ago, 13.1 miles was approximately 12.1 miles longer than I had run without stopping in the past decade. And that is a fact.</div><div><br /></div><div>That being said, I don't think anyone would dare accuse me of being a "runner". If everyone I ever knew did an acrostic of my name and were forced to come up with one word to describe me that began with an R, "runner" is the last thing I would expect to see. Radical? Clearly. Radiant? Obviously. Realistic? Affirmative. But Runner? Not a snowball's chance in hell. I wake up sore if I even have a dream about running. My high school track career spanned the course of a single day. That brisk, April morning was the exact morning that I discovered that I'm not fast, I can't jump, and passing that baton thing is infinitely harder than it looks. But I got to miss a day of school, and that's what counted.</div><div><br /></div><div>My official word is that this is not a publicity stunt. But I also can't promise that Johanna isn't Tiger Woods' alleged mistress #17. I can't promise that she is, either. That's really for the public to decide.</div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-31213512412375095292009-10-26T23:08:00.016-05:002009-10-29T10:16:43.727-05:00I make awkward look good - 1st edition.I love a good awkward situation. Because I try not to take life too seriously. And because they're freaking hilarious. I would venture to say that I thrive in awkward situations, revel in them even. <div><br /></div><div>This may be directly attributable to the extensive amount of time that I spent in what one would define as "The Awkward Years". For most people, this formidable period of time is synonymous with "The Tween Years". These years, according to Old Faithful (Wikipedia) span a period of approximately 4 years, roughly between the ages of 10 and 14. To that I would like to give Wikipedia a big, fat HA. My awkward years covered a record-breaking 12 years, beginning around age 6 and ending (I think) as I approached 18 years old. </div><div><br /></div><div>Throughout these years, I had three of the greatest haircuts to ever fall on mankind: The Bowl Cut, The Bowlet, and the I-got-bored-in-class-and-cut-my-own-bangs style. Allow me to elaborate.</div><div><br /></div><div>1. The Bowl Cut. This is your classic cut, sported by none other than <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moe_Howard">Moe Howard</a> and of course, myself. If you're not familiar with the bowl cut, it's pretty self explanatory. Just imagine my mom taking a bowl out of our kitchen cabinet, turning it upside-down on my head, and then slashing off all visible hair. Remove the bowl from my head and what do you have? A masterpiece. Especially for a 6-year-old girl who already wears her older brother's hand-me-downs. Let's suffice it to say, no one had me mistaken for a fairy princess.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. The Bowlet. Most of you have probably never heard of the Bowlet before. That's because I made it up. This is a style that I wore between styles 1 and 3. Which is why it is number 2 on today's list. Allow me to paint a picture for you. The Bowlet is a combination of two of the most recognized haircuts to date: the bowl cut and the mullet. From head-on, this looks like your standard bowl cut. However, when you rotate your specimen (in this case, me) 90 degrees to either side, you notice a bit of a difference. Where, at one time, my hair was at an even length around the circumference of my abnormally large head; now, there is a gradual down-and-back slope beginning at my ears. This slope continues until the back of my hair reaches just below my shoulders. I feel fairly confident that my sister and I are the only two people to ever display this do. How's that for fashion forward?</div><div><br /></div><div>3. The I-got-bored-in-class-and-cut-my-own-bangs style. Do you have a picture in your head? Is it awful? I assure you that my reality was much, much worse than what you're seeing in your mind's eye. Let me guess, you're picturing uneven, jagged bangs across my forehead? Yep, worse. What about bangs that hit midway down my forehead? Ha, I wish. Oh no, this little attention-grubbing 9-year-old went for the let's-see-how-short-I-can-get-one-side-of-my-bangs-while-leaving-the-other-side-the-same-length. I remember this day like it was yesterday. I was in Mrs. Cox's 4th grade class. We were talking about the rainforest that day. Since I had absolutely no interest in this whatsoever, I decided to get out my blunt-tip, Fiskars scissors and get to work. I cut off the first inch and felt the power flow through my veins. It was the gateway cut, and I was in for a trip. The next thing I knew my classmates had begun egging me on. On the back row I even heard someone whisper, "she won't cut them any shorter than that". Watch me, Michael. I kept cutting. And cutting. And cutting. Until voila. The final product. I essentially had a buzz cut on 3 inches of forehead space, leaving the remaining part of my forehead with normal, 9-year-old bangs. In case you're wondering, there's absolutely nothing you can do to fix that. And ohbytheway, there's also not much you can do to hide that. For the next year, I parted my hair to the wrong side, swooping my remaining bangs over the damaged side. I was hot. And all 9-year-old boys wanted a piece of me. All of them.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>If you notice the title of this blog, it suggests that this will not be the only entry about my awkwardness as a child, adolescent, pre-teen, and teen. I am not certain how many editions there will be, but based on my life experience, I assure you that I have enough material. </div><div></div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-69220658916549737002009-10-21T17:30:00.007-05:002009-10-23T13:47:39.016-05:004th place.Y'all (all 21 of you) should know that as of October 21, 2009... I am officially famous. And by that, I mean tied for fourth place in a virtually (pun intended) meaningless writing contest with my next of kin. Out of 80+ entries, I'll chalk that up as a W. Partly because over the years I've gotten quite accustomed to being <i>almost</i> good enough at everything. Which, ironically, is what the contest was about. And this is easily the most excited I've been to win absolutely nothing, save a bit of a boost to my ego. So for that I thank you, Mark Titus. And thanks for correcting my typo. That could have been fatal.<br /><br /><a href="http://clubtrillion.blogspot.com/2009/10/fan-appreciation-week-story-4th-place.html">Click here </a>if you're interested. Which you should be. I'm just saying.MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-89980126513816170512009-09-29T16:06:00.021-05:002009-10-29T14:08:43.426-05:00Happy birthday, dad. And thanks. For everything.With this Friday quickly approaching, and my always fast-paced social schedule (ha), I decided to post this blog a little early. You see, this Friday would be my dad's 58th birthday. As most of you already know, my dad passed away very unexpectedly a few weeks after his birthday 2 years ago. The following is a little something I like to call "Happy birthday, dad. And thanks. For everything." <div><br /></div><div>Thank you for......<br /><div><ul><li>making me the most punctual person to ever breathe air.</li><li>not letting me quit anything... ever.</li><li>threatening to, but never actually following through with announcing "Carla Sawatski, #41 on the court, #1 in your heart" at my basketball games.</li><li>teaching me how to "really" shoot a 3-pointer... and swing a golf club... and swing a bat... and do anything, really.</li><li>making me your favorite child (hate to be the one to spill the beans).</li><li>running with me every morning at 5 a.m. And by that, I mean responding to my sarcastic "good night dad, want to wake me up at 6 a.m. for a run?" with "well, there's no need to waste the day, how about 5?".</li><li>giving me no other option but to love sports.</li><li>reminding me not to sweat the small stuff. For example, Jay just happened to get drafted by the Twins the same week that I made my first C on a test. And your response was "did you see the P.A. marquee? It says 'congratulations Jay Sawatski on getting drafted by the Minnesota Twins'. Yeah... and on the other side, it says 'Congratulations Carla Sawatski for making a 78 on her Chemistry test. It's about time.'" </li><li>still having a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Motorola_Bag_Phone">bag phone</a> (circa 1992) in your possession until 2007, just in case you needed it. </li><li>reminding me, every time I left the house in the rain, that the roads were going to be slick. Every.single.time.</li><li>having a home remedy for everything. And I mean <i>everything</i>.</li><li>teaching me that "if you can't say something nice, at least try to make it funny". And while we're at it... thank you mom, for the soap in the mouth.</li><li>taking me on dates when I was little and letting me pick everything we did, even <span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"></span>when I had a bowl cut.</li><li>always sarcastically suggesting that instead of going out, my friends and I should stay home and play a game of Scrabble with you, secretly wishing we would take you up on it.</li><li>making sure that I knew you loved me... for me. </li><li>coming to change my tire in high school at 2 a.m. when I was supposed to be home at midnight.<span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></li><li>tricking me into riding my first upside-down roller coaster when I was 7.</li><li>being good at <i>everything</i>.</li><li>having 6 computer monitors on your desk. Because you needed that many.</li><li>never being able to tell me "no".</li><li>reminding Natalie and me that "you're the same person on the inside no matter what color your hair is". Which was black. After an at-home coloring experiment went terribly wrong.</li><li>coming to Fayetteville for all of the Hog football games when I was in college. Which meant that I could count on you to skip the game, come eat at the restaurant at which I waited tables, watch the game on the ancient 24" TV that stood 50 feet away, and still leave a generous tip. </li><li>trusting me to make my own decisions, but still being there when I screwed <span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"></span>it up.</li><li>having a never-ending supply of Hawaiian shirts.</li><li>calling me, like clockwork, every Sunday night "just to hear my voice".</li><li>teaching me the value of a dollar by refusing to turn on the heat until the first snowfall.</li><li>being my alarm clock, but more importantly for laying down on my bed and <span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"></span>letting me sleep for 10 more minutes.</li><li>knowing what was wrong with my car, even if you were just listening to it on speakerphone.</li><li>saying that all 5 of us laughing at old home videos on Christmas Eve was the best present you could ask for. And meaning it.<span style="WHITE-SPACE: pre" class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></li><li>being my voice of reason when I was bawling my eyes out at Wal-Mart when my car battery died and I was trying to get home for Thanksgiving by saying, "Carla, shut up and buy a new battery. It's not that big of a deal." And it wasn't. </li><li>hugging me a trillion and one times. </li><li>teaching me <i>life</i>. Simply by living yours the way it was meant to be lived.</li></ul></div><div><br /></div><div>I only hope that someone could say "Carla, you <i>are</i> your father's daughter". What a compliment. I miss you and I love you plenty. Happy birthday.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP8t7Kl1txWZ-28RtNBK348fvzD7p0nnj65hGn2U0kb5UHw7oJN6zNKW7DBeFWp2UhQpBa6t6l6F-JH4cT7Z0A4dASDozibNFHmhlglv6lH6aWnQ4w69v1xp3U5sZEAzhnoOY2H5-VCLLW/s1600-h/dad+2.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 261px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387027769184075778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP8t7Kl1txWZ-28RtNBK348fvzD7p0nnj65hGn2U0kb5UHw7oJN6zNKW7DBeFWp2UhQpBa6t6l6F-JH4cT7Z0A4dASDozibNFHmhlglv6lH6aWnQ4w69v1xp3U5sZEAzhnoOY2H5-VCLLW/s320/dad+2.jpg" /></a> <img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 222px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387027764077057442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EpYVqM6cMwEYU5Z8HOHoK9DrEuatAHQXglyDi1VHukQ8g0puJQsTvcSdoCP_VhJFqFGRocFibtK9CMrhsiZuVp1l9g-9Bms5qQgdnFuvoVyqx9lhO6rMNt2Dhyphenhyphend9UX1_7feMLFqXFeZ5/s320/dad3.jpg" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJcQa-Jtoe0PeRvp4qYvPbiGvjyKD5kuoaINF5DAWJ671KghK-SPs7yV7w9FxO2Uu2uh4Iy9Bwh7al2ksNfKOk5GA4gQ5OjRyIWBdAjXiR-rrTzI_TCa6AMr6AcqKK1IVzs_TqFfs5nr-/s1600-h/Dad+4.jpg"> <img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 241px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387029808731709378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJcQa-Jtoe0PeRvp4qYvPbiGvjyKD5kuoaINF5DAWJ671KghK-SPs7yV7w9FxO2Uu2uh4Iy9Bwh7al2ksNfKOk5GA4gQ5OjRyIWBdAjXiR-rrTzI_TCa6AMr6AcqKK1IVzs_TqFfs5nr-/s320/Dad+4.jpg" /></a></div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-34408157738558074372009-09-23T23:33:00.002-05:002009-09-23T23:42:36.063-05:00This won't take long.The following is true: girls like to take pictures. Girls like to take group pictures. I'm as guilty as the next person. In my opinion, if there's not a picture, it didn't happen. And I for sure didn't wear that outfit.<div><br /></div><div>Many of you have probably guessed that I have an opinion on this topic. Well, many of you are right. And here it is. Girls that put their hand on their hip to make their arm look skinny while taking a picture make me <i>crazy.</i> And I mean that in the purest form of the word. Literally <i>crazy.</i> Especially when there is more than one girl attempting the pose for the benefit of her biceps/triceps brachii. It's strike one on the "reasons we won't be friends list". And in my game, you only get two strikes. Screw convention.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me tell you why. Everyone knows you don't just stand around like that. It's like gay marriage, it's just not natural. Yeah, I just went there. You're doing it to make your arm look skinny. And, spoiler alert, it doesn't help that much. I tried it once and, to me, it screams "mentally challenged". Quite loudly. Personally, I don't care about the diameter of your arms. I think it's safe to say that no one else on this planet does either. So, just stand there and smile. It's a tactic that has worked for quite some time now. </div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-19940984903912275562009-08-27T19:46:00.024-05:002009-08-27T21:17:48.404-05:00Re: cats and society<div>This blog may cause some of you to think less of me, but I'm okay with that. I might even lose a few friends... but again, I'm okay with that. And since there are only 17 people who read this thing, I'm really okay with it. I have decided to be who I am and say what I mean. Because those who <i>mind</i>, don't <i>matter</i>. And those who <i>matter</i>, don't <i>mind</i>. Or something like that. But since I'm right, I guess none of that really <i>matters</i>. </div><div><br /></div>A little over a week ago, a good friend of mine, Lauren Cowling (holla), wrote a blog about <a href="http://threefootbubble.blogspot.com/2009/08/cats-and-society.html">cats and society</a>. It just so happened that on that very same day, I had considered this topic as well. You see, I've never liked cats. Let me just put that out there. <div><br /></div><div>Let me start from the beginning, because, well, that's typically a good place to start. My family had a cat once... I was 4... we called it kitty... it ran away... and no one cried. Why? Because we didn't trust it as far as we could throw it. And I use the term "it", because I legitimately don't remember its gender. And I didn't capitalize "kitty" because I don't think we ever actually named it. We just called it what it was. I suppose we could have called it "young feline", but that's a little lengthy. Because it was pointless. It did nothing. And after doing nothing, it did more nothing.<div><br /></div><div>But what really inspired me to blog about this, was something I came across. Something I experienced first-hand. Something I saw with my naked eye. Approximately 3 hours before I stumbled upon LC's blog (while I was working incredibly hard, I might add), I caught a glimpse of something that one of my co-workers has chosen to publicly display on her door. For anonymity purposes, I can't say much more. Suffice it to say... it has to do with cats, their superiority, and their party habits... which I was completely unaware of.</div><div><br /></div><div>That encounter really got me thinking about cats. I've always known that I don't like cats, but I didn't realize how deep these feelings ran until that moment. I don't think that I really need to <i>prove</i> that dogs are better than cats, but what-the-heck it's a Thursday night and The Office hasn't started back yet.... so here we go.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me break it to you gently, your cat sucks. Both of them. Or all 25 of them if you're what society would call a crazy cat lady. To put it lightly, they're a waste of space. And I'm not apologizing.</div><div><br /></div><div>In case you're an idiot, let me clarify: I'm a dog person. My dog loves me more than anything in this world, more than any other person on this planet. In fact, at this very moment, she is standing next to me with her nose on my knee, looking at me with her puppy eyes, begging for me to pet her. Heck, I could come in after committing a heinous crime and my dog would still run up to me, open her mouth into her little doggy smile, and probably ask me what she should tell the police for my alibi. Do cats do that? No. The smug little thing probably wouldn't even know I got home. And then it would probably call the police on me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Has anyone ever told you "ok I'll do it, but just because you gave me those kitty cat eyes?". I hope not, because if they have, you're a freak. And you're probably really awkward. And you should probably stop looking at people in general. </div><div><br /></div><div>Have you ever heard of a rescue cat? A drug-sniffing cat? A seeing-eye CAT? Me either. Cats are egotistical. They don't care about you at all. They're out for their own interests. They wouldn't care about the person buried beneath the pile of rubble, the drug smuggler who was about to cross into U.S. territory, or the blind guy who is about to get hit by a car trying to cross the street. They'd probably let it happen. Encourage it even. That's because they're evil. And they want to rule the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>For further proof, let's take a quick glance at the media: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_fictional_dogs">Famous dogs</a>. I tried to search Wikipedia for "famous cats", and this is what I found. "<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif, fantasy;font-size:13px;">you may create the page "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Famous_cats&action=edit&redlink=1" class="new" title="Famous cats (page does not exist)" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(204, 34, 0); background-image: none; background-repeat: initial; background-attachment: initial; -webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; background-color: initial; background-position: initial initial; ">Famous cats</a>", but consider checking the search results below to see whether it is already covered." <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, fantasy;font-size:16px;">It wasn't. And in the words of Michael Scott, "Wikipedia is the best thing ever. Anyone in the world can write anything they want about any subject. So you know you are getting the best possible information." If it's not on Wikipedia, I don't trust it. There are no famous cats on Wikipedia. Therefore, I don't trust cats. It's really all about the math.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 13px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif, fantasy;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, fantasy;font-size:16px;">Honestly, I have never really trusted people who own cats, and I'm especially skeptical of people who love cats. They can't be trusted. Live by it. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>In other news: Jon and Kate are still divorced and Michael Jackson is still dead.</div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-37055229870784702782009-08-17T19:12:00.004-05:002009-08-17T19:23:31.877-05:00Jinx<div>I'm not going to lie, I debated about whether or not to post about my <a href="http://middleswat.blogspot.com/2009/08/my-hidden-talent.html">hidden talent.</a> I thought I might jinx myself, which would be tragic. Rest assured, my friends, that this was not the case. </div><div><br /></div><div>Category: Phrase</div><div>"_ _ L _ _ _ _"</div><div><br /></div><div>It would be nice to have that $30,000 in my pocket for solving this in the bonus round. Donations will be gladly accepted. </div><div><br /></div><div>I promise that this is the last time I try to convince you that I'm a genius. But I think I've made myself pretty clear.</div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-2591899736021857892009-08-12T19:03:00.009-05:002009-08-12T19:54:52.641-05:00My hidden talent<div><div>It's no secret that I have no hidden talents. I'm not double jointed, I can't draw with my toes (or fingers for that matter), I can't juggle chainsaws, I can't even roll my tongue... which I blame my parents for. But over the past few months, I have discovered a talent that has been hiding under the surface for the past 24 years, just waiting to come out. And I'm not going to hide it anymore. I'm just not.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here it is.... ahem.... I'm the shit at Wheel of Fortune. Excuse my French, but I feel like that's the only way to get the point across. My only other option was that I am "the bomb", but that's lame. </div><div><br /></div></div><div>Now, I've never considered words in general to be my forte. You might be saying to yourself, "but Carla, you're a Speech Pathologist. How can words <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">not</span> be your forte?". Well my answer is this: ummmm.... I'm completely aware of this. But I didn't know what to do with a Bachelor's degree in Mathematics. So Speech Pathology was the result of a couple aptitude tests, a deep look into my inner soul, and many conversations with my mom about how it's a recession-proof occupation. Which, I think, qualifies her for having some sort of psychic ability. Thanks, Treev. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ok, so here's how I got discovered, and I use that term lightly. When I was in Los Angeles, my sister and I were sitting at the Ocean Lodge Motel (it's as classy as it sounds) watching Wheel of Fortune. A puzzle came up, and this is how it read at the time. </div><div>Category: Event</div><div>" _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ N _ _ _" </div><div><br /></div><div>Spoiler alert: I solved it.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then today, it happened again. </div><div>Category: Showbiz </div><div>"_ _ _ _ S _ _ _ _ _ _ S S"</div><div><br /></div><div>Spoiler alert: same as above.</div><div><br /></div><div>And again...</div><div>Catgory: Phrase</div><div>" _ _ _ _ _ _ _ T N _ _ _ _ _ _"</div><div><br /></div><div>Spoiler alert: I think you get the point.</div><div><br /></div>So today, August 12, 2009, marks the day that I have begun to DVR (when did that become a verb?) Wheel of Fortune, unabashedly I might add. I consider myself to be "in training", much as one would train for a marathon. Exactly like that, actually. Have I mentioned that I need some hobbies?<div><br /></div><div>The purpose of this blog is three fold:<div>1. To brag</div><div>2. To see if anyone can solve those puzzles. </div><div>3. To challenge anyone who can to a Wheel of Fortune Duel. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry, am I 85 years old?</div></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-62395978733104997232009-07-16T19:19:00.006-05:002009-10-25T20:18:04.682-05:00Open Here.I'm in an uproar. Time out: I don't know if you can actually be <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">in</span> an uproar, but if you can, I most certainly am. Actually, uproar has started to not even sound like a word I've said it so many times trying to figure out if you can be <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">in</span> an uproar. Time in. <div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Disclaimer: I am very happy to have a job. I am very happy to have a job that I enjoy. And I am very happy that I get a paycheck on the 15th and last day of every month. This post actually has very little to do with my job, if anything at all. But you can never be too safe, or have too many disclaimers.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I have a 9-5 job. To me, that means I work between, but not before or after, the hours of 9 and 5, respectively. Today, I got home at 7. When that happens I want two things... food and a couch. Scratch that 3 things. Food, a couch, and a new car. Had to throw that in because it's always on the "things I want" list. I'm hoping my mom reads this and is feeling generous. Here's to that, Treev. Anyway, I digress. I need food and a couch, in that order and quickly. So tonight when I got home 2 hours after I intended, I made my way to the freezer and pulled out one of my "I got home late and don't feel like cooking" purchases. Green Giant Garden Vegetable MEDLEY (I don't know why they got so excited about MEDLEY). "Simply steam in the bag!" it boasts. Easy enough, so I pulled out that bag, threw it in the microwave and starvingly (new word) waited 4 minutes for my meal to simply steam in the bag. By the way, 4 minutes is borderline too long to wait after working a 10 hour day, especially for a bag full of vegetables. </div><div><br /></div><div>But anyway, I pulled it out and found the "open here" arrow, and as I've done so many times before, that's what I started to do. Then I kept trying to open it. And then I tried to open it some more. Then I saw another "open here" arrow right below the first one. And another one below that. And so on and so forth. This 5 inch by 5 inch bag containing 8oz of steamed vegetables had a total of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">eight</span></span> "open here" arrows along with<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">f</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">our</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">more</span> arrows labeled "pull". I frantically tried all <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">twelve</span></span> (I was a math major) areas which covered roughly every freaking square inch of this bag trying to open the darn thing not knowing if I'd ever get it open. I pulled and I tore, I dug my nails into the plastic, I even resorted to biting, Mike Tyson style.<i> </i>It wasn't pretty. And it wasn't classy either. </div><div><br /></div><div>This bag was mocking me. I think it was trying to say "this is what you get for leaving me in the freezer until all the frozen pizzas were gone". And then it probably let out a maniacal laugh. </div><div><br /></div><div>I decided that I was not going to lose my dignity by cutting this bag open with scissors. That would be taking the easy road, which we all know leads to nothing but destruction. So I jumped back on the straight and narrow and decided to fight to the end. To make a ridiculously long story even longer.... I lost. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">sigh. </span>I.......... lost. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">shrugs shoulders while shaking head</span>. I gave it my all, but it simply wasn't enough. Not even through Christ who strengthens me. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, Green Giant Garden Vegetable MEDLEY. You may have won the battle. But believe you me, I will win this war. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-79653269468694371492009-06-24T19:21:00.003-05:002009-06-24T19:27:05.681-05:00Writer's block<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:11px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Buying some time until I get over my writer's block. I need to encounter some stupid people... and quick.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">1. I make lists all the time. And I put things on my list like "eat lunch" or "wake up" just so I can cross it off.<br /><br />2. From the bottom of my heart I wish I could sing, and I honestly don't think it's fair that I can't. <br /><br />3. I will love the Razorbacks until the day I die, even if they cause me to do so.<br /><br />4. I hate the words "hotcakes" and "cookbook". I'll slap you silly if you say them around me.<br /><br />5. I took awkward to a new level in Jr. High. For example, my mom used to make my sandwiches on Hoagie bread. I was embarrassed that I didn't have normal white, square bread like everyone else, so when I ate my sandwich I held it under the table and pinched off bites.<br /><br />6. My dad called me Snarla when I was in a bad mood.<br /><br />7. My favorite part of the day is brushing my hair after it's been up in a towel wrap after taking a shower.<br /><br />8. I was invited to 17 weddings in 2008. That's got to be a record of some sort.<br /><br />9. One time when I was out in Fayetteville, someone stole my shoes. Literally stole them off my feet. I went home barefoot and angry. I may or may not have called the police. <br /><br />10. It's been May 2005 in my parent's house for the past 4 years because that month is a picture of my brother pitching in the Hogs sports calendar.<br /><br />11. My closet is color coded and arranged from tank tops to long sleeves within each color. Everything faces the closet door. It's the only way to do it.<br /><br />12. Everytime I do laundry, I lose a sock. Every single time. I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out why this happens. I take both socks off, I put both socks in the hamper, I put everything in the hamper in the washer, I put everything in the washer in the dryer, and still... I come out with an odd number of socks. It's a mystery that may never be solved. <br /><br />13. I have a recurring dream that my teeth fall out. <br /><br />14. I was in the commercial for the University of Arkansas that always aired during football and basketball games. It was a shot of me walking across the stage during graduation. No autographs, please.<br /><br />15. I was born on February 8, at exactly 8:00am, and I weighed 8lbs 8oz. You can't make that up.<br /><br />16. My dog's name is Ozzie... as in Smith, not Osborne. I picked out the name before I got her and refused to name her anything else, even though she's not a boy.<br /><br />17. On April 1, 1995 my family's car was stolen while we were at my brother's baseball tournament in Memphis. The following week during prayer-request time at school, I asked my class to pray that the people who stole our car opened up my backpack (teal, Jansport), got out my Bible, read it, and became Christians. I'm going to ask God about that when I get to Heaven.<br /><br />18. If I was a boy my name was going to be Stanley Wallace Sawatski. I don't know what my parents had against me.<br /><br />19. If you've met my sister, you've met me. And vice versa.<br /><br />20. I love math. I was a math major until I couldn't understand my teacher's accents anymore. I still do Calculus problems when I get bored in class just to see if I can still do it. I haven't stumped myself yet. <br /><br />21. I got in trouble in SonPower because Elizabeth Baker and I put too much powder in the lemonade. I still remember that lady's name, and I think about that everytime I see her. It was worth it, the lemonade was good.<br /><br />22. In first grade, Sarah Phillips and I used to go to the bathroom and bang our heads on the sink so that we could get the gelly ice-packs. Mhmm.<br /><br />23. Having a dog has taught me that I'm nowhere near ready to be a mother. You can't just give a kid a rawhide. <br /><br />24. I used to think I was going to marry Devon Sawa from Little Giants because his last name was the first 4 letters of my last name. <br /><br />25. One time I lied when my brother asked me if I had played his video game. He thought I had because it wasn't put back the way that he usually did it. I insisted that I didn't play it. Two hours of interrogation and one "family discussion" later, he finally dropped the subject. I never told anyone I lied. Jay, I played your video game. And I think I won.</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">S</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic; line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">orry if you just read that for the second time hoping there would be something different than the one on Facebook. There wasn't.</span></span><br /></div>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-45999862264485282612009-06-04T13:08:00.007-05:002009-06-05T13:28:45.374-05:00Jack of all trades.Grandfather: Professional athlete<br />Grandmother: Professional singer<br />Father: Professional athlete<br />Brother: Professional athlete<br /><br />With my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">genealogy</span>, I would expect that I would be either an outstanding athlete or an immaculate singer. I am neither. In my days at Pulaski Academy, I played my fair share of sports. I did not excel at these sports. My singing was worse.<br /><br /><strong>Basketball</strong>: I'd call basketball my "good sport". I wasn't bad, wasn't bad at all. In fact, ahem... I was named Most Valuable Player for my Junior High, District Championship winning basketball team. Please, hold your applause. That, unfortunately, was the peak of my athletic prowess. The very next year, when we moved to the Sr. High team, Jana <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Derlikowski</span>, Alison <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Tussey</span>, Jenny Hardin and I formed a revolutionary group called The Four Corners. What we did was.... well, we sat on the end of the bench. We refused to uncross our leg, stomp our foot twice, and recross our leg the other way when our teammate made a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">freethrow</span>. We hit Jana, made fun of each other, made fun of other people, and received countless "stop that" glares from our beloved upperclassmen. What we didn't do, was sweat... thus making our motto "No Sweat... because we don't".<br /><br /><strong>Softball</strong>: I'm a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Sawatski</span>. I did this because it was expected of me. I mean Jay's good at baseball, Carla must be good at softball, right? To me, it was just something to do after school. And let's be honest, I really wanted one of those jackets. I learned so much during my softball years. I learned what "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">moxy</span>" means. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Ok</span>, no, I really didn't... but I had to act like I did because my coach always asked me "Carla, is that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">moxy</span>?". I'd always reply with "probably not". I learned what it felt like to have a fan club. Mine consisted of approximately 6 people including my parents, but they brought signs, which made it legit. I learned what it felt like to lose... a lot. I also learned that you shouldn't skip a game to get your hair done for prom. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Woops</span>.<br /><br /><strong>Soccer</strong>: I came home from school one day and enthusiastically told my dad "I'm going to play soccer this year!". He looked at me blankly, and then began laughing hysterically. I wasn't kidding. And that was the year that I forced my dad to sit through the excruciatingly boring game of soccer. I'm not sure he ever forgave me.<br /><br /><strong>Pep club</strong>: This is something I never wanted to admit, especially in a public forum, but yes, I was in pep club. It was as awkward as it sounds. I proudly wore the gold mock-turtleneck, the pleated skirt, and of course, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Asics</span>... the mark of any official cheerleader in the 90's. Plus, I got to perform the world-renowned Pulaski Academy cheer that every cheerleader (or semi-cheerleader) that has ever gone to that school has performed. "Bruins in the front, let me hear ya grunt...". I think you know the rest.<br /><br /><strong>Track</strong>: actual conversation between me and my basketball coach --<br />coach: "hey, do you want to run at the state track meet?"<br />me: "no, I do not"<br />coach: "you get to miss a day of school"<br />me: "what time does the bus leave?"<br />That day was the beginning, and the end, of my track career.<br /><br />In my early years, I also experimented with piano, swimming, golf, gymnastics, tennis, and karate.<br /><br />I think, I THINK, I have justified my qualifications to be a Jack of all trades, one that excels at nothing. And then I got to thinking, "what AM I good at?". And then it occurred to me... math. I'm good at math. Really, God? Math? You had those genes to work with, and you gave me MATH? Good one.<br /><br />This entry is far too personal and insightful. Won't happen again.MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-51404121231329118822009-05-24T15:50:00.003-05:002009-05-24T16:05:54.139-05:00Reasons I'm not ready to be a mother (cont.)8. I currently drive the same car that I did when I was 16 years old. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say, it barely has room for one able-bodied passenger... much less a kicking, screaming, terrorizing child (which I feel that I will have).<br />9. Moms are supposed to be able to answer all the "how", "when", "who", and most importantly "why" questions that a child will undoubtedly have. I don't have an iPhone with the power of Google to retrieve those answers quickly and report them to my child so that he (I'm having boys) never has to tell his friends that his mom didn't know the answer.<br />10. I rely on Google to answer life's most important questions.MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-46621173353404520172009-05-12T12:56:00.017-05:002009-11-11T23:12:01.541-06:00Tennessee's Most Wanted: TaylorIn my final days in Memphis, I've been the victim of a heinous crime. Now, I don't mean to frighten anyone, but this criminal is still at large. He is believed to be armed and dangerous. I'm conducting a nation-wide search to find and convict said criminal.<br /><br />The crime occurred on Saturday, May 9, 2009 at approximately 2:15 a.m. Here are the details leading up to the crime.<br /><br />1:00 p.m.: I arrive at FedEx Forum<br />2:00 p.m.: The graduation ceremony begins<br />2:08 p.m.: I graduate<br />4:45 p.m.: The last person graduates.<br />5:00 p.m: My family celebrates my graduation, Mother's day, and my brother's birthday with dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe. We're very efficient.<br />10:30 p.m.: My friends and I arrive at The Flying Saucer.<br />2:00 a.m.: Hunger strikes.<br />2:01 a.m.: Jim refuses to make us Chili con Queso, and instead, brings Lauren Lee and I our tabs and politely asks us to get the heck out.<br /><br />The next hour is a blur. We had no idea what was coming next. Here is the sequence of events as I recall.<br /><br />Lauren Lee and I were leaving the Flying Saucer when we happened upon a boy, who may or may not have been dead, sitting by himself at a table by the door. I woke him up, checked his vital signs, and determined that he was alive. When he asked where we were going, we informed him that we would be dining at the Blues City Cafe (the scene of the crime), just one block away. We invited him to join, saying "Taylor, come with us, you'll make a good story". Not accustomed to being wrong, we were right.... but we didn't know just how right we were. Grateful that I had saved his life, he followed us to the Cafe. And then things got awkward.<br /><br />The three amigos sat down for a nice, quiet dinner on the corner of Beale and 2nd street. This was the last night that any of us would dine together. I decided on the chicken strips, Lauren Lee requested a double order of chicken strips along with tamales with chili (this is <em>a <a href="http://middleswat.blogspot.com/2009/04/english-language.html">whole nother</a> </em>story), and Taylor..... sigh....... Taylor ordered "The Best Meal on Beale". You heard me. Ribs, catfish, and chicken tenders included. All for the bargain price of $18.95.<br /><br /><br />Once we'd given Millie our order, we began chatting and learning about our 3rd amigo, Taylor. We discovered that he is a Sig Ep at The University of Tennessee by way of Clarksville, TN. We learned that he attended a wedding that evening (I'm assuming open bar). We also discovered that he felt the need to steal 5 cups from that wedding. We observed that Taylor speaks with a lisp. And finally, we found out that Taylor likes to try to bite people. And he doesn't give up easily. This information is not all-inclusive, but it's all we have.<br /><br />Our food arrived, and it was everything I expected it to be and more. Taylor felt the same way. He polished off his chicken fingers, catfish, and most of his ribs before informing us that he needed to use the restroom. And that's when it happened. Faster than you can say "Best Meal on Beale", he vanished. And by vanished, I mean we watched him walk out the back door. After the shock wore off, I decided to chase him down. After all, what are the three amigos with just two amigos? But it was to no avail, Taylor was gone. Did I mention he forgot to pay? And by "forgot", I mean knowingly ordered the most expensive meal on the menu, ate it until he was satisfied, claimed he needed to relieve himself, and walked himself and his credit card right out that back door. The classic dine-and-ditch.<br /><br />If anyone knows the whereabouts of this criminal, please request $20 to cover the cost of his meal, and then give it to Lauren Lee Favreau. Because I didn't actually pay for it.<br /><br />And that's how I saved a criminal's life. No good deed goes unpunished.<br /><br />Click on the picture. Now.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgag3A4qdgMzPbQ2nU31HO0p5Py4mrfsAfiAl2RU0HKCoTwIQsncR1cJHS8OKNUIdwjV6oBcr1Zhqgqpgw76hdZ-YBcLY-7RMppVQ2fo3uO2C8kBcb97Y9CYi-3j3yX7HFTm5v220rqAWdp/s1600-h/Taylor.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 384px; HEIGHT: 397px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335022134574319410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgag3A4qdgMzPbQ2nU31HO0p5Py4mrfsAfiAl2RU0HKCoTwIQsncR1cJHS8OKNUIdwjV6oBcr1Zhqgqpgw76hdZ-YBcLY-7RMppVQ2fo3uO2C8kBcb97Y9CYi-3j3yX7HFTm5v220rqAWdp/s320/Taylor.JPG" /></a></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAtwlcMNOnlpl_-kvAvXKcVAcA1y8NVv69H_ABDmDFM-qZX-PreOesCGS-Zjm7oMjvIOWiXlsYC-pye5moM2jPgHp8JqXTHCQ6KkWiqNW5zX_Vup6pwubWspkZlDPF21ck2gu_el8efc_/s1600-h/Taylor.JPG"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAtwlcMNOnlpl_-kvAvXKcVAcA1y8NVv69H_ABDmDFM-qZX-PreOesCGS-Zjm7oMjvIOWiXlsYC-pye5moM2jPgHp8JqXTHCQ6KkWiqNW5zX_Vup6pwubWspkZlDPF21ck2gu_el8efc_/s1600-h/Taylor.JPG"></a>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-67416132247182034452009-04-29T21:31:00.005-05:002009-04-30T12:06:25.880-05:00Attention Adam LambertDear Mr. Lambert,<br /><br />When you're on a live, nationally televised talent competition (as you are), and you are asked to choose between two groups to which you may or may not belong based on your performance (as you were), you're never supposed to <em>actually </em>choose a group (as you did).<br /><br />Have you ever seen American Idol, Adam? And by that, I mean are you a living, breathing human being? It's the oldest trick in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Seacrest's</span> bag. Splitting the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">contestants</span> into 2 groups and asking the remaining contestant the infamous question, "so, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">whoeveryouare</span>, which group do you think you belong in?". This is the first time in my years of watching American Idol that I've actually seen someone answer that question. And I'm glad it was you, Adam. Because I think you suck anyway.<br /><br />This, my dear, is what you're supposed to say. "Oh my gosh, Ryan, I can't answer that. Both groups are so talented. Why are you putting me in this position? I can't choose. I just can't. I love them all". And then you just stop talking. All while smiling and laughing and looking at both groups for an equal amount of time. And when the host attempts to cut you off and get to the point (as he did), you <em><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">definitely</span> </em>don't cut <em>him</em> off in order to choose your place. It's called tact. And if you don't know what that is, please refer to my previous post entitled "tact" (My creativity is astounding).<br /><br />I hope this is a lesson learned. And I hope that it goes well with you.<br /><br />I mute the show when you sing,<br />Carla<br /><br />p.s. I'm looking to buy some new eyeliner, any suggestions, Adam?MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-38816593408428350742009-04-28T20:27:00.006-05:002009-04-29T15:46:02.218-05:00Reasons I'm not ready to be a motherI was thinking today about just how many of my friends have babies. It seems like everyone and their mother has a child (no pun intended). So I was trying to picture myself with a baby, and this is what I saw..... cricket.......cricket.......cricket....... nothing. Couldn't do it. Not without keeping my sanity.<br /><br />So here's my on-going list of reasons I'm not ready to be a mother. And hopefully, someday, years down the road, I will be able to change this list to "why I'm going to be the best mother that ever lived". Until then.... in no particular order*....<br /><br /><br />1. I don't wake up to loud noises.<br />2. If I did wake up to loud noises, someone would need to stand in between me and that loud noise for the good of everyone involved.<br />3. I look better with long hair.<br />4. I drink excessive amounts of Diet Coke. It's not something I can do (or am willing to do) in moderation. I've tried.<br />5. I spend the majority of my time coming up with new greeting cards so that my sister and I can make millions one day. (This is not a joke).<br />6. I lock up my dog for important occasions including (but not limited to) American Idol, Lost, and Wii sporting events. The verdict's still out, but I don't think you can do that with a child.<br />7. I watch entirely too much reality TV for my child to grow up to be a normal, functional (or semi-functional) human being.<br /><br />*This list is not all-inclusive. More to come, I'm sure.MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-9842724740304336022009-04-22T22:58:00.003-05:002010-03-29T12:04:18.175-05:00The English LanguageIf I was a gamblin' woman, I'd bet that no one reads this because of the sorry title I just used. Not my fault. Those people need to quit judging books by the cover, quit knocking it till they try it, and any other cliche you deem appropriate at this time. And cliches are always appropriate.<br /><br />If you're still with me.... some time ago, I had an "AHA moment" as Oprah would call it. Time out: I hate Oprah. But that's neither here nor there. Time in. There is this particular phrase in the English language that I just can't seem to wrap my mind around. And everyone says it. Yes, even you. What is it? You may be asking yourself. Drumroll please..... ba duh ba duh ba duh....<br /><br />"A whole nother".<br /><br />Let me let that sink in....<br /><br />A whole nother story. A whole nother reason. A whole nother (insert word of choice here).<br /><br />In my professional opinion, which actually isn't legit for 2 more weeks, but whatever... there are two possibilities for this phenomenon. Either we mean "another whole" and we have broken apart "another" into "a (blank) nother" and stuck "whole" in between. Or, the more likely scenario, we actually mean "a whole other", but then where did that silly /n/ come from?<br /><br />I know this is deep.<br /><br />I do it. You do it. We all do it.<br /><br />I'm okay with it. I hope you are too.MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-12597319383897555562009-04-12T20:58:00.006-05:002009-04-12T22:51:25.066-05:00Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble...<div align="left"><em>"Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble when you're an Arkansas Razorback fan."</em><br /><em></em><br />I find it quite easy, actually (I'm talking post-1994 here). I think the Razorbacks have done more to contribute to my life-lessons on humility than any other factor in my life. And I thank them for that. Somehow, no matter the sport, they always know the exact moment that I start becoming too prideful. And I can always count on those Hogs to bring me crashing back down. They remind me to humble myself. And I always do. Over and over and over and over again. </div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323997597737581938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 157px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPpI4jAhQ_34ZXQzsXl0xReeassqQZZEgOO4_C699Jk_Re1GskDUDGiSkQBm5lfvJBExttH79ldMy_5ghWrJ_7ICPc6acvkExc12LqJUb3xXZTjCk7fuB3AmukqjlPtp25jaK-0AtOk3cf/s320/stoerner_stumble_1.jpg" border="0" /> <p><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Quite possibly the most heartbreaking moment of my life thus far: Clint Stoerner's fumble.</span><br /></p></span>For some reason, unbeknownst to me, God made me a Razorback fan. It's a curse that I'll always be under. A burden for me alone to carry. And all I can say is that it's one heckuva roller coaster ride, but God love those Hogs.MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7084295903213130891.post-62090250144264788912009-04-08T16:53:00.006-05:002009-04-08T17:10:33.121-05:00Next of kin.The reasons you should go to <a href="http://whatigetforthinking.blogspot.com/">http://whatigetforthinking.blogspot.com</a> are three-fold:<br /><br />1. She's pretty stinkin' funny.<br /><br />2. She is my next of kin.<br /><br />3. Standing at 5'2" and rapidly approaching 100 lbs, this Kindergartner has more joy on her face than most people have in a lifetime (see below). And she wants to share that with you. So go, and tell her the "pretty one" sent you.<br /><br /><div align="center"></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1F3f_DnJVBeCe-IpAu377Zf3xK-dIPmdOpQVDXlp0t0TjZR9W-f4AGZ5to-xCEiK2LTGOoQSwJWW6_UMtcgpuiSYYfDQnIVyBDlaZCkz-l7WuYe1cLqN-iVTnHxJ5d1rFVllPiwM_vU4F/s1600-h/old+3.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322443253471777474" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1F3f_DnJVBeCe-IpAu377Zf3xK-dIPmdOpQVDXlp0t0TjZR9W-f4AGZ5to-xCEiK2LTGOoQSwJWW6_UMtcgpuiSYYfDQnIVyBDlaZCkz-l7WuYe1cLqN-iVTnHxJ5d1rFVllPiwM_vU4F/s320/old+3.bmp" border="0" /></a></p>MiddleSwathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10629252611665784332noreply@blogger.com1