2009 Top Moments #10: the name game

I've always had trouble with my first name. The name "Kendi" has never translated well with others. It's always Candy? Cindy? Kennedy? Kidney? Trudy? I gave up the fight early on -- I believe it was kindergarten when I stopped correcting people of my name. My teacher called me Kidney the whole year. (It's fine though -- I called her "that fat kindergarten lady"). So at 5 years old, I realized it's just not in the cards for me and since then I've answered to pretty much every name that starts with a hard C or a K.

But then I got married and traded my traditional last name of Hudson with the glad-I-don't-have-a-lisp last name of Skeen. Kendi Skeen -- it just has that ring to it doesn't it? So much that most people when I tell them my name say "bless you" because they think I've sneezed. This year was no exception, I think that I've had to correct my name at least 1000x this year and here are my posts to prove it.

apparently i'm forgettable

henny penny

"k...as in knife"

as real as it gets

my name by numbers

steak night

Last night Bryan and I went on a date. Or so I thought. You see, whenever I want to go on a date I like to drop hints throughout the day and then when B clues in he usually asks me through text message or some other romantic form of communication. Yesterday though was special -- we talked on the phone. At work. Like sneaky young lovers just waiting to get caught. We decided that tonight was date night.

On our date B kept mentioning that he could really go for a steak and that he was glad I suggested it. I didn't suggest this but I let it go. Nothing could go wrong on date night. But that's when this conversation happened:

"I had fun tonight. I love date nights," I say. Then B smiles, squeezes my hand and says " I love steak night, too."

He thought it was steak night, not date night. This explained so much. No wonder when I asked him if I looked pretty he just answered "medium rare."

Just a piece of meat -- that's all I am.

christmas cards....shmristmas cards?

Okay so for weeks i've been mulling over what to do for our christmas cards this year. i couldn't think of anything cute or clever to do for our picture, i couldn't think of anything that i wanted to write about in a letter and i'm actually really terrible at putting stamps on envelopes and never mailing them. So then I thought "maybe christmas letters aren't for you, dear Kendi." I love getting them but sending them is a different story. And then it hit me, like a MacBook Pro falling from the sky.... I can blog my christmas card.

Since most christmas letters are just the past year in review, I will blog the Skeen's top moments of this year along with my favorite blog posts up until New Years Eve. Best.idea. ever.

Oh -- is that tear in your eye I see? Is that you over there jumping for joy, writhing in anticipation for my chirstmas countdown blog post? I know, I know I can hardly wait too.

anatomy of a bad day in 3 words or less.

cold shower.

running late.

nothing to wear.

spilled coffee.

no kiss good-bye.

lunch plans cancelled.

too many emails.

must pay bills.

nickelback on radio.

bad hair day.

bad haircut.

coffee not hot.

i am hungry.

mmm cinnamon rolls.

not on diet.

its only 10 o'clock.

in the morning.

countdown till 5. 

happy hour, anyone?

 

Bang Bang

Roughly 3 weeks ago I got the best haircut of my life. Seriously, people it was a really good hair cut. It brought tears to my eyes. I received compliments from people I didn't even know. Some person even told me that my hair style made their day better. But the best part of my haircut was the precise accuracy of the length of my bangs. Having cut my own bangs for years, this is nearly impossible. But here in small town america I found a hairdresser who believed that bang cutting is not just a service, but an art.

Exhbit A:

(photo by my husband)

The day after my perfect haircut I immediately became worried that my bangs were already growing. This could not happen. I needed them to stay at this length for as long as possible -- maybe even forever. (By the way if you are reading this and the words "vapid", "shallow" or "egomaniac" has come to mind, you should probably stop reading.) Well as it would turn out I have freakishly fast growing bangs and before I knew it I needed a Trim. The dreaded Trim. I believe that trim is actually a word used by hairstylists as slang to mean "a cheap imitation of a full-priced haircut." Well today was that day. Today I went in for a $5 trim. And just like I feared -- my perfect haircut was a total fluke.

Within a matter of seconds, I went from InStyle magazine to Nickelodeon.

Exhibit B:

Just kidding, she didn't have to pay $5 for her haircut, but I did. Here's exhibit B:

So I guess that I have no other choice than to strap on my white velcro keds, put on a belly-baring shirt and tell everyone I meet an alternate spanish word. That or I could tell people it's a wig. Or that I just finished the 3rd grade and to back off -- I'm tall for my age.

Oh well, you know what they say... If the bangs fit, wear them. Now what's the spanish word for "bad haircut"?

(EDIT: Bryan just said to me "Its not that bad." He also says this to me when I burn the crap out of dinner, so I think I'm going to need a second opinion.)

big loser

Is it wrong that I want to gain hundreds of pounds so that I can go on Biggest Loser just so I can win $250,000 and self-esteem?

 

Think about it and discuss -- over a nice warm plate of brownies...

as sharp as a knife

The nature of my job includes receiving many phone calls from publications inquiring about advertising. Everyday I am faced with the burden of correcting someone on the other end of the line on the spelling, pronunciation, and origin of my name. Having done this for the past 20 years or so (I don't remember life before the age of 5), this does not really bother me. Until today that is. This lady just couldn't get the spelling of my name down. It was like I was speaking to her in arabic. But I wasn't, because in arabic my name means "vase" and in English it means "great sense of humor".

She starts in: "kendi s-c-e-n-e"

I corrected her. She deserved a second chance.

"kendi s-c-e-e-m"

Again, I corrected her. She was pushing it.

"Oh! Kendi S-c-e-e-n" She places emphasis on the 'c'. That was it -- she had gone too far.

Finally, I'd had enough. I decided to use the oldest trick in the book -- to give an example of a word that the letter starts with like a for apple, b for book. An old trick used in most kindergarten classes around the world. Surely, this would work.

"Actually it's s-K-e-e-n." I say "K as in...knife."

An awkward silence ensued. I realized what I had done. I had used the only word that absolutely does not work in this situation. I found a way to use a word that has a silent first letter to describe the pronunciation of that exact letter. It was blasphemy to the english language, to my kindergarten teacher, to my own name. I could almost hear the woman on the other end desperately screaming "Kite! Kite!!!" but it was too late. She was expecting a 'cat' or a 'kite' and I pulled out a knife.

She hung up quickly after that. I think she got the message. She'll never misspell my name again.

the call of duty

I had jury duty today. This escape plan crossed my mind...

But instead I went and got paid less than $1 an hour to serve my country as the fine citizen that I am. That's right for the 11 hours that I was sequestered to sit in a hot, stinky room I was paid with a crisp $10 bill while you all were sitting at your desk job getting paid a real salary. Jealous?

The best part of my day was not the girl sitting behind me blowing her hot breath on me with every exasperated gasp she let out but hearing the freaky names people name their children. Stephen King, Wendy Malick and Christopher Robin were all there. I kid you not. I was waiting for Thom Kruz and Opra Winfree to be called as well.

I must tell you though, the Princess Leia outfit worked. I did not get selected. The Force wins again.

too much of a good thing is disgusting

Confession: i am a bad house wife. I don't clean, I don't fold the towels right and I can't cook. But if there is one thing that i can make it's soup. I believe that soup was invented by mail-order brides who didn't want to disappoint their new husbands so they decided to throw everything they had into a pot and boil it into submission. By the time you boil anything for 3 hours and add enough salt and pepper, it's going to be good.

Last night I made chicken and dumplings. I prefer less chicken, more dumplings so I added twice as many biscuits to the soup. (I'm watching my carbs) It was perfect. By the end of the meal, I slowly began to realize that we finished the whole pot of soup which means we both ate a can of biscuits -- each. I quickly googled "I just ate a whole can of biscuits" and the words "obesity" and "shame" popped up on my screen. Then my computer made fun of me and picked me last for a game of kick-ball.

Much later my stomach decided to team up with the rest of my digestive track and revolt against that can of biscuits. Bryan was fine, of course. I found out later that he used to be a competitive eater -- chicken and dumplings was his specialty. I should have known when he pulled out his stopwatch and a bib. I should have known.

thoughts on flying

If you know me at all, you know that I absolutely hate to fly. I hate it with everything in me. From the moment that I book a flight, I begin to envision my last days here on earth. As I pack, I pack carefully knowing that this may be the very last time I zip up my suitcase. I make note of everything in my bag and pack things that mean the most to me-- my favorite cardigan, a book I never finished reading, pictures of my dogs. Every breath I take from the moment I check-in until the moment that I step back onto land is priceless. I start noticing how green the grass is, how blue the sky is, how wonderful the air smells after it's rained. I also start googling the number of plan crashes in the last two years. Surprisingly the number is higher than you might think.

And then before I know it, it's the day of my flight. We drive to the airport, like driving to your own funeral. Something always goes terribly wrong when I arrive at an airport. One time I parked in short term parking -- for 3 days and ended up paying well over $75. One time I almost missed my flight because I sat at the wrong gate for 45 minutes, cursing the airlines for not being on time. And this past week, as we flew home for thanksgiving, our trip to the airport was no different. Yes we found the right parking lot and no, we didn't sit at the wrong gate for 45 minutes. In fact, i thought all was going well but I was wrong. Dead wrong. First off, there was a bottom-heavy grandmother who was wearing sheer leggings and I couldn't take my eyes away. Like a watching a krispy kreme truck collide with a nursing home van, you just can't stop looking. Secondly, I stood behind a woman who put her dog through the x-ray machine much to the TSA's dismay. And third, I forgot to wear socks. Can you get STD's from standing barefoot in line at Love Field? I'll let you know in a week.

Once we made it to our gate, I sat down and waited for my time to come. I pulled out a book from my bag and all of a sudden I was showered with panty liners. That's right, panty liners. A whole box had unknowingly exploded in my bag and was now scattered about on the floor. Women covered their children's eyes, grown men began to cry. I had no other choice but to pretend like it didn't happen and change seats. Later on I swear I saw a couple of those liners stuck to the bottom of a few unfortunate soles. I saw a desperate single man write his number on one and give it to the stewardist. I saw a child blow his nose on one. This was not going to be a good flight.

The plane ride was bumpy to say the least. Of course we had to fly directly in the path of a developing tornado. I look out the window at the wing, just waiting for it to drop off. I listen carefully to the stew's explain how to inflate the safety vest in case we fall into some unexpected waters. Bryan said I had nothing to worry about -- there are no great bodies of water from Dallas to San Antonio. "That's what you think" I say in response. I asked the stew if it was okay if I put my safety vest on and inflated it just in case. They gave me a pillow and a blanket instead. At least I'll die comfortably, I think to myself.

I always say that plane rides are spiritual for me, mostly because I spend the duration of the flight in full-on prayer. I confess every lie I've ever told, every sin I've committed -- it's prayer-bargaining really so that our plane doesn't tumble out of the sky and explode into a ball of fire. As I'm deep into my prayer, I began to hear a still, small voice. A child's voice coming from the back row. "Houston! We have a problem!! Houston! We have a problem!" Over and over again. I close my eyes tighter, praying that this child will be thrown off the plane. I started singing "Jesus, Take the Wheel" in my head to drown out that little brat but he keeps getting louder and louder. At this point, I'm desperate to find one of those panty liners to tape over his loud little mouth. Just as I am about to turn around and kick this kid's Apollo 13, I hear the pilot announce "This will be our final descent..." Lord, I'm coming home, I pray. It's the final descent. "..into San Antonio. Thank you for flying Southwest and we hope you have a happy holiday season." I immediately open my eyes -- we've made it. I didn't die. I still have my iPhone and I never finished reading that book. The woman's x-rayed dog is sitll alive and that grandma put on some real pants. It was a miracle. I started pinching Bryan to make sure he was real. He was and then he pinched me back and told me to knock it off.

us vs. them

We came, we shopped, we conquered. Bryan, my sister, brother-in-law and I woke up at 4:30 on Black Friday and went shopping. It's actually one of my favorite days of the year. (I also like Blue Tuesday and Yellow Saturday). This year was great -- of course the lines were out of control and I think I might have caught the swine flu from all of the accidental human interaction. But Bryan and I ran into one problem while we were shopping. It wasn't the crowds, it wasn't the lack of money in our bank account, or the ungodly hour in which we woke. The problem was exactly who were we buying for? Us or them?

By 7:00 am we had saved tons of money on gifts -- for ourselves. We kept finding amazing deals -- a $40 set of knives, a luxury snuggie, two for one sweaters. I would pick something up and Bryan would look at me with his big green eyes and ask "Who is this for -- us or them?" It turns out the answer more often than not was "us."

So it looks like we are going to be having a great christmas this year. To our family members: you like gift cards, right?

it's the little things in life

SOMETIMES AT WORK I LIKE TO TYPE IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE IT MAKES PEOPLE THINK THAT I'M YELLING AT THEM AND THEY GET THINGS DONE FASTER. PLUS IT MAKES PEOPLE FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE SO THEY STOP SENDING ME EMAILS.

'NO' REALLY MEANS 'NO' WHEN ITS IN ALL CAPS. SO DOES 'STOP SENDING ME EMAILS.' PEOPLE ALWAYS GET THE MESSAGE WHEN I USE CAPS LOCK.