Just call me Dorothy.

Every female Kansan will forever be cursed with the reputation as Dorothy. I carry this annoying misfortune every place I move to. It's hard to go anywhere or meet anyone without getting a cliche' "Wizard of Oz" joke thrown back in my face.

"You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."
"Did you bring your dog Toto with you?"
"Is there really no place like home?"
"If you click your heals together will you be back home in KS?"
"What is really over the rainbow?"
"Did a tornado blow you here?"
"Did Dorthy ever make it back?"
"Did you wander off the yellow brick road?"

I have heard them all. Far to many to even digest.

Urgh. I mean, do these people really think they are clever? They all spit out the same lines to me and it's hard not to respond without rolling my eyes. I usually throw out a fake laugh and say "yeah, never heard that one before." I do find amusement though in watching their expression when they say it. They are so proud as if they are the world's funniest comedian bottling up their best joke, waiting for the prime moment to release it. I take it most Alaskans/Montanans don't come in contact with many Kansas folks. I don't understand why it's everyone's initial reaction to reference a 1930's Judy Garland film. When I meet someone from Seattle I don't make some cheesy Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks joke. Or when I'm introduced to a New Yorker, I don't ask if Carrie Bradshaw ever found true love.

I don't mean to bash on "The Wizard of Oz." It's a great movie. Classic film. But seriously, people...the comedy routine is unnecessary, outdated, and and quite often irritating. To avoid ridicule, I tested out confessing I was from Alaska on a customer at work. Well, that didn't accomplish anything. It invited far too many questions and I ended up revealing I had only lived there the past two years....six months at a time. He quickly lost interest until I told him I was originally from Kansas. His response? "What's Dorthy doing in Alaska? Training Toto for the Iditarod?" I'm not even joking.

The way I see it, I have two options...

1.) Accept my heritage. Embrace the jokes with a phony smile and churned stomach. (Dramatic.)

OR

2.) Say I'm from South Dakota. It's boring. No one knows anything about it. Doesn't invite questions.

"Hi. My name is Alex. I'm from South Dakota."

Did you seriously just ask me that?

The past few years I have worked in environments surrounded by tourists, rich snobs, and stupid, stupid people. It never ceases to amaze me the dumb questions I get asked on a daily basis at work. Just when I think people can't get any more dumb, I'm proven wrong by some idiot, overweight, Floridian that thinks Alaskans live in igloos and hunt polar bears. I usually respond politely with an answer that makes them believe they actually asked me a legitimate question. Sometimes I wish I weren't so nice. How badly I desire to tell them what a moron they are and they should probably still be in school at age 55. Send them on 'Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?' and make them face reality.

Conversations working at the coffee shop (Kansas City and Dallas) :

Man: "Do I get free refills on my latte?
Alex: "No, sir. Only on drip coffee.
Man: "If I buy a latte can I get a free refill of coffee?"
Alex: "I'm sorry. It doesn't work that way."
Man: "What if I tip you a dollar? Would you make an exception?"
Alex: "I can't do that, but if you willing to spend twelve more cents you can have both." (dumbass.)

Woman: "Now, are there nuts in your cinnamon walnut coffee cake?"
Alex: "Yes..." (Did you not just read that label out loud to me?)

Man: "What is the difference between a cappuccino and a latte?"
Alex: "They both have the same amount of espresso, but a latte consists of primarily steamed milk, while a cappuccino is mostly all foam."
Man: "Okay, the cappuccino is the one I want."
(minutes later once I finish making his drink...)
Man: "Is there anything in here? Why is the cup so light?"
Alex: "The cappuccino weighs less because it's mostly foam."
Man: "Oh, how am I supposed to drink this? Will you add more milk?"
Alex: "Sure. No problem." (Seriously? That was damn good foam too.)


Conversations working at the zip line (Juneau, Alaska) :

(hiking up the equivalent of 4 flights of stairs)
Woman: I can't breathe. I'm from Texas, I'm not used to mountains. What elevation are we at?
Alex: Not high actually. Just less than 200 feet. (You just stepped off your cruise ship sailing through the Pacific ocean, so you're practically at sea level, dumbass.)

Girl: Where can I convert my cash into Alaskan money?
Alex: The bank. There's a wells fargo downtown. (She'll figure it out soon enough)

Man: Where is Sarah Palin's house?
Alex: She doesn't live in Juneau.
Man: Isn't Juneau the capitol? Doesn't she like work here?
Alex: Sarah Palin resigned last summer, sir. And her family is from Wasilla. (clearly you're her biggest fan. Not to mention extremely educated on politics.)

Conversations working at old navy (Overland Park, Kansas) :

Alex: How many items do you have?
Woman: I don't know...about ten.
Alex: Okay, you can only take six items in at a time.
Woman: What if I have two of the same shirt only different colors. Does that count as one?
Alex: No, just take one of them in. (Of course that doesn't count...and why would you try on two of the same exact shirt?)


Conversations working at the water park (Branson, Missouri) :

Man: Can my infant ride on my lap on this ride?
Me: I'm sorry, but you can't do that. (You are a 300lb man on an inner-tube riding down a long, dark tunnel slide. Are you trying to kill your baby?)


I mean...seriously?

"Life isn't a fairytale, but love can be."

Alex's guilty pleasures list:

- Reading the tabloids at the checkout counter (I never actually buy them but it's just good to know Lindsay Lohan is spending 90 days behind bars)
- Ben and Jerry's ice cream (recent liking towards their mint chocolate cookie flavor)
- A select few Miley Cyrus songs (who wouldn't want to party in the USA?)
- The Bachelorette (my own life doesn't have nearly enough drama to keep me entertained)

Don't judge me. I'm not really ashamed of any of these things, so you shouldn't be embarrassed for me. I can't speak for all my five roommates, but most of us can't wait for Monday night to roll around. Though, I think two of them are in denial of their love for the show. Two full hours of drama, hot boys, and cheesy comments on love is the highlight of our week. We don't really take this show seriously. We are probably the most cynical group of girls you'll meet. So, therefore, watching this show gives us the satisfaction of making fun of others love lives, or their twisted idea of life and love.

Now, Ali the Bachelorette, I surprisingly actually like. However, she has shitty taste in men. I respected her decision on leaving Jake last season to keep her job. Smartest choice anyone has ever made on this show. Not so much the job aspect, but ditching that douche Jake. He's like a little girl, but we won't get me started on him. This is about Ali. The pretty, career-orientated, San Fransisco gal. I find it hard to believe a girl like her would have to go on a reality show to find her "soul mate." Whether she finds her true love or not, I can tell she is growing so much on this show.

Lessons learned to take away from Ali Fedotowsky:

- "At first I thought life isn't a fairytale, Ali. I kept telling myself that, but then I realized that life may not be, but love can be a fairytale and if I had that I'd have a great life." (You got it half right, girlfriend.)

- "I think it's very difficult to be on a date with two guys at once. It's so awkward." (You mean that's not normal?)

- "I think I'm worrying this week and the guys are seeing that and seeing me stress and worry. It's a big deal I feel to meet someone's parents and I just need to take it one day at a time." (Yes, one day at a time. When you only have 8 weeks to find your husband, slow is the way to go.)

- "I just thought in the long run I didn't see it working out." (Long run? Short run? Is there a difference on this show?)

- "I came here to find a husband and you are effing with that!" (that's what you get for keeping a professional wrestle nicknamed "Rated-R" past the first round)


Personally, I thought Kasey was the way to go. Who else is going to 'guard and protect' your heart or burst out into song made up on the spot? Kidding. I hope he got that stupid heart and shield tattoo removed immediately once he got home. Ridiculous. Jesse was by far my favorite, but I suppose of the ones left I would have to go with Chris. Him and his family seem pretty legit, but I still question anyone's sanity that signs themselves up for this show. I think Ali will pick Roberto. Their relationship is all physical, but that's the most important thing, right?

Gentleman, Ali....the final rose of the evening....

C.K.

I was a strange kid. Often in my own world. Oblivious to the people and things going on around me. I did my own thing. I wore lots of bright colors and experimented with my outfits. I was shy but not necessarily quiet. Being the youngest I always loved being center stage. I strove to be different from all my siblings. My sisters all played the clarinet, I took up the flute. They quit soccer early on, so I decided to stick with it. They tried out of the dance team, I wanted to be a cheerleader. They went to KU, I went to Arkansas. The list goes on.

As much as I wanted to be different from my sisters, I always admired my brother. I secretly wanted to be just like him. He was the cool guy. Mr. personality. Adored by everyone. He liked punk music, so I bought a Blink182 CD. He starred in school plays, so I took an acting class. He decorated his room with black lights and glow stickers, so I did too. My brother also inline skated for most of his teenage years. I had hopes of being the cool skater chick that rode alongside the cool skater boys with the pink-tipped hair and baggy jeans. I even convinced my mother to buy me an expensive pair of inline skates. I recall skating with my brother outside the driveway one afternoon. I attempted to "grind" for the first time and fell flat on the concrete scraping up my knees and elbows. It wasn't long after that before I called it quits. The only time I ever wore those skates again were for school skating parties. I won the limbo contest wearing them, so I guess they weren't a total waste.

My brother could get me to do just about anything, like holding my breath until I passed out. He was the prankster in the family. Since he didn't have any other brothers in the house to pick on or play rough with, I seemed to be his guinea pig. He once told me that slurpees from 7/11 tasted better through the nostrils. One of my favorite past times was when my brother told me that my dog could speak. He told me if I shoved a crayola crayon up my dogs nose, that she would speak out the exact color crayon I was holding. He would get behind my dog and say "red" at the exact moment I put it up my poor dogs nose. For years I was convinced my dog was some sort of prodigy. One time my brother dressed up in his Halloween scream costume and scared the hell out of my sister Jenny after she had just seen her first horror film. I don't think she had a decent nights sleep for months after that event took place. He would tell me outrageous stories that went on and on and wouldn't tell me until an hour later that the whole thing was made up. Stories like him going out on a date with a legless girl, or hearing and seeing ghosts out by the pond in our backyard. No matter how much bullshit he fed me, I always believed it. Partly me just being completely naive and gullible, and the other part just wanting to be included in my brothers crazy lifestyle.

When my brother moved out of the house, I started to do my own thing. I got in touch with more of my girlish routes. I bought dresses, crimped my hair, and dropped soccer to devote all my free time to cheerleading. We both have changed a lot in the last few years. We are almost having to get to know each other all over again. What is cool about it though, is through this process I'm learning how similar we actually are. I am proud to say that I see a lot of my brother in myself. We are the free spirits in the family. We both are independent and do our own thing no matter what others say or may not agree with. We are the dreamers. Don't always think logically, but make decisions by following our hearts. We live for today and have the same passion for life. My brother is one of the most talented people I know. I will always remain my brothers biggest fan.

Yupp. We are definitely related, and I am proud to say so.

THE bird.

Growing up, my house was known by friends for many things. Things like it's big backyard pool, or our kitchen pantry's endless supply of junk food, and, of course, our overwhelmingly large number of pets. Fo realz. It was outrageous. All of us five kids at one point wanted to be veterinarians. And when you have 5 animal lovers, 2 push-over parents, and a big enough house to keep dozens of various mammels, reptiles, and rodents, your house turns into one big day at the zoo. We had dogs, cats, box turtles, water turtles, hamsters, bunnies, snakes, guinea pigs, and the animal I took particular interest in...birds. Why? I'm not quite sure. Being the youngest, I think it was the last animal we didn't own that I could pick out from the pet store. I wanted a pet all to myself. One that belonged to just me.

The first bird I ever owned was a cockatiel named Tillie. She was gray, with a yellow head, and orange cheeks. I vividly remember the day I picked her out of dozens of other birds at PetSmart. I recall moving my index finger back and forth against the glass cage as she followed it and jumped up and down as if she were chirping, "pick me! pick me!" So, I picked her. I was so excited to bring her home. Tillie was just about as awesome as a pet bird can get. She quickly learned to talk, sat quietly on your shoulder as you read, and loved all people. She would fly short distances from person to pseron, but we clipped her wings, so that was about the only flying she was capable of. However, she didn't seem to mind.

Typically cockatiels are supposed to live 10-15 years-old, but I only had Tillie for about a 2 years before she got sick and died. I buried her in my backyard among other graveyard family pets. My parents could tell I was upset and tried to make me feel better by buying me a new bird. A new cockatiel even. But this one was nothing like Tillie. She was white, bald, and just plain evil. Did you know birds can hiss? Well, mine could anyway. I swear this bird was a demon. I attempted to name that thing multiple times, but nothing seemed to suit it, so in time she just became known as, "the bird." We never got around to clipping the bird's wings, so it got pretty good at flying in circles. Landing, however, she never perfected. She would just fly in circles until she got too tired and ran into the brick wall to stop herself. She'd fall to the floor, and I would place her back into her cage. One time she fell into a mouse trap. Don't worry...it was only a glue trap. Though, I think she would have rather been killed than endured the hour following. My dad and I had to hold her under the kitchen faucet and wash her multiple times before we could get most of the glue off.


She was crazy from the day she broke out of her shell, but it became worse over time. She began to eat herself to the point where I could see her bones when she stretched her wings. Now, I promise you I was no cruel pet owner. I fed her, cleaned her cage, gave her fresh water, but that didn't seem to matter. Years later, she even starting laying eggs. EGGS! Dude, she had no mate. Now, what bird that's not from Satan lays eggs with nothing in them? How is that even possible? There were no baby birds growing in those eggs, but she protected them with her life. She would sit on them for hours, just waiting for them to hatch. I eventually took them to show them off to my 7th grade science teacher. He was fascinated.

I believe I was in third grade when I got "the bird." She just died last year. How that bird lived that long is beyond me. I was at college when my dad called me to tell me the news. The phone call went something like this...

Dad: "Hey Alex. I'm afraid I got some bad news."
Alex: "What happened?"
Dad: "Your bird died."
Alex: "Oh. That's all?"
Dad: "I'm sorry. What do you want me to do with her?"
Alex: "I don't know. What did you do with all of our other dead animals?"
Dad: "I'll bury her for you."
Alex: "Cool."

From now on, I'm sticking to dogs, and dogs only.

Miss Satan, herself.

the vanagon.

My friends called it "pimpin'." Some called it "bad ass." I called it a "piece of shit." Words can not begin to translate the depth of my feelings for this van. Here are just a few that come to mind. Loathed. Repulsive. Ugly. Embarrassing. dkjfsiehlkfsd.

Before you go judging me for being unhealthily disgusted about a van, allow me to explain. This was the Komsthoeft family vanagon. The ultimate seventy's vehicle. An irritating head-turner on the highway. And a teenagers world nightmare. Our van was notorious. Everyone knew it and made it known. The van gained it's fame and popularity with my peers, but I shamefully ignored any attention it received. I can't even count the number of times it was referred by my friends to apply for the show "pimp my ride." I mean, seriously? The whole world didn't need to see my heinous van "pimped out" on MTV. It already attracted too much attention. As if it needed flames and spinners. Worst. Idea. Ever.

This was my transportation to and from school, soccer games, cheerleading practice, piano lessons, family vacations, slumber parties, and school dances. I have scarring memories of my dad waiting outside the circle drive of my school in the van. He would roll down the windows and doze off into a loud snoring state as his opera-like music radiated throughout the parking lot. Now, I look back at these moments and adore my dad even more for his weirdness, but as a 13-year-old girl, I was petrified. I was convinced if I had to ride one more time in that thing, I would surely become the most mocked kid at Santa Fe Trail Junior High.

Don't get me wrong. My siblings and I have some great memories in that volkswagon. It was convenient for long road trips. It's the most spacious van I've ever been in, which is greatly needed when you're riding with 6 other family members. We would fold down all the backseats and create a bed. Toss in some pillow, blankets, and a small t.v., and you're good to go for the next 9 hours before arrival at Grandma's.

For those of you who have no idea what my family van looks like, here is an exact replica. Same color. Same ginormous windshield. And on the other side is the obnoxious sliding door.

Why my mother was so attached to this thing, I will never understand. The amount of money my parents put in to fix it numerous times could have well payed for a decent chunk of a new car. Years later, when the van became nothing more of an embarrassing yard display, we invested in a new van. However,  my mother still has yet to sell it, or take my suggestion in pushing it over a canyon. It's been at least 6 years since it has been driven. Today, it is still parked in the front yard of my home. I'm afraid the poor grass underneath it has not seen sunlight in so many years, that it has no hope of ever growing back. I don't even know the last time someone has touched that car. I wouldn't be surprised if someone was hiding a dead corpse in that thing.

I think years down the road, if and when, my parents sell our house, the vanagon will have to come as part of the deal. Or maybe I'll go completely hippy. I'll paint "love" and peace signs all over, move to San Fransisco, and live out of the van near a pretty park. I'll have all I'll never need. A home. A van. And all the memories of the people I love most. Life will be good.

monday. shitday.

All Mondays are bound to be shitty. This theory is engraved in every young mind from the day one starts kindergarten. It's the most dreaded day of the week. I even found myself hating Mondays when I was jobless nor in school. I spent my days sleeping in, going for long runs, and drinking coffee outside starbucks. I followed this routine throughout the whole week and if you would have caught me at any given time I probably wouldn't have been able to tell you the day of the week. However, once I was reminded it was Monday, I fell into a slump. Mondays just brought attention to the fact that I was no longer a student, and an unemployed non-student at that. There I was sippin' on the $5.00 latte I couldn't afford while the rest of the world was out working or in sitting inside a classroom. Well, not the whole world. I realize there are far too many couch potatoes out there, but you get my point. I was a lazy bum. I hated the reputation I created for myself, but in retrospect, was also content with my carefree lifestyle. Even now being employed, I'm still apprehensive whenever Mondays rolls around. When I was in college I had a 8:00 am Sociology lecture on Monday mornings. Again, it was the least favorite part of my week. Mondays are just not meant to be satisfying.

The average life expectancy of a female in the United States is 79.1 years. Now, my grandmother is 81 years old, so clearly my family genes defy those statistics. But lets say I live to be 79.1-years-old. That means, say August(ish) 2068, you read in the headlines of your local newspaper (or on your msn homepage assuming newspapers will be obsolete by that time) that a 79-year-old woman dies in a freak hang gliding accident. (c'mon, if you think i'm going to go simply on my deathbed, you are sadly mistaken.) By my dying day, which I bet you will take place on a Monday, I will have lived approximately 4,124 grueling Mondays throughout my entire lifespan. Four thousand, one hundred twenty four Mondays. About a quarter of those I have already experienced. Enough experience to know Mondays usually suck.

I think we can all agree that Mondays are no ones favorite, but lets face it...they occupy 1/7 of your life! From here on out, I vow to do something every Monday that makes me happy. Something that gives me a reason to look forward to that day. I don't need a reason to hate a day before my alarm has gone off. Can I get an amen?