The Astronaut Who Cried Cries

Contrary to popular belief, just because Taran and I are twins does not mean we're indestructible.

Yes, I know. This truth is like unveiling a horror story between a turkey and Thanksgiving. It took us a couple of tries when we were younger to figure out that we weren't superman or superwoman. We learned we couldn't fly, walk through walls, skate to the moon or pull a double mctwist 1260 (this upsets me the most). So then we tried doing things normal people would do, like jumping on trampolines and skateboarding horizontally. Unfortunately that didn't turn out so well for us either.

You see, when Taran and I were but wee churros (we were like 6), we were frolicking around on our ginormous trampoline playing an innocent game of Teacher and Student. I have no idea where we found a giant cardboard box, but Taran had a long twig in his hand thwacking the wall and blabbering on and on about something we probably didn't even understand, but I was nodding as if I had a 4.0 Grade Point Average.

"Okay, Allison!" Taran said as he scooted the box to the very edge of the trampoline. "Are you ready for take off?!" He shouted in pure excitement. All of a sudden I realized, I went from being a prodigy student to becoming an Armstrong-professional astronaut in 3 seconds flat.

"Actually, no, wait--" Before I had a chance to look over my scribbled astronaut notes, my world shifted in a weird vertical-like fashion, and time slowed into an anti-gravitational sensation.

When the space shuttle landed onto planet earth, the Armstrong-professional astronaut and the prodigy student vacated from me, where only what was left was a little 6-year-old sprawled out in the grass in the backyard wailing as loud as she could.

To this day, I can still only imagine how Taran felt. He naturally has a kind and considerate heart, and so for him to see his student astronaut crying for like two hours straight, he did the best he could to cheer her up. He let me hold his balloon. He asked if I wanted anything to drink (probably chocolate milk). He let me pick whichever cartoon I wanted to watch. All of this would go on and on until I was feeling better again.

But here's the twist to the story! Apparently I broke a bone, but nobody knew it--not even my parents--for two days. Did I know it? Of course not. To me, it was just a battle wound of my astronomic 10-second adventure.

But for those two days, I couldn't move my right arm. I kept it in a bent position as if I was Captain America holding his patriotic shield of 'Murica-ness, and whenever somebody touched my shoulder, I would scream like a ring wraith or banshee (it was very appalling).

After those two painfully excruciating days of being a wounded student/astronaut/superhero/banshee, my parents took all us kiddos to some sort of choir-concert thing in a huge auditorium, and all I could do was cry (people must have thought I was touched, but my shoulder was out to get me). So, my dad kind of kidnapped me to the hospital (my mom had no idea where we went, and I thought that was funny), and the doctor was all like,

"Yeah, man. She's got a broken collarbone." My dad was all like,

"Oh. Crap."

Course that's just what I was hearing, and in the end I got a cool Snoopy sling that I wore around in kindergarten for like a month and even though I figured out I wasn't indestructible, I got all the attention I ever wanted.

The End.

Also Taran broke his wrist once when some guy pantsed him while jumping on the trampoline.

The THE End.

The Mischievous Adventures of Mr. Dog

On one fateful day (like two days ago), I found it suddenly desirable to buy a new bicycle, for I longed to get outside more often and in a more delightful manor. You see, all the bicycles we have in the archives of my dad's shop evidently wore scars of previous battles with my brothers and I when we were all young, reckless little derps. They were impossible to ride on, and impossible to look cool riding on. So, a new bicycle it was!

I ventured into Walmart and bought me exactly the bike I was looking for: a pure black one. As I checked out with it (and a new toothbrush), I decided to call my bike Ninja, because it was cool and sneaky and black.

And so the story begins of my bicycling adventures, of epic journeys through tar and dust and fire and dragons.

But today's journey took a different route.

I was biking with Ninja down my neighborhood street, dodging ninja stars and flaming shurikens of death like I was eating a piece of cake, when all of a sudden...I met a dog near the end of the road.

"What are you doing here?" I said aloud, not giving a care in the world if anyone was outside hearing me communicating with a canine (I secretly have the ability to talk Dog, but I can't understand Dog. I know: weird. It should be the other way around).

The dog stared at me vacantly. He was a fat one, like one of my own dogs. Maybe he would like to jog beside me to lose some of that doggy fat! I thought to myself. Sure enough, the dog followed me. In fact, he followed me all the way back down the neighborhood to my house, where I awarded him with treats and water (he was only interested in the treats).

"What's your name, doggy?" I asked him, obviously expecting an answer. When I received none (I was quite disappointed), I heard my mom calling through the door, "Who are you talking to?"

"Mr. Dog," I instantly named him and said it as if it should be obvious. You see, my mom should already be used to her daughter wandering back to the house with dogs. Dogs love me. I love dogs. And the dogs want to stay with me, so I ask if they can. And then Mom says no and I throw a fit and cry. At least that's how the system used to be.

But this time I was smart! I knew the gameplay before I even asked my mom. She would say no, most definitely, because "we already have three dogs" or "I don't want to make you clean up more poop in the backyard" or "his owner is probably looking for him right now!" So I gave up before the battle even started.

When I walked back outside to see how Mr. Dog was doing, I found him chewing on a used diaper.

Don't ask me how he even got one, and why he ate it in our front yard, but at that moment I decided it was time for him to take another pleasant jog with Ninja and I.

He was a lot slower than last time, probably because the ninja stars and flaming shurikens of death were freaking him out.

Eventually we made it back to where I found him. He clearly didn't want me to go because he sat on my foot. But I told him my farewells aloud as I would any other human or dog.

"Mr. Dog," I began. "It's been nice getting to know you, but I must leave now. The Black Ninja Dynasty calls for their imperial queen to come back home (that's me). I will most assuredly miss you, my dear Mr. Dog."

I thought it would be easy biking back home (really fast, so he couldn't catch up), but when I turned around to see if he was wandering away, he was jogging back for me.

"No, Mr. Doggy!" I shouted back. "Go back home! Don't follow me!" I paddled faster and made the distance between us farther. I turned around again.

He was still jogging (very slowly, but he was doing the best a fat dog could do).

At that moment, it felt like a flaming shuriken of death pierced my heart (maybe one did).

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be!" I shouted over the pain of the tragedy. It felt like my life was in slow motion, as if it were a clip out of a dog movie where everyone in the theater is crying because the dog keeps waiting for the deceased owner to come back home but he obviously never will.

...And so eventually I made it home and figured it'd make for a good story to share (it's a true story too. All of it).

Because a good story makes for a fine life! The End!


P.S: Maybe somebody will make a dog movie of my story. I would be so freaking pumped.

The Reimer Clan

One year and a day ago, I went on the most exciting adventure of my life. It was my first day attending School of Ministers, an infamous bible school held in the Southland Church in Steinbach, Manitoba, Canada. I remember waking up that day, a crispy 6:10am (because waking up at 6am is too close to 5:59am, and nobody wants to wake up at a 5am minute...So 6:10am.).

As I arrived in the parking lot at 6:57am, I walked through the door into the SOM classroom and immediately began my search for my brother Taran and my two very close cousins Dale and Calen. There was nothing more comforting than to have 3 of my favorite bros waiting for me to join them at a table at the far corner of the room that would soon be known as the "Reimer Clan" table!

I believe the most exciting part about that day was being pointed out that Taran and I were the ones from Texas. Our teacher asked, and so we stood up and were then stared at intensely by all the Canadians (which is to be expected, right? We Texans are a rare breed!).

Throughout the entire day, Taran and I were constantly accompanied by one or more people asking us about Texas, why we came to Canada, how we heard of SOM, and why we didn't have strong Texan accents or carried guns in our boots with spurs.

Later that day, or maybe it was a few weeks later, the Reimer Clan stumbled across a fellow student who seemed to fit right into the group. He was funny, quick-witted, a video game junkie and evidently a strong Christian--the perfect poster child of a Reimer! So inevitably, we Reimers took interest of this fellow, whose name was none other than The Trevor Andrews. But one day I was displeased with his last name.

I stood with my fists on the table and loudly proclaimed, "YOU ARE OUR COUSIN NOW." And thus, Trevor Andrews suddenly became a Trevor Reimer, and stayed faithfully by our sides through the entire year.

There were plenty more of these friends made during our year at SOM. These friends made it so easy for me to love waking up at 6:10am and running through three feet of snow to turn on my car and break the ice off my windshield wipers and drive through ice and tundras.

I miss School of Ministers, the people and the potlucks, the robot dance-offs and the small group studies, the retreats in Pinawa and drawing on the whiteboard. But I will never forget the amazing growth I had there in God, and each and every friend I made. I will always come back to Canada, just for them, because they made my life awesome. And so, even though I'm not attending SOM this year, I pray the students now will be able to make friends just like we did, grow even more than we did, and build an even finer life than mine!

So good luck with that. I've got a pretty dang fine life thanks to all of you!

The Twin Complex

One day, way back in the days of VHS tapes and the Magic School Bus, the days of the Backstreet Boys and NSYNC... I was born.

It was a fateful August 10th of 1994 when I emerged into the world, which was a place hardly ready to accept my existence! No other planet would accept me because my awesomeness apparently surpassed their Awesome Capacity Meter.

So the Almighty Awesome (the One who is the Most Awesome in all the universe), decreed Earth as my residence (despite their lack of space for awesomeness). I plummeted into the atmosphere with sparks and flames of glory, and crash-landed right in a hospital room.

But what many people don't know about this story is that another plummeted into the world with me. You see, as the smoke and debri faded from the room, I saw who was already there before me. He was another awesomely rare species as I... His species name is... Taran.

"You must be an Allison," he blabbered to me in a young tongue only I could understand.

"You must be on the wrong planet," I blabbered back.

"I don't think so," the Taran giggled maniacally. "I was here a minute before you!"

I realized then, that the world was not big enough for the both of us.

For many years following, we battled each other. We brawled to the ends of the earth, with big swords and magic and cool-looking guns, creating riffs in the space/time continuum because of our sheer, raw awesomeness.

And then one day, the Almighty Awesome paid note to our cataclysmic destruction and froze us in epic motion. He was so upset with our endless, pointless dueling that He stripped us our Awesome Powers and reversed time back to the day we plummeted to earth.

"Taran was born first," the Almighty Awesome decreed. "By one minute. Therefore he will be a year older than you, Allison. But only by a minute."

And so it was, that since August 10th, 1994 (the second time), the awesome Taran and Allison came into existence as normal human beings with a little bit more awesomeness than the next guy, and Taran was only a yute older than Allison.

A year-minute.

The End.

Allison's Declassified Wanna-be-Texan Survival Guide

If there is one thing that is harder than a Texan living in Canada, it's for a Canadian living in Texas. I would conjure up studies and statistics of the Canadians that choose to live in the deathly heat of the American south, but unfortunately there are none. Either the Canadians have spontaneously combusted, evaporated, fallen into a pit of lava while going for a walk or got stuck in a cactus and never got to be properly interviewed because they couldn't un-stuck their hand to answer the phone calls and thus were stuck there. Forever.

As you well know or have been sleeping under rocks/giant tortoises, I lived in Canada for 8 months; and as a Texan, I nearly died had I not created my own Survival Guide! It was only 2 and a half months ago that I moved back to my home state of Texas, and it seems my Canadian skin I grew in the north is forced to peel away underneath this cruel, Mordor-birthed sun.

So, this helpful list I made is for all those Canadians thinking of moving to Texas one day, or perhaps to visit to escape your cold, soul-eating, Frost-Giant winters. Heed my words, Canadians. What I have learned may save your very life.



As stated in my last survival guide, the first rule also applies in Texas: When going for a walk, don't go for a walk. The chances of falling into a sudden lava pit on your neighborhood sidewalk is a likely 93%.

Again, when going for hopefully not a walk, sometimes the more clothes you wear, the less the Mordor-birthed sun will be able to scorch your skin right off like a banana peel. So forget the short-shorts idea. Nobody likes to see your cheeks hangin out anyway.

If you ever decide to hopefully not go outside, never, ever walk barefoot. Soft grass doesn't exist here. Nor does cold cement. That's only in the fairy tales.

If you somehow ignore my advice above and go for a walk barefoot anyway, you'll end up getting a sticker (thistle) straight up your foot, invading your skin walls and injecting a temporary poisonous itch right where it stabbed you. When this happens, quickly pull it out and slap a band-aid on that sucker like you just had the best dang chicken tenders, and wait an hour or two for the itch to leave.

Also, when hopefully not outside, be aware of all the other poisonous things sitting, crawling and flying about, such as tarantulas, rattlesnakes, vampire rabbits and bugs you wished you never saw. If you happen to come across these things, the best thing you can do is enjoy yourself with them while you're still alive for a couple more minutes. Maybe have a tea-party. Play some football with the rattlesnake. Maybe a friendly game of Texas Hold 'Em with the tarantula.

Don't ever touch a cactus. Just...don't.

Driving in Texas may be easier than driving in Canada in the winter, but there are some things you must be aware of. When it's too hot outside (which is all the time), the tar on the roads will begin to melt. When the tar melts, it'll cling to your car like a koala. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be driving around with koala's attached to my rims.

Also when driving, be sure to dodge the dead animals on the road. Usually there's one or two fine platters of roadkill for every couple miles. These platters consist of: coyote, jackrabbits, local dogs and cats who thought they could beat the system, skunks and maybe a vampire raccoon.

When it gets hazy-brown outside in the distance...run. Run as far away as you can. Bunker down the fort. Strap down the dogs outside and hide in the basement. It's a sandstorm, and those sick puppies don't give way to nobody.

Every Texan man with a truck most likely owns a gun. It's common sense, folks. Don't make them angry.

Everything really is bigger in Texas. This includes several things you would consider normal size, but are in reality much larger in Texas: burgers, weiner dogs, pigskins, cupcakes, weeds, spiders, the sun, and everything else.

Lastly, and most importantly, if you ever want to survive, heed these words: Don't ever, ever...mess with Texas.



And that's all the advice I have for you Wanna-be-Texan Canadians. After reading all of this, I hope you feel discouraged and horrified by the thought of moving to Texas. If you don't feel discouraged and horrified, you may actually have the guts to live here. If you ever plan to do such a dumb thing, be reassured...Allison's Declassified Wanna-be-Texan Survival Guide will always be right here for you. Always.

The Case of the Missing Frost Giants

As you can tell by the picture above, there is something terribly wrong with the seasons in the Land of the Frost Giants.

You see, where I come from, we only have one season: Summer. Although I'm not even sure if Summer is the correct seasonal word. In fact, I should just make up a new season to describe how it's really like in Texas all year round.

Fllumer. It's like...Fall and Summer. But...Fllumer. You know that stage where all the green grass turns yellow and the trees get all ugly and almost-naked, and everything just looks all brown? But, it's also hot outside all the time. That's the only season west Texas has. Fllumer.

And so I have drawn my certain conclusion that Canada's seasons are all out of wack. Their winter (also known as their most common season) lasts over half a year. Half a year. And if it's not winter, somehow it's Summer. There is hardly anything in-between other than a few seconds of mud or orange leaves.

As I was briefly back in the Land of the Frost Giants during their season of Summer, I was beguiled by the fact that there were no frost giants to be seen! I searched and searched for them, those Eskimo-like creatures with their skin made purely of ice and their eyes like shards of sapphire (I dare say that the common eye color in their land is blue. Whereas in Texas to our surprise, our eyes match the dirty south: brown. Maybe a dark brown, if you get lucky.)

Anyway, when I searched in Canadian pastures, I found nothing but healthy fruits and green vegetables (which I fled from immediately). I looked inside their vast valleys of grass and found nothing but wild flowers and ticks. I looked under rocks and over hills and beyond the expanse of the Land of the Frost Giants, but all I could find were armies of mosquitoes and horse flies.

I was soon about to label my hopeless investigation a lost cause, until suddenly I realized...What if Frost Giants metamorphosize into a different species during the summer? What if all this time, the Frost Giants have been right under my nose?!

Ecstatic and a wee bit frightened, I ran all the way back to Texas, huffling and buffling straight down into my front yard and pummeling through my house and into my secret office down a secret flight of stairs found behind a secret trapdoor, and I whipped out my handy-dandy notebook. I opened my case file for the Missing Frost Giants and reported my findings as fast as I could.

"Dear Diary, Declassified File #1: The Case of the Missing Frost Giants

Frost Giants are a rare species, and so at the sight of their sudden disappearance, I have endured deadly journeys to find them once again. After wrestling with mosquitoes the size of bears and bears the size of mosquitoes and losing several arms in the midst, I looked at the land the Frost Giants once roamed. There I laid eyes upon green pastures and flowing water.

It hit me then. I stumbled upon the answer to their rash disappearance.

You might not believe me, dear reader (how did you find my secret office?), but I've seen it with my very own two dark brown eyes (I got lucky). ...Frost Giants...metamorphosize into a different species during the summer! Yes, I truly discovered a new species! Therefore I shall give them a new name that will properly fit them in their summer shifts. In honor of my own kind and theirs, I shall call them...

Fllumer Giants.

Case Closed."

Where Did All the Frost Giants Go?

It was the first time for me to ever fly on my own. I had my tiny, leopard-print suitcase my mom had bought for me one Christmas long ago, my brand new Fox backpack (bought just for the occasion), and my two boarding passes: Odessa, Texas to Denver, Colorado. Denver, Colorado to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

The feeling of climbing up the escalators and leaving my mom behind was a whole lot harder than I had imagined it'd be, probably because this time I didn't have my twin brother Taran with me to be my companion and help us figure out where to go next.

My brother and I lived in Canada for 8 months to attend bible school, and during Thanksgiving in November, we flew back to Texas to visit our family. On our way back to Canada, we made the forever-remembered and extremely hilarious mistake of eating breakfast tacos while our names were called for last-minute boarding on our plane to Denver. The story came to be: we accidentally watched our flight leave while we ate breakfast tacos. I'm not even sure if the taste was worth the extra six or seven hours it took to get back to Canada, but hey--it makes for a great story!

So it happened to be now that I was all on my own. Taran has a job lined up in Texas, and I have two very important people in my life graduating in the Land of the Frost Giants. So I bought me some tickets and ended up at the airport with my terribly-clashing suitcase and backpack.

I stepped through the Customs, where the official at the desk was kind enough to ask me if it was my first time flying by myself (He probably caught the hint with how wide my eyes peered at everything around us). He lead me through the machines and all that weird alien stuff and wished me safe travels. As I took a seat at my first gate, I immediately made friends (which a lot of people would say is to be expected from me!). They told me of their endeavors to reach Edmonton, Alberta, Canada and spoke to me in French when I asked if they could, which I had never heard in person before! They reassured me that flying on my own isn't as scary as it looks, and helped me find my way through boarding.

After only seven hours, I already landed in Canada! It was such a strange feeling because normally it would take about 22 hours to get there (if we drive). But when I walked outside, all my strange feelings materialized...and festered into something far stranger.

It's warm outside. And the grass is green.

I had only remembered this place as 8 months of winter. The frost giants only ever thrived in their tundras. But now, where have they all gone? Butterflies are fluttering, flowers are blooming, mosquitoes are singing the songs of their people...And now I am faced with a case of missing frost giants. I still have a few weeks left to look in to the freakish matter, and so perhaps I will keep you updated.

So, my fellow readers, as I continue to investigate the strange phenomenon of the disappearance of the frost giants, I will turn your attention back to the kindness I was shown on my brave journey through the airports I faced by myself.

I am very grateful that there were friendly people there to help ease my nerves, and to talk to me in French (because it was really cool!). They made my journey a fine one!

And most of all, I must conclude that going on a new journey is something every human heart needs every once in a while. And who knows? Maybe you are the person sitting in the airport who's flown a thousand times, but the person sitting next to you is afraid because it is their first. Get out of your comfort zone. Say hello in French if you can, or show them how to get through the boarding process without falling straight off the bridge into the plane. Whatever you can do to help!

But first, go on your own journey to show them how to not eat breakfast tacos before a flight.

Because it's stories like these that make an interesting life. And an interesting life is a fine life indeed!