Hey there sucker!

Ahh, the holidays. The time for presents, home baked goods, parties, and girdles? Yes, girdles. Well, at least for me. This year I was forced to stuff myself into the horror of all things spandex and cotton, the contraption which makes young girls the world over shutter in terror but gives grandma a little sass in her step.

It all started out so simple. We drove to Walmart to buy some last minute things for my sister-in-law Ashley's wedding. All I wanted to buy were a few hair clips, maybe a bag of sour patch kids, and some index cards to study with when Mindy came over holding a black slip that claimed to slim and smooth. I realized that this was what I really needed to help me look good for the wedding, it was providential.

In an attempt to improve my looks, I'd already spent the better part of the week smelling like a peanut from my tanning lotion. Throughout the week people would enter the room I would be sitting in, sniff the air and ask who'd been eating peanuts. It was quite exhausting to explain that it wasn't a sandwich, but my skin that smelled like en elementary school lunch room. I knew that I could fix my hair, shave my legs, and paint my toes but the only thing that would help me to resemble the dancing girl on the hanger was if I bought that slip.

However, when I followed Mindy down to the aisle that sold the fat containing contraptions I saw something else that interested me. On the other side, the side that looked to be ransacked by desperate women who were returning home to family members who felt it their duty to comment on recent weight gain, or making one last attempt at finding love in 2007. On that shelf there were footless pantyhose that rested just below the bra line and came down slightly above the knees, or in other words there were girdles.

I had a dilemma. On the one hand I could stuff myself into a slip that was 14.88, or for half the price I could suck it up and buy myself a girdle, which would probably do the job better even though my pride would also be stuffed into it as well. Of course, in a fit of cosmic irony the sizes that remained were about a hundred smalls and two extra large, even though the box claimed I needed a Large. Grabbing the XL and the sexy black slip I trudged to the Walmart dressing room.

Removing my corduroys and sweatshirt I attempted to stretch the little black slip onto my body. The material stretched so slightly that I wondered if they had recycled used exercise bands. Catching, the material snapped back and nearly took out my eye. I must have been making a lot of noise because the attendant lady politely asked how I was doing. I wasn't sure what I should say.

I don't know if anyone else has had this happen when you are trying to put on a too small dress or shirt which requires contortionist skills, but I get cramps in my back or neck. So there I was half naked in a Walmart stall, partially paralyzed from a cramp, muttering under my breath and totally stuck with my arms above my head, pinned by my new black slip that would be coming home with me because it surely wasn't coming off. Would it be inappropriate, I wondered, to explain that I was suffering a neck cramp from trying to stretch it too much? Should I scream out, "Please, in here, climb under the door, bring the jaws of life and a slimfast!"

Instead, I replied, "Doing fine, thanks."

When I finally got it on I realized that what I really needed was not the "sexy" black slip which would have covered all my clubbing needs (if I clubbed), but instead the girdle. The tan, sheer, gut supporting, leg smoothing girdle. So I bought both, avoided eye contact with the cashier, controlled the urge to blame some fictional mother for the purchase and silently berated myself on the drive home.

Once at home I tried on my new piece of "lingerie", making the mistake of doing it in front of Jarom who was most likely scarred for life. The leg holes fit my calves comfortably, but after my knees things start looking bad. They continued to grow worse as I struggled to wrestle the stomach band over by butt and up to my bra, a task that should require an iron grip and a stick of butter. I can't even imagine what it would have been like if I'd bought the right size.

The box said tan spandex/cotton blend, but what was really inside was sausage casing. You know, the slightly opaque, slightly brown stuff where they force lumpy sausage chunks into a narrow confining tube. So yes, it smoothes the meat out, but it's sheer enough that no one is fooled about what is inside. In my case about 300 too many treats.

"I look like a salami." I say to Jarom, who's eyes are wide in what I am assuming is horror, but are carefully trying to adjust themselves to a smaller size.
"No you don't." He answers.
"Well, a sausage than." I mutter, thinking that at least that's a little smaller.
Jarom shakes his head but has the sense to remain silent, knowing that the conversation will continue like that for as long as he will answer me.

However, I must say that girdles do have their charms. Not only are they super sexy (this is said with sarcasm) but they do actually keep you sucked in if your in a jamb for a last minute fix. So much so that I was able to eat an extra piece of cake. Move over grandmas of the world, you got some new competition in the girdle aisle. At least for the moment. Tragically.

Hurray!!

Ok, I know this is a lame post, but this is landmark for me! I am almost done with my American Heritage class, I have turned in all the assignments (as of tonight!) and now I just need to take the final. Yeay!! Sweet, sweet freedom here I come!

p.s.- the first picture was taken on my Mac (with the weird picture taking application) but it reflects what my head feels like after all that studying and work! Sorry if it scares the kiddies, I was cracking up and caught the second picture. If you can't tell the difference that the third is just me, I will cry for a week and yes I'm wearing almost NO makeup. Aint I pretty? (=

Fuzzy

So the other day I decided that it was time to do a little waxing to my upper lip. Before you go gagging into the bathroom I want to explain that I don't have a stash, just a little peach fuzz that bothers me. As I was waxing it reminded me of the first time I tried this out...

My sophomore year in college I was browsing the makeup and lotion aisle of my local Albertson's when I saw a little box with a very chipper woman on it. Sugar wax, it said. I figured anything that featured a smiling, partially nude, very smooth woman couldn't do anything but help for me, so I bought it. Intending to do a little maintenance to my face and maybe if I was feeling optimistic I would finish off with my legs, I warmed the wax up in the microwave when I got home. The box said 10 seconds, but when I looked inside the container it didn't look as if the wax was warm enough, so I added another 15 seconds more. Big mistake. For any of you have waxed before, you will know that wax goes from lukewarm to thermal nuclear hot under the deceptive surface within 5 seconds over the suggested time. You can imagine how hot 15 seconds got it.

Daintily I dipped the applicator stick into the wax and swirled it around marveling at how such thin wax would make me as hairless as Ms. Tropicana or Ms. Coppertone. Now I understand that wax that thin is dangerously, dangerously hot- which would have been nice to know before I applied the bottled lava to my lip.

"Sweet merciful!" I screamed as the wax burned two layers of skin off my face. Hearing my screams one of my roommates ran to the bathroom.
"What's wrong?" She asked through the door in a worried voice.
"So, is sugar wax supposed to pull the hair off your body, or burn it off?" I wanted to ask. "Because if it's supposed to do the pulling I have made a drastic mistake" But instead I said with the best imitation of composure, "Nothing, I just burned myself accidentally."
"Ok," she answered and then added as though it were an afterthought, "be careful!"

Bravely I applied the little strip of extra sturdy paper to my scalded lip and than waited a few more moments for the wax to cool down to do the other side. Once I had applied both strips of paper I realized something I had not thought too hard about before. It had to come off and how it was going to come off was going to hurt. Bad.

And, there were two options for that. One, suck it up and rip those suckers off. Or two, continue to live the rest of my life as a jaunty little french man with a boxy white mustache. Looking in the mirror I wiggled my nose to make the mustache dance around on my face. Yes... It was possible.

However, fifteen minutes later (and with a full repartee of faces and expressions that included one silent film act a la Charlie Chaplain, and a silent film villain complete with a devious mustache twirling action) I had decided it must come off if I was ever to get married, courted, a job, some sort of male friend, etc. Bracing myself I gripped an unattached end and pulled with all my might.

Two minutes later when I awoke off the floor I could see the damage: One very red lip, with the majority of my hair still attached but not the skin.

Bracing myself, I ripped off the other side, balancing myself against the counter so I wouldn't fall to the floor in agony. Looking in the mirror I noticed something new. Now not only did I have a new little red mustache, but I looked like a pubescent boy with a scraggly mexi-stash. Excellent. So eight bucks, 2 inches of skin, and a half an hour later with the use of tweezers I finally had the smooth appearance I was looking for.

I am happy to say that a few tries later I figured it out. But I have a few suggestion for the beginners:
1) When the bottle says 10 seconds, it means 10 seconds.
2) if at all possible be sitting on a counter or a chair, or whatever, when you do this, or at least cushion the floor with a thick layer of pillows. (helps with the bruising)
3) Unless you are paranoid like me or your hair line has gone exploring, just let it be, let it be.
4) fast is better than slow.
5) mustaches are actually coming back, look at Kip from Napoleon Dynamite, plus there is the example of Magnum P.I., cops, or your great-great-great grandma from Russia. Somebody loved her too.

12 Days of Christmas

It's been raining a lot and cold and it is not surprising that we should wake up to ants all over the place. We had been warned that the ants are aggressive and would sniff out any kind if food in our room. We didn't have all that much, and it was on the top of the bookshelf so we figured we were safe... Most of the room had already been sprayed with bug spray so we just assumed nothing would come in. I say most of the room because those pesky ants came through an unlikely place that no one would have figured on. The electric outlet plug. I've have learned my lesson and decided to sum it up in a holiday fashion, here goes...

One the twelfth day of Christmas my worse fear gave to me:
12 thousand ants a scrambling
11 paper towels a wiping
10 swear words a muttered
9 sighs of anger
8 ounces of bug spray
7 hundred ants on my arms
6 bags of candy a ruined
5 diet resolutions enforced (because my stash is gone)
4 death threats
3 more swear words
2 hours lost
and a screaming girl whose learned her lesson.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Equality For All...?

The other day I saw something that made me chuckle. Driving next to us was a very fancy looking man driving the newest Convertible BMW model. On his steering wheel I watched as he tapped out the beat of his music while his rolex (at least it looked like one) caught the light of the afternoon sun. And then I noticed it.

One his vanity plate holder read the words, "(On top) National Committee for (on bottom) EQUALITY."

Two comments. 1) How do I belong? and 2) Riiiiiight.

Hey!

Jarom was out of town traveling for his job. Usually I'd just pop in "Anne of Green Gables" and fall asleep to the melodic sounds of Anne and Gilbert bickering, but that night I decided that I would try to watch a quieter movie, one that was dark and wouldn't light up the room. Maybe I would fall asleep quicker. I had turned all of the lights off downstairs, flicked the switch off in the hall and settled down in my dim room, praising myself for my bravery at sleeping in the dark house alone.

Just at the moment that I was surrendering myself to sleep, the harsh rings of the telephone sounded, calling me back to reality. Once, twice, three times. Fumbling I reached across my side table and clasped the cold metallic phone.

“Hello?” I asked. On the other end of the phone I could hear a ring tone. Possibly I had missed Jarom and he would call me back, I thought hanging up the phone.

Settling myself back into my cool crisp bed, I had just closed my eyes when downstairs I heard the rattle of the front door knob shaking. My heart started beating wildly as I listened to hear if the intruder would find the door locked and seek out another target. After a moment of silence a new sound started like the scraping of a lock.

“Please”, I thought to myself, “Just leave.” Instead I was rewarded with the sound of the door slowly creaking open and three or four voices whispering amongst themselves. They were the kind of voices that explained without saying that they were not there to just steal your TV.

By this point the blood was rushing through my ears, almost flushing out any other sound. Hurrying, I found my jeans and a jacket to throw on, intending to climb onto the roof. Where would I go from there though, I wondered? I would just be stuck waiting for the first person to find me and if no one knew there was trouble it was likely that they would find me first.

Picking up the phone I dialed 9-1-1 so hard that my fingers bent back, the hard edges of the buttons making imprints onto the soft pads of my fingertips

By this point the fear had replaced any form of sound that would have come out of my mouth. I knew that I needed to say who I was, where I was calling from and that there were intruders in my home, but nothing, nothing would entice my clenching throat to utter a single word. Meanwhile, I could hear soft footsteps and the groan of the stairs as they gave way underneath someone who didn’t belong on them.

Just say something, anything, let them know you know they are coming. Tell them that you have called the police and that they are on their way. Don’t sound afraid, everything depends on this.

But try as I may the words wouldn’t come. And then, I mustered something…

“Hey!” I shouted in a deep guttural voice. I intended to finish with “I’ve called the police.” But the sound of my own voice startled me into a new sensation.

I blinked a few times trying to figure out what was going on, when right next to me someone said, “Hey!?” back.
Jarom was looking at me, his face amused and also worried. It was like someone had lit a neon sign that said, “Laugh Now” because we both broke into hysterical laughter.

“What were you dreaming?” he asked as I attached myself to his side, my heart still pounding. “You were whimpering and saying, “h--, h--, h--, heh, HEY!”

“Oh, Jarom!”, I told him “I just had the scariest dream! You were out of town…”

It’s so nice to wake up and realize the scary dream you were dreaming was just that, a dream. Please let the rest of the month be dream free!

New News!

Hey everyone! I'm so excited to announce that I made it onto "America's Next Top Model." Amazing right?! There was one catch, the show had to be cancelled due to the fact that it was being held in my back yard and Tyra was attacked by a black panther (possible subconcious political statement?). Allow me to explain.

A few nights ago I found myself as a lead contestant for that show that offers it's watchers the two for one deal of making you feel smug at your ability to eat and fat at the same time. Yes, I had made it onto "America's Next Top Model." However, things quickly became strange. One, why would anyone line up a bunch of gorgeous girls in my Huntington Beach backyard? There is definitly not enough room for all that big hair and camera crew. Two, why was a black panther hanging around on my wall with it's yellow eyes focused on Tyra? And three, how the heck did I in all my squishy splendidness get into THAT crowd?

I don't know about everyone else, but I have the ability to realize I'm dreaming in many of my dreams and usually I will just sit back and see what my mind comes up with. It's kind of like watching movies in my sleep. However, you can only imagine my disappontment when dream Holly turns with a confused look to the unnaturally perk girl next to her and says, "Um.. I don't think I belong here..." (Slam on the dream breaks)

Pardon me, but aren't you supposed to be able to be extra cool, pretty or whatever in your dreams? Did my subconsious think so low of me that it couldn't even fathom moving my cellulite up to its natural position of thighs, instead of down my legs too? Honestly, a little thicker hair and flatter stomach would have been nice. So after a few concious slaps to my unconcious I have decided that I really will get into "America's Next Top Model" shape, well, maybe "Next, Next Top Model."

I'm not hoping for perfection, but it is a smack when even your inner thoughts remind you that you're in this predicament because not only have you had your own piece of cake and eatten it too, but you've eatten everyone elses as well.

So here's what I'm going to do: today is day one of Weight Watchers for me, I figure this will go slowly, but I want to wear my favorite jeans again. So This time for real I will post my progress. "America's Next, Next (next) Top Model" here I come.

In your dreams!

Adidas black stretch running pants with the white stripes and reflective adidas symbol on the bottom buyers, beware!

Joseph (from the bible, not your local grocer or some other guy) interpreted that 7 thin ears of corn would follow 7 fat ears as a sign that after 7 good years of harvest, 7 years of famine would follow. I know that I am not Joseph, but I have another dream that needs to be addressed.

The other evening I found myself in a dream that was very intense while at the same time a little confusing. Even in my dream I was thinking, "Ummm... what did you sniff last night? Glue? Wet paint?" You see, I was in my storage unit looking for something when I realized that I was not alone. If any of you have seen inside my storage unit you would discover that first there is no room to be looking for something, and second if something else was in there it had to be very small and flat and not much of a predator.

Suddenly my dream took a very M. Night Shyamalan twist. In "Lady In The Water" there are these beasts that look like the lawn, so you can't see them except their red eyes through a mirror or if they are about to eat you. In my dream I had the urge to grab my handy bible and hold it out in front of me, like a mini light shield. (It was my first nice bible set that still had my name Holly Tanner in gold cursive too) Apparently whatever urged me to do this knew that I was not alone either for there sitting on the bench was my pair of Adidas pants. (Insert your traditional "duh duh duh!" in lowering octives here please) However, my pants, which still looked like pants, was now a very dangerous monster complete with red eyes and claws. Thankfully I had my bible and was able to distroy the beast! Yes...

So, the question now is this: what did that dream mean, besides that I am deranged? Will it follow with Joseph's translations that my excersise pants were in storage because I will get fatter for 7 years and then slim down for 7 years? If so I will go cry in the bathroom right now. Possibly that the world will be overtaken by overzealous bible hating runners? Maybe even that my running pants will cause some kind of rash or chaffing and it will be necessary to pray for healing? I have no idea. But I do know that I need a break from these dreams!

Joseph, or I guess Pharoah, ain't got nothin' on me.

Storage Insurance

One of the joys that many people face when making a move is the lovely option of storing your belongings, your special memories, and all of your extremely breakable china inside a dark and slighly ominous unit that is prone to water damage, dirt and teetering boxes. Also, they are usually in a bad part of town complete with a bumm sleeping outside the gate and tumble weeds rolling determindly by. Why can't the unit be near areas where you aren't afraid to store your stuff, let alone get out of the car, you ask yourself?

Once inside the office, you are offered the option of insurance.
"I promise you're going to want this. If you don't, I will personally rob you myself." The woman all but says.
Jarom hands me the insurance page with one word instructions to "read," which I do, breezing over the contract looking for key words like, "water damage, earthquake, fire, etc." However, I quickly find that for the bargain of twelve dollars a month I am also covered up to the amount of three thousand dollars for things like, " sonic booms, spacecraft (UFO's abducting my kitchen-aid?), riots, civil commotion and falling objects."

"Oh good, Jarom." I said after noticing another perk, "if we decided to buy insurance we would be covered from self-propelled missiles."
"Excellent," Jarom responds, his face complete with a look of total seriousness. Across from us the woman helping us has a bewildered expression. I'm sure there are two thoughts flitting across her mind; 1) who actually reads insurance policys and 2) what exactly are we expecting to happen?

Moments later I discover that there are a few glitches in the policy that need to be addressed. For example we are covered for things like snow or volcanic eruptions in California but not war, neither are the poor animals that strange people keep in storage units or "garments trimmed in fur". Honestly, I would rather have my garments trimmed in fur covered than coverage from a hurricane, it just seems more reasonable. And yes, in case you are wondering I do have a garment trimmed in fur, it's a lovely gray coat that is probably from the seventies that Jarom would never be caught dead being seen with me when I'm wearing it.

I can feel the pressure to make a decision, and I want to say "I would love to buy the insurance, but can you add in the protection for the loss of property by accidental nuclear action? I just don't feel comfortable with that exclusion." But of course I don't.

And then it dawns on me. Can I trade? I am almost positive that no one would want my stuff if there was a riot, but I do want to be covered from floods.

"Here's what we'll do," I say. "you give me the nuclear action damage (whether accidental or not- yes it does say that), the garments trimmed in fur, and flooding damage protection, and I will withhold my rights to sonic boom, civil commotion, and spacecraft coverage."

Judging from the blank expression on the ladies face, there is no dice.
"Well than," I say, "I think we'll pass."

Now we just need to hold our breath that no sonic boom or self propelled missiles disrupt our things.

And on the topic of insurance policies, who writes that stuff?

Moving...

Stinks.

Sonnets

So, I wrote these sonnets for one of my classes and thought I would post them, since I haven't had the time to write a proper post. The first one my teacher really liked, except that it was old fashioned sounding and he wanted one that was more modern. It's surprising how hard it is to change something once you've already written it. He wanted me to use some of the same imagery, but it's hard to incorporate old writing into new. I ended up scratching the whole thing and came up with the second, which I liked better. So anyhow, I'm putting up the first poem, and then the revised second.


Oh, swift betrayal on a winter’s eve,
when snow lies like white lambs upon a hill
in peace. No warning does the night receive—
spring crouches in and none deny its skill.
A mellow day on winter’s door may knock,
or rushes in with lion savage rain—
and takes one day to scatter all the flock
of lambs across the hillside once again.
Though April rains are told to bring new life
a sacrifice is made. Oh gentle hand,
the stiller of the savage brandished knife,
in grace you bow out in a manner grand.
And as one season’s sent unto its grave,
spring marches in; well battled, scarred and brave.


Here is the second "new and improved" poem:

But spring, you are no lady. I can tell.
While others find you sweet to ponder on
I know inside you’re a fierce Amazon,
one breast shy. Not by your charms winters fail.
Your tears can wash away winter’s resolve
to stay. Or melt the snow with dim sunlight.
Your beauty’s proved, since after every fight
under new flesh of green your scars dissolve.
I find it no surprise that you should rest
your hy’cinth blooms, who knife their way through dirt
of frozen months. They stall, two weeks, from hurt
before erupting bright in fragrant best.
And yet, we love you for the way you dust
red tulips, drops of blood, on winter’s crust.

Well, it's official!

Jarom and I have decided to move down to California! We will be living with his family for a few months to pay some bills and get some savings going. Then we will move down to around Huntington Beach. We're excited to be so close to everyone and escape the drudgery of Utah winters. Hurray!! We will be officially down in CA in about 2 weeks. That means I want invitations to all your parties. (= Love you all!!

What?

Do to brain functioning constraints and severe lack of perceptive tolerance adaptive ability the corpus of my currently scanned text remains unfulfilled in the viewing sense. Or, in simplified words, I do not understand my American Heritage reading.

Example: “They reflected a broad diversity of conceptions and purposes—everything from setting up mercantile trading operations to building feudalistic seigniories to providing land for England’s dispossessed. Religious sanctuary lent a certain coherence to some of the colonies, especially those in New England, but Puritanism itself, or more broadly the dissenting tradition, was not the sole guiding influence of colonial development. There were many others.”

I understood, “There were many others.” Now my question is why does the author feel that he has to make the text so thick that it is practically unreadable? If he were to start the book by simply stating, “I am smart, but I’m going to dumb this down for you thick headed students,” I would believe him and out of gratitude add him to my Christmas card list. Instead, I am left wondering what he is getting at, rereading a sentence about ten times over before I get what he is saying. And the problem is the thickness (mine and his) gets worse the further in I get.

By the end of the chapter I am weeding out phrases I understand, like “England is an important key to the puzzle,” and “In America, they argued, the ‘best’ was really the best.” From these two sentences I have veered into my own area of thought which doesn’t include our founding fathers such as John Locke or John Calvin. Rather, these two sentences have led me to conclude that they are talking about Easter candy, Cadbury eggs in particular, and that the vote is unanimous in America that English candy really is best.

The problem lies in the tests. If it was simply for my own reading I would recommend this book to anyone, who doesn’t love a good debate about delicious candy? But ultimately I will be tested on my knowledge of these facts and I can almost guarantee that my sorts of questions won’t be on the test. I will cross my fingers that my teacher (he didn’t write the book) will have come to the same conclusion about Cadbury, but I won’t hold my breath. Not everybody likes chocolate.

Uvama? No you vama!

It seems that everywhere we go online these days we are hounded by word verification boxes. They are always asking us to verify words like "Uvama" or "ujctn" or even "luffbra." Honestly, it makes me uncomfortable. By verifying a word that I know nothing about I feel that I am selling myself in lies. How can I verify a word when I don't know it's character... It's like going on a date with a guy you find slightly creepy but telling your friend that he's great so you can get him off your back.

We are told that verifying these words protects our identity, but what we don't know is that in other cultures such as Middle Eastern, American Indian and German some of these words actually mean something. For all I know I could be saying in some nerd code or foreign language that I brush my teeth with preperation-H or that I smell like a pickle, much to the amusement of some bored M.I.T student.

Why can't I type something that is normal, even if complicated. Something like, "Teresahasissues" or "Joesucksbecausehenevercallsmeback." I would much rather type something like that than something that means nothing. At least there is some history behind it. Anyhow, it's just a thought.

In the Garden

Not a sound was heard in the garden, except the boughs of many different trees gently creaking beneath the weight of the homemade birds. He had been showing her around, pointing out different plants and animals and telling her their names.

“This tree we aren’t suppose to touch,” he said, proud of his abundant knowledge. “And this here is a giraffe.”
“Oh,” she said.
“This is a lion,” he said. “And this is a rose.”
“Oh,” she said.
Adam was growing more confident. “This is called a pear.” Sometimes he even amazed himself.
“Adam,” she said. "You know a lot of things, but how do you feel about me?”

Now he had been prepped on what the names of the animals were and how to build shelter and even which fruit trees were off limits, but no one had explained how the mind of the woman worked.

“How do I feel about you?” He repeated, hoping she would find some other object to occupy her thoughts. No such luck.
“Uh, huh.”
“And this is a hippopotamus, but you can call it a hippo.” He looked at her hoping maybe she would be distracted. She wasn’t.
“This is called a chicken...” Adam said slowly, he had never seen woman’s right eyebrow arch like that before.

Adam could tell he was not winning points with Eve. His mind scrambled, trying to find the right words to say. He knew there was a right answer, she seemed to know it, but he didn’t have one inkling as to what it might be. Until this time the garden had been peaceful, the lamb had lied down with the lion and there had been no contention. He knew if he didn’t get this answer right he could kiss that peace goodbye. He’d never done this before, and this really wasn’t part of the deal anyways.

“Well?”
“Well,” he said, “you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” The eyebrow stayed arched; apparently he had not said the right thing. Adam wondered if maybe he had done something wrong and this was his punishment. But he hadn’t eaten the fruit from the forbidden tree. Did thinking about eating it count?
“Well?” she asked again.
“Um…” he could feel his chest start to tighten. So this is death he thought. Funny how short life is he mused, he could have sworn it would have been longer. A breeze stirred the treetops, and a soft flutter was heard as a bird alighted from a branch and flew off to another part of the garden. Adam wondered if it had ever had to deal with this situation. What would he have given to have wings at that moment so he could fly away too. But he didn’t have wings and the tight sensation in his chest had gone, and he knew he would have to answer Eve eventually. “I think you are the most intelligent women I have ever met.”

Eve seemed to be giving him a second chance. She didn’t look as irritated, but she still was not appeased. He was supposed to say something else. Ok, think. He racked his brain for some witty remark. Nope, not a thing. Woman soon became impatient of waiting and that’s when it happened. The first hands-on-the-hips-I’m-waiting pose, a pose women throughout time would use to express their extreme exasperation towards their husbands.

“Would you like to go look around the rest of the garden?” he asked.
“No.”
“What’s wrong?” He asked.
“Nothing,” she huffed.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” she said.

Her green eyes were the brightest he had ever seen them. She looked really mad. As she stood in front of a blossoming gardenia bush, its full white buds sending a sweet fragrance into the garden, he noticed for the first time how really pretty she was. He wanted to say so but it seemed unimportant when she was that angry. She probably wouldn’t even believe him. Instead he just stood there staring at her, wondering what he should do.

“What?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Positive,” he said.
The sun was starting to set and all around them the sounds of animals were filling the air. “Well, I guess we should find somewhere to sleep,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said.
Underneath one of the blossom trees, they lied in the long new grass. The cool earth soothed Eve’s heated cheeks.
“Eve? Are you still awake?” Adam said.
“Yes,” she replied quietly.
“You’re really pretty.”

Eve stayed silent, listening to Adam. Long shadows formed along her face as she lay opposite him in the setting sun, her hair making golden pools around her shoulders. “And I really appreciate having someone to talk to; it would be really boring without you.” Although he was not very experienced at giving compliments, he knew he was doing pretty well. She wasn’t mad at all anymore; in fact she was actually smiling.

“Thank you Adam.” Eve said softly.
Piece of cake, he thought, that really wasn’t so bad. If he could deal with that, than he could deal with anything.
“Are you hungry?” Eve asked.
“Uh, huh,” he said.
“Have an apple.”

Knott's Scary Farm!

Ok, before I proceed I have to admit that though the title reads Knott's scary farm, originally I wrote Knott's Scary Fart (both would be equally frightening to experience). Thank goodness for proof reading.

Being that I have never had the chance to attend this insanity, Jarom was determined that I would experience it before we lost our chance. We decided that we really wanted to bring Chad and Tyler along with us because more people equals less harrassment per person over the night, plus we just love them! My equation didn't add up how I expected because the boys (except for Chad occassionally) were more or less overlooked while I was a prime target all night. I expect it is because I was attached firmly to Jarom's arm, refused to make eye contact, and since most of the costumes looked like wild dogs they could smell my fear through the laytex masks. Wonderful.

All the small rides were turned into awesome haunted houses or weird crazy asylems. There were a few times when the monsters attached themselves to me like fly paper and followed me through the mazes. Jarom says it's because I'm cute, I think it's because anyone over the age of 8 wasn't buying it, but I was still totally freaked out. At one point a really creepy vampire said, "I want your eyes." to which I replied, "but I'm still using them..." and he had no response. I figure if I reasoned with the monsters they would leave me alone, which more or less worked.

Anyhow, if anyone is near to Knott's Scary Farm I suggest you go. It was so much fun to laugh at each other whenever we got scared and hang out in the nearly empty park.

Subtle differences

Beside the obvious differences between men and women; I mean the interest in all things technological, the chest hair (hopefully only on men), or penchant for watching fighting on movies or tv, there are other differences between the sexes. Men have their own way of problem solving. No really, and though it may not be how we women think is efficient or may look funny, it still works and it still does the job. I realized this tonight after I asked Jarom's help with making dinner. I think I have become more used to the differences of living with a man because I hardly notice when he does things his "own way".

Tonight we were making a Thai basil chicken stirfry and I asked Jarom if he would thaw the chicken.
"Sure." He said and proceeded to grab a bowl and put a few pieces of chicken into it. "How many do you want to thaw?"
"About 9 or 10 pieces." I respond without looking up because I am intensly focused on cutting an onion into slivers and don't pay any attention to what he is doing.
"Here you go." Jarom says smiling broodly.

Inside the sink, underneath the running water, is a clear glass bowl slightly larger than a cereal bowl with 10 chicken tenders half emerged and sticking out in all directions. This visual instantly cues my mind to the similarity of this chicken image and me trying to stuff myself into my last pair of wearable jeans. Please erase that thought.

"Um.. nice..." I say slowly, "But I don't think those will ever thaw. I think we need a bigger bowl."
"Sure they will." He answers optomistically, but grabs another bowl after I continue to look unconvinced.
This time he grabs an actual cereal bowl and proceeds to jimmy rig the chicken thawing operation.
"How about this?" He asks pointing to his work.
Now not only does he have the small clear bowl utilized, but the cereal bowl is teetering precariously on top of the other one. Through all this the water runs into the bowls like some modern fountain sculpture.
I can't help but laugh as I look at his masterpiece because though it took a bit longer to thaw the chicken, it did exactly what I needed. It just happens to have been by a whole different method. So in one fell swoop he managed to change the old addage that "great minds think alike." I beg to differ, men and women do not think alike which is why the world is such an interesting place. These things make me happy. I hope you like the modern art.

"I just picked her up from practice..." (and other excellent excuses)

This story still remains one of my favorite mom and me stories. I hope she doesn't mind if I use it but I was thinking about it tonight and I wanted to write about it.

Disclaimer: My nose is ALWAYS stuffy, so I can't smell anything, AND our neighbor has cats. (These facts are important, so keep them in mind as the story progresses.)

My freshman year I decided that if I wasn't ackward enough I would join the softball team as the stray 50 mile an hour aim dummy OR pitcher, your choice. I joined with a bunch of girls who couldn't play, but had the advantage of being large and in charge and therefore fit into no other catagory of sports. Though I was not particulary gifted at pitching I found ways of getting around that, but that is a different blog.

One day after practice mom picked me up for my doctors appointment. I had been running (away from the balls batted at me) and pitching and catching and had naturally gotten a bit sweaty. However, up until that day I had never smelled when I sweat and I chalk it up to good jeans and a little device called deoderant.

Well, I notice mom keeps sniffing and making faces but I don't think too much about it. When we get to the doctors office, mom is still sniffing, but has now added the line, "I just picked her up from practice" in an apologetic voice. Strange, I think, though softball is not the coolest sport one shouldn't have to apologize about it.

Enter doctors office. Small room, no window. Doctor so and so comes in and wears a pained expression, mom is wearing the similar expression. It is like a bad matching his and hers pained expression set. Obviously it doesn't come in the kids sizes because I do not smell what they are smelling. Again mom says, "I just picked her up from practice." Doctor-holds-his-beath nods in an understanding and slightly disgusted way. His face is also getting slightly red because of the tiny shallow breaths he is taking through his mouth in order to miss as much of the foul smell as possible.

Am I missing something?

Finally the doctors appointment is over, mom has explained a few more times that "I just picked her up from practice," and the doctor has informed his nurses to ban me from coming back to his office unless I am wearing a biohazard suit. When we reach the car my olfactory senses finally kick in and for the first time I notice a rancid, funky, unearthly smell.

"What is that?" I ask mom.
I can tell she doesn't know how to tell me that I reek like a rotten toilet.
"I smells like cat poop." I say.
It hits both of us like a rocket on turbo drive. She looks at her feet, where the bottom of her shoe is smeared with a dangerous amount of toxic, acidic cat turd that has probably eatten away some of the rubber on the soul of her shoe. Nice. I realize that now my doctor and all the nurses think I am a cursed and disgusting child. Even nicer.
"Call them when we get home and tell them you had poo on your shoe." I say threateningly. But it never happens, and forever after my doctor will tell the story of the grossest teenaged girl he ever met, the one who smelled like a rotten toilet and also tragically played softball. I'm surprised he didn't ask me to come have tests because anyone whose sweat smelled like "mine" must have been fatelly ill.

So thanks mom for that story, I laugh my head off when I think of it.

I'm commiting myself

No, the title does not mean to a state hospital. I'm commiting myself to being healthy once and for all... again.

Today I went to Weight Watchers for the first time in two months. During my break (and a litte before too, lets be honest) I had gained back quite a bit of weight. Not a little, a lot. So, when I stepped on the scale to "weigh in" and the scale went past my recent high, the conversation with the lady went something like this:

Her: If you could just step up here... (pointing to the scale)
Me: How much clothes can I take off to weigh in before I get arrested?
Her: Um...
Me: Wait, the scale is no longer showing any numbers... Is "big as a house" really an option on this scale?
Her: Apparently...

So, I have decided that I'm going to record my weight loss on this blog as well. Don't fear, there will be no bathing suit pictures of before and after, just updates on how I am doing. And maybe I will be honest in my weight loss; however, the cadbury creme eggs are still under the bed, there are creme brulees in the fridge, and half a pumpkin pie. Wish me luck.

Found: two earplugs

Have you ever lost something? I know it's pretty common to lose things like glasses, keys, earplugs, but sometimes we are more concerned about finding where the object is than the actual object. For example: Last week I misplaced a pair of earplugs. Although I sleep better when I can't hear a thing, it wasn't the lack of earplugs that unnerved me, it was where they could have gone. Usually I wake up with one still dangling in my ear and the other smashed into a perfectly flat disk under my butt, but that morning they were no where to be found. After searching all over the bed and on the ground I began to wonder if I had possibly eatten them in my sleep. Allow me to explain (this is not so impossible as it may seem, given my history).

A few months ago during midterms, I was so sleep deprived and so stressed that my dreams took on a whole dimension of their own. One night I dreamed that I was being sucked into a puddle on the sidewalk and woke up gasping because I had been holding my breath. Other nights I fitfully dreamed of fights with people, or being attacked. Usually after I awoke I was fine and could go back to sleep- except for one dream.

That night Jarom had popped some popcorn and brought it into our room to watch some tv and veg before turning in. It was late and I was tired, so I opted for my earplugs and some sleep instead of staying up. I'm sure it was the smell of the popcorn that began my dream because suddenly I was eating a handful of chewy buttery popcorn. It tasted great until it dawned on me that popcorn is not supposed to be chewy, a realization that shook me out of my dream.

It was dark in the room and I had something in my mouth. Something that was squeeky, strange tasting and not supposed to be there. Quickly I spit it out and found a bright orange, well-chewed earplug. It was this moment that my tongue rolled into the back of my head and I started to gag. Earwax and the texture of earplugs are not something that you want to wake up to.

So when the earplugs went missing I began to fret that possibly I had eatten them for real. I am happy to say that I found them two days later- under the bed and not in the bathroom. I am also currently working on some kind of lock in device for earplugs that beeps when moistened and remains in your ear so that no one else will experience that unpleasant experience.

Embarrassing Moment # 3 (Smart investments)

My busty friends this blog may not be for you. For all my flat sisters you will probably understand this blog a bit better, or you may be able to sympathize with a similar experience. In a previous blog I talked about my going au naturale on top until I was 12, well the ride stops there.

Teresa was the most popular girl in school. She had long flowing blond hair that I'm sure she must have blow dried. I didn't know what a blow drier was for, except that in commercials I noticed the woman were always smiling around them, so it must have told jokes. My hair was always tangled, always had something like ice cream stuck in the ends, and was usually hanging scraggly down. I also had the angels halo, with all those little frizzies circling my head. Teresa also was athletic (I ran the mile with the kids in the wheelchairs, ok not really but my mile was like 15 minutes. Most people can speed walk it in 14), she wore make-up that went in the appropriate places on your face (see lipstick example in moment #1), but most importantly she wore a bra.

For the chunky, nerdy kids gym class is never very kind to you. I was the best target for dodge ball since I had a wider margin of error and though I might have had a chance wrestling against the pre-pubescent boys that option never came up. But the cruelest part of gym class was the locker room. The place where the cool girls showed off their barbie sized underwear and matching Paul Frank training bras. This is where moment # 3 took place.

A few month before I had noticed that my clothes were fitting a little different. I didn't really observe it was due to the fact that I was finally needing some sort of (very small) bra, I just noticed that my shirts no longer laid flat. I just added this to one more thing to be incredibly self concious about, but never took the time to draw it to my mom's attention. Every other day in the school locker room I would huddle myself in front of my locker and do this pretzel move that allowed my original shirt to cover my little olives while the PE shirt was being navigated over my shoulders. I was actually getting pretty good at it, until one day Teresa brought something to my attention.

"Um..." She said, her blonde hair in a perfect pony tail and her thin tan legs in the blue spartan PE shorts. She was looking down at me in disgust masked by pity. I on the other hand was looking up at her, half way through the pretzel changing act, like a fashion sinner begging repentence from a designer goddess.

"Um... I think it's time you get a bra."

Excuse me? In about the time it took to process her words my innocent world was crushed. First of all, why did it take the coolest girl in school to point out that my "olives" were no longer acceptable in their freedom? Second, excuse me? I had no words. As she walked away I heard a few girls snicker behind me. Yet I must admit, though my contortionist skills had been fine honed into my changing routine, they failed me at crawling into my locker. It was time to invest in a bra and leash the girls. Thanks a lot Teresa.

Embarrassing moment # 2 (just be yourself)

My first year at BYU I took a humanities 101 class. My teacher was a particularly young and bright-eyed woman who had the pre-notion that our class should know a little about each other before we began our studies. All around me I could hear the sounds of desperate girls unscrewing their lip gloss so they could make a good impression on the one cute guy in the class. Others were mentally rehearsing how they would impress each other with tales of recent travels or a particularly difficult major.

As the teacher went down the list of students each would doubtlessly forget what they had intended to say and would end up saying something brilliantly akin to "I like kittens and chocolate and have a pet turtle" in a a squeaky, shaky voice. I decided that would NOT be me. In my head I pictured a confident girl who would stroll down the stairs making eye contact with the class, while wowing them with my daring wit and grace and laughing in a harty yet non-affected laugh. (now thinking about it I must have imagined myself as a white female version of Carlton Banks from the Fresh Prince of Belair.)

"Holly Tanner" my teacher said and instantly my heart started racing. Ok, I thought, just get through the desks that could trip you up and you're golden. Somehow I made it through the chairs, around the smattering of backpacks and the feet, and to the aisle that went down the stairs to the front of the class. I was doing pretty good at making eye contact and had even managed to control the beating of my heart. In fact, I was doing so well that I forgot to take my eyes off the 45 pairs that were watching me and missed the mini half-step that would set me up for my nick-name hereafter as holly fally.

As soon as my foot didn't make contact with the ground I knew I was in trouble. Now I must confess, it is an interesting sensation, this falling, but I didn't think about that until later. At the moment I was only considering my navigational options. In front of me there was a piano which provided a very dramatic and slighly operetic option to my inevitable fall, to the side I could fall silently and hopefully melt away as soon as my head soared from view behind the desks, and that was pretty much it. There were no other options, and there was nothing I could blame; no banana, no crack, there wasn't even a kazoo to wheeze an appropriate sound effect, in fact the only sound that rushed around the room was the gasp of 44 students and one very alarmed teacher.

And then there was me- laughing until I could barely breath. Because in that moment I realized I had missed the piano by inches, soared effortlessly and (though not initially) gracefully to the ground and had landed squarely on my hands and knees. I stayed there for a moment, my stomach hurting from the giggles that were erupting from me, until I could finally move. By this time the class had regained their senses and were laughing right along with me. Balancing on my sore knees I bowed two sweeping bows to the class and began to stand.

And then it came to me. I had the perfect introduction. "Hello, my name is Holly Tanner. If you missed that don't worry, it will probably happen again because I am one of the most clumbsy people I know... I like kittens and chocolate and I have a pet turtle..."

Embarrassing moments #1 (portable retina scarring)

So I've been prawling Katherine's blog and noticed she had some amazing stories of her most embarrassing moments ever. I thought it would be fun to put a few down in here too so that I don't forget.

For those of you who knew me as a kid, you will also know that puberty was NOT kind to me. In fact, it probably would have been kinder if she had stopped toying with me and just got to the point of beating me with the ugly stick. For this reason it makes this story that much more awful. I'm sure it didn't help that my sense of high fashion included most of my friends dress up boxes and cast off clothes which I wore with an unnatural relish.

When I was about 12 I went to the St. Bonaventure Fair with my best friend Mischa. We had carefully picked out "mature and flattering" (or hideous) outfits that would attract other boys our age. I unleashed all my glory in a black leotard (no bra, but we'll get to that) with a flowy southwestern printed skirt and slouchy gray boots. Though the mirror reflected a pudgy, pointy chested pre-teen with bad teeth and knotty hair, I felt pretty darn hot after I applied the fire engine red lipstick a little above my lip line to make my lips fuller.

Mischa's dad dropped us off at the fair and told us he would pick us up at five. I don't really remember anything particular about the afternoon except riding a few attractions, walking around the booths and winning an ash tray that I forced upon my mom as a crystal jam bowl for fancy meals, which she sweetly used. Toward the end of our day I needed to use the bathroom and of course all that was available were some port-a-potties with a long line.

At my turn I entered the smelly square, locked the door (I swear I did) and proceeded to roll down my leotard and skirt to use the potty. At the exact moment of complete, shall we say, freedom about the last thing on the planet that I expected to happen, happened. Probably the cutest boy in the whole world (he had to have been 18 or so) opened my door and got the biggest surprise of his life.

Picture this: chunky little girl, with an ackward body, pointy kid chest (that until then I had not considered candidates for a bra but was quickly aware of the benefits of one), belly rolls that strangly resembled the slouchy boots and leotard ensamble inconveniently around my ankles. I'm sure I looked like an unpealed fleshy raisen in all my natural glory. He screamed. I screamed. We all screamed not for ice cream but sweet humanity.

Here's where my title comes in. I'm sure that this vision is still engrained in his mind. I know his expression is still in mine. I'd be surprised if his vision of me in the porta-potty didn't scar him forever. Though I can look back and laugh at until up to then was the most tragic moment of my life, he only can think of the time he walked in on a naked girl in a stall. I'm sure he scratched his head over that one many a time.

List making

So one thing I have noticed about myself and my way of preserving some sense of sanity is my OC list making skills. I find them everywhere. If there is a scrap of paper in my house most likely it has been converted into a make shift list. The weirdest thing about these lists is that they are always the same. Seriously. I have found lists from five years ago with essentially the same things to-do on them as I write today. Either I have not accomplished much in those last five years (a likely possibility) or those same things are still on my mind. Anyhow, I wanted to put up a short (very rough draft) paper I wrote for one of my creative writing classes about just such the thing. Ignore the grammer and technical flaws if you can, I know I am hopeless in those areas. Hope you enjoy the inner workings of Holly Moore's brain.

To-Do: Write Essay

Should I happen to die tomorrow and someone came upon all of my writings (even the ones I have long tossed away); the hundreds of poems, most of them ridiculous attempts at some "deep" idea I am still unfamiliar with, some of them fairly good, all of the letters, my short stories, even my journal that reads like a parrot, nothing would give me away more than my lists. There soldier on endless rows of overwhelming, recycled items that will most likely remain on my list, preparing to haunt all lists of the future.

Of all my virgin notebooks that I buy intending to fill with shades of myself, collections of poems or clever bits of stories, I always end up soiling them with my dirty lists of to-do’s and to-change’s. Even the books that are not spiral bound, but instead the pages are firmly glued in place are not safe; though I always seem to make a covenant with myself that they will remain pure of writing that is as temporary as a to-do list. But really, how temporary are my fanatical lists? If I were to compare them with some of my other more “stable” writings I would see that they far out number the hundreds of poems I have written, or creative stories I have penciled beside my bed as I was fluttering between sleep and reality. And who says that a list is not creative writing? I would be hard pressed to remember a day where I actually accomplished all that was on my long scrap of paper. I find it enormously creative to think that I could succeed in crossing off my ten-item list on top of my already busy day.

I guarantee myself that I will find within each notebook one list with the exact same entries excepting two or three. In fact, I was almost shocked the first time that I found a small black notebook that I had not written in for a few years and found a to-to list which was nearly identical to the one I was writing right then. The same entries included: get to 135 pounds, write one poem, do the dishes, say prayers, fold laundry, make something, go running, grocery shop, etc., etc., etc. Monotonous lists of never changing tasks, but they served their purpose. Lists which reminded me of my priorities, or provided striking reminders of what I wrote to be important, but didn’t really believe. Had the things been really important they might have been accomplished at some point instead of remaining forever on my lists to be gotten to when it was finally convenient.

My lists are brutally honest of who I am at that moment. More importantly they reminded me that though I have changed and grown over the years, who I am deeper remains the same. I am still troubled by the same worries, still hate the same chores, still want time to be creative. My priorities stay the same. Will someone who doesn’t know me see me as the woman who thought 135 pounds was an ideal weight for someone who was 5’10” and was obsessed with losing 10-20 pounds depending on the season? Will I be given away as someone who detests sweeping because the item “sweep kitchen floor” remains a to-do until after 3 weeks in a row it mysteriously disappears, either because I was sick of my husband having to ask me to do it, or because he did it himself? Will they notice that I rarely have “make dinner” on the list because that is an enjoyable task that I don’t need reminding of, or will I be seen as someone who makes frozen pizzas? I am interested to see what someone who doesn’t know me would make of my most reoccurring theme of literature.

So when I die I wouldn’t mind if someone read off my unfinished list of things to accomplish, because although it says a lot about a person who accomplishes what they originally set out to do, I think it also says a lot about the person of what is on that list. Though I may not ever see all of the places I have written to go visit, I would hope that the person who reads them would understand my desire for travel. Though I might never learn to speak Italian, just maybe someone would notice how much I loved and admired the ability to speak another language. Though I fill my list with an insane amount of things to see and learn and do, and though I know I will most likely never get a chance to do all of them; more than anything, I hope it might be a method to show that I was a person who wanted a lot out of life and believed that it was capable.

Am I the only one?

Tonight I was thinking about my eating habits. I've gained about 20 or more pounds since I went back to school, which means I gained my freshman 15+5 about 6 years too late. Whoops. Anyhow, I realized three things about myself, 1) I LOVE food and especially sugar, 2) I totally hord things I know I shouldn't be eating to eat in private, 3) I eat waaay too much. But I want to confess something about number 2 that has been cracking me up lately the more I think of it.

It happened like this. I really love Cadbury Creme Eggs. I'm not talking a little bit, but freakishly so. I think it stems from the fact that I can only have them a few months of the year so I eat one or two a day for the whole season. The day after Easter, however, I found myself staring at a display of cadbury eggs marked half price. A slighly obsessed person would have bought maybe two 4-packs and called it good. Instead I calculated. I had 6 at home, I would need about 10 boxes to last me through the year until next easter. So being sensable I bought them, carried them around all day at school and then decided I needed about ten more, making the grand total to 56 Cadbury creme eggs. Here's where the story gets hairy.

As soon as I bought them I realized that no one would understand (without thinking I was totally crazy) my passion for those eggs, even my husband Jarom. As soon as I got home I smuggled them into my room along with a plastic ziploc bag, removed them as silently from the boxes as possible, and then folded the flattened boxes inside a thick BYU plastic bag, which I then threw away- outside, in the dumpster- and hid the bag inside a tupperware under my bed. The whole time I was doing this I thought, "you are a sick person Holly Moore."

Over the next few days as I ate my eggs (mind you I was on Weight Watchers during that time too...) I would silently replace one of the six that were in the regular treat closet, hoping that Jarom wouldn't catch wise. After I had eaten about 10 in front of him he finally asked the question that I was dreading. And the conversation went something like this...

"Did you buy more of those?" Jarom asked innocently
"Oh, just a few."
"How many?"
"Just a couple." Guilt flooding my face.
"Like ten?"
"Um, a few more..."
"Twenty?"
"Um..."
"Thirty?" He's asking incredulously, even though he has no idea he has not even scratched the surface.
"Well..."
"More than fourty?"
This is where I give him what I'm sure looks like the glassy eyed smile of an addict. You know, the one that says, "Yes, I love my crack/ heroine/ cadbury creme eggs, and what are you going to do about it?" The only guilt I feel is being found out, although his being aware takes away the thrill of the whole thing now.
"Fifty," I say a bit ashamed, but laughing as I see how ridiculous it must look to him.
"Holly!" He answers and laughs as he shakes his head.

So my question is- does anyone else do this or am I totally losing it? I honestly wonder some times. A friend tells me there are things called fat tendencies, things like licking your fingers or the plate, hording food, etc... Does it count if you have already been fat? Fat tendencies seems to imply that you will become so, one day. What about every other couple of months? If anyone reads this I would love to know if I'm not the only one who has gone to some extreme measure to protect their goods.

Sea-dooing

The day we went to Santos Dad treated us to a 25 minute ride on a Sea-doo. That 25 minutes was the scariest of my life. Jarom drove, going wild on the waves until my butt went numb from slamming into the seat. Through all the screaming I admit I had fun. Jarom zipped back and forth catching air on the waves, and making sharp turns. A few times he turned so hard that I couldn't hold on and went plunging into the sea (I had the bruises on my legs to prove it). At one point he had me sitting in front of him because I couldn't stay on the way he was driving.

I would like to explain that Jarom is a fish, he loves all things water and beach. Everytime we got knocked in (and if I knew that I was going in, I tried my very hardest to take him with me) he looked like he was having the time of his life. I on the other hand, am terrified of the ocean and did not enjoy bobbing up and down as fishfood for sharks. On one particularly brutal crash Jarom told me I looked like I was being eaten by a shark because I looked so scared in the water. I explain that I WAS scared, not only because I don't like dark, deep water but because the bottoms of my tankini set had slid completely off and they were around my ankles. It was ten times scarier, thinking I was going to lose my pants than a leg. (= For Jarom that day was the cherry on the top of his vacation.

After the Sea-dooing we went to this little fishing city near Santos, the beach was picturesque as it was filled with small fishing boats on the land and the sea. Little fresh fish markets lined the street making the scene complete. Three Cheers for Santos, tankini bottoms that add excitement but still stay on, and fishing villages. Thanks Mom and Dad!

Which raises the question...

If anyone is wondering why I seem to be wearing the same pants the whole vacation (although I did mix it up with a jean skirt, you just never see it) it is because those were the only pants that actually fit me after 2 years of serious work to graduate college. I must not be able to eat well and take tests and write papers at the same time. Tragic but true. My last pair of fitting and well well worn in jean capris staged a revolt by ripping in not one place, but three or four. Classy. Now imagine how well my other clothes fit after eating all that delicious food in Brazil? Can anyone say Maricuja (passion fruit) pudding goodness?

Santos

I don't know why I loved this little building, but I did.

My handsome man showing attitude (basically because I surpised him with this pic)

The day after Iguasu falls we went to this cool beach city called Santos. After looking around I decided I wanted a house near the fun looking beach. I can only imagine that the city must be crazy during the summer. Later that day we went on seadoos (or however you spell them, but that is a totally different blog for tomorrow). On the drive to Santos we went in the longest underground tunnel I'd ever been on, I didn't even try to hold my breath on that one. Mostly it was fun just to ride in the car and talk with mom and dad, see the sights, and relax. How many times can I say before it becomes repetative that I love Brazil?

The Argentina Side (and paraguay)

No, Jarom and I are not playing Santa's helpers, the hard hats were required for the tour, along with shoes, hence the gorgeous foot attire I'm sporting. Jarom thought I was hot. Right then we were stratteling the line between Paraguay and Brazil (and it looks like my beads were strattling another kind of line... classy).

Train ride to the lower falls

lower falls



paraguay, ignore my closed eyes

So the second day of Iguasu falls we went to the Argentine side. We started off seeing the dam (in Brazil). Dad loved it! Disclaimer, the shoes I am wearing in some of my pictures, you know the ugly black frankenstein ones, they were NOT mine. They let me borrow them since I went to the dam dressed in flip flops. Whoops. After a good laugh at my styling diggs we were off to tour the gigantic dam, along with copious amounts of dam jokes. Argentina was gorgeous. I think the pictures speak for themselves...

Iguazu Falls, hello gorgeous...

One of the coolest things about Brazil is that it shares iguazu falls with Argentina and Paraguay. So, for the price of one you can see three amazing countries at their finest. Iguazu falls was everything and more than I expected. We were lucky to see the falls with all the rushing water, and it seemed like we followed the good weather because it was perfect until the day that we left. It was supposed to rain the last day, but it must have waited until after we flew away. The first day in Iguazu we got to see the Brazil side, the next day we saw the Argentine side, and finally we stopped in paraguay for an hour to see the sights before we flew back to Sao Paulo. What a rad trip.

Disclaimer!!

Julie and I were feeling very slap happy last night so I let her write a blog for me. I did NOT write the blog complaining about her kids or air conditioner. She wrote everything. However I do agree with some of it, like my darling sister, and how great my husband is, and how I HATE bandaids. Love you all and want you to know that I am not as mean as that blog makes me sound... (=

14 days of hell...three down, ten to go...

I'm sitting here on my darling sisters couch. Not a sound aside from the hum of her piece of junk air conditioner and a chorus of crickets outside the window. Her five hundred kids have finally gone to sleep, and I am enjoying this quiet. With all this quiet I have realized a few things.

One, I miss Jarom. I got "hell-a" lucky when I met that guy. Who would've known that the boy who shook the whole time he wrote down my number would end up to be my husband? I was major blessed and am excited to see where the next few years take us. (hopefully to the East Coast...)

two, there is no rush to have kids. Babies, maybe. But kids...NO! I am loving my neices but after so many poopy jokes, not to mention poopy diapers, I am thinking these years with out a belly bump may not have been so bad!

three, I am special. Not special as in I walk odd or talk funny, but special in that, "I'm pretty cool" way. My little neice, Eleanore loves me. She thinks I'm not only pretty, but she loves when I sing and read to her. She looks forward to seeing me and makes sure she introduces me to all her friends.

and four, I really do not like band-aids. Major bad. I really hate the nude colored ones. It's just disgusting to me. I'm okay with the tattoo ones, the ones little kids wear that have some sort of character on it, but I really hate the nude ones because they look germy and gross. People who wear nude bandaids are freaks.

Anyway, this post was kind of random, but I've learned a lot about myself in this minute. And I hope you have, too.

Brazil!

So, Jarom and I are finally graduated (ok, Jarom is and I still have one independant study class to do, but who's counting) and we decided it was time to take a vacation and head out to mom and dad's in Brazil. Brazil was amazing. The first night we got there we went out to dinner with mom and dad at a place called Rascal's. It was really yummy italian food. After dinner we watched Young Frankinstein ("Hello Handsome!") and played a round of cards.

The plane trips were crazy and on the final plane we had a bit of a scare. Between the last two flights there was 45 minutes of layover. Plenty of time if you are going to get in on time, right? Well our plane was fourty minutes late getting to our gate to leave. We made it with 10 minutes to spare to get to our next plane across the terminal. As we ran across the airport in a panic (at least I was) I kept thinking about the fabulous words of the over paid and under enthusiastic Continental Airlines lady, "well, if we don't get you in on time for your flight we'll just LET you fly tomorrow..." Great, thanks! Luckily we made it on time and landed safely in Brazil on schedule.

The next day we drove out to Embu and checked out the awesome shops there. It was so quant and fun there. For lunch we ate empenadas at a restaurant owned by a lady from Argentina, sweet!

Paco Taco...?

So Jarom and I inherited a cobalt blue beta fish named Paco from Scott and Megan. He has been dubbed the fertility fish. One night he was particularly crazy and jumpy and was swimming around in a frenzy. Wondering what was wrong with him I voiced my concern out loud. "I wonder what's wrong with Paco..." I mused to Jarom. Without missing a beat he answered (Jarom, not Paco), "He realized we've broken his streak." Poor paco, we will have to find a new nickname for him, how about Paco the frenzied fish, or Paco the fantasic fish. I'll get back to you. Anyhow, I am smitten. He eats his dried fish food like he's a shark, sneaking up on the lifeless bits of worm and attacking, while swinging his head around savagely. He is also incredibly nosey and stares in our direction when we are in the kitchen, the living room and when we come into the apartment. I love him. Thanks Scotty and Megan!

Seattle... what's with the Pigs?

So for the last few days of our trip we got to spend time with Jarom's sister Mindy and her husband Ryan. It was so nice to spend those few days with them since we hardly have seen them in the last few months. Jarom and Alli were smitten with each other and Alli copied Jarom's talking by making her own little noises that sounded like his. It was adorable! On the fourth we went to downtown Seattle to see the festivities and maybe some fireworks. I got mocked by a farmer's market guy when I said to Jarom "Lets take a picture in front of the Original Starbucks." Punk. Also, there were these crazy pig statues all over the city, I don't know what the heck they were for, but they were really cool. It was so fun to spend that time with Mindy and Ryan and play with Alli. (p.s.- my computer is being funny so I can't get the picture to turn around, but I will do it eventually...)

Oh, Canada

Today we got to see Mom and Dad Tanner of all places in Canada! We met them in Stanley Park and watched a game of Cricket. After we went to grouse mountain, took a sky rail to the top and watched a few shows about birds and mountain loggers. So much fun! It was really nice to see family after traveling for the past week.