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!