Compliments of Costco, or something.

Tonight Jarom and I made a much needed run to Costco. Our fridge and freezer were getting low on the staples and we decided the best place to fill the bill was the 100 dollar store.

I love Costco. Mainly because you can pick up pretty much anything there. Bagels, roast 3 packs, bright heads of romaine lettuce, tubs of cottage cheese, ripe red strawberries, and unsolicited marital advice. Did you know that they were offering it there? They are, free of charge, by floral patterned pants wearing old ladies casually standing behind you.

"I love your necklace!" I heard loudly behind me.
I turned around to see an older asian lady smiling at me. She was dressed to the nines with a very busy outfit and perfect hair and makeup "I love your necklace." She repeated again.
"Oh thank you!" I said smiling and went back to loading my groceries on the conveyer belt. I get comments on this necklace all the time, usually people ask where I got it, or just want to tell me they like it. This lady had another agenda.

"Is it a sea horse?" She asked.
"Yeah." I said, turning to chat with her, leaving the loading to Jarom. "I love sea horses."
"That would look great with white. Turquoise looks great with white." She said, repeating herself.
"It does." I agreed. "It looks good with black too." She looked at me, and shook her head. Apparently turquoise does not look good with black. I really wish someone had told me. I am so embarrassed.

"You know," she said, "when I was your age I used to dress up a lot. You should dress up and wear that necklace."
"I should." I acknowledge, thinking that statement was odd. "But I'm kind of a jeans and tee-shirt girl. I don't get dressed up too often."
"Well you should." she said worriedly. "You should get dressed up for..." and she points at Jarom secretly. "You don't want him to leave you. Lots of girls let themselves go and wonder what happened when their husbands lose interest."

Now I realize that I was not looking my best. I had been working on taxes, and one of my eyes had gone lazy from focusing on the computer all day while the other was twitching erratically. My hair which had looked great curled the day before was haphazardly pulled in a messy bun that had grown messier from my Chiropractors visit and frequent pulling from the stress of working out deductions. Most of my mascara was on my chin and my boobs have shrunk to the size of raisens from losing 15 pounds recently. But still, no one wants to hear that a stranger who doesn't know you considers you to be in some varying stage of letting yourself go, or that you just might have reached the climax. I was completely taken off guard.

"I do get dressed up!" I exclaimed, feeling slightly defensive but starting to laugh out of shock. "Today is just not my best day." I'm sure I sound desperate.

She looks disbelieving, of course I would say that. To her I look like the girl who is having an affair with a box of Krispy Kremes. I am on the downhill slope.

"Well you should." She confirms. "You don't want to let yourself go. It gets worse after you have a baby. Some women completely let go and wonder why their husbands leave them. You don't want to be one of them." she warns. Is this lady for real?

"You're a pretty girl," she says eying me. "You're tall and thin, you should really dress up for your husband." Really?

Finally I just start laughing, "Well, I'll do that." I say and turn to help Jarom at the register instead of going in circles with a lady who thinks I need some tough love before I let myself turn into Quasimodo.

I might have backhanded her but she said I was thin.

So I'll let it go, but that is the last time I get dragged into conversation with an old lady in flowered pants.

When I told Jarom who was paying for the groceries and missed the whole exchange, he started to laugh and said, "Obviously she doesn't know me. I don't care if you dress up... besides it gives me an excuse for when I leave you." Nice. Love my man. The old lady not so much.

Hanky Panky

In sixth grade I found myself on a bus traveling toward the most awful week of my life. The bus was, of course, disguised for the parents as a yellow school bus that was en-route to a winter outdoor education camp in the snow covered mountains. The enlightened kids saw it for what it really was, a week of bullying, bad food, strange excursions and a painful square dance where 3/4 the boys would balk at asking one of us girls to dance. Especially the fat tall girls. Which was basically me.

For whatever reason, however, I was optimistic. It wasn't because I was going up there with hoards of friends, or that my new snow jacket made me look like I had bosoms, or even the fact that I particularly loved the outdoors. In fact I was going up there friendless, in a blindingly bright shapeless 80's snow parka hand-me-down, and hiking wasn't really my thing.

BUT- my bag was full of Bonnebell chapstick, candy and various other miniature toiletries that were uncommon in the Tanner household- bribing me into undergoing one of the most awkward weeks of my life.

Fast forward to the first morning we woke up at the camp. We are interrupted from frigid icy sleep by the drill sergeant bark of a woman telling us we must take a shower before breakfast. Dutifully I searched through my duffle bag only to find that with all the items in my bag, I was missing a key staple. A towel.

OH.

HOLY.

CRAP.

"Excuse me" I told Ms. Granola as my turn was nearing, "Um, somehow I forgot my towel. Is there one here that I can use?"
"You were told to bring one on the list." She barked amid a shower of oatmeal spewing from her mouth. Obviously we were having oatmeal for breakfast this morning.
"I know." I tried to explain, "But somehow it didn't make it into my bag. Is there one I can borrow?"
"I don't know anything about that." She curtly answered, blowing the 2 minute whistle on the poor girl who had just gotten warm in the shower. "Next!"
"Well can I skip the shower today until I find a towel?" I asked hopefully. Searching her face for any sign of kindness.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked me over, distaste washing over her face. A chunky kid was disgusting enough, but one with imagined bad hygiene and a penchant for skipping showers was too much for her. "Everyone has to take a shower everyday. You are no exception." Her finger wagged and pointed into my face. "Let me find one for you. Next!"

In two minutes she was back and holding out the item that was to be used as a "towel."

I wanted to ask her if her nose was running, because what she was holding up was not possibly a towel. In her hand hung a hanky, a terry cloth hanky, something that would not have wrapped around a normal 80 pound sixth grader, let alone one that was 3 times the thickness of your typical 11 year old.

The towel was not as big as a hand towel, slightly larger than a face clothe and amusingly was supposed to cover me as I walked to my duffle bag and changed community locker room style in the cabin. If it hadn't been for the strict 2 minute time limit I could have changed into some clothes before I left the shower, but there was no time to change behind the curtain.

I looked at her in horror. Could she possibly be suggesting that the girl with the premature junk her her trunk wrap that tiny morsel of cloth around her body in a manner that would condemn her for merciless teasing the remaining 3 years of middle school? If it was now, I would have said, "I don't think so. Not today you crazy nudist." But at that point I took the towel and considered just how I would make my shuffle back to my bunk in anonymity.

I considered the option of using the towel to cover my face so no one would know it was me streaking across the floor. Maybe they would think it was the ghost of an insane former counselor who went crazy from the undercooked eggs and soggy toast we were to be inflicted with over the coming week. I finally settled on wrapping the towel around my waist, so only one large strip on the side of my leg was showing, my free arm covering whatever else I could.

Have you ever tried to cover yourself up with your arm and a hanky? It's difficult. Very difficult. I felt like Eve with the fig leaf. "I'm pretty sure he meant Banana leaves" I could imagine her saying. "Banana leaves make more sense. Who would cover themselves with a fig leaf (besides of course a dozen hopefuls on America's Next Top Model)? Yeah, lets go with the banana leaves. What do you mean they are all the way in South America?"

I proceeded to shuffle, the towel grasped in an iron grip as though I was holding on to the last bit of decency I had left. I dared anyone to look at me, to make eye contact in which I would fix them with an icy stare as cold as the room I was now parting the crowd like Moses through. "Make way," I wanted to shout, "Haven't you seen a fat kid in a tea cozy before?"

Thankfully the counselor had a little mercy, or an angel came down and told her she would be smitten with the pox if she didn't scavenger up a towel for the porky girl who just passed through the rings of hell and back because the next morning I had a towel of respectable size.

You can guarantee yourself that I have never forgotten a towel since. One indecent amount of exposure was enough for me to learn my lesson and garner a great embarrassing story as well. Seems like these things seem to happy to me waaay too often...

Language Barriers

There is a little Carl's Jr. right across the street from where I work in LA, surrounded by the city, bums and various characters that give me plenty to write about. Today I made my way across the street, ordered a diet coke and a side salad and proceeded to commence my lunch. As I was sitting there I happened to make eye contact with a small Mexican man who standing strait as an arrow might (and I say might) have come up to my belly button. He had to have been as round as he was tall, and he had the biggest lips I have ever seen. Honestly. I couldn't help my mind from conjuring the image of the frog on Thumbelina.

My first mistake was making eye contact, as soon as our eyes connected he stopped mid stride turned around and gave me a full once over, his eyes becoming very swishy. I wanted to laugh at his "suaveness" and in an attempt to hide it I made my second mistake-a half smile out of politeness. Working in the city I should know not to look at people and especially not to smile, but it's against my nature and something that I'm working on. Because of it I have had some awesome conversations and the result of this mistake today made a priceless conversation that I wouldn't have traded for anything.

After grinding to a halt on his way to the soda machine and turning completely around he began to work his magic on me. In a thick spanish accent he began with.

Him: "Hey beautiful lady... I like jor es-smile." He said as his eyebrows wiggling wildly.
Me: laughing, "Um... thanks."
Him: Whas shur name preety lady?"
Me: Now this is where I draw the line, no personal information that could link me to anything. "I'm sorry, I'm married." I say, pointing to my ring. Usually this statement works well enough to shy away any unwanted "suiters."
Him: "Oh, ok, hey Mary." He says with a triumphant smile from gleaning some information.
Me: Well this is awkward. I now have to explain that I didn't in fact give him my name, but that I'm spoken for. "No, my name isn't Mary, I'm married." I say, pointing at my ring again.
Him: Densely, "Oh. Is jor husband coming to mee(t) you?" He asks as though maybe I'll come sit with him if Jarom isn't.
Me: "Um... yeah." I say lying.
Him: "Ok, well, I eh-like jor beautiful es-smile." He tries one more time.
Me: "Thanks." I say as I try to ignore the further conversation he's trying to carry on. Finally, after standing their awkwardly staring at me he walks to the machine and fills his drink. As he walks past me I look at my iPod and try to ignore the smoldering look he is trying to pass over on me.

Sorry Don Juan, no thanks. I am Mary.

Going postcard-al

For the past few months I have worked for the coolest kids clothing company on the planet. My boss is awesome, my stores are cool, and I work in an exciting area of LA in the fashion district. You would think that the chic people and places I surround myself with would rub off on me, that I would pick up the art of dressing current, speaking in a offhand manor, and bypassing social flubs. But I confess I am as awkward and myself as ever. And for the most part I like it, it humors me, and most of the people I've met don't seem to mind either.

Over the past few days I have been driving around visiting stores. Most of the time I have strolled into a store with a gift bag for them, chatted with the shop girls, left a message for the owner and gone on my merry way. However, the second day into the driving, I found myself in an awkward position. You see, the address we shipped to was not a store, it was someone's home, someone who ran a web based company, someone who I wasn't sure how to approach.

Did I walk up to their door and knock? Introduce myself? Just leave the gift bag on the patio and not interrupt them at their home? I decided to call, but no one answered. Growing bold I knocked on their door, still no answer. I knew it was the right house, a package on the patio said the name of the lady I was trying to meet. And then the thought hit me, "Why not write a little note on the postcard inside the gift bag?" Perfect. Or was it?

Once back in my car with the pen glistening with ink and poised in my hand I wasn't sure what to say. How should I start?

"Hi. I came to your house but you weren't here. I'll just sit outside until you come home..?" Nope.

"Hey there, I peeked in all your windows, but you weren't there. I'll come back tonight...? Um... no.

So what I actually wrote was: (something like this)
"Hey so and so,
I came by thinking this was your store, but instead it was your house (which is adorable by the way). => I just wanted to introduce myself and bring you a little gift. I'm sorry I missed you but hopefully we'll have a chance to meet soon. I hope you are doing well. Let me know if I can do anything for you!

Holly

I intended to make a winning little note that suggested I was a normal person and not someone who just showed up at people's houses unannounced. After commenting on her adorable house (it really was adorable though), I sealed the creepiness by drawing a little smiley face.

Except my smiley face was not of the sweet variety. Mine came out in a shaking, slightly downward "v" and evilly smirking variety. Mine didn't say "hope to catch up with you soon!" mine said, "I WILL catch up with you soon- most likely when you are sleeping and won't see me coming..."

It was unintentional, the ink was wet on the glossy surface and I didn't want to smear it with my hand so I drew it freeform. There was no denying the end result was disturbing. Even the correction I attempted couldn't fully erase the evil smirking smiley face. It was creepy and kind of gave me the giggles. If she had seen me in my car it would have looked like I was laughing in a villainous manner at the evil note I was about to leave. Nice.

I'm sure she didn't even think about the note, but I did. And it made me laugh and wonder if I would ever not be awkward or if this was something I will be for the rest of my life. For the most part these moments make for good stories. Sometimes I'm very conscious of the fact that I'm a nerd and I feel like an well intentioned impostor. Has anyone else had something like this happen? I am so very uncool.

Email Mishaps Rant

(What I wished I could have done to my computer earlier)

Quick, answer:

What could be one of the worst thing that happens when you are emailing?

Delete a really long and involved email that you'd spent an hour working on? Eh, wrong.

Accidentally sent a personal email to the wrong person? Keep guessing.

Lost an important contact? Not even close.

Give up? Ok, how about send 50 of the same email to 160 potential clients within 1 1/2 hours? In case you'd like the math that's 8,000 emails. Yes, 8,000 emails sent accidentally by yours truly to what I had hoped would be some awesome new clients. Exit to story.

For the last few weeks (well months really) I have honing down an email list of boutiques that I'd love to carry Knuckleheads. I've called an insane amount of stores (literally over 400), ruled out which are no longer in business, which sell more traditional items, who I would be more likely to order from our awesome company. I called and asked for email address, begged assistants to let me get an email, pretended to be really cool and savvy when I talked to a shop owner and was truly grateful when each store gave me a chance to send our catalogs through an email for them to view.

Ironically, I had been waiting for the list to be complete so that I wouldn't accidentally send a repeat email, little did I know that I would accidentally spam every single contact in my gmail group, um, like 50 times. I'm still scratching my head over what happened.

Last night I put together an email, wrote a short note so that they wouldn't have to spend much time reading it and they could just get to the meat of the email which was the amazing catalogs I attached for their viewing pleasure. I waited to send it until today because I was trying to figure out a way to attach a picture of this season's clothes in the body of the gmail. Big mistake.

After trying a few times and sending myself a few emails with the picture unsuccessfully, I gave up the idea and settled on introducing myself and the line in a brief, non-obnoxious email. The catalogs would speak for themselves.

However, instead of just sending the email once, for whatever reason, my gmail account looped the sending action and repeated to send the email over and over and over and over. And over. In a panic I tried to delete the email. No avail. Next I tried to call google. Besides the fact that it was now 5:04 and they stop answering the phone at 5, did you know that it is completely impossible to speak with someone there? Or send them an email for that matter? Yeah. Seriously.

So I called my brother who was at a loss, and asked a girl in the showroom next to mine whose boyfriend is computer handy what to do. His reply? "Uh oh." Crap.

By this point I am receiving phone calls and emails asking to be removed from the email list, as well as truly concerned people who just want to let me know what's going on. I call and email each person who has not blocked me by now, but has actually taken a moment to let me know what's going on. Mind you these people don't know me but they are super cool about this drama. Bless them, they deserve a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Jarom says a basket of fruit. (=

Anyhow, at this point it was 6 and the LA marketplace was closing. Jarom says to pack everything up and get going since there is no help on the internet (apparently I am the only one who has had this happen) and we'll figure it out at home. I am so stressed out that I can barely eat anything. Really, I skipped dinner I was so sick to my stomach thinking I had blown the time and effort to make these contacts. In fact it is 12:10 and I still haven't eaten.

When I get home there are 207 emails in my spam box, but most of them are from a little while ago. In the last few hours I haven't received one. Hallelujah I think it's over. I think I lost a few people from this experience, but I also got to talk to quite a few who were really nice about everything and who were actually intrigued by our company. Go figure. The worse part was that the repeated email's attachments didn't even work. Honestly? So I will have to send the attachments again. Ick. Worse PR moment ever.

Bless the lady's heart who said to me, "Thank you for the emails! I couldn't open my attachment, can you send it again?" Not a comment about the insane number, just a kind note of thanks for thinking about her and sincere interest. She won major brownie points for her kindness.

I am hoping the repeated emails makes them think I am a determined individual instead of a crazy spammer sales representative. We'll see. But I learned something and I am going to save you the drama of what happened to me today:

1. Don't create an email and wait until later (or the next day) to send it. It won't send like normal and will freak out and go "War Games" on you. Forget about man controlling technology, that's what John Conner was trying to tell everyone.

2. If for some reason you don't like learning from other people's mistakes or you are a rebel and bypass #1, send out an immediate apology and personal email or call to each person who writes you or calls you. This is called recognizing you are an idiot- whether accidental or not.

3. If for some reason you do not follow # 1 and 2, leave the country immediately. People will be pissed. And they have a right to be. People have been tarred and feathered for less.

A Rose by any other name would still smell as sweet, except that's not your name, is it?

I have never been one who silently swallows stupid mistakes I've made, or ridiculous comments I've said for that matter. There is something about me that demands full disclosure, I enjoy laughing at myself. I don't mind admitting that a smart girl like me can spout out the kind of comments that make Rose Nylan look downright brainy. But every once in a while one comes out that I wish to goodness I'd stifled down, because they always happen around people who don't know me, whose first impression of me will forever be the girl "who said what??"

A few weeks ago before everything went to pot, before the rain really started to pour, the first event of many financial blunders directed this very frustrated girl to the Apple store to pick up a new power adapter cord for her Macbook. I had talked to 3 different people on the phone at Mac and finally I had found someone who pitied me and agreed to send me the insanely expensive 80 dollar cord that had sheered itself in two, in a mysterious manner, for free. The only problem was that I needed the cord that day, not in a few days like the man on the phone promised me.

In desperation I called the closest Mac store in Victoria Gardens explaining my predicament, and how my computer was dead and I needed to charge it and asking the girl if she would just give me one if I canceled the one in the mail. She said that would work and I could come in and pick it up. Elated I asked my mom-in-law Kim if she wanted to come with me. From there things went, well, a little south.

By the time we got to the Mac Store I was feeling that rush of freebie high. I would even go so far as to say I was hopped up on freeomones (the Pheromones coursing through your veins when you are about to get a rocking deal or you won something for free). Either way the conversation I had with the girl who was helping me was weird (like the conversations you got sucked into by the weird guy in the drama class who gave you the play by play of last nights episode of Star Trek, imitations and all kind of weird) but I couldn't seem to help myself, even as it was going on I was screaming "stop you look like a weirdo, stop talking" in my head. I was just too relieved/excited.

Me: "Oh my gosh, you are totally saving me!" (This said in a weird gushing sort of way) "I love Mac! Mac is the best! I tell everyone to buy Mac! Seriously, I've converted quit a few people now!"

Girl: (She's looking at me, trying to be hospitable and listen, but I can see written plainly across her face that a super hyper girl like me is probably not the publicity they are looking for. You see, macs are for cool people, artsy people, thinkers, not strung out speed addicts or at least people who act like them for no good reason) "I'm glad I can help." Is the standard answer she gave.

Me: "Seriously, PC is crap, it's Mac or bust man!" I say pumping my fist. (In my mind I am thinking, seriously? Who snuck the crack in my slimfast. Why am I talking this way, this is definitely not normal.)

Girl: "Yeah, we sure like our products here too." She said in the way someone talks to a homeless person who is getting riled up when you're afraid they're going to beat you up and steal your wallet. Nice and easy. "Ok," She said pointing to another associate, " Jill will help ring you up as soon as she's done with her customer." I can tell she is relieved to be getting away, which makes me feel awkward because I have no idea why I'm being so erratic myself. This is totally embarrassing.

"Me: "Thank you so much!" I practically shout. "Seriously, I am very grateful." Ok, yes! Finally a comment that doesn't induce an uncomfortable silence in which I speak more to fill the void- even if the thank you was a touch overly animated.

Her: (Obviously this has given her courage to give me her card in case I need further assistance. A bold move because I'm sure she thinks I'm nuts.) "No problem!" She says, handing me her card. "My name and number is on there in case you need anything else." In an effort to say something that would improve her opinion of me as a cool semi-intelligent person I proceed to give her a compliment on her beautiful name. Well it would have been a compliment. If I'd gotten the right name. In a flustered moment I proceeded to say hands down one of the dumbest comments of my life.

Me: "Victoria? What a beautiful name!" Gardens? Wow, seriously, that is so beautiful, Victoria Gardens..." As soon as it pops out of my mouth I know that I had made a blunder. Why can't I be like most people who say thank you and pocket the card, instead I have to read it out to her, as though she doesn't know her own name, or I might be overlooking a receipt for errors.
Her eyes narrow as she peers at me. I'm sure she is thinking, is this girl for real? And then, in the same breath if I'm not awkward enough, I finish lamely, "Oh, no, you're name isn't Victoria Gardens, haha, that's where we are huh? You're name is Mary Howard (or something). Wow, I swear I'm not stupid! (Yes, that gem also snuck out of my mouth).

Her: "Oh, no worries! Thanks for coming in." She said ushering me to the register, where I proceed to say more dumb things to yet another Mac employee before I grab Kim (who is still laughing at my ridiculous comments) and make a run for it.

Honestly? Who slipped the crack into my morning slimfast? Or has anyone else been hyper off freeomones?

It's still a mystery. But I don't plan on going back there for a while, as least until the "do not help this girl" poster has been removed from their break room.

If you are growing more Irate please say "yes."

Where have all the people gone? To India? Sucked into a vortex? Laid off by our scary economy to be replaced by recordings that are eerily real sounding?

Today I had the wonderful experience of completing a transaction almost completely with an electronic man. I needed to make an appointment through DHL to have them pick up a package. After dialing the number I was greeted by a voice that sounded like the high school quarterback. He sounded confident and a little bit irritated that he had to be talking to me in public.

First he asked me for my number, which I think I can safely say has never happened from any cute football player ever. An ugly and creepy one yes, but never a cute one. I gave it to him and he repeated it perfectly.
"Is this correct?" he asked disinterestedly.
"Yes." I replied knowing he would never call me.

He changed the subject and asked.
"Do you want to make an appointment for a pick up? Please say yes, or no."
"Yes." I said.
"I'm sorry," the quarterback said casually, repeating himself. "Do you want to make an appointment for a pick up? Please say yes, or no."
"Yes." I said more firmly.
Once again he began to apologize.
I cut him off before he could repeat the question. I admit I was a bit rude. "Yeesssssssss." I said loudly, my s's hissing like a snake.
"Okaaay." He said, his voice giving the impression that he had something better to do than talk to me.

"Can you please verify your address?" He asked, this time with attitude.
"432 Lark Meadow St." I said
"432 Marshmallow St." He repeated, "Is this correct? Please answer yes or no."
"No."
"432 Sharks and Minnows St.?" He tried again.
Was he messing with me? I repeated the address.
"432 Lark Meadow St." He guessed correctly. "Is this correct, please answer yes or no."
"Yes." I said exasperatedly.
"I'm sorry," he said, "was that a yes?"
"Yes!" I shouted into the phone.
"Whatever." He muttered.

Next he sent me to a an actual person to confirm our conversation.
"Hello, this is a real person." He distractedly greets me. I can tell he is playing mahjong on his computer. Of course he sounds like he is a million miles away. His tiny voice barely makes a radio wave over the distance it's traveling to my phone. "I'm sorry" I said, "I can't hear you."
"Hello," the man replies, " I'm in a different galaxy. India was getting too expensive to outsource to, so we are in a call center in a dwarf galaxy to your distant left. Can I get your number?"
Honestly? Didn't I just give it to Johnny Football Player? But of course I give it to him I mean, this call is probably costing a fortune.
Then he asks, "And do you want to schedule an appointment?"
Again, didn't I just go through this?
"And just to make sure," the real person asks, "Can you please tell me your address?"
This is just too much. I want to shout, "what was the last 10 minutes about? Is this just an elaborate way to make the customer hang out instead of putting them on hold and enraging them?" Because it's not working.

Where have all the real people gone? Apparently it's become too expensive to let a real person help you out in the first place. I'll let you know if tomorrow a real person comes to pick up the package... I'm not holding my breath.

Household Worm Holes

Have you ever wondered where certain items in your house go? Have you ever put something down only to reach for it a few hours later and grasp a clean countertop? Have you ever lost so many things that you bought replacements and then quickly found a hidden cache in some random but obvious spot? And though occasionally an assortment of items go missing, it is usually one item that seems to pull the disappearing act most often. In my case, it's the bobby pins.

It starts like this:

I get sick of some hair style I'm wearing and take out my bobby pins. They get left on the kitchen table, the bathroom counter, the bowl that holds the keys or occasionally Jarom's change drawer in his car. A few hours later I go to reach for the said bobby pins only to discover they have been moved.

"Jarom," I say perplexed, "I can't find my bobby pins. Have you taken them?"
To which Jarom shoots me a look that says, "Yes. I decided to try a new updo on my shaved head but got so frustrated that I twisted them into random shapes which I then glued to a canvas, painted over in neon acrylics and sold to a posh art gallary in San Francisco... In other words, No, why would I move your bobby pins?"
Right. Of course.

For the next few months I search our apartment as the pins continue to go missing, eventually resorting to buying a set of 72 new ones. Those of course go missing as well.

So here is my theory:

The bobby pins are actually sucked into a worm hole that travels around the world a few times, briefly returning in groups of four under my couch, into the bottom of my purse and infrequently scattered amongst my cosmetics, although I know I didn't place them there myself. The problem is these bursts of paranormal exposure occur when I am looking for another item and do not need the pins, by the time I need them they are back in the worm hole and traveling across some far distant universes.

If they do return, all 72 suddenly reappear in near vicinity of the shiny new ones causing me to wonder how I missed them in the first place. Or, if I'm no longer living their the next owner of the apartment will discover to their dismay about 72 brown bobby pins scattered in their sock drawer which of course is where the worm hole ends...

I'm still waiting on the delivery.

The Real Rite of Passage

Rite of passage has been a part of most civilizations since the beginning of time. American Indians used to leave their sons in the woods where there they would hunt and spend 3 days discovering themselves and becoming men. The Aborigines of Australia would go “walk about” at the age of 13 for six months following the paths of ancient ancestors, copying their heroic deeds. Japanese coming-of-age rites lead youth to shrines where they would be presented with adult clothing and new names. Generally American’s have associated leaving for college or taking a job in a different city as our own rite of passage. Occasionally youth have this experience when a parent finally kicks them out. And of course, those would all be correct, except we are pushing aside the other rite of passage, the one that nearly 75 percent of people have fallen prey to at least once (*statistics were formulated in my head to make me feel better so you can take it or leave it). Well, at least I did.

A few nights ago as Jarom and I lay in bed talking I remembered a story I never told him. It could have been shame that pushed it into the back of my head, but it was more likely that I never really thought about how funny and common the incident actually was. Either way I begin to tell him about the summer after my freshman year of college when was suckered into a pyramid scheme by a black man- named Leon.

I’m not sure where I met him exactly. I’m positive I didn’t answer a help wanted add. It was more likely my number was given to him by an employment agency. Shame on them. At any rate, somehow he called me and we set up an appointment to meet. He informed me that he worked with a reputable company which offered excellent pricing on phone and cable TV packages. And of course, the pay was lucrative. Sign me up, right?

When I met him I was taken back by who I had expected to meet and who was actually standing in front of me.

Leon wore an entirely white suit, white belt, white shoes and a light shirt, if I am correct it was silver. In a word he was a cross between a biblical character impersonation from Mad TV and a back up dancer on soul train. (“Oh my gosh,” Jarom said braking into my story, his voice feigning alarm, “It was totally the devil.”) I’m sure he was attempting to borrow the look from an old Boyz 2 Men CD, but the look was more Miami Vice then R&B. There was simply not enough gold.

Sirens should have been wailing in my head but I was young and the promise of money was luring. So I followed him down the hall in that building that looked like a converted campus/church/labrynth. It made sense really. First they would try to educate you on the company, if that didn’t work they would convert you, and if you were still stubborn they would bank on the hope you would become hopelessly lost and pay 25 dollars just to be released. One way or another they’d get you.

The afternoon began with me and 30 other poor suckers watching a “motivational” video. I was particularly impressed with the cancer patient who paid off his medical bills using their amazing company in only 1 year. The U.S. Marine with a missing leg, and the single mother with the flashy platinum grill (for the adults a grill is rap jargon for crazy dental work) who saved her family from the slums of east LA were equally impressive as well. The strange part was that the people who had made insane amounts of money in this company resembled the white trash couples on the billboards to Las Vegas who'd won millions of dollars on a dollar slot machine. "Well Bob" they'd tell the reporter, "first we're going to get some dental work done and then we will buy matching lazyboys and TV dinner stands." I wondered how they had been so successful when they looked more like people who'd found wealth through Larry H. Parker, people who didn't speak english, or at least not the english I grew up with.

It was also somewhat disturbing to see words like “motivation”, “opportunity”, and “income beyond your wildest dreams” flash onto the screen during their moving testimonials. More impressive was that they managed to do this while keeping their other jobs. Still I had doubts. Would this company work for me? I had no motivation, I just wanted to earn some spending money. What they were lacking in the video was the guy that said, “I just wanted to earn money, not change my life.” Him I could have identified with.

After the video we had a luncheon. They served decent sandwiches, chips, diet coke and fruit. Though they didn’t say it, this was a chance to mingle with the other recruits and profiting members in a second attempt to convince us. I started to get suspicious when one of the “recruits” kept saying, “Wow, this company seem’s great! I am definity going to join!” in a repetative robotic voice. Folks I’m afraid to say it but for whatever reason I drank the kool-aid, well the diet coke. After that everything was a blur. There was another session with a live evangelist pr-teacher while members like Leon shouted “Amen!” to his questions of “Who no longer wants to be a slave to their debt?!” “Who wants to take charge of their life?!” “Who wants to live like the other half?!” Well duh… who doesn't? But who wants to get suckered into a job where you will waste hours of your life only to either lose more money, or never make back on your initial investment? Of course these thoughts came a bit late.

When I woke up out of the stupor of future riches a few hours later I was 25 dollars shy and wondering what had happened. How had I allowed myself to pay 25 bucks to this ridiculous company? Not only had I forked over 25 dollars but Leon had gotten me to write down the number of every soul I ever knew (not to exclude my 1st grade teacher), which being a Mormon was a lot. I was a golden contact. This would be the list I would work off for the next few days as I made my fortune.

My first and only call was to a lady in my ward. I asked her if she’s like to save a bundle by switching her phone and internet plan to a totally comprehensive plan that would cover all her communication needs (this all said in a chipper exaggerated tone inflected voice). After a long silence in which I’m sure both of us were figuring out what to say (me to apologize for putting her through this moment and for the next few months where we would look awkwardly at each other and pretend the strange exchange never happened), her to let me down easy) she declined. Thank you I said, my eyes burning as I hung up the phone in shame.

To my left a zombie feverishly called random numbers out of the phone book, his red eyes dazed as he introduced himself over and over to the click on the other end. I wondered how long he’d be locked in this room or if he'd had any success. His look of frustration answered the question and my future of big bucks combusted. Moments later Leon entered in a fabulous mood with my new “executive” folder. The one I don’t remember buying, but feeling my wallet one check lighter for.

“Can I have my 25 dollars back?” I asked lamely.
“No.” he said, his tone changing from jovial to icy in .67ths of a second obviously he had been expecting this. “That twenty five dollars paid for your associates kit.”
I looked at the kit and wondered what had cost 25 dollars. Inside the pleather “executive” folder there was a cheap pad of legal paper, a pen with a nib that slid to the side if you pressed too hard, and Leon’s very own business card. What he didn’t say, but actually meant was that my 25 dollars was actually going towards another flashy ensemble, possibly a canary yellow or magenta with gold pinstripes suit he had on lay-away, and my return of money would greatly detriment his ability to pick it up sooner. Either way it was obvious I was not getting my 25 dollars back.

Of course it was pointless to argue the point. I wasn’t getting my 25 bucks back, he wasn’t getting any more time out of me. “Well, Leon,” I said warmly , “I wish you and your circus suits the best. I am off to mope around for the rest of the summer and bum off my parents.” Ok, I didn’t actually say that, instead I snuck out of the building after he left me to my calls and ran to my car, looking side to side to see if I was being followed. I wasn’t of course. I think.

Hearing other people’s experiences with those companies makes me feel a little better about myself. I am definitely not alone, many people go through this rite of passage. My only regret was that I wished I had eaten another sandwich. That was the most expensive lunch of my life.

*Honorable mention to Jarom who inspired a few of the references here and ideas for jokes. He cracks me up.

Glorious Spam

So I'm sure we have all gotten our fair share of unpleasant if not disturbing emails. I personally cannot tell you how many offers for "luxury watches", discounted medications, lottery winnings from Africa and other non-mentionable spam that somehow beats out the filter to land in my junk mail box. And if I wasn't so OCD those emails would remain there, wasting away, except I just can't leave my mailbox stuffed to the brim with junk. It's unclean. It's chaotic. And occasionally it gives me a chuckle.

Today while checking my gmail account I got one that was entitled. "Turn your bedroom into a volcano of passion." I quickly laughed, deleted it and then mused on what would happen if you actually did turn our bedroom into a volcano. I'm pretty sure that remaining unscathed would be top in the list, with passion remaining somewhere at the bottom.

Here are a few scenarios why a volcano would not make for a passionate bedroom:

Scenerio 1: John returns home from a long day on Wall Street to find Susan frantically vacuuming the bedroom. This is the 10th time today and she is quickly regretting installing that new lava and ash sputtering "passion machine." Besides the burnt holes in the walls and carpet, the ash is impossible to keep on top of. If you have ever read any essay on how to ruin the mood, a dirty bedroom/house is top on the list. And as the poor people of Pompeii could tell us, ash is somewhat difficult to conquer. So although John may be seeing sparks, they are only coming from the hot lava spewing out of the mouth of the volcano. Not Susan.

Scenerio 2: Suppose two people are just crazy enough that they can live with the ash and insane heat. One morning Joan and Harry wake up, lift the crust of ash that has formed over them during the night, look up and feel the before mentioned spark. However, what they don't know is that the pressure in the earth has just increased causing the gas in the magma to expand, forcing the flow of lava out of the mouth. This is unfortunate because suddenly a gigantic glob of searing hot lava spews onto Harry, burning a hole through the bed, floor, and half way through the concrete. That burning puddle of Harry really dampers the mood.

Scenerio 3: A couple decides to reenact the scene from "Joe vs. the Volcano." However things go horribly wrong and they both fall in. Enough said, I think.

So sure a volcano in the bedroom is a great conversation piece, and yes maybe you'd be the envy of the neighborhood. But I seriously doubt that it will increase any passion. So I have decided against getting one. What were they thinking?

Had they said, turn your bedroom into a cool, refreshing, depth-less, brimming lake of passion, well that might have been different.

Phone Envy

After 5 years I just discovered that Jarom and I get each other. A lot. It's to the point where I will pick up my phone to call him and as soon as I find it in my purse it starts ringing. And guess who it is? Jarom.

We think of the same obscure references. We are almost to the level of my best friend Mischa and I when we only had to utter a single word and we would work anyone who challenged us to a game of "Taboo." We laugh at the same jokes, make the same faces, use the same lingo.

It's even gotten to the point that I can recognize what will bother him most in a moment of tragedy.

Today we got our new EnV2 phones. I was stoked. My phone does not resemble the cool phones that people are sporting. My phone looks like a flip house phone. It's large, boxy, has an antenna, and is most definitely not sexy. I'm not positive but on the back it seems there are primitive hieroglyphics of men hunting animals... Or maybe they are just scratches from my keys.

My phone has a crappy battery, no spring to hold it open and as such clicks like an Erector Set in motion when I close it, and it takes bad pictures.

I'll be honest I've been waiting for my new free phone for a long time, in fact the whole 2 years since I got my last phone. And today, after haggling with the Verizon lady on the phone, it came. Both Jarom's and mine. Matching his and her's Black EnV2s. Gorgeous. Dreamy. And confusingly alike.

We were both so excited that he patiently waited for me to return from a business trip to open the box. As we sat on the bed Jarom ceremoniously handed me the box and chivalrously suggested I open it.

"Really?" I breathed. "You wanna help me?"
"No." He answered tenderly. "You do it."

After opening the package Jarom and I each took a box and began riffling through the contents. This is where Jarom and I are different. I immediately ripped off all the protective stickers on my phone while Jarom pointedly kept his on. He believes an electronic should be protected as long as possible. We've talked about this a few times, and always new appliances sport lovely plastic screens for a few months until they bubble and peel and I beg to be able to remove them. So there was no way I was going to keep mine on, this was MY phone. Or was it?

Over the course of a day I learned something. Though 2 phones look the same they are actually different. Each is programed according to the number it's supposed to support. So needless to say, after transferring all my contacts onto Jarom's phone (all 75 of them), turning off my old phone and realizing that my new phone won't activate, I discovered that I was in fact holding Jarom's phone, the phone that I had stripped of all protective barriers. Crude.

I dialed him up commenting to my mom-in-law Kim that he would be bummed I'd taken the stickers off. "Jarom," I explained gingerly. "I couldn't activate my phone because we pulled a parent trap. I have your phone and you have my phone.

I kid you not, Jarom's first word were, "But, you took off my stickers!"

Who says I don't know my man?

Witching Hour

So Jarom and I have a funny relationship. He likes to shock me with random comments and I like to act shocked and make him eat his words. Usually the funniest conversations are when Jarom makes a comment about my appearance that I pretend to take in an offensive way. In these mock serious discussions he goes round the comment trying to justify what he has said, while I act offended and try to box him into a corner. By the end both of us are laughing and Jarom has humorously decided that I'm a mean wife because he was only trying to give me a compliment. (=

Recently there was one conversation that really got me laughing. In fact it was so excellent that I wrote it down word for word in my planner as he was talking and threatened Jarom with a blog. Horrified, he told me I wasn't allowed to write it because people would think he was mean, but I interpreted his laugher as permission to go ahead...

A few fridays back I was sporting a lovely constellation of acne on my face. One on my forehead, a small cluster on my cheek and a rather large one on the side of my chin. As much as I love revisiting my youth I'd much rather relive it by going to the beach and getting a Thrifty's ice cream cone, but apparently acne is a little easier to fit on the schedule.

Anyhow, after slapping on some makeup (with a useless attempt at camouflaging my visitors), pulling my wet from swimming hair into a ponytail and putting on my least rumpled clothing I was semi-decent enough for our impromptu date we'd decided to go on that night. We chose to go to a hole in the wall place for dinner and a movie and I figured that since most of the date would be in the dark he would forgive my somewhat unkept appearance. One of my favorite things about Jarom is he praises me when I look pretty and when I know I don't. He thinks I'm pretty all the time, bless him. But that night he had a funny way of telling it.

"So," Jarom said in a velvety voice a mischievous smile playing across his lips, knowing he was going to say something that would set me off and looking forward to the forthcoming banter, "That's a pretty good pimple you've got going on your chin. If you painted your face green you could do pretty well."

"What??" I asked him feigning offense, "You think I look like a witch? That's soo mean!"

"That's not mean," Jarom retorted, "Very beautiful women can play witches really well."

"Which beautiful women?" I asked tartly, "Like the wicked witch of the west? Or the old witch in snow white? Those beautiful women?"

"No," Jarom said back tracking. "Like Nicole Kidman, or Michelle Phifer. They played witches really well. I'm saying YOU could be a pretty witch..."

"Well, thank you... I think. But how do I possibly look like a witch?" I challenged him, laughing at the references to the only two possible pretty witches in silver screen history (and before anyone argues Glenda was pretty I say that she was- until I reached the age of ten and realized that under the sparkly dress and ten pounds of makeup she was not such a distant cousin in the looks department of the scary witch. In fact, the only pretty people in that whole movie are dorothy and possibly the cowardly lion after he gets the bows in his hair).

"Well," Jarom said gearing up with his explanation, "You have the right facial structure."

"How's that?" I question him.

"Well, you have a long narrow face and large eyes." He said while I chuckle at his answer. "Not to mention, you DO have a pointy nose and chin." he throws in matter of factly.

Fast forward two weeks. In an effort to maintain my failing looks I decide to give myself a mud mask, paint my toes and do a little plucking to my eyebrows. I wash my makeup off, observing how dull my skin and eyes look. I need a tan, or something on my face but I don't have the time to lay out, or the desire to develop the wrinkles and cancer all the dermatologists on "10 Years Younger" are talking about. As I slather the green mud all over my face and prepare to paint my toes I can't help but notice how pink my lips look, and how green my eyes are. What's the change, I wonder?

Suddenly it dawns on me, it's the green! Jarom was totally right, I could work it as a witch. So that's why I've posting for you a picture of me a la witch, or sea sick. You're choice. Just know, green is coming people, since we all know tans are unhealthy maybe it's time to switch to a new color. Just a thought...

Dear Journal,

So it's been a while since I've written or publicly embarrassed myself so I figured it was time for a blog. I've told quite a few people about how I was extremely, shall we say, awkward as a child but few people believe me to the extent I try to prove it. I finally found a picture that should do some justice to my explanation that I was a cross between Charlie Brown and Uncle Fester. But not only did I look awkward but I said awkward things too. So here is a cringe worthy picture and JOURNAL entry that I actually turned in to my teacher!!



"Dear Journal,
A new world opened up to me when I noticed I was changing in shape and changing attitudes. I used to not mind when people said some things about me, now I feel terrible. Also I have started new things having to do with my body. My self-esteem has lowered because of things said that were meant as jokes but carried on too long. Also when people talk behind my back.

Yours truly,
Holly"

This journal begs a two questions. First, how did my mom not get a call from this poor english teacher that had to read about me changing in body and attitude? Weird. Second, the new things starting with my body at 11 could only have been that I was beginning to change from cute child to the fat red headed kid on the sandlot, prompting dozens of acquaintances across the United States to ask how a girl got on that movie with the cast of all boys.

Anyhow, when I found this I had to laugh and share it. Now all you people who didn't know me as a kid and didn't believe me when I said I looked like uncle fester can finally put your minds at rest that I was telling the truth. Thank goodness for aging and growing out of youth.

p.s.- the worse part is that that picture actually made it into my wedding video. Ahh! It's lucky that I was being distracted in the other room so I didn't notice it and go Bridezilla with my bloody eye.

On Resurrection...

If you are expecting to read a deep, thoughtful and spiritual explanation on resurrection, you don't know me very well. (= I can talk spiritual things with the best of them, but I much prefer to look at the lighter things in life. This is meant to be a humorous contemplation on many of the theories of resurrection that I came across during my time at BYU.

Today while I was waxing my miss-stash (as far as I know I made that up so I'm trademarking it!) it got me thinking about resurrection. At BYU I had a few teachers that were conflicted on what resurrection actually was. Was it being "reborn" with your body totally whole, not a single hair from your head missing? Or was it a progression as one of my teachers grimly said, that as you perfect yourself your body perfects as well? As I weighed out both options I thought that I would much rather return in a perfected state, however both have their perks and checks. Lets go over them.

What really got me thinking about resurrection was a comment made by my sister-in-law while we were walking to my house one sunday.

"Do you think we really are restored to our perfected state?" She asked.
"I don't know," I said considering the question. "Supposedly we are resurrected without missing even a single hair."
"Every hair?" She asked, a hint of worry in her voice. "Because there are a few that I really don't want back."
At this point we both started laughing hysterically but the question got me thinking.

Alma 11:44 states "... and even there shall not so much as a hair of their heads be lost; but everything shall be restored to its perfect frame..."

I guess the most important question is, what defines head? Is it from your neck up, or your scalp? Because if it's from the neck up, ladies we will probably be looking like the moses in the old "Ten Commandments" movie, which is frightening. At least those of us who have waxed over our life will. Thats a lot of hair accumulated.

This I am not looking forward to.

If it means on your scalp, I will finally have a gorgeous full head of hair since mine has always been "fine"- ok, thin. And all you lucky girls with long thick hair in this life will look like "Cousin it" in the next life. Ok, maybe not really.

But my grim teacher that taught of progression had a stranger take on resurrection.

He explained to us that if we were buried with an arm missing or a leg missing we would be resurrected with that part missing still. If we were good that part would be returned to us slowly. This idea did not jive. In fact quite a few things in this class didn't jive with what I'd been taught over my life and I couldn't help but have this conversation with him.

"So, what you're saying is that if we die with a part missing we are resurrected without that part?" I questioned.
"Yes." He answered.
"And as we become perfected that part returns to us?" I asked with skepticism in my voice.
"Yes" He affirmed.
"What if you're missing your head?" I asked.

Needless to say someone else got to ask some questions.

But I had some questions of my own. If for some reason you lost your hand what would the progression look like? Will it look like the hand on Peter Pettigrew in Harry Potter, all silvery and qhostly with super strength? As we progress will it grow more real until finally it's an arm or leg? Or will it grow centimeter by centimeter?

Can you imagine all the pirates that would be displaced by this? What would you call them after their nicknames no longer work? Captain Hook would just have to go back to something like Captain Larry, which is not nearly as cool.

Or if we didn't lose any appendages would be just be resurrected looking like Rosie O'Donal with her Edward Scissorhands hair cut until we slowly became beautiful by perfection? I just couldn't see it.

Anyhow, this blog was a bunch of silly what-ifs and not meant to be taken seriously. I do believe in resurrection but I believe that we are resurrected in our most perfect state, sans the excess hair, and that all personal perfection that we pursue is WITHIN and private between ourselves and God. I don't believe that Heavenly Father would punish us by resurrecting us imperfectly and then allowing everyone to see our progress and how long it takes us to perfect ourselves. He is not in the business of humiliation. Otherwise we are all in for an interesting ride eventually. What do you think?



(By the way in an effort to find more cool pirate nicknames to make fun of I found a ridiculous amount of pirate sites that generate a pirate nickname for you. Mine was: Holly "Cannonball Butt" Moore. What? It's scary how accurate that is.)

Stephan King Eat Your Heart Out

When I was in high school I went on a bit of a health kick. Ok, a major health kick. For about a year I wouldn't eat chips, or french fries, ice cream, candy, or any other good thing. In fact, for about a year I ate lentil soup with whole wheat toast, cottage cheese and a salad for lunch- every day. How virtuous. And boring.

On top of that crazy eating regime I started taking multi-vitamins that my mom had bought from one of my Aunts. They weren't just any old vitamins, they were top of the line, health nut vitamins. You know, the ones with the packaging that shows a man and woman hiking and the man has thighs that could crush a walnut shell, while the woman has a long blonde ponytail with pink flushed cheeks. She's the kind of woman that smiles triumphantly like Mona Lisa from the box, except her secret is that along with the vitamins (which explain her exceptionally healthy pink cheeks) she also does liposuction a few times a year and has a personal trainer, so with the vitamins alone you will never look as good as her.

Anyhow, I started taking these vitamins each morning before early morning seminary and expected to look like her within a few weeks. And I might have (right...), except something happened that ruined me on powdered vitamins for the rest of my life.

It was about 5 am and I was downstairs in the kitchen grabbing a glass of water and one of those vitamins before I went upstairs to take a shower. The vitamin was of average size and in a gel case that would dissolve in your stomach, therefore allowing your body to absorb the vitamins quicker. This morning however, something went amiss with the vitamin when I went to swallow it. Instead of swallowing the sucker down, the gel turned into its own form of super glue and attached itself to my throat just out of reach. I tried drinking some water to wash it down but it didn't help and after a few moments I figured that eventually those muscles would do their job and move it down to my stomach by themselves.

In the shower I washed my hair, shaved my legs, drank some water and yet still the feeling of having the vitamin there lingered. I wondered if it was just a phantom sense or if it really was still lurking there.

Out of the shower I dried my hair and thought surely all the tossing of my head while I blow dried would loosen the subborn pill. But still the pill persisted, although unbeknownst to me it was ever weakening...

It wasn't until I was doing my make-up that things start moving along. I had applied my powder, some blush (pre bronzer days), eye liner and was just finishing my last set of lashes with mascara when the gel capsule burst. The vitamin powder trickled down my throat causing a tickle that created a powerful reaction. Before I had time to even move the mascara wand from my eyelashes the most violent cough of mankind erupted from my throat making the next scene possible.

The force of the cough jammed the brush all over my eye, giving me a temporary blackened eye while powdered vitamins blew in all directions of the bathroom. It was scary to experience, but even scarier to watch in the mirror. Picture this:

Black eye that looks as if it's been poked out while the other is bulging from the vigor of the cough; and an open mouth that is spewing out powder like a horror novel that would have made even Stephan King envious. It would have been better if I had been touching up my make-up in the high school bathroom at prom, but we can't have everything. What was worse was it was the vitamin that just kept giving. There was not one cough but many and for the first few the powder just kept flowing.

I was like a powder spewing dragon, or the little dinosaur on Jurassic Park. I was subhuman. Imagine being able to harness that power so you could use it as a bargaining chip.

"Watch out." Uncle George would say at Thanksgiving dinner. "Just give her the loan Jane, she's got that look in her eye..."

I looked at my evil black eye and the bathroom counter covered in "health dust" and vowed to never consume a powdered vitamin again. It was like sucking on a multi vitamin as hard candy for the rest of the day. Not something that you would willingly want to do. Since then I have not kept my vow, I have taken powdered multivitamins. But not without a little shudder, and the desperate urge to spray my throat with Pam to protect me from that ever happening again. And Stephan King- eat your heart out for a true mouth spewing horror story.

Hand Slam

(I was complaining to Jarom about my back hurting the other night and I told him how it originated (which he thought very funny). I was having a hard time capturing the real humor in it. Anyhow, this about sums it up.)

I'm not really sure what I was thinking when I signed up for the gymnastics class at BYU my freshman year. Perhaps I thought that I would sail gracefully from bar to bar, landing a triple flip mount into a pit of foam bits while my classmates "ooo'd and awed" at my incredible learning curve. Perhaps I figured that when BYU said Beginning Gymnastics they would begin us with somersaults and cartwheels like a proper Beginners class would offer at The Little Gym. I must have been on crack, or seriously delusional because I have never been particularly gifted with balance, especially since my body is all arms and legs and no muscle.

Anyhow, seven years ago I got the urge to sign up for a Gymnastics class, and I took one. For one day.

And I was defeated.

That morning I carefully selected a pair of stretchy yoga pants and a fitted tank top. I was excited to learn how to do some cool tricks, learn how to do a flip on the bars (in time), and get in some spotting with my teacher. What I got instead was a intermediate class for girls who had done more than ribbon dancing and cartwheels in their front yards as kids.

We began with some stretches, which was exciting because I was good at this. From there we moved into a brand new world of body contortions that I was neither prepared for nor expecting. But, I was also proud and didn't want to admit that I didn't have the strength or training to do these seeing that all the other girls were nodding enthusiastically. Today we were going to begin with hand stands that evolved into a forward roll! Yeay! Now if that doesn't make sense imagine standing on your hands and than maneuvering your body into the position that you do a cartwheel from that. Sounds easy right? Please.

I made my way into the back of the class, carefully watching from the back of the line how the girls were balancing themselves in perfect pencils before they gently tucked themselves into a ball. It was amazing; like watching an assembly line of people moving across the mat; art even. Before I knew it it was my turn and the teacher was giving the signal to begin.

Now I had never done a hand stand that actually made it straight up before falling back over, but somehow I tricked myself into believing that today would be different. Not only would I hand stand, but I would roll.

Taking a deep breath (which in seconds I would regret), I threw my full body weight onto my hands, flying past the hand stand stage where you gain control before maneuvering the next move. Instead of rolling into a ball I realized that I didn't know what to do and I panicked.

I looked like a cat in a desperate attempt to right myself in mid air, my body twisting in a strange tense arch. I wasn't even graceful as I slid from the hand stand into a back slam on the floor my breath rushing from my body in a loud and violent "Ha!". It was like a WWF wrestling move gone terribly wrong. While other girls rolled into a ball and jumped to their feet like a rehearsed version of the rockettes at Radio City Hall-I lay there on the ground, my eyes dilated in pain, while peoples faces passed in an out of focus as they tumbled all around me. And then my teacher uttered the words that echoed in my head for years after.

"Just go around her."

Just go around her? Honestly? As I lay dying; partially paralyzed; my pain sending waves of heat through my body; girls rolled past me, all the while my teacher calling out to them with instructions. There was no running over, no attending the to girl who hadn't breathed for at least 3 minutes, and couldn't feel her arms.

It was like a bad movie. What was worse was the fact that the girls who were "tumbling" were nearly missing me, and in a sense of self preservation I somehow mustered the ability to army crawl off the mat into the corner to regain total consciousness.

For the rest of the hour my teacher instructed the class, offering suggestions to the star pupils while I lay perfectly still in the corner. At the end of the class she left, without a word to me. And I walked home and laid in my bed wondering when my back would heal itself. Which it still hasn't totally.

So this girl went back to somersaults and cartwheels and ribbon dancer. And I'll leave the real gymnastics to the pros.

Nice to meat you

I have always had a volatile relationship with meat. When I was still a very small child I remember "seeing" blood in my campbell's chicken noodle soup chicken bits (I'm sure that I didn't really, but it freaked me out just the same). I still don't eat them to this day. Soup meat is on my unsafe meat list, along with most cold cuts, fried chicken, chicken sandwiches in restaurants, sausage, fatty meat pieces, and canned meats (usually including tuna).

However, the real winning point for vegetarianism happened when I was 14 and my relationship with eating meat was changed forever. One evening while eating dinner at a friends house I made the mistake of grabbing a slice of roast that contained a major artery. The artery provided two purposes; one was to provide the departed cow with nutrients, the other simultaneously provided me with a fear of meat products for the next 4 years, one that still pops up like a bad case of acne to this day.

The problem was that the artery was not a skinny vein that could be dealt with, it was thick at the bottom and branched out like a tree, hogging the whole slice of roast. The shock of seeing something like that in my food sent a reaction that probably doesn't have a medical term but is similar to the 5 steps of grieving (but with a twist):

Denial: Whoa, is that a vein? No, that is an elaborate piece of fat. Shoot, that's a vein. Wait, no, it's something else. Gag.
Anger: Out of the 20 pieces of roast how come I got the freaky piece?! Honestly, anyone else would have been fine with it, but nooo, I'm the one that has to get it. Meat is gross! I hate my life! Gag.
Bargaining: Ok, look, if I turn the piece over maybe we can just forget about it. Yea, that would work, right? I don't want to hate meat, I'll do anything. Gag.
Depression: I probably deserved this to happen. I think I just need to sleep this off. Gag.
Acceptance: Ok, there is a nasty vein in my meat. I have two options; take this like a champ and suck it up, or go without meat indefinitely. Gag. Go without meat indefinitely it is.

Now just add in some hot flashes, a few badly concealed gags that took place under the table (while I pretended to get something out of my purse), and a near miss for passing out and you get the picture.

However, after 4 years I realized that I couldn't go without meat forever and I slowly added it back into my diet. All was going good until last monday when I had a repeat offense, but this time in my steak at Applebee's.

Jarom's parents had offered to take everyone out to eat and it had been decided that Applebee's was the place to go. I was on the fence on whether to order the fiesta lime chicken, or a steak like everyone else. In a moment of peer pressure I opted for the steak. Oh, how I wish I had resisted because what I got was not edible.

When the steaks came they were sizzling, a good sign right? I had ordered mine medium-well and wasn't surprised to find my steak was medium to medium-rare in the center, but that was something I could deal with. What I couldn't deal with was the 2 rubbery veins that remained uncut even though I had cut clear through the rest of my steak with my knife. How does that happen by the way? How can you cut through a whole steak with your knife but not get through the veins? Anyhow, that should have been my red light indicator but I'd dealt with a few measly veins before and I was trying to become tougher about eating meat.

I worked around them, making a Picasso of my steak by cutting random geometrical shapes off places that seemed safe. And then it happened. I cut the back of my steak and found a cluster of veins, a cluster that resembled california freeways running together, a cluster that was the thickness of a pencil. I kid you not.

Hot flash! Slowly I pushed my steak back together to conceal my discovery. Then I leaned my head back and took a few deep breaths so that I wouldn't share my already consumed salad with everyone at the table.

"What's wrong." Jarom asks after I dramatically gag.
"My steak." I gasp.
"What about it?" He questions me again.
"There is a vein." I stage whisper.
"So?" He asks.
"No," I say, "There is a VEIN. Like a big one. Like an artery."

At this point I have everyone at the tables attention.

"Let me see." Jarom says and then pulls my steak apart. Like a bungee cord the other side of the steak snaps across my plate to the one that Jarom has just dragged forward. "It's fat. Just eat around it." He says.
"Are you kidding me?" I ask him. "That is a vein! There is no way I'm going to eat that..."
"Let me see," Kim asks. I hand the steak over and she prods the steak like an expert coroner. "That's definitely a vein."
"What's wrong?" Craig asks. "Did you get the varicose special?"

Hot flash! I lean my head on Jarom and fight the nausea.
"You should make a little R.I.P. stone for him out of your potato skin." Jarom's brother Tyler adds.
"Hey," Jarom says as he picks the steak up and swings it around on the vein, the two pieces swinging wildly like nunchucks. "You can play tetherball with it."
Gag, Hot flash!

"Ok, ok, ok, you guys. Seriously, I'm going to throw up." I say, my eyes watering from the effort of holding my nausea in. I'm starting to perspire. I keep having to take deep breaths and I'm sure I'm going to lose it if I see anyone else playing with my steak.

At this moment the waiter comes over. "How is everything going?" He asks.
"Something is up with my steak." I tell him
"Does it need more cooking?" He asks concerned.
"Well, it's very rare in the center, but mostly there is a gigantic vein running through it."
"I'm so sorry about that." He answers horrified, "we can cook it more and de-vein it for you if you'd like."

Pause. Ok, waiter's tip: If you have to use the word de-vein in any speech to a table in the course of an evening than something is very wrong. NEVER say the word de-vein in a restaurant, that is just nasty.

Un-pause. His helpful suggestion is just too much for me and I lean my head on Jarom and take a few deep breaths. When I finally regain composure I ask him to just remove it from the bill. He takes my steak to show the kitchen crew and gags when I show him my not-so-little vein buddy first.
Meanwhile everyone feels bad for me that I'm only eating the baked potato he leaves and offers me bites of their steak which is about the last thing on earth I'm wanting at the moment.

As we're leaving Craig says "You should have asked him for a body bag, I mean a doggy bag."

A body bag would have been the right thing to request. I guess I'll put the breaks on eating steaks for a while but that experience was close to making me a vegetarian again. That was a near miss for Jarom, because me as a vegetarian would make him a very sad man.

Seeing Red

A typical checklist for a big event goes something like this:
Pretty new clothes
Fabulous hair cut
Flattering makeup
Sexy shoes
Bloody zombie-esque eye
New jewelry

Now I gather that most people don't stock up on each of these items before a big day; some people already have the great hair, or the perfect makeup, but it's hard to find the bloody eye. Thankfully I acquired one before both of my events that required good looks; my wedding and my one humorous attempt at American Idol (a blog to follow this confession that I swore I would take to my grave to come shortly). It went down like so:

Five days before the wedding:
Jarom and I are sitting in our Italian Language class joking around. Something strikes me as extremely funny, in fact so funny that I bang my head with excessive gusto against the wall behind me when I throw back my head to get out a really good laugh. After seeing stars for a second I groan an "owww" which of course Jarom finds hilarious.

Four days before the wedding:
In Nordstom's I am viewing the jewelry counter, looking for a gorgeous bracelet or earrings to wear with my wedding dress. As I look down Jarom gasps loudly and says, "What is on your eye!?"
"What do you mean, what is on my eye?" I ask panicked
"There's...like...blood, on your eye..." Jarom answers, his face contorted in fear and intrigue. I can tell that even though this freaks him out, he also thinks it's kinda cool.
I look in the mirror but don't see anything, although I now notice that my eye feels like there is a small grain of sand when I close it. Jarom gently pulls up on my eyelid and reveals what he's just discovered. A bloody massive hemorrhage on my eyeball that looks like my eye has exploded from the inside out. Shoot!
"What is that?" I ask in a heightened whisper, then draw attention by crying. "Get it off!"

When I arrive home I quickly call the doctors and set up an appointment. The next day is the earliest I can get in and I'm sure I am dying slowly while I wait to see someone. The rest of the day is spent staring into the mirror while mentally composing my will. Mozart's "requiem for a dream" is playing hauntingly in the background for my tragic demise.

Three days before the wedding:
In the doctor's office Dr. so and so informs me that I am not in fact dying, but rather I have sustained my gory eye from a head injury.
"Have you been hit in the head?" He asks, while eying Jarom who is looking baffled.
"No." I answer.
"You haven't had any blunt trauma to the head?" He coaxes again.
Ah, now I remember. I guess slamming my head into the wall would count, but I'm certainly not going to admit that. How does one admit that after laughing like a wild hyena they slammed their head into the wall with enough force that it broke a blood vessel, without looking like an idiot? Better to remain silent.
"Nope." I respond.
Jarom moves to interrupt and offer my embarrassing moment as an explanation for my crazy eye that is now becoming more visible by the hour. I reward him with an icy bloody stare that would send chills to the most stout hearted, since it now is the epitome of the evil eye in it's finest. A baby cries on the next room.
I then ask in order to change the subject, "How long will it take to go away?"
"Well," he answers, "it should start moving down the eye and eventually be absorbed back into the body. It will be totally gone in about five days"
Excuse me, I'm getting married in three...

Day of wedding:
My eye has absorbed most of the blood, but just like the good doctor said I have specks of blood that have moseyed on down to visible level, and my eye is now pink with yellow and red spots. Classy. Thankfully you can't tell in my pictures except that one of my eyes looks a bit dark. I prefer to think that I'm brooding in those pictures... in one eye...

Dealing with guests is a bit different. Most people expect a bright eyed bride, not a bright red eyed bride. Most of the day is spent talking to people who don't know me but look cross-eyed at my frightening eye as we converse than back away slowly as they leave. I'm sure they fear that I have picked up a new form of rabies and don't want to turn their back on me. For the first time in my life I wish I had a gigantic chest so there was something else for them to look at while we talk. Unfortunately I don't and I must resist the urge to bite people.

Since this blog is getting long I will cut to the chase on the American Idol story:

First- you know that myth about closing your eyes when you sneeze and how your eyeballs will pop out if you keep them open? It's true. I am proof.

Five days before Jarom and I drove down to San Francisco for American Idol, I made the mistake of driving on a windy freeway when I had to sneeze. I was afraid that in the four seconds it took to sneeze someone would slam on their breaks and I would ultimately die in a car wreck. So instead of closing my eyes like a proper person, I kept them a crack open and went to town with my sneeze. Disaster averted I arrived to work safely only to discover in the bathroom at work that my eye had exploded this time in a very visible spot. Oh fabulous!



Needless to say, the lady who judged me was frightened, I did not make American Idol and I received stares for 2 weeks until this stubborn explosion disappeared. So as a friendly reminder I leave with you two words of advice:
Don't sneeze with your eyes open
If you must throw your head back when you laugh please make sure that you are in an open area where head banging will not occur.

Good luck.

Unauthentic Baby Blues..

We have all seen commercials or movies where someone is unwittingly asked if they are pregnant when they are not. The initial responses from the audience are cries of disbelief or the covering of the mouth. "Oh no you didn't!" someone shouts. How can someone be so tactless, we ask ourselves? Certainly I would never do that, or no one I know has had that happen, we cry reassuringly. If the person is dressed in baggy clothes, or somewhat frumpy with a little extra junk in Le Old Trunk then we give allowances for the misunderstanding. However, what if you are dressed to the nines, wearing high heels, makeup, and a slimming black dress? Then what?

Saturday night Jarom and I decided we would attend the stake dinner/dance in honor of St. Valentines day. I dolled up. For once I shaved my legs, donned my favorite black dress from Banana Republic that screams "yes, I can look good once in a while!", I applied makeup in all the right places, and traded in my flip-flops for a pair of black sling back 4 inch heels. All at the same time.

And I was feelin' good.

That night Jarom and I learned a few waltz steps from an instructor and attempted to waltz around the cultural hall with stuffy affected looks on our faces until we broke down into giggles. After we got a little better, Jarom upped the pace and eventually I was being dragged around, literally, my feet sliding along the floor, my body limp from laughing, as a table of older couples laughed approvingly at us. It was perfect and all was right with the world. Until about 9:30 when we decided to drive to Walmart to buy a few things for sunday. All "good" things happen at Walmart it seems.

After 2 plus hours of dancing, standing and walking in my heels, naturally my feet hurt. I had followed Jarom around Walmart, gotten bored and decided to check out the food section to see what they had in their limited resources. It's really rather ironic that the most shocking moment of my life should happen there in the food aisle. And happen there it did.

"You look like your feet hurt." A woman said knowingly as she observed me holding onto a shelf for support.
"yeah." I answered, "I'm not used to wearing heels." I wondered what gave me away- the grimace of pain or the way my ankles bent every time I took a step. Ok, honestly not sexy, but the next line was unexpected.
"Oh, and you're pregn---" she stopped mid-sentence as she realized that I was not in fact pregnant, just fat in the stomach.

Her eyes shifted up to mine.

In that exact moment Walmart went completely silent, in the distance a cash register whirred. Passing customers dove behind carts of gatorade and rows of half priced Valentine's Candy, eyes peaking over in fear. Suddenly the loudspeaker blared the theme song from "The Good, the Bad and The Ugly." A faint breeze that smelled of gun powder ruffled my hair and my eyes squinted. I dared her to finish, to give me the chance to bunt kick the box of lucky charms I was holding at her head.
"Go ahead," I said menacingly, "Make my day..."

But instead it went like this:

"Oh, and you're preg-nevermind." She squirmed to a finish.
"Well what in the heck was preg-nevermind?" I wondered silently. I small village in Germany, a new word for fabulous, or flabulous?
"Have a good night." she said lamely and wandered away.

I, however, was left wondering what just happened. Did I really look pregnant? How come nobody told me that the spare tire I was sporting that evening was so passe? Next I suppose someone will tell me that love handles and cellulite are not exactly bragging rights at a party. I wanted to shout out at her, "I've had a hard year! I've been taking 18 credits a semester and not sleeping. Did you know stress and sleep deficiency lead to stomach fat??!"

Slowly I placed the lucky charms back on the shelf. And trudged over to Jarom in defeat.
"What's wrong?" He asked, instantly picking up on my bad vibe.
"We're having a baby." I mutter.
"What are you talking about?" He asks.
"Just ask that lady in the black." I answer bothered. "She can tell you everything."

I guess the baby blues can happen to non-mothers too.

Rolo-ver

(Side Note: I actually started writing this a few days before Valentine's Day, but I was forced into migrant working conditions which is a blog just waiting to be written to... Anyhow, it's a bit late, but this is my absolute FAVORITE Valentine's Day memory)

One of the simple joys of childhood was the one day a year that you could put 30 tiny cards into 30 tiny envelopes with a candy heart or two. At the store you would pick out the cards that represented you. Lisa Frank for the girls who wore make-up at 8, My Little Pony for the girls who would continue to play with dolls until they were 15 (or was that just me?), Barbie for the future fashion designers, stylists or gay boys, He-man for the tough guys, G. I. Joes for the chronic fighters and Tranformers for the future .com generation. But what a thrill it was when inside your construction paper mail box you found 30 notes from kids in your class, kids who didn't particularly like you/know you/sit by you during lunch but still spent the time to scrawl your name on a card that said something brilliantly akin to "You're the cutest," or some such fib. But imagine even more interesting to find your treat in the middle of the night and card in the morning in that order, as I did back in 1989...

It was the eve of Valentine's Day and Julie had decided to be a good older sister and give me a present to find when I awoke in the morning. Quietly she had laid a Valentine's card (probably a My Little Pony or Strawberry Shortcake) next to my pillow along with an unwrapped Rolo, you know, one of those delicious caramel chocolate sweets. During the night and being the fitful sleeper I am, I shook the bed until the Rolo made its way down under my covers and to the lowest heaviest area right around my bumm. Efficiently I rolled over it until it resembled a smooth flat disc that covered a sizable area (for a Rolo) right in the center of my bed. And there it rested until about 2 am when I awoke and somehow discovered that something was amiss under the sheets.

I'm not sure what alerted me to my new bed fellow but I quickly noticed that I was not alone. I guess if a princess could feel a pea under 7 or 8 mattresses than why shouldn't I feel a steamrollered rolo under a thin flannel nightgown? Anyhow, in the dark it resembled something else. Something very sinister that a 7 year old should have control over.

Shoot, I thought to myself, I really am too old for this. But the thought of going back to bed in that, or sleeping on the floor was not something I wanted to do, so instead I woke up my mom.

"Mom." I said in confusion, " I think I poopied in my bed. Except that it's only on the outside of my p.j.'s."
"It's on the outside of your p.j.'s?" She asked in a sleepy voice.
"Yes, I don't know how it happened..." I answered
By this point I'm sure the wheels were turning in her head. How in the world could a kid pooh outside her pajamas? It just didn't make sense. Even the allure of a warm bed couldn't stave her curiosity and a moment later she was following me to Julie (who was sleeping soundly) and my room.

In the dark she stood there bracing herself for what she knew she had to do. Slowly she poked it with the tiniest tip of her finger. "It doesn't feel like pooh." She said perplexed.
Even in the dark I could see her confusion. Then leaning ever so carefully over, she lowered her head and took a quick sniff.
"It doesn't even smell like pooh." she said, her head cocking to the side. "I don't know. Why don't you come sleep in my room for the rest of the night?"

Within a few minutes we had made a bed of blankets in her floor and while I stared at boxes of wrapping paper and other ominous objects to a 7 year old under a dark bed- I mused. What could possibly be that dark orb on my sheet? How did I manage to pull a stunt like that? Should I be proud of my unique capabilities or worried it would happen again, in public, where people would point their fingers and rank me with the bearded lady or the half-man-half-woman guy? It was all very baffling and I worried until morning.

However, when I awoke I discovered something else. Upon entering my room and staring into my covers I realized that my company had in fact been of the chocolate constitution, with tones of caramel. Where in the world did that come from I wondered...

Minutes later Julie came in and asked, "Did you find your card and treat?"
"What card and treat?" I asked her confused.
"I left you are card and a rolo." She answered.

Thankfully I found the card and realized that my special powers were not so special. I am happy to say I haven't had an accident sense.