Storage Insurance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving...

Stinks.

Sonnets

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


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


Here is the second "new and improved" poem:

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

Well, it's official!

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

What?

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

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

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

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

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

Uvama? No you vama!

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

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

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

In the Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knott's Scary Farm!

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

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

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

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

Subtle differences

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I missing something?

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

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

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

I'm commiting myself

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

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

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

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

Found: two earplugs

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

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

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

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

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

Embarrassing Moment # 3 (Smart investments)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Embarrassing moment # 2 (just be yourself)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Embarrassing moments #1 (portable retina scarring)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

List making

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

To-Do: Write Essay

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

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

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

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

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

Am I the only one?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sea-dooing

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

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

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

Which raises the question...

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

Santos

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

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

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