Toothy

My mom said recently that she sees it as a personal failure that only 2 of her 5 children made it out of her home with their front adult teeth intact. I don't remember what happened to Captain Fabuloso's front tooth. I know that I chipped Richie's by swinging my lunchbox in his face somewhere around the third grade. As for mine, when I was about 9, my dad needed to do some work up at the church one night while my mom was busy, so he took all us kids with him. The church was deserted and the five of us decided to play tag in the dark of the cultural hall (gym). I was "it" and I was sure I was hot on Captain Fabuloso's trail, so I was laughing. And running. In the pitch dark. With my mouth agape. (Note: Laughing loudly is probably not the best strategy when you're "it" during dark tag.) Instead of getting Fabuloso, I ended up running right into a wall, front tooth first.

I chipped the tooth and we never did find the missing piece. I remember going through what seemed like days with half of a front tooth, which even in 4th grade is pretty humiliating. When I got into the dentist, he was able to put a cap on it. I was told not to do things like eat corn on the cob.

I wasn't told not to chase after El Senor up a slide, playing park tag. After a few months of a successful tooth cap, that's what I found myself doing. Laughing again. That is until I slipped and fell tooth-first into the slide. And out popped my cap.

The next time I lost my cap was ridiculous. Remember that "no corn on the cob" thing? Well, I was served corn on the cob, and like an obedient little girl, I cut all the corn off of the cob. Then, I put my first fork full into my mouth and... the cap just fell off! How insulting!

This all eventually led to a root canal, and for the past two decades of my life, I have lived with half of a dead front tooth. It hasn't bothered me at all, except that I started noticing it in pictures and wondering if other people noticed it, too. It was just one of those things about myself that I took for granted and therefore never actually noticed when I looked in the mirror. But recently I started wondering if this is what people noticed when they looked at me. To that end, I have created a poll on my blog and I would love for you to participate! It's totally anonymous, and I guarantee you that my feelings are not wrapped up in this at all. I really do want to know how much people have noticed my tooth over the past few years. Because, you see, I just paid for a crown!

Now, don't judge. The crown is not coming from a superficial standpoint at all. If it were up to me, I'd just go through life with the half-tooth showing because sometimes I have to show people that I'm not all perfect. And when people look at me and my perfect husband, child, and my perfect life, it probably helps to show them that I don't have everything. I don't have two front teeth! But dentists over the years have kept telling me that it was time to put a crown on it, which insurance would pay for, because it needed to be strengthened. And if I didn't put a crown on it, the tooth would eventually just fall out, or something awful like that. But I've been really afraid to do this because the known evil was much better than the unknown evil. What if they shaved down what was left of my real tooth and then replaced it with a bubble tooth that was way more obvious?

Currently I have a temporary crown, and I have to say, even the temporary one is better than what I had. So I guess this isn't all bad. In a couple weeks, I'll get my real crown and this will be the end of my front tooth woes.

Or will it? Check back in two more decades to find out!

(Seriously, respond to the poll! I'm dying to know!)

Hot Dogging

Last week, Murray, Gulliver and I went to the Hot Dog King with Steve and Cici. The reasons why we went will have to be saved for another post, but suffice it to say, we suspected The Hot Dog King of being a government front for a spy operation. Of course, when we called to find out their hours and spoke to a man with an Eastern European accent, we decided that it must be a secret KGB Provo-Orem headquarters. We simply had to go and sample the goods for ourselves. As it turns out, the experience of all getting together and doing something different was fun, but the hot dogs left something to be desired.

And the experience reminded me of my days as a hot dog vendor. That's right. I was a hot dog vendor the summer after my freshman year and had an unforgettable experience. There are so many stories to tell about that summer, and I've often considered writing a book. To sum it up briefly:

• I got to deal daily with the weirdos of downtown Timmins.
• I made friends with a Native man who would come and tell me all the back story of all the downtown Timmins weirdos, who had a can of Folgers coffee from the 1920s that he hoped to sell for a pile of money on the world wide web, and who brought me fresh, buttered bannock.
  
• A man who thought he was Jesus was a regular customer. He would tell me about his battles with Satan.
• I witnessed my boss get beat up at a bar fight (outside the bar at about 3:00 a.m.).
• My boss claimed to be connected with the Timmins "mafia." He may have been on morphine in the hospital at that time.
  
• I was subpoenaed as a witness at the trial of the guy who beat up my boss but never went because I was conveniently out of the country at that point.

It was a wild summer. Now, the last day of my being a hot dog vendor, I noticed a man from the local news company setting up his camera on my street corner and filming the doors of the bank across the street. Because it is a hot dog vendor's obligation to heckle strangers on the street, I asked this man if he was here to do his exposé on hot dog vendors and let him know that if that was his intent, he'd better do it fast because today was my last day. We laughed and he went on his way.

A couple hours later, a woman from the same news company came and set up her camera and started filming me. Then she interviewed me. So that evening, my family gathered around the television and we watched what was to be the most humiliating 60 seconds of my life. The piece was edited so that you only hear my answers and you don't hear any of the interviewer's questions. So when I gave really dumb answers, the truth was that there were some dumb questions being asked. For example, I was asked, "What is the hardest thing about being a hot dog vendor" I said "I sell hot dogs. There is nothing hard about my job. Anyone could do my job." But then the interviewer didn't say anything, so I went into panic mode and started thinking about what the hardest part of my incredibly easy job was, so I said that I had to watch the sausages so that they don't burn. And that serving customers and cooking at the same time was a challenge.

My family and I laughed at the news clip until I was just about crying. My only consolation was that I'd be leaving town at 5:00 the next morning, before anyone would ever be able to tell me that they saw me on the news the night before. And that the next time I'd be back to Timmins, everyone would have forgotten about it.

But, you know. It's been 9 years. And I already have a reputation for posting unattractive pictures of myself to my blog. So why not my interview? Please watch for very insightful comments like, "I find that people who like sauerkraut really like it but people who don't really just stay away from it." Wiser words were never spoken.

A big thanks to Murray for putting this video up on YouTube and editing out my name. And NO thanks to Murray for mimicking my facial expression when I say, "other than that," which is his favorite part of the whole video.



(Also, I'll add that during my awful comment about cheese, there is a clip of a man putting cheese on his hot dog. I must tell the truth. That man didn't want cheese on his hot dog. He loaded up his hot dog with everything that he wanted and started to walk away, but the reporter called after him and said, "Don't you want cheese on that?" because she wanted to get footage that she could show while I was making that cheese comment. So he came back and put cheese on his hot dog. Poor guy.)

(Also, Mike Doody Bob MacIntyre is the news guy and he kindof looks like a Muppet. "Mmm. Makes me hungry!")

Jacob and Esau

I read most of a home organization book a little while ago and it taught me some valuable lessons, like it's appropriate to throw away all the half-empty bottles of shampoo/conditioner/lotion that you've been storing in your bathroom for years, along with all the free samples that you aren't using. Or that the master bedroom should be a haven and not full of things that aren't related to sleeping and dressing. (I didn't get rid of the TV, though. Murray and I don't have a habit of watching TV in our bedroom, but it's really convenient to have in there for times when someone is sick, or nights when I know that I'm going to fall asleep during the movie. I guess in my mind, the destructiveness of having a television in the bedroom comes when it's on all the time and you just channel surf. Since we don't do that at all, I think that it's okay to keep the TV.)

One thing that the book said was that if you have sports or hobby equipment for sports or hobbies that you no longer participate in, you need to get rid of it. Well, the other day, I came across my beloved climbing shoes and it pains me to think of getting rid of them. But then I remembered something else I heard, which is if you're getting rid of items with sentimental value, take a picture of them so that you can keep the sentimental value and then give them away.

So here goes. Here are two pictures of Jacob and Esau, and here's the story behind their sentimental value.

Back in college, El Senor, Fabuloso and I were all involved with climbing. It started with El Senor, who became the weekend manager at a local climbing gym. Fabuloso and I, and all of our friends at that time, bought memberships to the gym and climbing became our social outlet. We'd get together most weekend nights and climb at the gym. Afterwards, we'd go to El Senor's apartment, cook a dinner, and watch a movie. I wasn't the greatest climber in the world, but I did make progress and if I remember correctly, worked my way up to a 5-10c. Mostly I was a social climber and just enjoyed the sociality of hanging out with my friends.

Eventually, El Senor inherited the presidency of BYU's rock climbing club, Y Rocks. He named me the director of communications (which meant that I wrote the emails for the activities) and Fabuloso conveniently became our faculty advisor (he was working full-time for BYU at the time and therefore qualified as faculty). We were, of course, accused of nepotism. But we didn't care. One major regret I have is not keeping a copy of all the emails that we put together for the activities. Some of them were quite creative, if I do say so myself. We had bi-weekly activities (and I explained that that didn't mean twice a week, but rather every two weeks) and I liked to throw in a way for members to get into the climbing gym for free for each activity. At one activity, I said that anyone who wrote a poem about climbing would be able to get in for free. And only five people wrote poems! It always amazed me what people wouldn't do to get into these activities for free. Admission was $8. If you just sat down and cranked out a haiku or a lymerick about climbing, I would have let you in for free. And yet only five people took advantage of that? I announced another get-in-for-free offer in 2002. I proclaimed it the year of the tutu, and any climber wearing a tutu would be allowed in for free at any activity. Only three people took advantage of that deal---a guy and two girls who all went to the fabric store, bought some tutu fabric, and wore their tutus over their clothes. Basically, all of my offers to get in for free involved making a fool of yourself for my entertainment. When we held a competition one day, prizes were such things as tube socks and gift certificates for Chuck-a-Rama. Fabuloso said that it would be more appropriate to rename the club Y-Jerks.

For a while I had no climbing shoes and had to use a spare pair that El Senor had acquired. But on my birthday one year, I was predictably at the climbing gym with my brothers and our friends. Someone suggested I try a particular route and everyone came to watch and cheer me on. When I reached the top of the wall and finished the route, I called to be let down, but I wasn't let down. El Senor told me to really finish the route by climbing even higher. There was technically room for me to go higher since the walls don't go all the way up to the ceiling, so I climbed a little higher so that my head was above the wall. They encouraged me to climb higher still so I did. Then El Senor said there was something on the other side of the wall that he needed me to get. I looked on the other side of the wall and there was a shoe box sitting there. It contained a gift from my parents---a pair of 5-10 Moccasins.

I loved the shoes and noticed that the suede of one was much shaggier than the other, so I named them Jacob and Esau. Now as I look at these pictures, I can remember fondly the days when I used to be a climber.

Return to Me

Among the gifts that Gulliver has received, one gift stands out as particularly unexpected and meaningful and funny. Petit Elefant and Victor came over soon after Gulliver was born and handed me a gift. I reached into the bag and started pulling out something a little puzzling. It was brown and black, and I couldn't quite guess what it was going to be, although it looked like it might be a little bit ugly or weird, which was what puzzled me, because I know Petit Elefant to have great taste.

When I brought the item out of the bag and could see it in its entirety, I started to laugh. And laugh and laugh. I had pulled out a used, somewhat dirty, stuffed beaver. But this was not any beaver. No. This was a stuffed beaver that I had made in my 7th grade home ec class. You'll remember that I did not have the best home economics experience in jr. high.

About eight or nine years ago, I was going through boxes of old belongings and came across the beaver. Although I had made it myself and put a lot of love and effort into it, I couldn't possibly imagine why I would need to keep a stuffed beaver, so I decided to put it in the good will pile. Then El Senor saw it and suggested that we give it to Petit Elefant and Victor for their sweet new baby, P.

The beaver has been a great friend to P and next their next child, C. But when Gulliver was born, Petit Elefant asked her children if they were ready to let go of beaver and give him to the next baby who could appreciate him.

So now, unexpectedly, beaver has made his way home again, and I'm much more inclined to keep him now that I have a baby who can enjoy him as a reminder of his mother's Canadian heritage. (I cradle him in my arms and sing, "Land of the silver birch, home of the beaver, where still the mighty moose wanders at will! Blue lake and rocky shore, I will return once more. Boom ditty-ada, boom ditty-ada, boom ditty-ada boom. Boo-oom.")

And once more, I can say "suck it" to my home economics teacher. I wonder if any of those students who received honors badges for home ec have given their 7th grade projects to their tiny babies. I should think not.


(Here, beaver is pictured with Gulliver. Gulliver is a little blurry because this is an action shot. He is enjoying his swing, a great gift from Gulliver's aunts that allows me to get work done and blog and stuff. Gulliver is also enjoying his warm fuzzy blanket, a gift from Murray's aunt. Gulliver is so blessed to have received such gifts!!)

Ben Snapper

Speaking of Real American Heroes, I thought I'd share another Grandpa story.

The last couple of times we've had visitors over who have brought their kids, Murray has pulled out his toy boxes. They're old-school lunch pails. One has the Muppets on it and the other has Star Wars. Murray has filled these with some of his childhood treasures like Star Wars figures and Pez dispensers. Anyway, they're great for entertaining little ones. Our nephew the Bean has come to expect being able to play with these toys when he comes over. And that reminds me of visiting my grandparents when I was young.

My grandparents had a drawer full of kids' toys, and we'd anticipate the opening of this drawer every time we went over to visit. Among the toys in this drawer, there is one standout, and that is Ben Snapper.

Ben Snapper was a little old action figure, and I don't think that he was from any particular show or story or anything. He was just an orange action figure. So Grandpa made up his own story about who Ben Snapper was. My older brothers loved to play with their Star Wars toys and their G.I. Joes, but Grandpa always would tell them that Ben Snapper could get the best of any of them. When my brothers would very emphatically explain to Grandpa why G.I. Joe or Luke Skywalker was the best, Grandpa would simply explain back, "Yes, but everyone, no matter who he is, has got to use the toilet. And that's when Ben Snapper gets 'em!"

I don't expect a television show to be made about Ben Snapper any time soon.

Well Meaning Old Man

So I swear I have blogged about this before, but after I was recently reminded of this story, I searched any key word I would have used in my blog post and could not find the post at all. So if this is a repeat, I sincerely apologize. If it's not, it's definitely a post that needs to be written down for all posterity. And if I could only get a few more old men to start reading my blog, maybe someone could actually learn a lesson.

Back when I was about 20 or so, I got into a great bread-making kick. I'd make homemade bread of different varieties about 3-4 times a month. On one of these blessed fresh bread days, I was running late for work, so instead of making my lunch, I just grabbed all the ingredients to make it at work. I can't even remember specifically what type of sandwich I was making anymore, but I know that it included two pieces of freshly sliced homemade bread, mayo, cheese, and some sort of meat.

As I was assembling my sandwich in the breakroom, an older gentleman was watching me. Once the sandwich was assembled, I sat down to enjoy it. This is the conversation that ensued:

OG: That looks like homemade bread!

Me: It is homemade bread. I made it last night.

OG: And that looks like real mayo!

Me: It is real mayo!

OG: Well, if your husband doesn't come right in here and take that seat beside you, I just don't know what I'm going to do!

Me: Oh, I'm not married.

OG: Your boyfriend, then.

Me: I'm not dating anyone.

OG: Well. I just don't know what's wrong with men these days. [Pause.] I bet you're from Montana!

Me: Uh... no. I'm not from Montana.

OG: Wyoming then!

Me: I'm from Canada.

OG: Of course! Alberta! That's great farm country!

Me: I'm from Northern Ontario.

OG: Oh. [Pause.] Speak French then?

Me: Yes.

OG: Oh. [Pause.] Well, you remind me of a stout farm girl from Montana!

[Let's take a moment to point out that I was not wearing overalls and I did not have my hair done up in a French braid, okay?]

OG: In fact, there's this great book, and you remind me of the woman in the book!

He went on to tell me all about the children's book Fanny's Dream, where to boil down the plot, I can tell you, a stout farm girl is waiting for a husband who is far above her in looks and social status and all that stuff, and she ultimately ends up settling for a simple (dumb) man who is sweet but, well, you know. Simple. And dumpy. Just like Fanny is herself.

So what part of all of that was supposed to make me feel good about myself? Being like unto a stout farm girl, or settling for a stupid husband because I can't get what I really want? I mean, yes, I subsequently bought the book because it was just too funny to have been compared to the herione, and I know that the take-home message isn't "settle for a husband" or anything, but still.

And I'm more than happy to note that many years later, I found a man who I didn't have to settle for, and who happened to be everything on my list and more. But come to think of it, I have never made homemade bread for my precious Murray, so maybe this stout, Montana-farm-like girl had better get a move on that, just to show Murray how much she appreciates him!

Help Blossoming

(My dad's the one in the middle.)

I usually try to get my most classic life stories on this blog not only so that you all can enjoy them, but so that they're recorded for posterity. Last night, I referenced this one story to Murray, only to find out that 1) I had never actually told Murray this story and 2) I had never actually blogged about this story, either. Both of these things baffle me, because this is among my most prized life stories ever.

In my family, we have a Christmas tradition of gifts of love. Each year, the family home evening before Christmas, we get together and think of one gift of love that we will give to each family member. We then write these down on slips of paper and put the slips of paper into small baggies labeled with each family member's name. Gifts of love are non-material gifts, often service-oriented, that we can give to our family members during the next year. On Christmas Eve, we gather together and open our gifts of love, reading to the family the gifts that we've received from each family member. Often these are pretty funny moments. Like the year that Dad managed to give everyone the same gift: Sage Wisdom and Advice. Or maybe that was Grandpa. That's a copout if I've ever seen one. Almost as much as a copout as The Boy's gifts of love when he was younger and would insert the word "try" into every gift of love. So the year when his gift of love to me was "try not to annoy you," any time he was annoying, I would remind him that his gift of love was to not annoy me and he'd tell me, "I said I would try not to annoy you." Anyway. I think you get the picture. Non-material gifts. It's a great tradition.

Well, the Christmas of my freshman year of college, I got a very interesting gift from my dad. I was 19 years old. I opened up the slip of paper and read it to the family. It said, "Help blossoming."

I asked my dad, "Have I not blossomed yet?"

He said, "Well, you know. You're a little frumpy."

(I must insert a note here to let you know that I have a wonderfully supportive father and that he gets away with saying stuff like this because 1) he's really funny when he says it, 2) he says it in a way that you could never be offended anyway, and 3) he knows that I'm pretty resilient to his teasing.)

In these days, my parents still lived in Canada, so after our Christmas together, we all had to drive down to Toronto so that we could get back on the plane and fly back to school in Utah. We spent a few days in Toronto that year, and one day was spent at a very large mall, taking advantage of the unique shopping that Toronto offers (lots of cool Canadian stores that we don't have in the States). At the mall, my dad announced to me that at some point during the day, he'd like some time with me to make good on his gift of love to me and take me to some stores to show me clothing that would help me to blossom.

My brilliant idea was to have him take me to Ann Taylor, because surely we'd both find something classy there that we both liked. And then maybe he'd like it so much that he'd even buy it for me, and I'd score some nice clothes that I'd never be able to afford myself.

When it was time to meet up with my dad, we looked at the store directory and there was no Ann Taylor. And I had no backup plan. So Dad said, "Well, what about the Gap? Isn't the Gap cool? People still shop at the Gap, right?" My spirits were once again lifted because I was confident that the Gap would, in fact, be full of pretty decent clothes.

Once there, Dad said that we should find the kakhis section. Still, I didn't think this was so bad. We found the kakhis section and I found that their selection was to my tastes. They had low-cut, flat-front, boot-cut kakhis. Surely we'd be able to agree on a suitable pair. But when I looked over at Dad, I saw he was shaking his head. "No. This isn't what I'm looking for," he said. "Let's go over to the men's section."

And that was pretty much the point at which I realized that we weren't going to find anything we agreed on.

In the men's section, my dad found a few pairs of high-waisted, pleated, tapered kakhis. I was shocked that the Gap still sold stuff like that! Here, Dad started nodding his head in approval and quickly found a great pair that suited his tastes. They probably had the highest waist, the pleatedest pleats and the taperedest taper of the whole store.

This was the Christmas season, you know, so the change room was pretty busy. I went into my stall, eager to prove to my dad that this kind of pant was the most unflattering thing I could possibly wear. I put them on and the waist came about two inches below my boobs. The bottoms of my pants all but fit right into the shoes that I was wearing. And the pleats! Oh, the pleats! They magnified what is undoubtedly one of my biggest trouble areas.

Luckily, I was wearing a thick sweater and a collared shirt that I could pull over the most offensive parts of the pants. Still, I looked like a shapeless blob with no self respect. I shuffled out of the stall, knowing that of course Dad would see me and recognize his error. Instead, Dad immediately told me, "Now that is what I mean. That looks so much better. That is very classic." People in the dressing room area started looking over at us and staring.

Just when I thought that it couldn't get any worse, Dad said, "Now. Tuck in your sweater."

Under the scrutiny of the whole dressing room, I obeyed my father and tucked in my thick sweater and shirt. Now instead of looking like a shapeless blob, I looked much, much worse. I looked like a snowman made of three distinctly round balls. The ample pleats with tucked in sweater easily added about 30 pounds. And above the belt, the bulky sweater with my large bust had now made my whole upper body into one enormous set of boobs. And as Dad told me how nice that looked, and explained that I didn't have to dress this way, but it was good for me to see that this is how I would look best, I heard several discreet snickers from our audience.

In the end, we agreed to disagree. And to this day, though I still may be sometimes a little unblossomed in my dad's eyes, I'm pretty comfortable with the clothing choices that I make.

Retarded.

So when I was in high school, I went through this big "retarded" phase. It was my word for everything. That's retarded. You're retarded. I'm retarded. You get it. At a certain point, I decided that this could be offensive to some people, and I really needed to stop saying it. Specifically, there was a girl in my class who had a brother with Down's Syndrome, and I heard that she was offended by the use of the word retarded like that.

So while I was really actively trying to weed the expression out of my vocabulary, this classmate offered me a ride downtown after school since both of us were headed that way. I accepted, and my inner dialog went like this: Don't say retarded. Don't say retarded.

Then I realized that she wasn't driving; her dad was driving, and her brother was in the car. Then my inner dialog went like this: Don'tsayretarded.Don'tsayretarded.Don'tsayretarded.

As we approached the car, a girl passed by us and my classmate said, "I think she's really pretty."

Not knowing if she was being serious or not, I asked, "Are you being retarded?"

Then there was this really long, awkward pause because 1) I had just said retarded and 2) it didn't even make sense in context of our conversation.

And it seemed like forever before I was able to say,

". . . I mean . . . sarcastic?"

She said no, and then pretty much the whole rest of the ride downtown was awkward.

(Uh... The End. For some reason I was thinking about that story again today. There's no real point to it except that sometimes what we're thinking comes out of our mouths just because we're trying hard not to say it.)

In case you don't know.

By about the sixth grade, people were teasing me about my leg hair. Not that it was worse than your average sixth-grader's leg hair, but all the other sixth-graders were allowed to shave their legs. I had to wait till junior high. It didn't help that one of the worse teasers was El Senor. He even pointed out a couple of "two-inchers" one day. After that, I took a pair of scissors to my legs and tried to shear them without actually breaking my mother's no-shaving rule. It really didn't help much. And I couldn't disobey my mother, because who else would actually teach me how to shave my legs? It's not like I could just do it without a tutorial.

Near the end of the summer, though, I'd had it and I was definitely ready to defy my mother and shave my legs. I couldn't wait another month. And my mom was out of town for a week anyway. So when I was at a friend's house, I asked her how to shave legs. She just handed me a pink lady Bic and told me how. So, sitting on her bed, I shaved my legs for the first time.

Because I didn't mention water, soap, or shaving cream, you're probably cringing right now. And rightly so. I couldn't believe that that sort of pain and discomfort was what women had to go through to look beautiful. My legs turned a bright shade of red and were on fire for hours. And yet, I was still oddly a little proud of my graduation into womanhood.

I've come a long way in the leg shaving department, and what surprises me is that there are still women out there who are using disposable lady Bics to shave their legs! Switchback was one of these women until she came to stay with us for a few days in March. Because I've gone to Switchback's apartment in San Diego for two years running to play on the beach and go to Mexico, and during those minivacations I've used her shower, I couldn't help but notice the lady Bics scattered all over the tub. This didn't make much sense to me at all. How could a grown woman who lived in a beach town and went to the beach on an almost-daily basis not know that there was something better out there?

I believe that it was Nemesis who first introduced me to that Something Better, back in 2000. She announced to all the women at work that if you weren't yet using a Venus razor, you had never truly experienced a proper leg shaving. That, and you'd never go back. And she was absolutely right. To make matters better, Venus keeps improving their razor, so today, they offer a five-blade razor. Venus's five-blade razor is up on my list of life's necessities along with true love and chocolate.

When Switchback visited in March, I lent her my Venus razor just to try it out. She emerged from the bathroom and made a spontaneous testimonial about the whole new shaving experience she enjoyed. (Later, the Easter Bunny brought Switchback her very own Venus razor.)

For all you women who are still using lady Bics, I urge, implore, beg you to go out and buy yourself a Venus razor. It's worth every penny.

This post was not sponsored by Gillette. But I wish it were.

Mushrooms

I had a friend who, when she was seven, told her parents that her five-year-old sister had eaten some wild mushrooms. It wasn't true, but she was hoping that her sister would get in trouble.

Instead her parents rushed the five-year-old off to the hospital where she had her stomach pumped.

My friend told me this when she was 20, and she still refused to tell her parents the truth for fear of getting severely punished.

But I'm Not Bitter

Generally I was well liked by my teachers from kindergarten to BYU with a few exceptions.

One exception was my jr. high home economics teacher. We met under unfortunate circumstances before I ever had her as a teacher and I can only conclude that this situation made her hate me for my entire jr. high school career.

One day during lunch hour, I was standing outside with my friends. Everyone just hung out on the school grounds. There were fields (not a place you're likely to just stand around in when they're full of snow), limited sidewalks, and road/parking lots. Most kids stood in the road since people generally didn't drive on it anyway. If the odd car came around, we'd move out of the way.


So there I was, standing with my friends. (Refer to satellite image, point A.) A car came around the corner (see my black car on the satellite image?). It went into the first row of parking. (Refer to black dotted line and X.) Several minutes later, another car came around the corner. I expected it to also park in the first row of parking and I thought nothing of it. A couple moments later, I noticed that it was right in front of me because it was headed to the second row of parking. My friends had already moved out of the way, and as the teacher glared at me, I calmly moved out of the way as well. And then I thought nothing of it. Until the teacher marched right up to me, pointed her bony finger, and said, "Next time you want to play chicken, you may not be so lucky."

Whoa. Whoa. I was not playing chicken. I just didn't see her till she was in front of me. And then I moved. I really didn't think it was such a big deal. Of course, she stormed away before I was able to say anything to her.

And then in both 7th and 8th grade home economics, she treated me like crap and I received Cs (and this was in Canada where C = 60-69 %, so basically the equivalent of the American D).

What the...? Me? Cs? In home ec? That's umpossible!

In fact, at the awards ceremony at the end of each year, badges were awarded to everyone in the school for almost every imaginable reason. When the home ec badges were announced, pretty much the whole school was called up individually by name to receive the badge for getting an A in home ec. And I was left sitting in the audience with the greasers and tekkers (a derogatory Northern Ontario term).

Moral of the story? "Next time you may not be so lucky" turns out to be "Even though you almost failed me in my home ec classes, I'm a domestic goddess and professional designer, so take that."

Another Grandpa Story

If I start telling Grandpa stories, I run the risk of never actually running out of Grandpa stories. That's not such a bad thing. Anyway, I am really regretting not sharing this gem last week when I posted about Grandpa.

Back when we all lived in Canada, we had a cottage on a lake near our city. We built the cottage ourselves (as in, we hired someone ourselves to build it) and right next to our cottage we built a small one-room cottage for my grandparents. We called it Amich Lodge, which is the name of the place where they honeymooned. During the summers, my grandparents basically lived at the cottage. For a long time, we didn't have plumbing, so if you wanted to bathe, you needed to do so in the lake.

When my parents moved to the States, they had to sell the cottage. Luckily, family friends bought it from us, so when we've returned to Canada for visits, we've been able to visit our cottage, too.

Last time that Dad went up to visit, he took Grandpa on a drive out to the cottage. He hadn't told Grandpa that he was planning on swimming out there. So when they got there, Dad got on his suit and told Grandpa that he was going for a swim. Dad swam out a ways into the lake and when he looked back, Grandpa was buck naked, walking into the lake with his cane.

The next day when they went to visit the cottage again, Grandpa packed his suit and a bar of soap.

Here's a picture of the cottage in winter.



Here's a google satellite view of the cottage.


Here's a picture of my grandpa going naked into the lake.

I am dead people.

It all started about five years ago when Dr. Rice first went out to DC to get her PhD. I was in Maryland at the time waiting to go on my mission, so I was happy to have my good friend future-Dr. Rice come out to my side of the country. Soon after she moved to DC, we planned a day to get together. There's so much to do in that area---my parents live between Baltimore and DC. It's close to Annapolis. There really is no shortage of things to do.

So when we asked my mom for a recommendation, she suggested we take a day to visit Historic Ellicott City, a beautiful old city nearby. So we went. And we soon discovered that Ellicott City was simply a city full of nothing but antique shops. It didn't take us long to get tired of that. On the whole, it was a pretty lame experience. So we went home, and that was possibly the day we also went squirrel fishing. I can't quite remember.

The thing is, while we were antique shopping, we found a collection of antique hats. And we tried them on. And we took our pictures in the antique hats. And I brought the pictures with me on my mission.

So fast forward to present time. Since that trip five years ago, Historic Ellicott City has become a joke between me and Dr. Rice. Any time we're together and there's some question about what we might do for fun, we bring up the possibility of taking a trip to Historic Ellicott City and seeing the antique shops.

Today I stopped in at an antique dealer on my way to Murray's house. I'm in the market for a good antique chair right now (to put in the corner of our guest room, and I promise to post a picture when we find one and I reupholster it, but that won't be until after we're married). As I walked through the aisles of overpriced junk, I came upon some antique hats. You might think that the hat experience wouldn't be quite as fun without Dr. Rice, but as I tried on hats and took my picture with them, I imagined all the fun I would have sending the pictures to Dr. Rice.

And I even thought about the blog post I would write about the whole thing. I mean, I even found a hat made from---I swear---squirrel tails. Which is so important to me and Dr. Rice since Dr. Rice has been cursed squirrel-wise ever since we went squirrel fishing. So, like I said, I had my own private photo shoot, which was very enjoyable.

When I got to Murray's, I told him about my experience and I brought out my iPhone to show him the pictures. What we saw caused a chill to go through Murray's body, and caused me to squeal. And I'm not normally the squealing type:


Now I don't know about you, but that picture freaks me right out. At the time I took it, I had glanced at the result and thought, "That's funny... my eyes were closed." So I took another.

Now I have only to conclude that I've been possessed by the spirit of the previous hat owner. And since it's a black hat with black mesh, it was probably a widow's hat. And the widow probably killed her husband and her children and that's why she wore this mourning hat. And most likely she was killed by a rabid squirrel because she also had a squirrel curse, and now her spirit has possessed me. Great.

No, but seriously, the picture really is creepy. Creepy, creepy, creepy. I wanted to delete it immediately, but better judgment set in and I decided to post it to the internet so that the whole world knows of my possession.

And now, to lighten the mood a little, I present you (and Dr. Rice) with my other antique hat pictures in which I am not so freaky. Well, unless wearing a hat made of severed squirrel tails is considered freaky. Which it is.

Ruth and the Big Bag of Condoms

This story is a little longer than the last one and I'll probably get a few of the details wrong, but as I remember it, here's Switchback's contribution to my all-time favorite stories ever. (Not that there's only three---but that I'm currently telling three of my favorite all-time stories.)

Switchback grew up in California and when she was about 19, a friend of hers went to a health clinic and was given a huge bag full of condoms. The friend asked Switchback if she wanted them and Switchback said that she didn't have any use for them, but the friend accidentally left them in the trunk of Switchback's car.

Months later, Switchback had completely forgotten about the huge bag of condoms when her mother, Ruth, asked her to borrow her car. Ruth borrowed the car to go out of town. She found the bag of condoms before her trip and had several days away from home to think it over and think about how to talk to her daughter about her lifestyle.

Ruth returned on a Sunday, and Switchback and Ruth would often go for Sunday walks. So when Ruth invited Switchback to go for a walk with her, Switchback didn't think that it was anything out of the ordinary. As they walked, Ruth finally brought up what was on her mind.

"[Switchback]," she said, "I found what was in the trunk of your car."

Switchback, still forgetting about the condoms, assumed that her mother found her skanky spaghetti-strap tank tops that she would wear when she was away from her parents. She said, "Oh, Mom, I can totally explain about the clothes---"

Ruth said, "No. No, [Switchback], I'm not talking about the clothes. I'm talking about the large bag of condoms." She bravely continued. "You know, [Switchback], I was married at your age, and I know what kinds of urges and desires you can have, and I know that it can be really hard not to act on those. Now, I would have hoped that you had chosen otherwise, but I just want to make sure that if this is the decision you're going to make, you're being safe about it."

Finally Switchback spoke. She said, "Mom. Those aren't my condoms."

"They're not?"

"No. They were my friend's and she left them in my car."

"So I can take them away and you won't care."

"No! Of course I wouldn't care! I don't need them! But Mom, I have to say, you score major points on being a good, supportive, and understanding mother."

*******

A while later, Switchback decided to go on a mission. After her bishop's interview, Ruth called to see how things went. Switchback said, "Well... you know that whole raising the bar thing? The bishop and I discussed it and we've agreed that it's probably better that I wait a year and work some things out."

Ruth replied, "Okay! That's okay, [Switchback]! We can do this. You can come home and work here for a year, or you can finish up your schooling. That's good. You can get a lot done in a year!"

Switchback said, "Mom. I'm joking. The bishop says I'm good to go. But seriously, Mom, good job on mothering skills. I give you a ten!"

Ruth said, "I hate you."

*******

And I'm sure you can understand how I developed a healthy respect for Ruth while I was on my mission.

First of Three

Last weekend I had a very special opportunity to spend the evening with three close mission friends. As we were all together, I realized that these three friends had three of my All-Time Favorite Stories. They were stories that they told me on the mission that I have since repeated to others. Because we were all together, and because El Senor was with us, I asked them to please each tell their story to El Senor so that he could hear them straight from the source and so that I could enjoy the wonderful experience of hearing them told first-hand again. Over the next three days, I bring you three excellent stories.

Today's story is from Clat. When she was in junior high, she decided to start running on the treadmill after school. One day, as she was running, her older brother walked past and said, "Run, Tubby! Run!" Clat got off the treadmill and ran to the bathroom to cry. The older brother immediately went to the bathroom door, and said in a very concerned voice, "Whatsamatter, Chrissy? Did someone say something mean to you at school?"

Vending Machine Bandits

During my freshman year, I met my next-door neighbor, Magoo. It seemed that we were destined to be friends. And we were destined to get in trouble. (For other Magoo stories, see The Springboard Diving Fiasco and Police Beat.) Her nickname was Magoo and my nickname was Magoo, and our third friend's nickname was Dirtbag. (For other Dirtbag stories, see Things That Made Me Laugh Today and Phone Anxiety.)

One day Dirtbag and Magoo invited me to go and rip off vending machines with them. They explained that it wasn't actually ripping off the machines---it was just liquidating our Dining Plus money. If you're not familiar with Dining Plus, let me explain. At the beginning of the year, a freshman's parents pay for a meal plan that lasts the whole year. This meal plan put $9/day on your Signature Card (a card that is swiped like a credit card). You could use this money in any of the cafeterias, or at any of the restaurants on campus, or on any of the vending machines. You could not take money off your card, however. It had to be used for food. So sometimes, you'd build up an excess, and that would be a good time to start eating at the MOA cafe or the Skyroom.

Unless you found a way to liquidate your Dining Plus funds...

I believe that the same fat friend who could springboard dive perfectly was the one to tell Magoo how to rip off the BYU vending machines. And now I'll write this on the Internet with the disclaimer that I am not responsible for anyone who uses this information to perform illegal actions.

The three of us (Magoo, Dirtbag, and I) went out one evening to liquidate our Dining Plus funds. The procedure worked like this:

1. Choose a vending machine that has expensive and cheap items in it.
2. Swipe Signature Card. You will have over $2 of credit.
3. Unplug the phone cord around the back of the vending machine.
4. Buy the cheapest item---usually a brownie or Rice Krispie treat.
5. The vending machine will give you the treat plus change from the $2+ credit you had.

We did this all night. By the end, we each had about $20. We figured we'd made out pretty well, and really it wasn't stealing at all because we were just liquidating the money our parents had already put on our cards. Really, it was just like a bank transaction.

The next morning when I got home from class, Magoo was waiting outside my room. She said, "Magoo. Check your phone messages."

I did. There was one that said, "Yes, this is Jim from the Signature Card office. We have some questions about the vending machines in U-Hall, so if you could call me when you get this, I'd appreciate that." Magoo had the same message. We waited till Dirtbag came home and then discovered that her message was slightly different. It said, "Yes, this is Brother So-and-So [from her bishopric]. You have some explaining to do."

We decided together that we would all go to the Signature Card office together and offer back all the money we'd made from the U-Hall vending machines---not the other vending machines. Magoo was particularly worried because she'd been in to the Honor Code Office just the week before (because of the mooning incident described in Police Beat). I got all of my change from the U-Hall vending machine and waited in Magoo's car while Magoo and Dirtbag were getting their change.

And that gave me time to worry. I started worrying about what would happen if they took us in separate rooms and questioned us. Would our stories match up? What if we got there and offered them the money from the U-Hall vending machines, and they said, "Well, it seems that you also hit up several other vending machines on campus last night..." Would we say, "Yeah, well... actually, we thought you were too stupid to figure those ones out too and thought that we could get away with keeping the money. Guess we were wrong. Give us a few minutes to go home and get that money too, okay?"

By the time Magoo and Dirtbag came down to the car, I was a basket case. They got in the car and Magoo said, "Let's go to the Creamery for some ice cream." Dirtbag said, "Yeah, but let's swing by my place first to get film that I need to drop off to be developed." I started yelling at both of them: "WE NEED TO GO TO THE SIGNATURE CARD OFFICE! HOW CAN YOU THINK OF GETTING ICE CREAM RIGHT NOW! WE HAVE TO TURN OURSELVES IN! WE HAVE TO CONFESS TO EVERYTHING!"

Magoo said, "Yeah, Dirtbag, we can pick up your film."

Dirtbag said, "I love Creamery ice cream!"

At this point, I was probably foaming at the mouth or something, and Magoo and Dirtbag confessed. While I was waiting in the car, they decided to just call Jim from the Signature Card Office. After all, Dirtbag knew him. And Jim had told them that we could keep the money, just that we shouldn't ever do that again.




AND THAT GOES FOR YOU, TOO, READER. Although I have given you the know-how to liquidate your Dining Plus funds, you too are under the responsibility to not repeat our actions. Remember that we were caught and you will be caught, too.

Whenever you see an arrow, think of Coca-Cola.*

On the subject of scientific experiments (and by the way, if you're still waiting for the results of my last scientific experiment, I kindly refer you to the post called "results"), I'd like to share a rather embarrassing experiment I conducted a long time ago.

You see, I became a Coke drinker once I left home. Growing up, caffeinated beverages were basically as evil as beer and so it was a little rebellious of me to start drinking Coke after leaving the nest. And I have continued to drink Coke for the past several years. I am in no way addicted and also, unfortunately, I am in no way affected by the caffeine (not that I notice, anyway, though even still, I'll grab a Coke when I need extra energy to finish a school assignment... and then I'll immediately fall asleep on the couch).

I love Coke and I despise Pepsi. In fact, if I'm in a restaurant and ask for a Coke, and if the server tells me they serve Pepsi products, I tell the server very clearly (and icily) that I will have a water instead.

And rationally, I know that my dislike of Pepsi is unfounded. Still, I can't bring myself to drink the stuff. But my dislike is unfounded, you see, because I don't think I have a discriminating taste. I don't think that I have the best-developed taste buds in the world. But I needed to test myself to know for sure.

So I set up a time with friends a few years ago while we were on a weekend trip to St. George. We didn't have any glasses, so we took a can of Pepsi and a can of Coke and my friends blindfolded me. They gave me the first to test. I tested it and thought deeply about whether or not it had a good taste. They gave me the second to test. I tested it and pronounced immediately and emphatically, "The first one. Definitely the first one."

And suddenly the room filled with mean, terrible, horrific, boisterous laughter. I quickly removed the blindfold to watch my friends laughing at me---one of them was literally on the floor.

You see... my "friends" had given me the Pepsi can twice. So when I declared emphatically, "The first one, definitely the first one" I really was saying, "My first sip of Pepsi was noticeably different and better than the second sip of Pepsi."

You can imagine that my pride didn't allow me to ultimately go through with the rest of the experiment and to this day, I don't know if I can actually tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi.

*This is the Coca-Cola slogan from 1909. For all Coca-Cola slogans, see Wikipedia.

Wherein I Broke the Law

(or "Beer for a Minor")

About four or five years ago, I was living with Sophie in a cute little apartment in a turquoise house and life was pretty much perfect. Sophie was an ideal roommate, and I don't just mean that she would go to SLC every weekend, leaving me with the entire apartment to myself, though she did that, and I was grateful.

One Monday afternoon I was at work and Sophie called. She asked if I would like to participate in an apartment FHE that night instead of attending our own FHE group. We rarely went to FHE, so this wasn't so out of the ordinary. And then she announced what our activity would be. We would be buying beer.

You see, Sophie is somewhat of a cuisine adventurer and she had recently been served a dish called two-beer-beef that she wanted to try making herself. The problem, for her, was buying the beer. She was only twenty. I was twenty-one.

First we went to the grocery store to look at their beer selection. It's undeniable that I felt a little dirty looking at the beer and discussing which brand to buy. I feared it would look like two Mormons going jack if Sophie and I went to the cash register with nothing but two cans of beer. However, neither of us could imagine roasting a beef in Coors Light or Miller. And we were shocked not to find Guinness at the grocery store.

So we set out to go to the liquor store. I wondered if Sophie was okay to come in with me, but indeed, she followed me. Once in the store, she started asking the employees what brand of beer they felt would suit the recipe well. After they gave her lots of advice and she made her decision, she handed me the two cans of beer and a ten dollar bill. I also wondered if that would, in any way, look suspicious.

When we got to the counter, they asked us for ID. I brought out my driver's license and before Sophie fished around for hers, she said matter-of-factly, "I'd show you mine, but I'm underage."

The girls behind the counter stopped and stared at us. One said, "Okay. Technically, we're not allowed to sell you this beer if you're underage."

Sophie said, pointing to me, "But she's the one buying it."

"Yes," said the liquor-seller, "but we know that the beer is for you, and you're underage." Here she paused, and then continued. "But, since we really do believe that you're buying this beer so that you can make two-beer-beef, we'll let it go this time. Just next time, don't even come into the store."

And that is the story of when I bought beer for a minor.

A Special Spice Cupboard

I'll tell this story at my mom's suggestion. I highly approve of people suggesting blog ideas to me, because as you can tell, I've been uncreative lately.

In September of my freshman year, my roommate announced to me that she was going to have a birthday party at her grandparents' house. Then, she announced to the whole ward that she would be having a birthday party at her grandparents' house and extended the invitation to everyone who wanted to come. It was a new ward and people were still getting to know one another, and because we were freshman and had no other friends, most of us showed up at the party.

We arrived at the grandparents' house and all of a sudden I noticed that people were acting strangely. They'd say things to my roommate like, "You never told us who your grandpa was!" or "Oh my gosh, are you serious?" or "Is he here? Is he showing up later?" or I most particularly remember a guy standing in front of an open spice cupboard saying, "Oh my gosh, I'm looking through Lavell Edwards's spice cupboard!"

I still had no clue. I had no clue for the rest of the party, either. Not even when Lavell Edwards himself showed up and some of the guys almost passed out from exhilaration. In fact, I had to wait until I went home, made sure my roommate wasn't around, and called my mom to tell her about the experience. I don't remember the precise exchange that occurred between us, but I do remember that the telephone lines between Canada and Utah effectively carried the words "are you stupid??" to my stupid little ear.

I could go on to tell stories about my cooking crickets in Lavell Edwards's oven later that year, but what is there to say beyond "I cooked crickets in Lavell Edwards's oven"? I think all the relevant information is right there.

What is relevant to the immediate story, however, is that after the party, all our ward members went back to their dorm rooms and bragged to everyone who didn't go to the party. One particular jerk who hadn't attended the party talked to my roommate about it later. I won't mention this absolute jerk's name but in my own smugly subtle way, I'll allude to it. After finding out an invitation to my roommate's grandparents' house was actually an invitation to Lavell Edwards's house, he was, in a word, pissed. And so he decided to talk to my roommate about it. Now, this was almost seven years ago, so forgive me for forgetting all the specifics, but the guy cornered my roommate and started yelling at her for not having informed the ward who her grandpa was when she invited the ward to her birthday party. Despite the fact that she pointed out that she was inviting people to her birthday party and the point was to get to know each other better and have fun, he insisted that she had been hugely deceitful in not disclosing who her grandpa was. Because, of course, he would have gone if he'd known who the grandpa was. She had a resource that she could share with people, but she was selfishly keeping it from people. And the guy didn't let up. He just kept tearing a strip into her. And here I am, getting mad about it seven years later.

I have no resolution to this story.

THE END

Late, Late, Late

In high school, I had somewhat of a birthday tradition where my father would take me out to lunch. One year, we had our lunch but I was a little late getting back to school and I needed a note to get in. Dad looked around the car for paper and decided to use the back of one of his business cards. Then, in kid print, he wrote:

Cicada was late today because she was at lunch with her daddy.
--Her Daddy

I laughed and told him they wouldn't possibly accept that, but nevertheless, he refused to write me a new note. I brought my father's note in to the secretary. She took it, looked at me suspiciously and said, "Did your father really write this?" I assured her that he did and she allowed me to go to class. While I was in class, she called him at work (his phone number and picture were conveniently on the other side of the note).

"Mr. ---------," she said, "I'm calling with regards to the note you wrote your daughter today."

"What note?" my dad asked. And after stringing her along a little while, he admitted that he had, in fact, written the note. She thought it was funny and asked my father to please, in the future, sign his real name to any notes instead of signing "Her Daddy."

A couple weeks later, my computer ate my homework at 8:00 in the morning and I cried and cried. My daddy (who hates to see me cry) assured me that I could simply redo my homework and go to school late. So I redid my homework and he wrote me a note: "Cicaida is lait to skool today becuase she wuz having problems with the cornputer." He signed his name. I brought it to school and the secretary was thrilled to receive it.

I happened to be late a lot this year, and a couple weeks later, I needed another note. My dad wasn't around, so I asked my mom to write the note. She wrote me a regular note and I brought it to the secretary. She took it eagerly, read it, and said, "Oh. Your mother wrote it. It's a boring note."

Again, shortly thereafter, I was late for school. I had told my mom about the secretary's reaction to her last note, and my mom was offended. My dad was funny and entertaining, but she was boring. So she wrote me a boring note:

This is Cicada's boring mother writing her another boring note, giving her another boring excuse for being late to school.

I brought it in to the office where the regular secretary was gone and a substitute secretary took her place. I gave her my mother's boring note. She read it, gave me the gosh-awfullest dirty look I've ever received, and sent me on my way to class.

From then on, my mom would have my write the notes for her, which she would then sign her name to. I got creative with those, too. I seem to remember one that went like this:

Please excuse Cicada for being late to school today. It is totally my fault and I am a bad mother. She clearly informed me of the exact time she needed to be to school, and reminded me when exactly I needed to leave the house to get her to school on time. But I did not listen to her because I thought that I was smarter than she is. This is clearly not the case.

When I handed it to my mother to sign her name to, she added the note, "Not entirely true, but you get the idea."