This weekend was pretty much awesome. I took a much-needed break and we participated in many activities, nay a plethora of activities, nay even myriad activities!
(In Sunday School yesterday, "myriad" seemed to be the word of the day as everyone was trying to work it into their comments to sound smart. I told Murray to make a comment using the phrase, "...a plethora---nay, even myriad..." but he refused. Much like the time I dared him to use a phrase during the opening prayer of Sacrament meeting. We attend the Kolob x Ward. The opening hymn was "If You Could Hie to Kolob." I dared him to give thanks that we can hie to the Kolob x Ward every week. He didn't, that big chicken.)
On Thursday evening Murray and I took a nice scenic drive around Springville. Gulliver was getting hungry so we stopped at a park to feed him. We sat in the car and I just stared at the bizarre equipment in the park ahead of us. I wanted to know how it worked. So when I was done feeding Gulliver and while Murray was strapping him into the car, I went to the equipment and approached this one thing that looked kindof like a flower. You put your bum in it and it spins you around. Well, I sat in it and didn't have to do anything before the weight of my body started spinning me. And spinning me. And spinning me. It wouldn't stop! I was laughing. And laughing. And then calling for help. Murray meanwhile was sitting in the car, watching the spectacle. I called for help again and when I heard Murray say, "Oh, are you serious?" then I started to panic and I started spinning even faster. Murray eventually rescued me.
On Friday, El Senor and his girlfriend La Senorita came over to visit. We told them about the park and invited them to come back with us because this time we meant to record it on the Flip. Thanks to the Flip, I now have this to share with you:
And as long as I'm sharing videos, here's a couple that demonstrate what happens when I leave Murray at home alone with Gulliver.
Showing posts with label random things happen to me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random things happen to me. Show all posts
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!!)
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!!)
So delinquent!
I apologize for the lack of posts. Life has been pretty busy! And for the past three workdays straight, I feel like I've been doing nothing but emailing. Not the friendly chatty emailing but the productive work emailing. And then I get sad because I don't receive money per email I send or anything. Maybe I should raise my rates...
(By the way, I'm emailing so much because I'm accepting enrollments for the Photoshop and Illustrator classes. Remember those? If you're interested, you know where to find them...)
But here's a summary of events from our recent happenings:
* Had family vacation with my parents and Ricky in town. Will post about some of those activities if I ever get photos from my mother and video from my brother.
* Learned that Murray is a true mountain man. Will report on all the details (including the scratch on his bum that ripped through his underwear and drew blood) when I get pictures from my mom. (Pictures will not include bum scratch, which is for my eyes only.)
* Clicky has potentially died for good, but maybe not, but because of the near-life threat, we've been car shopping. And guess what I've found out I prefer to car shopping. I prefer having ONE car and not even having to deal with buying a new one. So maybe I'll start advocating being a one-car family! Or maybe we'll just get Clicky into the shop and find out that she's doing just fine. She's just a little smoky.
* Murray and I attended the Monet to Picasso art exhibit at the U and almost got kicked out because Murray slyly tried to take a photo with his iPhone. The security guard got on his case immediately (I swear we looked for signs, and it's not like it's flash photography, and all the paintings are public domain, so what's the big deal?). I heard the security guard call in to all the other guards telling them about Murray. Then as we continued our way through the exhibit, I saw the guard approach every guard in every new room we entered, telling them about us. I know because they were all staring at us, and I heard him say, "...taking pictures with his phone..." and I saw him mime the action of taking a sly picture with an iPhone. Anyway, besides that little bit of humiliating unpleasantness, I maintain that Murray is the best person to go to an art show with. His knowledge about all the artists and all the pieces really blows me away. (If you remember, he scored major points during our second date at the BYU art museum where he acted as my own personal tour guide.)
* Murray and I gathered all the artwork in our home to finally decide what is going to go where. And while all the frames and artwork were out, I was carrying a frame and dropped it on my big toenail. The toenail got all black, and it was pretty much the most horrible pain ever. Then Murray learned that to relieve the pain, we needed to poke through the nail with a red hot needle to relieve the pressure. So Murray and I together performed an at-home surgery. And it sucked. But my toe is feeling much better now, thank you.
That's a good enough update for now! We'll see what I can do about the mountain man post. Mom? Pictures?
(By the way, I'm emailing so much because I'm accepting enrollments for the Photoshop and Illustrator classes. Remember those? If you're interested, you know where to find them...)
But here's a summary of events from our recent happenings:
* Had family vacation with my parents and Ricky in town. Will post about some of those activities if I ever get photos from my mother and video from my brother.
* Learned that Murray is a true mountain man. Will report on all the details (including the scratch on his bum that ripped through his underwear and drew blood) when I get pictures from my mom. (Pictures will not include bum scratch, which is for my eyes only.)
* Clicky has potentially died for good, but maybe not, but because of the near-life threat, we've been car shopping. And guess what I've found out I prefer to car shopping. I prefer having ONE car and not even having to deal with buying a new one. So maybe I'll start advocating being a one-car family! Or maybe we'll just get Clicky into the shop and find out that she's doing just fine. She's just a little smoky.
* Murray and I attended the Monet to Picasso art exhibit at the U and almost got kicked out because Murray slyly tried to take a photo with his iPhone. The security guard got on his case immediately (I swear we looked for signs, and it's not like it's flash photography, and all the paintings are public domain, so what's the big deal?). I heard the security guard call in to all the other guards telling them about Murray. Then as we continued our way through the exhibit, I saw the guard approach every guard in every new room we entered, telling them about us. I know because they were all staring at us, and I heard him say, "...taking pictures with his phone..." and I saw him mime the action of taking a sly picture with an iPhone. Anyway, besides that little bit of humiliating unpleasantness, I maintain that Murray is the best person to go to an art show with. His knowledge about all the artists and all the pieces really blows me away. (If you remember, he scored major points during our second date at the BYU art museum where he acted as my own personal tour guide.)
* Murray and I gathered all the artwork in our home to finally decide what is going to go where. And while all the frames and artwork were out, I was carrying a frame and dropped it on my big toenail. The toenail got all black, and it was pretty much the most horrible pain ever. Then Murray learned that to relieve the pain, we needed to poke through the nail with a red hot needle to relieve the pressure. So Murray and I together performed an at-home surgery. And it sucked. But my toe is feeling much better now, thank you.
That's a good enough update for now! We'll see what I can do about the mountain man post. Mom? Pictures?
Interruptions
It all started with a text message.
The Boy: Showered, teeth brushed, hair done, and dressed?
Cicada: Showered (last night), teeth brushed, hair in bandanna, sweat pants. Life is good.
As I was musing upon the fact that I am so much more productive now that I have basically no interruptions during my workday, the doorbell rang. I am always fascinated when I'm home and the doorbell rings. It's like my house has this secret life that I've never known about where people come over during the day, ring my doorbell, and don't leave a note. I had to know who was there.
I opened the door, and there stood The Boy (who lives in Salt Lake, and I live in Springville, so this wasn't quite expected). Pretty much the first thing he said was that we clearly don't like to deal with wasps nests, and pointed out the two obvious ones above our door.
I came outside to see everything more clearly and said, "Those are unoccupied, but this one has some activity," and I pointed to the wasp's nest near an electrical outlet. The Boy said, "Well that's easy to take care of" and promptly kicked the plastic covering on the electrical outlet.
I screamed.
And then I scurried to the door.
And I tried to open it.
But I failed.
Because I had locked myself out.
[I got into the habit of locking my door at all times in college, and now I can't open my door without immediately locking it again unconsciously.]
So there I was, locked outside with my little brother. At least I was showered and my teeth were brushed. But I was wearing a bandanna, sweatpants, and no shoes.
(Barefoot and pregnant? Yes and yes.)
Well, so much for my productive day without interruptions. Instead of visiting inside the house, The Boy and I enjoyed one another's company on our ride to Murray's work to pick up his copy of the house key. But hey, I saw a bald eagle for the first time in Utah on our way, so I'm thinking there might have been a divine hand in all of this after all.
(Safely back at home, in front of the computer.)
The Boy: Showered, teeth brushed, hair done, and dressed?
Cicada: Showered (last night), teeth brushed, hair in bandanna, sweat pants. Life is good.
As I was musing upon the fact that I am so much more productive now that I have basically no interruptions during my workday, the doorbell rang. I am always fascinated when I'm home and the doorbell rings. It's like my house has this secret life that I've never known about where people come over during the day, ring my doorbell, and don't leave a note. I had to know who was there.
I opened the door, and there stood The Boy (who lives in Salt Lake, and I live in Springville, so this wasn't quite expected). Pretty much the first thing he said was that we clearly don't like to deal with wasps nests, and pointed out the two obvious ones above our door.
I came outside to see everything more clearly and said, "Those are unoccupied, but this one has some activity," and I pointed to the wasp's nest near an electrical outlet. The Boy said, "Well that's easy to take care of" and promptly kicked the plastic covering on the electrical outlet.
I screamed.
And then I scurried to the door.
And I tried to open it.
But I failed.
Because I had locked myself out.
[I got into the habit of locking my door at all times in college, and now I can't open my door without immediately locking it again unconsciously.]
So there I was, locked outside with my little brother. At least I was showered and my teeth were brushed. But I was wearing a bandanna, sweatpants, and no shoes.
(Barefoot and pregnant? Yes and yes.)
Well, so much for my productive day without interruptions. Instead of visiting inside the house, The Boy and I enjoyed one another's company on our ride to Murray's work to pick up his copy of the house key. But hey, I saw a bald eagle for the first time in Utah on our way, so I'm thinking there might have been a divine hand in all of this after all.
(Safely back at home, in front of the computer.)I should know better.
So a word of advice to you all. When your coworker comes into your office and gradually your office is filled with a very strong, distinctive, non-food smell, don't scrunch up your nose and say, "What is that smell?"
To my credit, my brain process went something like this:
Someone just put something in the microwave outside my office.
I smell an odor. It's getting stronger.
It doesn't smell like food.
Is it coming from the microwave?
It doesn't smell like food.
Is someone cooking something that's not food in the microwave?
Does someone's food smell like not-food?
Is it coming from outside??
At that point, I asked, "What is that smell?"
She said, "I think it's meeeee! Does it smell eucalyptus-y?"
Turns out it was a cream that she'd just put on her legs. And luckily enough, we are friends, and so we just ended up laughing and laughing and laughing at my faux-pas.
Also, as an aside, I own the shirt that Pam was wearing in last night's episode of The Office. Of course, she didn't wear it with something underneath, because she wasn't going to a Christmas party in the movie, like I was here. But I'd like to think that she probably would have worn this pictured winning combo, too.
(The shirt is from Banana Republic, unlike most of my wardrobe, which is from Target [like the shirt that I'm wearing underneath the pink sweater], which makes me know that she really was wearing the same shirt. Also, I have a shirt from J Crew that Cameron wore in House. So when I spend more money on clothes, you know for sure that I'm buying really cool items. Oh, and I look just like Pam and Cameron when I wear those shirts. Just so you know.)
To my credit, my brain process went something like this:
Someone just put something in the microwave outside my office.
I smell an odor. It's getting stronger.
It doesn't smell like food.
Is it coming from the microwave?
It doesn't smell like food.
Is someone cooking something that's not food in the microwave?
Does someone's food smell like not-food?
Is it coming from outside??
At that point, I asked, "What is that smell?"
She said, "I think it's meeeee! Does it smell eucalyptus-y?"
Turns out it was a cream that she'd just put on her legs. And luckily enough, we are friends, and so we just ended up laughing and laughing and laughing at my faux-pas.
Also, as an aside, I own the shirt that Pam was wearing in last night's episode of The Office. Of course, she didn't wear it with something underneath, because she wasn't going to a Christmas party in the movie, like I was here. But I'd like to think that she probably would have worn this pictured winning combo, too.
(The shirt is from Banana Republic, unlike most of my wardrobe, which is from Target [like the shirt that I'm wearing underneath the pink sweater], which makes me know that she really was wearing the same shirt. Also, I have a shirt from J Crew that Cameron wore in House. So when I spend more money on clothes, you know for sure that I'm buying really cool items. Oh, and I look just like Pam and Cameron when I wear those shirts. Just so you know.)
Should I be concerned?
My coworker just gave me two packages of a fine, white powder and asked me to deliver them to her brother (whom I've never met).
I joked with her about making me deliver drugs, and then I read the label, which says "A complete line of supplies for wine and beer."
She claims that if you mix this stuff (Tartaric acid) with heavy cream, it makes marscapone.
Of course, her brother will only be able to make the marscapone if I don't find a higher bidder before him. I'll sell at $2000/oz.
This actually reminds me of the time that I found a small bottle with small white pills in it just inside my apartment door. I had no idea what these pills in this unmarked bottle were. First I wondered if my roommate was doing drugs. Then I started going through the list of all of my friends who had been to my apartment that week, and I tried to imagine all of them doing drugs. I'm sorry to say that I even narrowed it down to the two most likely candidates. (Magoo, Rags, if you're reading this, I'm sorry for ever suspecting you of drug use.) And I really felt that I was in a horrible sort of moral dilemma.
Then I found out that it was my landlord's nitroglycerin for his heart condition.
To Catch a Thief
On Saturday Murray and I headed to Park City to see if we could see any celebrities. Well, also to go through the different galleries. Anyway, we saw Nicki Hilton, which I could really care less about. Two years ago, Murray met Steven Colbert. That's more of what I'd be interested in.
Parking was impossible. It took us about two hours to finally find a spot. Then we had to wait for a shuttle to take us to Main Street. Getting onto the crowded shuttle bus reminded me a lot of Italy, so I instinctively zipped my purse shut and explained to Murray that Italy forced me to develop some pretty good anti-theft skills. He asked if someone would grab your purse/wallet/belonging and then go into a crowd of people. I said no, that generally it happens while you're already in a crowd of people. And the thief doesn't go anywhere---s/he just stays right there. And then when you realize something's happened, and you say something, then everyone in the crowd, including the thief, just stares at you.
At this point, Murray said that he believes that because of human nature, someone in the crowd would say, "The thief must be among us! Let's work together to figure it out!" And then I laughed in his face. I really hope to live to see the day when Murray pipes up in a crowd of people, "The thief must be among us! Let's work together to figure it out!!"
Speaking of thieves. And ghosts. I'm afraid of thieves. Murray's afraid of ghosts. And when we got back from Park City, we saw a pound of bacon sitting on our kitchen counter. This was the good stuff, too. I'd had it in the freezer. Yet there it sat on the kitchen counter. Thawed. I asked Murray about it. He said that he'd found it there that morning and it was frozen solid. He wondered why I'd taken it out of the freezer, but just left it there because I must have had something in mind.
The thing is, I never went into the kitchen that morning. The night before, Murray's brother Steve and his fiancée Moleste were over. I thought maybe one of them had pulled it out when they were looking for ice cubes, but Murray and I talked it through and remembered that we all drank bottled water straight from the bottles. Besides, if it was frozen solid in the morning, it couldn't have been taken out the night before.
It really was awful trying to figure it out. In fact, it had been a long day, and so I finally said to Murray that I didn't want to talk about it anymore. And yet, I couldn't let it go. So I opened the freezer, hoping that something inside would trigger our memory of what had happened, and so we didn't have to concede that it was either thieves or ghosts. (The thieves didn't take anything valuable and the house is too new to be haunted, so both were unlikely options.)
Then Murray spotted the medium format film in the freezer and suddenly the memory started coming back to him. He was checking out our stock of film in the morning, and had to remove the bacon to see it better. Then he shut the freezer door, saw the bacon on the counter, poked it to find it frozen solid, and wondered why I had taken the bacon out of the freezer.
Who needs ghosts or thieves when you can rob and haunt yourself?
Parking was impossible. It took us about two hours to finally find a spot. Then we had to wait for a shuttle to take us to Main Street. Getting onto the crowded shuttle bus reminded me a lot of Italy, so I instinctively zipped my purse shut and explained to Murray that Italy forced me to develop some pretty good anti-theft skills. He asked if someone would grab your purse/wallet/belonging and then go into a crowd of people. I said no, that generally it happens while you're already in a crowd of people. And the thief doesn't go anywhere---s/he just stays right there. And then when you realize something's happened, and you say something, then everyone in the crowd, including the thief, just stares at you.
At this point, Murray said that he believes that because of human nature, someone in the crowd would say, "The thief must be among us! Let's work together to figure it out!" And then I laughed in his face. I really hope to live to see the day when Murray pipes up in a crowd of people, "The thief must be among us! Let's work together to figure it out!!"
Speaking of thieves. And ghosts. I'm afraid of thieves. Murray's afraid of ghosts. And when we got back from Park City, we saw a pound of bacon sitting on our kitchen counter. This was the good stuff, too. I'd had it in the freezer. Yet there it sat on the kitchen counter. Thawed. I asked Murray about it. He said that he'd found it there that morning and it was frozen solid. He wondered why I'd taken it out of the freezer, but just left it there because I must have had something in mind.
The thing is, I never went into the kitchen that morning. The night before, Murray's brother Steve and his fiancée Moleste were over. I thought maybe one of them had pulled it out when they were looking for ice cubes, but Murray and I talked it through and remembered that we all drank bottled water straight from the bottles. Besides, if it was frozen solid in the morning, it couldn't have been taken out the night before.
It really was awful trying to figure it out. In fact, it had been a long day, and so I finally said to Murray that I didn't want to talk about it anymore. And yet, I couldn't let it go. So I opened the freezer, hoping that something inside would trigger our memory of what had happened, and so we didn't have to concede that it was either thieves or ghosts. (The thieves didn't take anything valuable and the house is too new to be haunted, so both were unlikely options.)
Then Murray spotted the medium format film in the freezer and suddenly the memory started coming back to him. He was checking out our stock of film in the morning, and had to remove the bacon to see it better. Then he shut the freezer door, saw the bacon on the counter, poked it to find it frozen solid, and wondered why I had taken the bacon out of the freezer.
Who needs ghosts or thieves when you can rob and haunt yourself?
Down for the count. No really.
Wow. There's so little time left before the wedding. We've got a game plan set up, and several very important people have volunteered a lot of their time to help out, for which we will be forever grateful.
As you can expect, I hardly have time to post anything, but I thought a series of pictures I've been collecting on my iPhone should suffice for today.
El Senor is replacing me with a couch. Probably this one. The couch he'd previously purchased was a little too stiff and not great for tv watching. I'm sad that he'll use my last rent check to buy this, instead of buying me an extra huge wedding present. Sometimes, I just don't know where his priorities are.
Me on an over sized, useless piece of furniture. I'm wearing the coat that Murray brought me back from his trip to New York. Yes, I'm a spoiled, spoiled woman.
Me, on a different day, on another piece of over sized, useless furniture. Only I think that if I had a gigantic house, I might actually be able to make this gaudy thing into a successful piece of interest. I'm not willing to buy it (a thousand bucks) to try it out though.
The line outside the Apple store for all those who wanted to get Leopard. It was released at 6:00. The funny thing is that due to a shipping error, Murray had already received Leopard, before the release time. If I'd known that when I took this picture, I would have enjoyed the sight of everyone lined up that much more.
And this brief story has no picture, but it happened this morning. I got a phone call from a blocked number. When I picked up the phone, I heard the voice of an older man:
Man: Good morning. Sweetheart.
Me: [Trying to place the voice, deciding to make him talk a little longer to see if I could figure out who it was, but seeing as I knew it wasn't my dad or Murray and I couldn't think of who else might call me sweetheart, I figured it was a wrong number.] Good morning.
Man: [Waiting for me to say more...] Uh... who am I speaking to?
Me: This is Cicada.
Man: Oh. I think I may have the wrong number. I was calling for Rowena.
Me: As much as I would love to be your sweetheart, I'm afraid that's just not me. But good luck finding the right number!
Man: Thank you! You have a good day!
As you can expect, I hardly have time to post anything, but I thought a series of pictures I've been collecting on my iPhone should suffice for today.
El Senor is replacing me with a couch. Probably this one. The couch he'd previously purchased was a little too stiff and not great for tv watching. I'm sad that he'll use my last rent check to buy this, instead of buying me an extra huge wedding present. Sometimes, I just don't know where his priorities are.
Me on an over sized, useless piece of furniture. I'm wearing the coat that Murray brought me back from his trip to New York. Yes, I'm a spoiled, spoiled woman.
Me, on a different day, on another piece of over sized, useless furniture. Only I think that if I had a gigantic house, I might actually be able to make this gaudy thing into a successful piece of interest. I'm not willing to buy it (a thousand bucks) to try it out though.
The line outside the Apple store for all those who wanted to get Leopard. It was released at 6:00. The funny thing is that due to a shipping error, Murray had already received Leopard, before the release time. If I'd known that when I took this picture, I would have enjoyed the sight of everyone lined up that much more.
And this brief story has no picture, but it happened this morning. I got a phone call from a blocked number. When I picked up the phone, I heard the voice of an older man:
Man: Good morning. Sweetheart.
Me: [Trying to place the voice, deciding to make him talk a little longer to see if I could figure out who it was, but seeing as I knew it wasn't my dad or Murray and I couldn't think of who else might call me sweetheart, I figured it was a wrong number.] Good morning.
Man: [Waiting for me to say more...] Uh... who am I speaking to?
Me: This is Cicada.
Man: Oh. I think I may have the wrong number. I was calling for Rowena.
Me: As much as I would love to be your sweetheart, I'm afraid that's just not me. But good luck finding the right number!
Man: Thank you! You have a good day!
Oh Geez.
I have addressed and mailed most of the invitations. There are some stragglers, like all of Murray's friends, a couple of my coworkers (who I'm not sure whether to give invitations in person or mail invites to), a couple international people who aren't coming anyway, and a list of friends that El Senor gave me and I haven't done anything about yet. Maybe I should get on that tonight.
The point is that some people have received their invitations. And it's really nice to hear the compliments come in. Like tonight, when DP called to tell me that he liked how our engagement picture coordinated with our invite. But he really wanted to let me know that what most impressed him was the font I used to print my return address. And when he pointed the font out to his wife, she let him know that it wasn't a font. It was my handwriting. And then he was really impressed. Impressed enough to actually call me and say so. (After spending hours of hard labor on the pictures and invites, I'm glad to know that what really commanded his respect was the return address that I scrawled in 5 seconds.)
The thing that really disturbs me, though, is this: My reception happens to land on Nat's birthday. Nat, as some of you may remember, was there for Murray's and my first date, so she's automatically one of those Really Important People. So important that we decided to get married on her birthday in her honor. Anyway, on her invitation, I took the time to mar the beauty of the invite and edit the line about our reception to say "and to celebrate Natali's birthday." I wrote that in using a Sharpie marker. Then I carefully stuffed her envelope myself.
When Nat told me that she got (and loved) my invitation, I was surprised that she didn't mention that little joke. I had to actually ask her about it, which is generally a little awkward. To my surprise, she said that there was no handwriting on her invitation. She went home and double-checked. She got a normal invite.
Which makes me wonder, who got the special invitation announcing that the reception was also in honor of Natali's birthday?
The point is that some people have received their invitations. And it's really nice to hear the compliments come in. Like tonight, when DP called to tell me that he liked how our engagement picture coordinated with our invite. But he really wanted to let me know that what most impressed him was the font I used to print my return address. And when he pointed the font out to his wife, she let him know that it wasn't a font. It was my handwriting. And then he was really impressed. Impressed enough to actually call me and say so. (After spending hours of hard labor on the pictures and invites, I'm glad to know that what really commanded his respect was the return address that I scrawled in 5 seconds.)
The thing that really disturbs me, though, is this: My reception happens to land on Nat's birthday. Nat, as some of you may remember, was there for Murray's and my first date, so she's automatically one of those Really Important People. So important that we decided to get married on her birthday in her honor. Anyway, on her invitation, I took the time to mar the beauty of the invite and edit the line about our reception to say "and to celebrate Natali's birthday." I wrote that in using a Sharpie marker. Then I carefully stuffed her envelope myself.
When Nat told me that she got (and loved) my invitation, I was surprised that she didn't mention that little joke. I had to actually ask her about it, which is generally a little awkward. To my surprise, she said that there was no handwriting on her invitation. She went home and double-checked. She got a normal invite.
Which makes me wonder, who got the special invitation announcing that the reception was also in honor of Natali's birthday?
Amber Alert
Yesterday Murray and I went to his house with a proud sense of accomplishment. We had just saved a ton of money by spending money. I love spending money to save money. Guess how much we saved. We saved $540. Guess how much we spent. We spent $180. Doesn't it feel good to spend to save?
Here's what we bought at Pier 1:
4 wicker patio chairs, originally $100 each, on sale for $25 each
8 place setting large plates, originally $10 each, on sale for $2.50 each.
8 place setting salad plates, originally $10 each, on sale for $2.50 each.
8 place setting bowls, originally $10 each, on sale for $2.50 each.
8 place setting mugs, originally $9 each, on sale for $2.20 each.
12 napkins, originally who knows, on sale for $0.50 each.
1 boxy thingy that goes in the middle of the table, originally $15, on sale for $3.
And you would think that nothing could kill that high. Nothing except the kidnapping of a child.
Or a door pumpkin.
To make Murray's place a little more homey, I put this fall arrangement outside his door a week and a half ago. It looked lovely and homey and autumny.
Last night, when we got there, we noticed that our orange pumpkin was missing.
Who would do such a thing? Random acts of pumpkin violence are not okay. I noticed that all the neighbors still had their outdoor harvest displays in tact. I also noticed that none of them managed to add a beautiful pumpkin to their displays, which leaves me to believe that it must be inside of one of their homes. Keeping up with the Joneses just got dirtier.
Tonight, I will lead a sting operation to reclaim what is rightfully ours.
Here's what we bought at Pier 1:
4 wicker patio chairs, originally $100 each, on sale for $25 each
8 place setting large plates, originally $10 each, on sale for $2.50 each.
8 place setting salad plates, originally $10 each, on sale for $2.50 each.
8 place setting bowls, originally $10 each, on sale for $2.50 each.
8 place setting mugs, originally $9 each, on sale for $2.20 each.
12 napkins, originally who knows, on sale for $0.50 each.
1 boxy thingy that goes in the middle of the table, originally $15, on sale for $3.
And you would think that nothing could kill that high. Nothing except the kidnapping of a child.
Or a door pumpkin.
To make Murray's place a little more homey, I put this fall arrangement outside his door a week and a half ago. It looked lovely and homey and autumny.
Last night, when we got there, we noticed that our orange pumpkin was missing.
Who would do such a thing? Random acts of pumpkin violence are not okay. I noticed that all the neighbors still had their outdoor harvest displays in tact. I also noticed that none of them managed to add a beautiful pumpkin to their displays, which leaves me to believe that it must be inside of one of their homes. Keeping up with the Joneses just got dirtier.
Tonight, I will lead a sting operation to reclaim what is rightfully ours.
I wouldn't be marrying Murray...
...if contact from random blog stalkers creeped me out.
Yesterday Murray and I went to Zupas. If you've never been there, I highly recommend it. It's great except that the booth-to-table ratio favors tables too heavily. After Murray and I payed for our food, we were filling up our drinks and I noticed a bus boy cleaning a booth. And I decided that I needed to grab the booth immediately, despite the fact that Murray had already brought our food to a table. So I walked towards the booth as quickly as possible, not even taking the time to catch Murray's attention, and trying not to spill my drink (I didn't put a lid on it because I didn't want to waste that time in nabbing the booth).
As I approached the booth, I caught another patron approaching the booth out of my peripheral vision. She had just walked into the restaurant, so I thought she might be one of those horrid, horrid people who save tables before they've even ordered their food. I quickened my pace and slid into the booth moments before she arrived, trying not to make eye contact.
She came closer. That was unexpected. She said, "I hope this doesn't sound creepy, but..."
My mind jumped to two conclusions:
1) "...I was wondering if I could have this booth even though you got here first and I don't even have my food yet." In that case, it would not be "creepy." Just rude and awkward.
2) "...I was wondering if I could share your booth with you." Here I thought she'd talk about some sort of physical condition that would require her to sit at a booth rather than a table. And yes, asking a stranger to share a booth with them would be creepy.
But neither of my conclusions were correct:
"...I think I read your blog. Singing Cicada?"
This was a huge relief. First of all, she was no longer a booth contender. Second of all, I had an anonymous fan!
We chatted for a bit and she explained that she and her husband live in California but she knows about my blog because of a mutual friend, Kit. In fact, she even said that before coming out to Utah, she got caught up on my blog to see what I was up to. How random for her, then, that she'd run into me while she was here. She must feel so, so very lucky for having met me... but come to think of it, she didn't ask me for my autograph at all, which I find more than a little insulting.
Anyway. Murray finally came over with our tray of food and she congratulated us on our upcoming marriage, and I let her know that I can't possibly be creeped out by an anonymous blog reader because I'm marrying one. (Except the other night, I did actually have a nightmare about a murderous blog stalker...)
So here's my shout out to Random Blog Stalker. After a little further thought I've concluded that you must have forgotten to ask me for my autograph because you were so flustered. Here it is in printable format.
Yesterday Murray and I went to Zupas. If you've never been there, I highly recommend it. It's great except that the booth-to-table ratio favors tables too heavily. After Murray and I payed for our food, we were filling up our drinks and I noticed a bus boy cleaning a booth. And I decided that I needed to grab the booth immediately, despite the fact that Murray had already brought our food to a table. So I walked towards the booth as quickly as possible, not even taking the time to catch Murray's attention, and trying not to spill my drink (I didn't put a lid on it because I didn't want to waste that time in nabbing the booth).
As I approached the booth, I caught another patron approaching the booth out of my peripheral vision. She had just walked into the restaurant, so I thought she might be one of those horrid, horrid people who save tables before they've even ordered their food. I quickened my pace and slid into the booth moments before she arrived, trying not to make eye contact.
She came closer. That was unexpected. She said, "I hope this doesn't sound creepy, but..."
My mind jumped to two conclusions:
1) "...I was wondering if I could have this booth even though you got here first and I don't even have my food yet." In that case, it would not be "creepy." Just rude and awkward.
2) "...I was wondering if I could share your booth with you." Here I thought she'd talk about some sort of physical condition that would require her to sit at a booth rather than a table. And yes, asking a stranger to share a booth with them would be creepy.
But neither of my conclusions were correct:
"...I think I read your blog. Singing Cicada?"
This was a huge relief. First of all, she was no longer a booth contender. Second of all, I had an anonymous fan!
We chatted for a bit and she explained that she and her husband live in California but she knows about my blog because of a mutual friend, Kit. In fact, she even said that before coming out to Utah, she got caught up on my blog to see what I was up to. How random for her, then, that she'd run into me while she was here. She must feel so, so very lucky for having met me... but come to think of it, she didn't ask me for my autograph at all, which I find more than a little insulting.
Anyway. Murray finally came over with our tray of food and she congratulated us on our upcoming marriage, and I let her know that I can't possibly be creeped out by an anonymous blog reader because I'm marrying one. (Except the other night, I did actually have a nightmare about a murderous blog stalker...)
So here's my shout out to Random Blog Stalker. After a little further thought I've concluded that you must have forgotten to ask me for my autograph because you were so flustered. Here it is in printable format.
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.
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.
Three Church Observations
I don't blog very often about church because I've been in fairly normal wards that don't give me much blog fodder, but this week, I have three things to share from my ward.
1) For the opening hymn, the pianist started playing the wrong music. It didn't help that the hymn she was playing was also a two-liner and almost the same meter. So some people tried to make the words fit with the wrong tune, but found that difficult when they got to the end of the first line. I couldn't tell what to do because the chorister was not singing. At all. She was completely tight lipped. At half-way through the second verse, the pianist recognized her error and just stopped in the middle of the song, flipped the page, and started playing the right song. It was a good way to get everyone's attention.
2) We had a very male-dominated fast and testimony meeting. And suddenly, another aspect of this ward made much more sense. This is the first ward I have ever been in where the Relief Society lets out on time every week and the Elder's Quorum goes into overtime. Every week. Obviously, in Art City, the men are more sensitive and long-winded.
I'd like to just address a point that I just made, though. Did you really get what I just said? The Relief Society lets out on time. This is absolutely unprecedented. I am a big proponent of the fact that the Spirit leaves the room as soon as the meeting should be over. During overages, people are just sitting there staring at the clock, wondering how much longer the meeting will go. No one is feeling the Spirit. This ward is revolutionary. The sisters end their lessons about five to ten minutes before the scheduled end of class, leaving time for any closing remarks, the hymn and the prayer. I simply have never experienced this before. Ever. I think that maybe my Relief Society presidency should speak at the RS Broadcast in October so that all the Relief Societies in the world can learn from their example.
3. I have had my records transferred to Murray's ward in Springville. So before RS started yesterday, I was sitting in my seat. Two girls sitting near me started talking:
Girl 1: Hey. I just got my visiting teaching assignment. You're my companion.
Girl 2: Oh, that's great!
Girl 1: Yeah, well, you'll have a hard time working with my schedule. I am REALLY difficult to accommodate.
Girl 2: I just normally schedule appointments for Sunday morning before church because that usually works best for everyone.
Girl 1: Yeah, that works well for me, actually. Okay, so what is with this lady who lives in Salt Lake?? Did you see that?
Girl 2: [Pulls out her assignment.] Oh, yeah. I guess she does live in Salt Lake. Weird.
Girl 1: Like, why would she drive down to Springville every week to go to church??
Me, turning around to face them: Uh... actually, I think that's probably me.
Girl 1: Oh, good. I'm glad you are sitting there. So... what's the deal?
I told them "the deal," but after calling me "that lady" I expected at least some embarrassment. There was none however. We simply set up an appointment for Sunday morning.
1) For the opening hymn, the pianist started playing the wrong music. It didn't help that the hymn she was playing was also a two-liner and almost the same meter. So some people tried to make the words fit with the wrong tune, but found that difficult when they got to the end of the first line. I couldn't tell what to do because the chorister was not singing. At all. She was completely tight lipped. At half-way through the second verse, the pianist recognized her error and just stopped in the middle of the song, flipped the page, and started playing the right song. It was a good way to get everyone's attention.
2) We had a very male-dominated fast and testimony meeting. And suddenly, another aspect of this ward made much more sense. This is the first ward I have ever been in where the Relief Society lets out on time every week and the Elder's Quorum goes into overtime. Every week. Obviously, in Art City, the men are more sensitive and long-winded.
I'd like to just address a point that I just made, though. Did you really get what I just said? The Relief Society lets out on time. This is absolutely unprecedented. I am a big proponent of the fact that the Spirit leaves the room as soon as the meeting should be over. During overages, people are just sitting there staring at the clock, wondering how much longer the meeting will go. No one is feeling the Spirit. This ward is revolutionary. The sisters end their lessons about five to ten minutes before the scheduled end of class, leaving time for any closing remarks, the hymn and the prayer. I simply have never experienced this before. Ever. I think that maybe my Relief Society presidency should speak at the RS Broadcast in October so that all the Relief Societies in the world can learn from their example.
3. I have had my records transferred to Murray's ward in Springville. So before RS started yesterday, I was sitting in my seat. Two girls sitting near me started talking:
Girl 1: Hey. I just got my visiting teaching assignment. You're my companion.
Girl 2: Oh, that's great!
Girl 1: Yeah, well, you'll have a hard time working with my schedule. I am REALLY difficult to accommodate.
Girl 2: I just normally schedule appointments for Sunday morning before church because that usually works best for everyone.
Girl 1: Yeah, that works well for me, actually. Okay, so what is with this lady who lives in Salt Lake?? Did you see that?
Girl 2: [Pulls out her assignment.] Oh, yeah. I guess she does live in Salt Lake. Weird.
Girl 1: Like, why would she drive down to Springville every week to go to church??
Me, turning around to face them: Uh... actually, I think that's probably me.
Girl 1: Oh, good. I'm glad you are sitting there. So... what's the deal?
I told them "the deal," but after calling me "that lady" I expected at least some embarrassment. There was none however. We simply set up an appointment for Sunday morning.
Not a Sleuth
The Clipper has been caught. Or not "caught" so much as "turned himself in."
Really, it got to the point where I was starting to doubt my own sanity. I wondered if I had done it mindlessly. But this morning, as Squirrel Boy and I mused again over who might be the Clipper, I put binder clips on some more utensils and decided that no, it was too deliberate to be mindless. Someone else had to have done it. But who?
There are few people (okay, so one person) who I could really see coming into my office and opening my drawer. That is Squirrel Boy. We've been friends for years. He can get away with opening my drawer. I just couldn't see any of my other coworkers targeting me, coming into my office, opening my drawer, and psychologically terrorizing me by clipping my key chain and plastic knives.
This morning, I saw The Boy come on google talk for the first time ever. And this is how the conversation went:
So two weeks ago, The Boy, Murray, and I went to Lagoon for a corporate event. While we waited for Murray to come so we could carpool, The Boy hung out with me in my office. Obviously I left him alone long enough to do this horrible thing to me.
So I'm not a sleuth. First of all, when I found the binder clip on my key chain (likely the next day) I was sure that it could have only happened that day. I was sure that I would have noticed it if it had been there before. That was my first mistake. Secondly, two weeks later when I found the binder clips on my knives, I was convinced that they hadn't been there that morning. Such a wrong assumption.
From this I conclude:
1) No one at work is as fun or funny as The Boy.
2) I should never be trusted as an eye-witness of a crime because obviously I get all my details wrong. This is ironic since I've been subpoenaed as a witness twice in my life (but never had to testify).
3) Simple psychological terror like this is almost enough to make me believe I've gone crazy. I'm an easy target.
Really, it got to the point where I was starting to doubt my own sanity. I wondered if I had done it mindlessly. But this morning, as Squirrel Boy and I mused again over who might be the Clipper, I put binder clips on some more utensils and decided that no, it was too deliberate to be mindless. Someone else had to have done it. But who?
There are few people (okay, so one person) who I could really see coming into my office and opening my drawer. That is Squirrel Boy. We've been friends for years. He can get away with opening my drawer. I just couldn't see any of my other coworkers targeting me, coming into my office, opening my drawer, and psychologically terrorizing me by clipping my key chain and plastic knives.
This morning, I saw The Boy come on google talk for the first time ever. And this is how the conversation went:
11:06 AM The Boy: So it took you that long?
me: what took me that long?
11:07 AM The Boy: Overestimation is as equally dangerous as underestimation.
I take it you don't often use your knives.
me: I don't get what you're saying.
Are you sure you're saying this to me?
Or do you think you're talking to Chris?
The Boy: Quite. I'm just being cryptic.
11:08 AM me: Yes, you are.
Too cryptic.
The Boy: Paper Clips.
me: YOU!
YOU!!!!
The Boy: Or binder clips, should I say.
me: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
The Boy: I did that when we went to Lagoon.
11:09 AM me: I was starting to think that I'd gone crazy and it was actually ME!!!!
The Boy: I put a clip in your keychain, and put them on several knives. And only the knives.
me: I KNOW!
The Boy: That was what? Three weeks ago? Two?
me: So I thought they were two separate events.
11:10 AM The Boy: I cried when I read that blog post.
So very proud of myself.
So two weeks ago, The Boy, Murray, and I went to Lagoon for a corporate event. While we waited for Murray to come so we could carpool, The Boy hung out with me in my office. Obviously I left him alone long enough to do this horrible thing to me.
So I'm not a sleuth. First of all, when I found the binder clip on my key chain (likely the next day) I was sure that it could have only happened that day. I was sure that I would have noticed it if it had been there before. That was my first mistake. Secondly, two weeks later when I found the binder clips on my knives, I was convinced that they hadn't been there that morning. Such a wrong assumption.
From this I conclude:
1) No one at work is as fun or funny as The Boy.
2) I should never be trusted as an eye-witness of a crime because obviously I get all my details wrong. This is ironic since I've been subpoenaed as a witness twice in my life (but never had to testify).
3) Simple psychological terror like this is almost enough to make me believe I've gone crazy. I'm an easy target.
CASE CLOSED
I am being terrorized. I am a victim.
Last week, as I was locking up my office for the day, I noticed a binder clip on my key chain. It didn't just accidentally get tangled up with it. It was intentionally fed through the ring onto my key chain. See Exhibit A.
Squirrel Boy doesn't have an office. I remind him of this every now and then. His cubicle is right outside my office, so I asked him if he saw anyone come into my office. I showed him my key chain and explained that since the binder clip was in between my home key and my office key, I would have noticed if it had been on the key chain earlier. It meant that someone had entered my office, strung the clip onto my key chain, and left. Squirrel Boy said he didn't do it.
Today, after serving the community and donating blood, I came back to my office and decided to indulge in a delicious piece of chocolate cake to reward my blood-donating efforts.
I opened my drawer to find my box of utensils and noticed the following. See Exhibit B. These knives were inside my box of utensils. I know that the clips were not there earlier today because I'd already used a spoon from the box and given a coworker a fork.
Again, I confronted Squirrel Boy because he should certainly be keeping an eye on my office. I know it's not him because he says that he really wishes it were him because it's so funny. Someone is coming in and terrorizing me. It's so subtle. So deliberate. So terrifying.
I will get to the bottom of this.
This picture is now hanging on my door.
Exhibit A
Squirrel Boy doesn't have an office. I remind him of this every now and then. His cubicle is right outside my office, so I asked him if he saw anyone come into my office. I showed him my key chain and explained that since the binder clip was in between my home key and my office key, I would have noticed if it had been on the key chain earlier. It meant that someone had entered my office, strung the clip onto my key chain, and left. Squirrel Boy said he didn't do it.
Today, after serving the community and donating blood, I came back to my office and decided to indulge in a delicious piece of chocolate cake to reward my blood-donating efforts.
I opened my drawer to find my box of utensils and noticed the following. See Exhibit B. These knives were inside my box of utensils. I know that the clips were not there earlier today because I'd already used a spoon from the box and given a coworker a fork.
Exhibit B
Again, I confronted Squirrel Boy because he should certainly be keeping an eye on my office. I know it's not him because he says that he really wishes it were him because it's so funny. Someone is coming in and terrorizing me. It's so subtle. So deliberate. So terrifying.
I will get to the bottom of this.
This picture is now hanging on my door.
An Announcement
Of course there's lots to report from our trip to San Diego and Mexico, but I'll wait till we actually have pictures. For now, I'd really like to talk about what was in my mailbox this morning.
The explanation starts about nine months ago...
Oh boy. Now you're thinking that there was a baby in my mailbox. Really, the whole "nine months" thing is a coincidence. It just so happened that nine months ago, I was making a special effort to get out more and meet new people. This involved attending any ward activity I could stomach and accepting invitations to random people's birthday parties. So it was that last October, I found myself at a birthday party for a ward girl. There were a lot of other people at the party, but during the course of the evening, I was able to meet her and her boyfriend/fiance.
The stint of "meeting new ward people" didn't really last very long, and so it was that I probably only talked to this girl and her fiance the night of that party and maybe a nod or two in the halls afterwards.
Last week, when I was at Hancock fabric buying the rest of my supplies for my Betty Shopper bag, I saw her and her fiance. I made eye contact---kindof---with the fiance who didn't seem to recognize me at all (nine months ago was a long time) so I didn't really feel the need to go up and start a conversation with either of them. Not out of spite. Just out of having absolutely nothing to say because really, we just casually barely knew of one another's existence.
In fact, when I was ready with my fabric, I stood at the fabric cutting counter right beside them. Again, it's not like they recognized me or anything, which I, of course, was fine with because like I said, it's not as if we had some fabulous friendship. I left the store without ever talking to them.
This morning, I checked my mail on my way to work to see if my latest Etsy purchase arrived. It didn't. But I leafed through what was there and found an announcement-looking envelope. I opened it up to find this couple's wedding invitation.
Wow.
This basically means that for invitations alone, I can never afford to get married (sorry Murray---give up on me now) because apparently the rule is that you must send an invitation to every person you have ever said hello to, briefly been acquainted with, or nodded at in a hall.
The explanation starts about nine months ago...
Oh boy. Now you're thinking that there was a baby in my mailbox. Really, the whole "nine months" thing is a coincidence. It just so happened that nine months ago, I was making a special effort to get out more and meet new people. This involved attending any ward activity I could stomach and accepting invitations to random people's birthday parties. So it was that last October, I found myself at a birthday party for a ward girl. There were a lot of other people at the party, but during the course of the evening, I was able to meet her and her boyfriend/fiance.
The stint of "meeting new ward people" didn't really last very long, and so it was that I probably only talked to this girl and her fiance the night of that party and maybe a nod or two in the halls afterwards.
Last week, when I was at Hancock fabric buying the rest of my supplies for my Betty Shopper bag, I saw her and her fiance. I made eye contact---kindof---with the fiance who didn't seem to recognize me at all (nine months ago was a long time) so I didn't really feel the need to go up and start a conversation with either of them. Not out of spite. Just out of having absolutely nothing to say because really, we just casually barely knew of one another's existence.
In fact, when I was ready with my fabric, I stood at the fabric cutting counter right beside them. Again, it's not like they recognized me or anything, which I, of course, was fine with because like I said, it's not as if we had some fabulous friendship. I left the store without ever talking to them.
This morning, I checked my mail on my way to work to see if my latest Etsy purchase arrived. It didn't. But I leafed through what was there and found an announcement-looking envelope. I opened it up to find this couple's wedding invitation.
Wow.
This basically means that for invitations alone, I can never afford to get married (sorry Murray---give up on me now) because apparently the rule is that you must send an invitation to every person you have ever said hello to, briefly been acquainted with, or nodded at in a hall.
Sometimes you need a little pap talk.
My mom said I had no shame because I posted all those ugly crying pictures of myself. What's she going to think of me now...?
I just got an automated phone call from my health care provider. While I was at work. And when I determined what the phone call was about, I immediately shut my door and thanked the heavens that I have my own private office. The conversation went something like this:
Automated female recorded voice with cheery inflections: This call is to check to see if you are taking advantage of the health care benefits you are provided with. Within the past year, have you had a pap test?
Me: No.
Recorded voice: You may not be aware, but a pap test is offered in your current health care coverage. It is suggested that you have a pap test every one to three years. Will you schedule an appointment to have a pap test in the next three months?
Me: Yes. [What else am I going to say? If the recorded voice tells me I gotta do it, then I gotta do it.]
RV: Good. It is very important to your health to do this. Yadda yadda yadda cervix yadda yadda. Have you had a physical in the last twelve months?
Me: No.
RV: Your health care coverage provides for a yearly physical. A physical is important to maintaining your health, yadda yadda yadda. For more information, yadda yadda yadda. Have you seen your doctor for any health-related issue in the last three months?
Me: Yes.
RV: That is great! Did your doctor talk to you about the importance of having a pap test?
Me: No.
RV: Even though your doctor did not talk to you about a pap test, it is very important that you have one. After the tone, please explain your reason for not having a pap test. BOOOOOP!
Me: [Uncontrollable laughter, not sure what to say since I didn't expect to justify my choice to not have a pap test yet... considered saying, "Because I'm a virgin?" but then the recorded voice came back.]
RV: Thank you. We encourage you to schedule a pap test. Please call this number for more information on how to do that. Now, these next questions may not seem like they have anything to do with your health, but they do. In the past two weeks, have you felt sad?
Me: [That Murray is on another continent? Yes.] No.
RV: In the past two weeks, have you lost the desire to do things you normally like to do?
Me: No.
RV: That is very good. Again, we encourage you to have a pap test. Thank you for blah blah blah.
So yeah. Were it not for that little pap talk, I may have procrastinated The Day a little bit longer.
I just got an automated phone call from my health care provider. While I was at work. And when I determined what the phone call was about, I immediately shut my door and thanked the heavens that I have my own private office. The conversation went something like this:
Automated female recorded voice with cheery inflections: This call is to check to see if you are taking advantage of the health care benefits you are provided with. Within the past year, have you had a pap test?
Me: No.
Recorded voice: You may not be aware, but a pap test is offered in your current health care coverage. It is suggested that you have a pap test every one to three years. Will you schedule an appointment to have a pap test in the next three months?
Me: Yes. [What else am I going to say? If the recorded voice tells me I gotta do it, then I gotta do it.]
RV: Good. It is very important to your health to do this. Yadda yadda yadda cervix yadda yadda. Have you had a physical in the last twelve months?
Me: No.
RV: Your health care coverage provides for a yearly physical. A physical is important to maintaining your health, yadda yadda yadda. For more information, yadda yadda yadda. Have you seen your doctor for any health-related issue in the last three months?
Me: Yes.
RV: That is great! Did your doctor talk to you about the importance of having a pap test?
Me: No.
RV: Even though your doctor did not talk to you about a pap test, it is very important that you have one. After the tone, please explain your reason for not having a pap test. BOOOOOP!
Me: [Uncontrollable laughter, not sure what to say since I didn't expect to justify my choice to not have a pap test yet... considered saying, "Because I'm a virgin?" but then the recorded voice came back.]
RV: Thank you. We encourage you to schedule a pap test. Please call this number for more information on how to do that. Now, these next questions may not seem like they have anything to do with your health, but they do. In the past two weeks, have you felt sad?
Me: [That Murray is on another continent? Yes.] No.
RV: In the past two weeks, have you lost the desire to do things you normally like to do?
Me: No.
RV: That is very good. Again, we encourage you to have a pap test. Thank you for blah blah blah.
So yeah. Were it not for that little pap talk, I may have procrastinated The Day a little bit longer.
Dating a Patriot
While Murray's away in Europe for the next two weeks, maybe I won't have so much schmoop fodder. This story involves Murray but it involves very little schmoop.
For the Memorial Day weekend, I went down to Springville (where Murray lives) and spent my days with him and my nights with Patience in Spanish Fork. Murray and I are pretty much fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants sort of people (he pretty much melted when he saw that every single day on my planner is completely blank and unscheduled... beyond dentist appointments, what do I have to schedule?), so we were flying-by-the-seat-of-our-pants.
On Saturday, his friend (who we'll call Danger) called to invite us to go floating/rafting down the Provo river (last year, Redras and I wanted to float down the Provo river, but we were never able to execute that plan). Murray, without consulting me, politely declined. When he got off the phone, he apologized for answering for me, and explained in a somewhat non-excited voice that Danger had invited us floating/river rafting. My eyes lit up and I said, "That sounds like so much fun." Murray was surprised, and I sensed a little hesitation on his part, but to be honest, I wasn't sure if he was hesitating because he didn't want to do it or if he was hesitating because he didn't really believe that I would honestly want to go floating down the Provo river.
But Murray will do anything to make me happy (it's one of his finest qualities). So he called Danger back and said we were coming.
On our way to Provo river, Murray asked me how excited I was to be doing this. I said a 9. He was a little dumbstruck. If only I knew what he knew. (That's a little foreshadowing.)
We met up with the group (about 10 people in all). We deposited half our vehicles at Vivian Park and piled into the other half to go a little farther up the river. Then, our group members began to inflate our craft. It was then that I realized that Murray, Danger, Some Other Guy, and I were all expected to squeeze into a tiny, cheap, inflatable raft. Still, I didn't think it could be that bad.
Until I got into the water and began to have an inkling. For some reason, I thought that that mountain snow-melt-run-off wouldn't be so very freezing cold. I was wrong. I really knew how wrong I was when, after four adults got into the dinghy, our craft filled most of the way with the frigid water. Oh, and by the way, the four of us were basically spooning to even be in that raft. I've never felt closer to Murray. He was literally sitting in my lap.
And then we were off. No one was comfortable. Everyone was cold. We were moving slowly. And when we got to water that was moving a little more quickly, we bottomed out, hitting the submerged rocks and tree trunks with out knees and feet. It was painful. And our boat was only getting fuller and fuller of water.
Luckily, we came to a complete stop at one point, and Murray and I decided to jump ship and just walk the rest of the way on the nice trail beside the river. That decision possibly saved our lives, and the life of Becker. (That's a little more foreshadowing for you.)
Murray and I were strolling hand-in-hand down the nice little riverside path, Danger and co. gladly out of sight and earshot so that we could start complaining about our experience. At this point, I described the experience as a 2. And things weren't getting much better. True, we were out of the water, but Murray had no shirt and no sunscreen and was burning. And our trail ended, leaving us only train tracks to walk on the rest of the way. I just kept telling myself that the Heber Creeper creeps and surely we'd have time to jump into the bushes were it to creep up on us.
Despite this, Murray and I were still blissfully enjoying one another's company---so much so in fact that we even started singing some hymns. Lame, I know, but I think it's important that my parents at least know that Murray is the kind of guy who, when walking on train tracks without his shirt on, will choose to sing "The Lord Is My Light" rather than drag me into the bushes and ravage me. These things are good to know.
But it wasn't just the two of us for very long, because Fate intervened and introduced us to Becker. Becker was sitting on the bank of the river in his inner tube. He was wearing a life jacket. He was about our age and looked like a normal sort of fellow. But when we passed by, he asked if it was okay if he followed us for a bit---he was "unfamiliar with the terrain." Something about his slurred speech, inability to walk in a straight line, and ignorance of the fact that simply following the river was as much "familiarity with the terrain" he needed, tipped me off to the fact that something was wrong. I really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was not 100% mentally. Or worse, maybe he had hypothermia (from the water) or heat stroke (from the sun) or both (is it possible?), and his behavior was just a symptom.
Whatever it was, Murray and I invited Becker to walk with us, even though it required us to slow down our pace considerably. Once, when I got close to Becker, I smelled the alcohol on him. So then I knew for sure that he was just drunk. Really, really drunk.
We walked and visited with Becker for a really long time. Unfortunately, Becker didn't have shoes. Between the railway ties was gravel. So either he was walking on burning-hot wood (from the sun) or sharp gravel. It was hard enough for him to walk straight (or to stay on his feet) and the pain wasn't making things any better. Finally, I offered him my flip flops (I have leather, calloused feet). Becker refused. But I kept on insisting, and unfortunately, this caused Murray to give Becker his flip flops (there's no way Murray's feet are as leathery as mine). Becker accepted them (his feet were getting cut up) and as we helped him put them on (he was too drunk to do it himself) he said, "That is the most patriotic thing you can do is give another man your shoes."
Keep that in mind people. Really, it bears repeating:
The most patriotic thing you can do is give another man your shoes.
Eventually, when Becker could no longer walk at all (maybe after 45 minutes of walking together), we decided to put him back in the water. He had a life jacket after all. Unfortunately, when he was in the water, he was too drunk to actually get back onto the tube. So he just hung off the side and began to freeze to death. Murray and I concernedly ran along beside him as he floated down the river. Finally a group of people appeared on the other side of the river while Murray was on that same side, trying again (fruitlessly) to get back onto his tube. They asked if there was a man in a life jacket. We called to Becker and told him his friends were there to get him. He waved at us. We told him his friends were there to get him. He waved at us. His friends called to him and told him they were there to get him. He waved at them.
And we considered that the end of our moral obligation to Becker. Of course, you should know that Becker was appreciative of our help. He even told us where he lived so that in case we ever needed anything, we can come to him for help. Actually, I'll just extend his offer of help to Daltongirl, because apparently they're pretty much neighbors. I'm sure that Daltongirl will need Becker's help gathering eggs from her chickens in August. Becker will be there to help. And he might even offer her his shoes, if he's feeling particularly patriotic.
After getting rid of Becker (but helping him long enough to earn blessings), we made our way back to Vivian Park where we reunited with Danger and co.
Now during a dating period, you need to be learning as much as possible about your potential future spouse. (Is it weird that I just said that? I'm just stating a fact.) What did I learn about Murray?
1) Trust his hesitation. When he declines to go river rafting, trust that instinct.
2) His delicate, fair skin burns easily. Poor, poor Murray.
3) He is a patriot.
4) He is willing to help drunks.
5) He maintains a positive attitude in a not-so-great situation.
For the Memorial Day weekend, I went down to Springville (where Murray lives) and spent my days with him and my nights with Patience in Spanish Fork. Murray and I are pretty much fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants sort of people (he pretty much melted when he saw that every single day on my planner is completely blank and unscheduled... beyond dentist appointments, what do I have to schedule?), so we were flying-by-the-seat-of-our-pants.
On Saturday, his friend (who we'll call Danger) called to invite us to go floating/rafting down the Provo river (last year, Redras and I wanted to float down the Provo river, but we were never able to execute that plan). Murray, without consulting me, politely declined. When he got off the phone, he apologized for answering for me, and explained in a somewhat non-excited voice that Danger had invited us floating/river rafting. My eyes lit up and I said, "That sounds like so much fun." Murray was surprised, and I sensed a little hesitation on his part, but to be honest, I wasn't sure if he was hesitating because he didn't want to do it or if he was hesitating because he didn't really believe that I would honestly want to go floating down the Provo river.
But Murray will do anything to make me happy (it's one of his finest qualities). So he called Danger back and said we were coming.
On our way to Provo river, Murray asked me how excited I was to be doing this. I said a 9. He was a little dumbstruck. If only I knew what he knew. (That's a little foreshadowing.)
We met up with the group (about 10 people in all). We deposited half our vehicles at Vivian Park and piled into the other half to go a little farther up the river. Then, our group members began to inflate our craft. It was then that I realized that Murray, Danger, Some Other Guy, and I were all expected to squeeze into a tiny, cheap, inflatable raft. Still, I didn't think it could be that bad.
Until I got into the water and began to have an inkling. For some reason, I thought that that mountain snow-melt-run-off wouldn't be so very freezing cold. I was wrong. I really knew how wrong I was when, after four adults got into the dinghy, our craft filled most of the way with the frigid water. Oh, and by the way, the four of us were basically spooning to even be in that raft. I've never felt closer to Murray. He was literally sitting in my lap.
And then we were off. No one was comfortable. Everyone was cold. We were moving slowly. And when we got to water that was moving a little more quickly, we bottomed out, hitting the submerged rocks and tree trunks with out knees and feet. It was painful. And our boat was only getting fuller and fuller of water.
Luckily, we came to a complete stop at one point, and Murray and I decided to jump ship and just walk the rest of the way on the nice trail beside the river. That decision possibly saved our lives, and the life of Becker. (That's a little more foreshadowing for you.)
Murray and I were strolling hand-in-hand down the nice little riverside path, Danger and co. gladly out of sight and earshot so that we could start complaining about our experience. At this point, I described the experience as a 2. And things weren't getting much better. True, we were out of the water, but Murray had no shirt and no sunscreen and was burning. And our trail ended, leaving us only train tracks to walk on the rest of the way. I just kept telling myself that the Heber Creeper creeps and surely we'd have time to jump into the bushes were it to creep up on us.
Despite this, Murray and I were still blissfully enjoying one another's company---so much so in fact that we even started singing some hymns. Lame, I know, but I think it's important that my parents at least know that Murray is the kind of guy who, when walking on train tracks without his shirt on, will choose to sing "The Lord Is My Light" rather than drag me into the bushes and ravage me. These things are good to know.
But it wasn't just the two of us for very long, because Fate intervened and introduced us to Becker. Becker was sitting on the bank of the river in his inner tube. He was wearing a life jacket. He was about our age and looked like a normal sort of fellow. But when we passed by, he asked if it was okay if he followed us for a bit---he was "unfamiliar with the terrain." Something about his slurred speech, inability to walk in a straight line, and ignorance of the fact that simply following the river was as much "familiarity with the terrain" he needed, tipped me off to the fact that something was wrong. I really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was not 100% mentally. Or worse, maybe he had hypothermia (from the water) or heat stroke (from the sun) or both (is it possible?), and his behavior was just a symptom.
Whatever it was, Murray and I invited Becker to walk with us, even though it required us to slow down our pace considerably. Once, when I got close to Becker, I smelled the alcohol on him. So then I knew for sure that he was just drunk. Really, really drunk.
We walked and visited with Becker for a really long time. Unfortunately, Becker didn't have shoes. Between the railway ties was gravel. So either he was walking on burning-hot wood (from the sun) or sharp gravel. It was hard enough for him to walk straight (or to stay on his feet) and the pain wasn't making things any better. Finally, I offered him my flip flops (I have leather, calloused feet). Becker refused. But I kept on insisting, and unfortunately, this caused Murray to give Becker his flip flops (there's no way Murray's feet are as leathery as mine). Becker accepted them (his feet were getting cut up) and as we helped him put them on (he was too drunk to do it himself) he said, "That is the most patriotic thing you can do is give another man your shoes."
Keep that in mind people. Really, it bears repeating:
The most patriotic thing you can do is give another man your shoes.
Eventually, when Becker could no longer walk at all (maybe after 45 minutes of walking together), we decided to put him back in the water. He had a life jacket after all. Unfortunately, when he was in the water, he was too drunk to actually get back onto the tube. So he just hung off the side and began to freeze to death. Murray and I concernedly ran along beside him as he floated down the river. Finally a group of people appeared on the other side of the river while Murray was on that same side, trying again (fruitlessly) to get back onto his tube. They asked if there was a man in a life jacket. We called to Becker and told him his friends were there to get him. He waved at us. We told him his friends were there to get him. He waved at us. His friends called to him and told him they were there to get him. He waved at them.
And we considered that the end of our moral obligation to Becker. Of course, you should know that Becker was appreciative of our help. He even told us where he lived so that in case we ever needed anything, we can come to him for help. Actually, I'll just extend his offer of help to Daltongirl, because apparently they're pretty much neighbors. I'm sure that Daltongirl will need Becker's help gathering eggs from her chickens in August. Becker will be there to help. And he might even offer her his shoes, if he's feeling particularly patriotic.
After getting rid of Becker (but helping him long enough to earn blessings), we made our way back to Vivian Park where we reunited with Danger and co.
Now during a dating period, you need to be learning as much as possible about your potential future spouse. (Is it weird that I just said that? I'm just stating a fact.) What did I learn about Murray?
1) Trust his hesitation. When he declines to go river rafting, trust that instinct.
2) His delicate, fair skin burns easily. Poor, poor Murray.
3) He is a patriot.
4) He is willing to help drunks.
5) He maintains a positive attitude in a not-so-great situation.
Labor Day
So here's the story I've been dying to tell.
This past Saturday I had planned to have lunch with two ex-companions. The three of us had a tight bond on the mission. We all served with each other at one time or another, and we also had the privilege of spending two p-days together in Rome, which doesn't often happen when you're not all companions at the same time and you're not serving in the same area. We were lucky that way. And one day, at the top of the Spanish Steps, we bought each other friendship bracelets and then tied them onto each other, announcing, "three knots for three friends at the top of the Spanish Steps." (The bracelets didn't last long---when our mission President saw them, he said that they were juvenile and had to go. So we replaced them with mature leather bracelets.) We always swore we'd go back to Italy together.
But fate intervened. Sidsel, the first of us to go home, started dating her zone leader. She married him soon after Clat got home from her mission. And then money and school prevented us from going too. And then Clat got married. So our plans of going to Italy pretty much fell through. But you get the point---we were close.
And Clat was close to her baby's due date last week, so we decided to all get together for lunch on Saturday before she popped. At noon, however, I got a phone call from Clat. I answered and asked, "So are you calling to cancel lunch because you're going into labor?" She said, "Well... kindof. I started having contractions, so I don't really feel like going out for lunch. I think I'll probably go into labor tonight." I asked if she'd like us to bring lunch to her, and she thought that was a great idea.
When Sidsel and I got there, the contractions were ten minutes apart. It wasn't long, though, before they were consistently three minutes apart. We kept questioning whether or not she should be going to the hospital (I even mentioned that I liked my shirt too much to ruin it by delivering her baby), but she said that her doctor said that if she could talk through the contractions, not to go in to the hospital. She didn't want to go just to be sent back home. So we talked a little more, or rather, I talked a little more, and realized that I'd been talking for a while. I asked Clat if she could talk, and she said, "I... don't.......... know." We suggested again that maybe she should go to the hospital, and she thought that was a good idea.
But we didn't leave before getting a picture all together. On our mission, we were all called to train at the same time, so we took the traditional "pregnant" picture. Now, we had a picture all together only moments before Clat left for the hospital.
We left Clat's house at 2:30. At 6:00, Clat called. I assumed she was calling to say that they sent her home. Instead, she announced, "Well. I had the kid." She went into the hospital at 3:00 and had the baby at 5:00. Two pushes and he was out.
I just have to say that I felt privileged to be with Clat in her last moments of pregnancy. Sidsel and I wanted her to name the baby Alma Julien, but apparently Clat didn't go for that. Well, she was always kindof a selfish witch anyway.
(Also, she has us to thank for looking so good in her picture because she did her hair and makeup before she realized that she wasn't feeling well enough to go out for lunch.)
This past Saturday I had planned to have lunch with two ex-companions. The three of us had a tight bond on the mission. We all served with each other at one time or another, and we also had the privilege of spending two p-days together in Rome, which doesn't often happen when you're not all companions at the same time and you're not serving in the same area. We were lucky that way. And one day, at the top of the Spanish Steps, we bought each other friendship bracelets and then tied them onto each other, announcing, "three knots for three friends at the top of the Spanish Steps." (The bracelets didn't last long---when our mission President saw them, he said that they were juvenile and had to go. So we replaced them with mature leather bracelets.) We always swore we'd go back to Italy together.
But fate intervened. Sidsel, the first of us to go home, started dating her zone leader. She married him soon after Clat got home from her mission. And then money and school prevented us from going too. And then Clat got married. So our plans of going to Italy pretty much fell through. But you get the point---we were close.
And Clat was close to her baby's due date last week, so we decided to all get together for lunch on Saturday before she popped. At noon, however, I got a phone call from Clat. I answered and asked, "So are you calling to cancel lunch because you're going into labor?" She said, "Well... kindof. I started having contractions, so I don't really feel like going out for lunch. I think I'll probably go into labor tonight." I asked if she'd like us to bring lunch to her, and she thought that was a great idea.
When Sidsel and I got there, the contractions were ten minutes apart. It wasn't long, though, before they were consistently three minutes apart. We kept questioning whether or not she should be going to the hospital (I even mentioned that I liked my shirt too much to ruin it by delivering her baby), but she said that her doctor said that if she could talk through the contractions, not to go in to the hospital. She didn't want to go just to be sent back home. So we talked a little more, or rather, I talked a little more, and realized that I'd been talking for a while. I asked Clat if she could talk, and she said, "I... don't.......... know." We suggested again that maybe she should go to the hospital, and she thought that was a good idea.
But we didn't leave before getting a picture all together. On our mission, we were all called to train at the same time, so we took the traditional "pregnant" picture. Now, we had a picture all together only moments before Clat left for the hospital.
We left Clat's house at 2:30. At 6:00, Clat called. I assumed she was calling to say that they sent her home. Instead, she announced, "Well. I had the kid." She went into the hospital at 3:00 and had the baby at 5:00. Two pushes and he was out.
I just have to say that I felt privileged to be with Clat in her last moments of pregnancy. Sidsel and I wanted her to name the baby Alma Julien, but apparently Clat didn't go for that. Well, she was always kindof a selfish witch anyway.
(Also, she has us to thank for looking so good in her picture because she did her hair and makeup before she realized that she wasn't feeling well enough to go out for lunch.)
Famous Bag Lady
Last night I went to Target. It had been a while. I often think of Mary when I'm at Target, because she once said that sometimes she just needs a therapeutic trip to Target where she can wander through the aisles at her leisure. And last night I only really had four things on my agenda:
1) Return unused drapes to Target.
2) Wander around Target aimlessly, collecting ideas for fabric designs.
3) Go to Home Depot to get all their Behr color "styles" pamphlets so that I have easy-reference color schemes in my office.
4) Go to Barnes & Noble to look at Communication Arts and see if it's worth trying to get work to buy me a subscription. (Yesterday, I kindof mentioned to someone that it would be nice to have a graphic tablet/pen... today I was informed that I'll be getting a graphic tablet/pen. Did I mention I want a raise, an assigned parking spot and a pony?)
As you can see, I'm a little obsessed with my new design responsibility at work, which is a good thing. If at all possible, one should be obsessed with one's work. One should also bill work for all the time that one spends researching at Target, Home Depot, and Barnes & Noble. I'd feel bad doing that, though. I mean, I was there for my own edification/enlightenment as much as I was there for work edification/enlightenment. Besides which, I bought a white shirt and a string of red beads, which was clearly personal. Except for the fact that I wore the white shirt and red beads to work today, which may again make them a work-related endeavor.
So after I went through every relevant aisle at Target, it was time for me to check out. I considered numerous lanes and chose a lane that had one customer checking out and one customer waiting to check out instead of the lane that had only one customer who was buying a lot of stuff. And once I got in my lane, the customer ahead of me turned to me and asked, "Are you El Senor's sister?" I told her I was, and expected her to say that we'd met at some point years ago. Instead, she told me that she recognized me from my blog. More accurately, she recognized my bag from my blog. (I'm sure it didn't hurt that I was wearing essentially the same outfit that I was wearing in the picture of me with my bag.) And that was about the extent of our interaction. I spent the rest of the night imagining what it would be like to have more recognition. More fame. At least in my imagination, it's pretty good.
So tonight I made a new bag. This one is 100% my design. We've been working on canvas bags at work, so I've been thinking a lot about canvas lately, and decided that I just needed a simple canvas tote. Nemesis has one and it's cool. (Nemesis bought hers for a few pounds though, and mine cost me $18 and five hours of time.)
After working all night on the sucker, hardly stopping for food or refreshment (El Senor made me dinner: a celery stalk with peanut butter), here it is in all its glory. If you would like to buy a replica of this bag, it will only cost you $70. It might be smarter to go to England and shop where Nemesis shopped... (Plus, if you look really closely, you can see my poor sewmanship, and really, why would you want to pay $70 for shoddy stitching?)
1) Return unused drapes to Target.
2) Wander around Target aimlessly, collecting ideas for fabric designs.
3) Go to Home Depot to get all their Behr color "styles" pamphlets so that I have easy-reference color schemes in my office.
4) Go to Barnes & Noble to look at Communication Arts and see if it's worth trying to get work to buy me a subscription. (Yesterday, I kindof mentioned to someone that it would be nice to have a graphic tablet/pen... today I was informed that I'll be getting a graphic tablet/pen. Did I mention I want a raise, an assigned parking spot and a pony?)
As you can see, I'm a little obsessed with my new design responsibility at work, which is a good thing. If at all possible, one should be obsessed with one's work. One should also bill work for all the time that one spends researching at Target, Home Depot, and Barnes & Noble. I'd feel bad doing that, though. I mean, I was there for my own edification/enlightenment as much as I was there for work edification/enlightenment. Besides which, I bought a white shirt and a string of red beads, which was clearly personal. Except for the fact that I wore the white shirt and red beads to work today, which may again make them a work-related endeavor.
So after I went through every relevant aisle at Target, it was time for me to check out. I considered numerous lanes and chose a lane that had one customer checking out and one customer waiting to check out instead of the lane that had only one customer who was buying a lot of stuff. And once I got in my lane, the customer ahead of me turned to me and asked, "Are you El Senor's sister?" I told her I was, and expected her to say that we'd met at some point years ago. Instead, she told me that she recognized me from my blog. More accurately, she recognized my bag from my blog. (I'm sure it didn't hurt that I was wearing essentially the same outfit that I was wearing in the picture of me with my bag.) And that was about the extent of our interaction. I spent the rest of the night imagining what it would be like to have more recognition. More fame. At least in my imagination, it's pretty good.
So tonight I made a new bag. This one is 100% my design. We've been working on canvas bags at work, so I've been thinking a lot about canvas lately, and decided that I just needed a simple canvas tote. Nemesis has one and it's cool. (Nemesis bought hers for a few pounds though, and mine cost me $18 and five hours of time.)
After working all night on the sucker, hardly stopping for food or refreshment (El Senor made me dinner: a celery stalk with peanut butter), here it is in all its glory. If you would like to buy a replica of this bag, it will only cost you $70. It might be smarter to go to England and shop where Nemesis shopped... (Plus, if you look really closely, you can see my poor sewmanship, and really, why would you want to pay $70 for shoddy stitching?)
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