Okay, so basically no one's going to get that reference. Except maybe my family and marriedin. It's from an old Canadian beer commercial.
The point is that I want water. Today I came home from class and heard running water outside my house. I went inside and heard running water inside my house. I went to the basement to find a waterfall coming from behind our dryer. Luckily we have an unfinished basement with a drain in it, so all the water just came down the wall and ran down the drain.
I called my landlord and left a message. I called my apartment manager and left a message. I IMed Daltongirl and complained.
Eventually, though no one called to tell me they'd received any messages, my landlord's brother-in-law showed up to look at things. After realizing the job was too big for him, he turned off our water and called a plumber.
You may recall that I've been sick. Because I'm sick, I didn't shower this morning. That may not make sense, but the point is I didn't shower, okay? But I really really needed a shower tonight. There is an apartment of girls in my ward that I've fallen in love with during the past week or so, so I called one of them first. But she didn't answer. So I called my visiting teachers and asked if I could use their shower. Strange request, but nonetheless necessary.
I ran with my bathrobe and towel and soap for a couple blocks to their house. Not in my bathrobe and towel. With my bathrobe and towel. They led me to their basement and showed me into their bathroom and told me to enjoy my shower. They didn't leave me any showering instructions or warnings, so I assumed that all was well. I got naked, stepped into the shower, and started the routine.
Then the water went frigid.
Then normal.
Then frigid.
Then normal.
Then frigid. In fact, it was so cold that I actually almost screamed. The rest of the shower was painful. I'd step out of the stream of water when it was freezing, and then step back into the stream of water when it went warm again, vigorously lathering or rinsing my body in an effort to end the unpleasant shower as quickly as possible.
When I got out of the shower, the house was deserted. My visiting teachers left me a note saying they hoped I enjoyed my shower.
I came back to the house to find out that our plumber had said that our water would not be turned back on tonight since he didn't have the part he needed to fix the pipe. Ohhhhh, the misery! I have no idea when this is going to be fixed! But there are bright sides to this situation, I'm sure...
1) I don't have to feel guilty about not doing the dishes or mopping my filthy floor (even more filthy now that the plumber has walked through it seventeen times).
2) I have extra incentive to go to the gym now, since I'll need to use their workout facility and their shower facility.
And that is it. It's a list of two. Now, I'm hungry, but I don't want to make any food because I have naught wherewith to clean it up. I would go out for food with The Boy, but he already ate today. Woe is me.
I am a big, fat, sick hypocrite.
I know that I just posted a brilliant post an hour or so ago, but what I have to say now needs to be said. I know that my most true and loyal friends will comment both on this post and my other post today, in order to show their love and support of me.
I have been sick all week. I started coughing and getting a sore throat on Tuesday. It's been getting progressively worse. Puckish Mitya told me to go to the health clinic tomorrow, which I will do, but I needed something today to help me out, since I've already consumed all of my disgusting Hall lozenges. So I decided to sin.
I threw on my only sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and took The Boy's car to Smith's. As I was pulling in, I was surprised at how full the parking lot was. I will admit it. I did actually think to myself something along the lines of, "So the only people who'll be here today are non-members and sinners." But that is a very personal and self-righteous thought that normally I would never share with anyone but today I must share so that you can understand the absolute shame I then felt.
I looked down and noticed my sweatshirt. As it turns out, the only sweatshirt I own is a BYU sweatshirt. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap. Leave it to me to shop on the sabbath in a BYU sweatshirt. I could have blended in the crowd, but no. I chose to wear a BYU sweatshirt.
So I went straight to the pharmacy to grab cough syrup so that when I went to get the chicken noodle soup, people would at least see (if they looked closely enough, which, let's be honest, no one saw anything other than the BYU sweatshirt) that I had medicine in hand.
At the very least, I'm sure that I made all those who were shopping in suits or skirts feel somewhat validated. Just as they, fellow sinners, made me feel validated.
(As an addition to this post, I'll let you know how I chose my cough syrup. I was torn between the generic Koger brand or the Robitussen brand, which had alcohol in it. I thought that as long as I was sinning on the sabbath, I may as well go for the alcohol. But the alcoholic one didn't seem to really address my symptoms. So I chose the one that said, "temporarily relieves cough due to minor throat and bronchial irritation; helps loosen phlegm (mucus) and thin bronchial secretions to make coughs more productive" because the part about making coughs more productive actually made me laugh out loud in the medicine section. Which called more attention to myself. And my BYU sweatshirt.)
I have been sick all week. I started coughing and getting a sore throat on Tuesday. It's been getting progressively worse. Puckish Mitya told me to go to the health clinic tomorrow, which I will do, but I needed something today to help me out, since I've already consumed all of my disgusting Hall lozenges. So I decided to sin.
I threw on my only sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and took The Boy's car to Smith's. As I was pulling in, I was surprised at how full the parking lot was. I will admit it. I did actually think to myself something along the lines of, "So the only people who'll be here today are non-members and sinners." But that is a very personal and self-righteous thought that normally I would never share with anyone but today I must share so that you can understand the absolute shame I then felt.
I looked down and noticed my sweatshirt. As it turns out, the only sweatshirt I own is a BYU sweatshirt. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap. Leave it to me to shop on the sabbath in a BYU sweatshirt. I could have blended in the crowd, but no. I chose to wear a BYU sweatshirt.
So I went straight to the pharmacy to grab cough syrup so that when I went to get the chicken noodle soup, people would at least see (if they looked closely enough, which, let's be honest, no one saw anything other than the BYU sweatshirt) that I had medicine in hand.
At the very least, I'm sure that I made all those who were shopping in suits or skirts feel somewhat validated. Just as they, fellow sinners, made me feel validated.
(As an addition to this post, I'll let you know how I chose my cough syrup. I was torn between the generic Koger brand or the Robitussen brand, which had alcohol in it. I thought that as long as I was sinning on the sabbath, I may as well go for the alcohol. But the alcoholic one didn't seem to really address my symptoms. So I chose the one that said, "temporarily relieves cough due to minor throat and bronchial irritation; helps loosen phlegm (mucus) and thin bronchial secretions to make coughs more productive" because the part about making coughs more productive actually made me laugh out loud in the medicine section. Which called more attention to myself. And my BYU sweatshirt.)
When in Blogworld, Copy Daltongirl
Featured on Daltongirl's blog is a brilliant persuasive essay written by Lola about Rome. Lola hit on several points that I definitely know to be true from my mission. Without her permission, and without Daltongirl's permission, I have taken the liberty of either providing supporting evidence for or arguing against some of her main points.
Step away from Rome for a second so you can find out their good and bad characteristics, the cruelty they had against others, and what it’s like to be poor.
I had to step into Rome for a second to find out their good and bad characteristics, the cruelty they had against others, and what it was like to be poor. Among their bad characteristics was their unwillingness to open their doors to the gospel. Among their good characteristics was their willingness to open their doors for any other reason.
Anecdotal evidence: When we'd knock at doors in Italy, a typical response would be for the person to yell, "Who is it??" from the other side of the door, while peering at us through the peep hole. If we mentioned anything about being missionaries or having everlasting happiness and salvation to offer, we'd be immediately rejected. If we stated any other purpose, the doors were opened wide and we were welcomed in. Once, I wanted to make my companion a zucchini dish but we didn't have a cheese grater in our apartment. We started knocking on doors in our own apartment complex. Finally, when someone was home, she yelled "Who is it??" while staring at us through the peep hole.
"It's the neighbors!" I replied.
"Who?"
"The neighbors!"
At this point, she cautiously opened her door a crack to peer at us.
"Hi!" I said. "We're your neighbors. We live a floor below you. I wanted to make lunch for my friend, but can you believe we don't have a cheese grater? I was wondering if you had one I could borrow."
Immediately, the woman threw the door open wide. "Yes! Yes! Please, come on in!" she cried. "I was just using it but let me wash it up so that you can borrow it!"
Another time, while we were tracting in the middle of the summer, we made our door approach to a girl our age and were immediately rejected. I was parched however, so I said, "Okay, that's fine. But is there any way I could have a drink of water? I'm very thirsty." She invited my companion and me into her home where her mother was cooking in the kitchen. They sat us down at the table, gave us water, cut us huge slices of watermelon, and asked us all about being missionaries and what exactly the message was that we shared with people.
Those were Rome's good and bad characteristics. Except for the fact that both of those stories happened in Sardegna. Oops. In Rome, on the other hand, I seem to remember having the police called on me twice and being yelled at from windows. Hmm. That was their cruelty against me. Oh, and I knew what it was like to be poor. Like one time, I wanted to buy a cameo that cost 200 Euros. But I couldn't.
First, everybody in Rome had a good heart, but they forgot about their good-natured selves when it came to justice and cruel entertainment.
This is true, though many Romans would tell you that it's true of everyone but priest and nuns. Man, some of them sure have it out for priests and nuns! As I mentioned, the Romans called the cops on me a couple times. That would be them not having good hearts when it came to justice. As far as cruel entertainment is concerned... Switchback went to a soccer game in Rome where she experienced both justice and cruel entertainment. Riots broke out at the end of the game, and the police came out and tear gassed everyone, including Switchback and all her missionary friends. Cruel. But entertaining. Justice.
Next, cruelty was a part of their daily lives—killing, gladiator fights, and unjust treatment. Everybody was doing it (watching gladiator fights), but killing people was very common in Ancient Rome, in gladiator fights.
Yes, cruelty is still a part of their daily lives. One day, as I was walking past the colosseum with my companion, a man dressed up as a Gladiator (pictured here---I got it from the Internet, but I swear it's the same guy) started heckling and making fun of me and my companion. It was a little stunning, actually. I thought, "Wait... are missionaries so low on the pecking order that men who dress up as gladiators and wear short skirts can make fun of me??"
“Killing Christians is wrong, because they should be able to have their own say in their religion.”
Unfortunately for the Italians, Christian is synonymous with Catholic and since we weren't Catholic, we weren't Christian, which meant, according to the above quote, that killing us wouldn't actually be wrong.
Now that you’ve stepped back and looked, I think you’ll agree the characteristics, cruelty, and poverty tell you to stay away from Rome.
Hmm. Well, when I stepped into Rome, I really liked it. And now that I've stepped away from Rome, I want nothing more than to go back, despite the characteristics, the cruelty, and the poverty. Lola, if I weren't poor, I'd buy you a ticket to and have you step into Rome with me.
Step away from Rome for a second so you can find out their good and bad characteristics, the cruelty they had against others, and what it’s like to be poor.
I had to step into Rome for a second to find out their good and bad characteristics, the cruelty they had against others, and what it was like to be poor. Among their bad characteristics was their unwillingness to open their doors to the gospel. Among their good characteristics was their willingness to open their doors for any other reason.
Anecdotal evidence: When we'd knock at doors in Italy, a typical response would be for the person to yell, "Who is it??" from the other side of the door, while peering at us through the peep hole. If we mentioned anything about being missionaries or having everlasting happiness and salvation to offer, we'd be immediately rejected. If we stated any other purpose, the doors were opened wide and we were welcomed in. Once, I wanted to make my companion a zucchini dish but we didn't have a cheese grater in our apartment. We started knocking on doors in our own apartment complex. Finally, when someone was home, she yelled "Who is it??" while staring at us through the peep hole.
"It's the neighbors!" I replied.
"Who?"
"The neighbors!"
At this point, she cautiously opened her door a crack to peer at us.
"Hi!" I said. "We're your neighbors. We live a floor below you. I wanted to make lunch for my friend, but can you believe we don't have a cheese grater? I was wondering if you had one I could borrow."
Immediately, the woman threw the door open wide. "Yes! Yes! Please, come on in!" she cried. "I was just using it but let me wash it up so that you can borrow it!"
Another time, while we were tracting in the middle of the summer, we made our door approach to a girl our age and were immediately rejected. I was parched however, so I said, "Okay, that's fine. But is there any way I could have a drink of water? I'm very thirsty." She invited my companion and me into her home where her mother was cooking in the kitchen. They sat us down at the table, gave us water, cut us huge slices of watermelon, and asked us all about being missionaries and what exactly the message was that we shared with people.
Those were Rome's good and bad characteristics. Except for the fact that both of those stories happened in Sardegna. Oops. In Rome, on the other hand, I seem to remember having the police called on me twice and being yelled at from windows. Hmm. That was their cruelty against me. Oh, and I knew what it was like to be poor. Like one time, I wanted to buy a cameo that cost 200 Euros. But I couldn't.
First, everybody in Rome had a good heart, but they forgot about their good-natured selves when it came to justice and cruel entertainment.
This is true, though many Romans would tell you that it's true of everyone but priest and nuns. Man, some of them sure have it out for priests and nuns! As I mentioned, the Romans called the cops on me a couple times. That would be them not having good hearts when it came to justice. As far as cruel entertainment is concerned... Switchback went to a soccer game in Rome where she experienced both justice and cruel entertainment. Riots broke out at the end of the game, and the police came out and tear gassed everyone, including Switchback and all her missionary friends. Cruel. But entertaining. Justice.
Next, cruelty was a part of their daily lives—killing, gladiator fights, and unjust treatment. Everybody was doing it (watching gladiator fights), but killing people was very common in Ancient Rome, in gladiator fights.Yes, cruelty is still a part of their daily lives. One day, as I was walking past the colosseum with my companion, a man dressed up as a Gladiator (pictured here---I got it from the Internet, but I swear it's the same guy) started heckling and making fun of me and my companion. It was a little stunning, actually. I thought, "Wait... are missionaries so low on the pecking order that men who dress up as gladiators and wear short skirts can make fun of me??"
“Killing Christians is wrong, because they should be able to have their own say in their religion.”
Unfortunately for the Italians, Christian is synonymous with Catholic and since we weren't Catholic, we weren't Christian, which meant, according to the above quote, that killing us wouldn't actually be wrong.
Now that you’ve stepped back and looked, I think you’ll agree the characteristics, cruelty, and poverty tell you to stay away from Rome.
Hmm. Well, when I stepped into Rome, I really liked it. And now that I've stepped away from Rome, I want nothing more than to go back, despite the characteristics, the cruelty, and the poverty. Lola, if I weren't poor, I'd buy you a ticket to and have you step into Rome with me.
Not Denise
Here's a joke I found on ebaumsworld:
So my announcement is that Denephew is on his way! Captain Fabuloso and Peaches Mom will have their baby in June and I will be an aunt for the first time. This does pose a problem, however, in that now Captain Fabuloso and Peaches Mom are insistent that I change Peaches Mom's name. "Peaches" is the name that they've been calling the fetus for the past several months, knowing that it was a little feminine. Now that they know they're producing the heir, they've decided that "Peaches" is no longer an appropriate name.
My suggestion of "Bananas" was rejected.
An unmarried woman is newly pregnant and gets into an auto accident. She suffers a head injury and lapses into a coma for nine months. When she awakens in the hospital, she panics and asks about her baby.
Her doctor is called in and gives her a mild sedative, then he sits down to answer her questions. "I'm so happy to see you recovering", he says. The woman responds, "Thank you doctor, but what about my baby? Is everything all right?" He replies, "Yes, despite your injury, we were able to perform a fairly normal delivery procedure."
"In fact," he goes on, "you've given birth to twins - a boy and a girl". The woman is very happy and asks when she can see her new babies. The doctor replies, "Right away, but we've already sent the infants home with your brother. We'll call and tell him you're okay. While you were unconscious, your brother took care of everything for you. He even gave the babies names."
At this point, the woman gets upset, "Doctor, my brother is an idiot! What name did he give my little girl?" The doctor answered that her name was Denise. "Oh, Denise, that's not so bad. What name did he give my boy?" The doctor answered, "Denephew".
So my announcement is that Denephew is on his way! Captain Fabuloso and Peaches Mom will have their baby in June and I will be an aunt for the first time. This does pose a problem, however, in that now Captain Fabuloso and Peaches Mom are insistent that I change Peaches Mom's name. "Peaches" is the name that they've been calling the fetus for the past several months, knowing that it was a little feminine. Now that they know they're producing the heir, they've decided that "Peaches" is no longer an appropriate name.
My suggestion of "Bananas" was rejected.
More Opinions!
(Republicans can speak out, too, you know. I am easily influenced by any opinion.)So once I had to host FHE. I hadn't been going to FHE all semester, so I certainly didn't know many of my FHE "siblings." But one evening, I graciously opened my home to them. After the spiritual high of our FHE lesson, a ward member reached into his jacket and pulled out a hand gun.
It really, really bothered me. But, trying to not come off as an absolute jerk in front of my "family," instead of asking the guy and his gun to leave, I made a stupid joke about it and allowed him and his gun to stay in my home. He wasn't doing anything with the gun... other than stroking it. There was absolutely no reason for him to have it in my home... other than obsession.
I have since replayed the situation in my mind and I have determined that I should have been more outspoken and firm in that moment. Here's how I imagine it going in my head:
[Guy pulls out gun so that he can stroke it.]
Cicada: Hi. I'm Cicada. I realize that we haven't actually been introduced. While I respect your lawful right to carry a gun [I think that nearly every guy in his apartment has a concealed weapon's permit], I would ask you to respect that you are in my home and I don't necessarily share your political views. The presence of your gun in my home, whether the gun is loaded or unloaded, makes me feel uncomfortable. I would kindly ask you to take your gun home. You are welcome to come back if you like, but please, in the future, do not bring a gun into my home.
Of course, depending on how that was received, I could potentially add, pointing my cell phone at him like a gun, "It is against the Honor Code to have a gun in BYU-approved housing and I have them on my speed-dial, you son of a -----."
Now, just so that you don't think I'm narrow minded, I may add that if Jack Bauer came into my house with a gun, I'd serve him up a tall glass of crystal light and ask him to marry me or at least kill all my exboyfriends.
***Okay, so Ambrosia, before I was able to post, pointed out that it's not actually against the Honor Code. So there goes that point. Oh well. This was all in my mind, anyway. Just like my dreams about Jack Bauer.
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