At the tender, young, and impressionable age of 13, I traveled to Mexico with my mom and dad so my mom could attend a Spanish-speaking school. She was going to be teaching high school Spanish in the upcoming school year. Another teacher (German-speaking) had won the trip and didn't want to go, and Mom was smart and said, "Thank you!" for the opportunity. I think Dad was excited because he would get to be immersed in the Spanish language again. He picked up the language on his Spanish-speaking LDS mission to Chile at age 21, just as Mom had. (That's where they met, and that's another story for another day.) I think Mom was excited because, although it would be hard work, it would also be a fun "vacation" from our routine summers (where the kids constantly said, "I'm bored!"). Plus, it would give her the actual Spanish cultural experience as well as being immersed in the language.
I ... well, I was not as excited to go. For weeks (or was it months?) before we left, I was a nervous ball of energy. I had a) never flown, b) never been out of the country, and 3) always been a home body. It unnerved me to think we would live with an actual Mexican family, eat actual Mexican food 24/7, and I wouldn't have a clue what anyone was saying. (As if Mom and Dad would have just let me wander the city alone, duh.) It was intimidating, to say the least.
Dad had big plans. He was going to teach me Spanish while Mom was in her Spanish class. We'd see the country, eat the foods, and enjoy every minute of it. Dad would probably admit now that he was a leeeetle concerned about leaving his dry cleaning shop in the hands of my oldest brother and sister, but he always did like a good adventure. Bless his heart, he and Mom worked and worked and worked with me to get over my fears of flying and leaving the country. They assured me over and over that they would not leave me alone anywhere and that the people really would be nice.
The big day came, we got on the plane, Mom and Dad filled me full of dramamine, and the next thing I knew, we were in Mexico City. The fact that we'd made it there alive was still not enough to convince me we'd make it HOME alive, but it was a small consolation prize. We gathered our luggage and found our way out of the airport and into a taxi in order to get to the hotel.
The taxi ride - oh my! Dad always rode in front with the drivers and talked their ears off. Mom and I always rode in the back seat where it was safe from "accidental" hand placement on our female bodies. (I didn't realize that was why we sat in the back seat until way later or it probably would have freaked me out. Parents are smart like that. Great information withholders, they are.) Anyway, I guess Dad asked to be taken to the hotel and for a suggestion about where we could get something to eat near the main part of town. (Every taxi driver we rode with loved Dad because he spoke the language and did it without a Gringo accent.) We quickly learned that when the light was green the taxi went. The drivers didn't wait to see if intersections were clear or if people were out of the way. If the light was green, they pressed on the gas. If they didn't? Horns honking, gestures, people yelling, even having the car bumped by the one behind you. It was pure and utter chaos. I was afraid for my life, Mom seemed a little annoyed by the immaturity of it all, and Dad thought it was pure genius and laughed the entire time.
We eventually made it to the hotel to dump our luggage and found a town square in the middle of the city. There were Mariachi bands playing, it was a sunny and warm day, and people were gathered around and moving about. The atmosphere was very laid back and easy going. We spent some time listening to the Mariachi bands under some shade trees before we decided we really were hungry and ought to eat something. Dad asked around for some restaurant suggestions and we finally settled on one. Now, I'd always liked Mexican food. American Mexican food, that is. Mom and Dad both reminded me that the food here would probably not be anything close to what we considered Mexican food at home. In other words, the restaurant was not likely to have nachos. What?!
We sat down, reminded each other NOT to order water to drink (always order Coke), and looked over the menu. Well, Mom and Dad looked over the menu anyway, while I asked, "What's this? What's that?" until they're brains wanted to explode. But they were patient and explained what things were. I felt like ordering chicken was a safe bet. Who can screw up chicken, you know? Besides, chicken enchiladas were good, chicken taquitos were good, how could whatever chicken they were selling not be good? It was the safest bet.
The waiter came and took our order. He brought out our Cokes and we enjoyed the veranda we were sitting on outside while we waited for our food. It seemed to take forever, but I think it's because we were tired from the flight. (I was anyway. I'd had enough dramamine to bring down an elephant.) Finally, the waiter returned with our food. He placed in front of me some big chunks of chicken with a dark, red - almost maroon - sauce and some rice. We thanked him, and then Dad said he thought we ought to bless the food. Genius! We should thank Heavenly Father for food we're about to partake, especially when we had no idea where it was found or prepared or cooked. It's probably what saved us from dying on multiple occasions. Seriously.
I think Dad offered the prayer, we said, "Amen!", and opened our eyes. Just as we did so, a fly (there were LOTS of flies; flies everywhere) took a nose dive into my chicken dish with red sauce and immediately died. I looked at that fly, looked at Dad, looked at Mom, looked back at Dad, grabbed my spoon and removed the fly.
Silence.
And then I said, "Well, if that sauce killed the fly, I wonder what it will do to me."
It was at that very moment that Mom and Dad knew I would survive Mexico - and probably even enjoy it. And I did! We did! It was one of the greatest adventures of my life with two of my very best friends and favorite people.
I've always felt sad about that poor, dead fly though. He missed out on a good meal.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Big Wheels and Diarrhea
Remember these?
Totally cool! I think that one is very similar to the one I had. Although this is the one I wished I'd had:
(Image found here: http://www.pinstopin.com/big-wheels-from-the-70s/)
Because, hello? I'm a girl, and these were the coolest colors to have on a Big Wheel in the early 1980s if you were a girl. DUH.
In reality, if I could have had any Big Wheel I wanted, this would have been it:
My little preemie, Florida Patsy, whom I adopted from the Cabbage Patch, totally needed a place to ride, even if she did come along after this particular event happened. Isn't that the most awesome Big Wheel you've ever seen? And the stickers! The stickers just totally make it.
My friend, Shauna (who I shared a backyard fence with), and I used to have Big Wheels. We lived near an old church that has since been turned into a reception hall. (It probably hadn't been turned into a reception hall at the time this took place, but it goes to show we grew up in the coolest neighborhood ever.) The old church had this fun roundabout in the front where we could drive our Big Wheels really fast and then slam on the brakes and spin out. If we got going fast enough, we could totally do a doughnut and slam into each other like bumper cars. And, although we probably didn't, it felt like we rode our Big Wheels over to that old church every day and spun out and kicked rocks and basically tore up the neighborhood.
I remember one particular day pretty clearly. I hadn't been feeling well, but I convinced Mom I was feeling better so I could ride Big Wheels with Shauna. We probably had some serious plans. Because we were four at the time, and we were cool like that. I remember that it was summer, and it must have been in July or August because I also remember it was kind of windy and looked overcast even though the temperatures were warm. Monsoon season, you know?
So we headed out on our Big Wheels and rode the half block to the old church. We were there for a few minutes and I started to feel kind of icky again. Shauna knew I had been sick because I hadn't been allowed out to play, so when I said I needed to go to the bathroom she rode back up to our house with me. I "took care of business" as quickly as I could, and we rode back down to the old church. The same thing happened probably three or four times. We would get to the church, ride around the roundabout maybe once, and I'd have to go to the bathroom, so we'd ride back up to my house and repeat. I don't even know if Shauna remembers this or not. Maybe I should text her and find out. Or maybe I don't want to know if she remembers it. Yeah, probably less embarrassing that way.
By now, Shauna had figured out I really didn't feel good, and she probably didn't want to get sick, so she asked if we should wait and play again tomorrow. Good friend, that Shauna. But I was determined to feel better, even if it meant faking it until it happened. We headed back down to the church and spun around a couple of times. At this point, I was sick of having to go back and forth to the house, so I wondered (in my four-year-old mind) if I could hide behind some bushes and just go to the bathroom there. But it was the kind of sick where you needed toilet paper, you know? And there just weren't that many leaves. And, well, that's just gross. Even to a four-year-old. Unless I'd been a boy. Then, I wouldn't have cared.
I started to feel sick again, but it was right in the middle of a good spin, and we'd just gotten to the point where it was getting good so we could slam on our breaks and make the Big Wheels skid out and kick rocks and slam into each other. We were laughing and screaming at each other to go faster, faster!!!
And that's when it happened.
The diarrhea.
It couldn't be stopped. And I was already kind of sick to my stomach from the spinning, so that didn't help.
And I was wearing a pair of cream colored shorts. (Why do I remember that detail?)
Shauna must have known something bad happened because she stopped her Big Wheel mid-spin and asked, "Are you aw wight?" I think I simply said, "No." And then I turned my Big Wheel around and headed home and told her we'd have to play another time because I really wasn't feeling better. Good friend that Shauna was/is, she said, "Okay. See you later." And she followed me home, but instead of waiting at my house, she turned the corner and headed for her home so I could walk into the house with what little grace my four-year-old diarrhea-filled-behind had.
I don't remember if Mom was even home at the time. Somebody must have told me to rinse my dirty bottoms in the toilet water because I knew enough to do that. I must have used probably two rolls of toilet paper. And I think I even drew myself a bath, which is no small feat since I hated water and hated taking a bath. THAT is how bad it was.
To this day, I have no clue what happened to that Big Wheel or if I even rode it again. My guess is Dad probably got to be the one to hose it down. He had zero gag reflex, so he lucked out and got to do most of the gross things like that at our house. I'll have to apologize for instances like this one when I get to the other side and see him again. Sorry, Dad!
And sorry to whoever got that Big Wheel after me. So, so sorry.
Why can't I remember something better than that about my awesome Big Wheel? Diarrhea ruins everything!!!
Totally cool! I think that one is very similar to the one I had. Although this is the one I wished I'd had:
(Image found here: http://www.pinstopin.com/big-wheels-from-the-70s/)
Because, hello? I'm a girl, and these were the coolest colors to have on a Big Wheel in the early 1980s if you were a girl. DUH.
In reality, if I could have had any Big Wheel I wanted, this would have been it:
My little preemie, Florida Patsy, whom I adopted from the Cabbage Patch, totally needed a place to ride, even if she did come along after this particular event happened. Isn't that the most awesome Big Wheel you've ever seen? And the stickers! The stickers just totally make it.
My friend, Shauna (who I shared a backyard fence with), and I used to have Big Wheels. We lived near an old church that has since been turned into a reception hall. (It probably hadn't been turned into a reception hall at the time this took place, but it goes to show we grew up in the coolest neighborhood ever.) The old church had this fun roundabout in the front where we could drive our Big Wheels really fast and then slam on the brakes and spin out. If we got going fast enough, we could totally do a doughnut and slam into each other like bumper cars. And, although we probably didn't, it felt like we rode our Big Wheels over to that old church every day and spun out and kicked rocks and basically tore up the neighborhood.
I remember one particular day pretty clearly. I hadn't been feeling well, but I convinced Mom I was feeling better so I could ride Big Wheels with Shauna. We probably had some serious plans. Because we were four at the time, and we were cool like that. I remember that it was summer, and it must have been in July or August because I also remember it was kind of windy and looked overcast even though the temperatures were warm. Monsoon season, you know?
So we headed out on our Big Wheels and rode the half block to the old church. We were there for a few minutes and I started to feel kind of icky again. Shauna knew I had been sick because I hadn't been allowed out to play, so when I said I needed to go to the bathroom she rode back up to our house with me. I "took care of business" as quickly as I could, and we rode back down to the old church. The same thing happened probably three or four times. We would get to the church, ride around the roundabout maybe once, and I'd have to go to the bathroom, so we'd ride back up to my house and repeat. I don't even know if Shauna remembers this or not. Maybe I should text her and find out. Or maybe I don't want to know if she remembers it. Yeah, probably less embarrassing that way.
By now, Shauna had figured out I really didn't feel good, and she probably didn't want to get sick, so she asked if we should wait and play again tomorrow. Good friend, that Shauna. But I was determined to feel better, even if it meant faking it until it happened. We headed back down to the church and spun around a couple of times. At this point, I was sick of having to go back and forth to the house, so I wondered (in my four-year-old mind) if I could hide behind some bushes and just go to the bathroom there. But it was the kind of sick where you needed toilet paper, you know? And there just weren't that many leaves. And, well, that's just gross. Even to a four-year-old. Unless I'd been a boy. Then, I wouldn't have cared.
I started to feel sick again, but it was right in the middle of a good spin, and we'd just gotten to the point where it was getting good so we could slam on our breaks and make the Big Wheels skid out and kick rocks and slam into each other. We were laughing and screaming at each other to go faster, faster!!!
And that's when it happened.
The diarrhea.
It couldn't be stopped. And I was already kind of sick to my stomach from the spinning, so that didn't help.
And I was wearing a pair of cream colored shorts. (Why do I remember that detail?)
Shauna must have known something bad happened because she stopped her Big Wheel mid-spin and asked, "Are you aw wight?" I think I simply said, "No." And then I turned my Big Wheel around and headed home and told her we'd have to play another time because I really wasn't feeling better. Good friend that Shauna was/is, she said, "Okay. See you later." And she followed me home, but instead of waiting at my house, she turned the corner and headed for her home so I could walk into the house with what little grace my four-year-old diarrhea-filled-behind had.
I don't remember if Mom was even home at the time. Somebody must have told me to rinse my dirty bottoms in the toilet water because I knew enough to do that. I must have used probably two rolls of toilet paper. And I think I even drew myself a bath, which is no small feat since I hated water and hated taking a bath. THAT is how bad it was.
To this day, I have no clue what happened to that Big Wheel or if I even rode it again. My guess is Dad probably got to be the one to hose it down. He had zero gag reflex, so he lucked out and got to do most of the gross things like that at our house. I'll have to apologize for instances like this one when I get to the other side and see him again. Sorry, Dad!
And sorry to whoever got that Big Wheel after me. So, so sorry.
Why can't I remember something better than that about my awesome Big Wheel? Diarrhea ruins everything!!!
Monday, April 27, 2015
I Can't Make Jello-O
I suppose the title is supposed to have a trademark or something attached, right? Isn't Jell-O trademarked? Should it be typed Jell-O (TM) or something like that? I don't want the Jell-O people getting after me for use of their brand.
Maybe if I could actually make Jell-O it would be okay without the trademark?
On a Sunday several years ago (after Mom and Dad had returned from their LDS mission to Texas Fort Worth), I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner. We're masters of the timed bake option at our house. It works perfectly for Sunday dinners so they're nice and hot (and cooked!) when you get out of Church and already feel like there's a gaping whole in the center of the universe that can only be filled by putting something yummy and delicious into your mouth and forcing it to pulse through your veins immediately. Whoa - hungry much?
Anyway, I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner, getting it prepped, putting on the time bake, etc. She asked if I would make some Jell-O to go along with dinner. I said (for the record), "I don't know how to make Jell-O." Mom probably laughed at me or something, but she said, "Just read the instructions on the package and you'll be fine." Okay. Sure. Right. Yeah.
Now, I'd watched Mom make Jell-O something like 100 times. Maybe more. Maybe a little less. But not much less. Because we ate a lot of Jell-O (it's a Mormon thing). Clarification: everyone else ate a lot of Jell-O. I'm not a huge fan because people tend to put weird things (e.g. carrots, pineapple, chunks of other fruits, marshmallows, etc.) in it, and I don't DO Jell-O with things in it. Plain, yes. With a little real whipped cream, yes. With canned whipped cream, no. With Cool Whip, no. That's just wrong. (No offense Cool Whip. You're not on my list of favorite food items.) With "other" things in it, NO. So, so wrong. Just ... it's wrong.
Mom is/was a Master Jell-O Maker. She had the process down. Boil the water, have ice water ready to go, put in the powder, etc. Well, Mom went off to Church, and I was left at home alone to make the Jell-O. I did what I'd seen Mom do so many times: put the powder in the pan, boil some water on the stove, stir in ice water until it melts. Voila! And off to Church I went.
As we're sitting in Relief Society waiting for the last Sunday meeting to start, something started to feel weird. I reviewed over and over in my mind what I did to make the Jell-O, and something felt strange about it. But I consoled myself by marking off the checklist of "to do" items on the back of the box. I mean, who can mess up the Jell-O, right?
Me.
I can mess up the Jell-O.
Because I can't make Jell-O.
And this story is proof.
We got home from Church, everyone was in the process of changing out of their Sunday clothes, Mom had already changed and was in the kitchen throwing dinner on the table (because she's like Wonder Woman speedy when it comes to changing clothes, a trait I have not inherited), and suddenly she yelled, "Katie!" At the time, I was living in the basement, so I probably didn't hear her the first time, which is probably the reason that by the time I did hear her she was hollering pretty loud. I threw on the rest of my clothes and walked upstairs to the sound of her mumbling something.
"Did you call me?" I asked.
"Yes. What is this?"
"It's the Jell-O," I responded.
Mom was silent as she looked at the Jell-O and back at me.
"Is something wrong with it?" I asked.
Some parts of the Jell-O were like red water. Other parts of the Jell-O were like lumpy balls of red goo. It was jiggling, but I'd never seen Jell-O move like that. Mom asked, "Did you even read the directions on the box?" I assured her I did. "Tell me the process you went through," she said. So I told her. I put in the powder, I boiled the water, I used ice water and stirred it around until it melted. "That's what it says to do on the package, right?" I asked.
"Did you happen to make sure all the powder was dissolved by hot water before you added the cold water?" asked Mom.
HUH???
"Um ...."
And then Mom started to laugh. She said, "You can come up with recipes in your head. You can bake the world's best cookies. You have a sense about the way flavors go together. You're not afraid to be creative in the kitchen. Practically everything you cook or bake tastes really good. But you can't make Jell-O?!"
Hey, in my defense, I told her that up front.
And that is why I'm asked to make main dishes, side dishes, desserts, rolls, baked goods, salads, and anything else you can eat - except the Jell-O.
That's perfectly fine by me!
Maybe if I could actually make Jell-O it would be okay without the trademark?
On a Sunday several years ago (after Mom and Dad had returned from their LDS mission to Texas Fort Worth), I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner. We're masters of the timed bake option at our house. It works perfectly for Sunday dinners so they're nice and hot (and cooked!) when you get out of Church and already feel like there's a gaping whole in the center of the universe that can only be filled by putting something yummy and delicious into your mouth and forcing it to pulse through your veins immediately. Whoa - hungry much?
Anyway, I was helping Mom with Sunday dinner, getting it prepped, putting on the time bake, etc. She asked if I would make some Jell-O to go along with dinner. I said (for the record), "I don't know how to make Jell-O." Mom probably laughed at me or something, but she said, "Just read the instructions on the package and you'll be fine." Okay. Sure. Right. Yeah.
Now, I'd watched Mom make Jell-O something like 100 times. Maybe more. Maybe a little less. But not much less. Because we ate a lot of Jell-O (it's a Mormon thing). Clarification: everyone else ate a lot of Jell-O. I'm not a huge fan because people tend to put weird things (e.g. carrots, pineapple, chunks of other fruits, marshmallows, etc.) in it, and I don't DO Jell-O with things in it. Plain, yes. With a little real whipped cream, yes. With canned whipped cream, no. With Cool Whip, no. That's just wrong. (No offense Cool Whip. You're not on my list of favorite food items.) With "other" things in it, NO. So, so wrong. Just ... it's wrong.
Mom is/was a Master Jell-O Maker. She had the process down. Boil the water, have ice water ready to go, put in the powder, etc. Well, Mom went off to Church, and I was left at home alone to make the Jell-O. I did what I'd seen Mom do so many times: put the powder in the pan, boil some water on the stove, stir in ice water until it melts. Voila! And off to Church I went.
As we're sitting in Relief Society waiting for the last Sunday meeting to start, something started to feel weird. I reviewed over and over in my mind what I did to make the Jell-O, and something felt strange about it. But I consoled myself by marking off the checklist of "to do" items on the back of the box. I mean, who can mess up the Jell-O, right?
Me.
I can mess up the Jell-O.
Because I can't make Jell-O.
And this story is proof.
We got home from Church, everyone was in the process of changing out of their Sunday clothes, Mom had already changed and was in the kitchen throwing dinner on the table (because she's like Wonder Woman speedy when it comes to changing clothes, a trait I have not inherited), and suddenly she yelled, "Katie!" At the time, I was living in the basement, so I probably didn't hear her the first time, which is probably the reason that by the time I did hear her she was hollering pretty loud. I threw on the rest of my clothes and walked upstairs to the sound of her mumbling something.
"Did you call me?" I asked.
"Yes. What is this?"
"It's the Jell-O," I responded.
Mom was silent as she looked at the Jell-O and back at me.
"Is something wrong with it?" I asked.
Some parts of the Jell-O were like red water. Other parts of the Jell-O were like lumpy balls of red goo. It was jiggling, but I'd never seen Jell-O move like that. Mom asked, "Did you even read the directions on the box?" I assured her I did. "Tell me the process you went through," she said. So I told her. I put in the powder, I boiled the water, I used ice water and stirred it around until it melted. "That's what it says to do on the package, right?" I asked.
"Did you happen to make sure all the powder was dissolved by hot water before you added the cold water?" asked Mom.
HUH???
"Um ...."
And then Mom started to laugh. She said, "You can come up with recipes in your head. You can bake the world's best cookies. You have a sense about the way flavors go together. You're not afraid to be creative in the kitchen. Practically everything you cook or bake tastes really good. But you can't make Jell-O?!"
Hey, in my defense, I told her that up front.
And that is why I'm asked to make main dishes, side dishes, desserts, rolls, baked goods, salads, and anything else you can eat - except the Jell-O.
That's perfectly fine by me!
Friday, April 17, 2015
The Guy Who Calls Me Jackie
I told Mom this story about a week ago. We had a good laugh over it, and it should probably be documented for future reference. In case I ever decide to change my name, you know?
Funny thing about names. I was given a first and middle name, and it's on the records of my church that way, but apparently my middle name never made it to my birth certificate, which is crazy because I remember seeing my original birth certificate as a kid, and my middle name was on it. Whatever, government records. The only reason I found out my middle name wasn't on my birth certificate was because I had to get an official copy (oxymoron? what does that even mean anyway, "official copy"; as if some copies are unofficial or not legit?) for traveling or something. I paid something like $90 (an absurd amount) for that "official copy" only to realize it listed no middle name. The government people said I could come back within 90 days and pay a "small fee" for them to change it, and after 90 days it would be something like $150 to change it. You know who didn't make it over there within the 90 days, right? Yeah .... So I don't officially have a middle name, but I really do where it counts, so whatever. But I do have an "official copy", so that makes everything better, right?
ANYWAY, I'm not changing my name any time soon (or, like, ever), but this guy at work seems to think my name is Jackie. But he only thinks my name is Jackie sometimes. Allow me to explain. Mainly because I'm also very confused right now.
A few months ago, I started a new job. I was introduced in our weekly devotional, within team meetings, etc. Being the new person is kind of stressful because you have to remember a bajillion names and the other people only have to remember one. Instant disadvantage for me. But I felt like I was getting to know people's names as I worked with them, and I usually wasn't afraid to ask their name if I didn't know. And my desk faces west. Yes, that's important.
There's this nice man we'll call John. Because that's his name. John is a very nice guy, always says hello or asks how the day is going, etc. At first, he didn't ever use my name. No big deal. I didn't know his name either. One day John came by my desk from the north and said, "Hey, Jackie. How are you?" Not wanting to embarrass him by pointing out he used the wrong name I answered, "Doing well. How are you?" (Because I still didn't know his name. I'm terrible with names.) A day or two later, John approached my desk from the south and said, "Hi there, Katie. Good to see you today." I still didn't know his name, so I said, "Hi there. Good to see you, too."
Similar exchanges happened a few times until I finally looked up his photo in our directory and realized his name was John. When I see him now I use his name. How appropriate and adult of me, right? I thought so. I noticed that whenever John approaches me from the north, he thinks my name is Jackie. Whenever he approaches me from the south, he thinks my name is Katie. Because I'm so appropriate and such an adult, I just let it be and didn't say a word to him about it. At this point, it's become kind of awkward that he's called me Jackie from the north for so long, and I didn't want to point out that I'm an idiot who didn't realize what name he'd called me until we were already conversing. It's totally awkward to break into a conversation and be like, "Yeah, so you know how you call me Jackie? That's not my name. But how are you anyway?" I mean, there's just no comfortable way to begin that conversation.
One day, one of my bosses was at my desk asking me to do something or check on something and John approached me from the north. He greeted me with the usual, "Hi Jackie." and kept walking. I politely answered back, and then turned to my boss who was looking at me with this funny look on his face. It was then I realized, yep, that just happened when my boss asked, "Did he just call you Jackie?" Why yes, yes he did. So I explained to my boss that when John comes from the north I'm Jackie, and when he comes from the south I'm Katie. And my boss was laughing. The secretary that sits across from me was laughing. It hadn't dawned on her why John only occasionally got my name correct. I had put two and two together, but she hadn't realized that he really thought of me as two different people and the name he chose to use depended on which direction he was coming from.
I tried to downplay it by saying to my boss and the secretary, "Yeah, it happens. But don't worry about it. I've figured out how to fix it." My boss said, "Oh, you're going to tell him he's calling you by the wrong name?" And I said, "Oh no! Heavens no. I don't want to embarrass him." They both looked at me like I was crazy, so I explained my logic. "When he approaches me from the north and calls me Jackie, I'm just going to say, 'Hi Steve!' And when he approaches me from the south and uses my real name, I'm going to say, 'Hey John.'"
They both nearly fell on the floor laughing. I thought it was a logical plan. No? My boss got control of himself and said, "He's going to stop and say his name isn't Steve and ask why you're calling him that." I said, "I know. That's the beauty of it. When he stops and says that I'll say, 'Oh really? Well, my name isn't Jackie, never has been Jackie, and never will be Jackie. I guess we're even.'"
Totally appropriate and adult-like, right? Yes, I'm very mature like that.
Funny thing about names. I was given a first and middle name, and it's on the records of my church that way, but apparently my middle name never made it to my birth certificate, which is crazy because I remember seeing my original birth certificate as a kid, and my middle name was on it. Whatever, government records. The only reason I found out my middle name wasn't on my birth certificate was because I had to get an official copy (oxymoron? what does that even mean anyway, "official copy"; as if some copies are unofficial or not legit?) for traveling or something. I paid something like $90 (an absurd amount) for that "official copy" only to realize it listed no middle name. The government people said I could come back within 90 days and pay a "small fee" for them to change it, and after 90 days it would be something like $150 to change it. You know who didn't make it over there within the 90 days, right? Yeah .... So I don't officially have a middle name, but I really do where it counts, so whatever. But I do have an "official copy", so that makes everything better, right?
ANYWAY, I'm not changing my name any time soon (or, like, ever), but this guy at work seems to think my name is Jackie. But he only thinks my name is Jackie sometimes. Allow me to explain. Mainly because I'm also very confused right now.
A few months ago, I started a new job. I was introduced in our weekly devotional, within team meetings, etc. Being the new person is kind of stressful because you have to remember a bajillion names and the other people only have to remember one. Instant disadvantage for me. But I felt like I was getting to know people's names as I worked with them, and I usually wasn't afraid to ask their name if I didn't know. And my desk faces west. Yes, that's important.
There's this nice man we'll call John. Because that's his name. John is a very nice guy, always says hello or asks how the day is going, etc. At first, he didn't ever use my name. No big deal. I didn't know his name either. One day John came by my desk from the north and said, "Hey, Jackie. How are you?" Not wanting to embarrass him by pointing out he used the wrong name I answered, "Doing well. How are you?" (Because I still didn't know his name. I'm terrible with names.) A day or two later, John approached my desk from the south and said, "Hi there, Katie. Good to see you today." I still didn't know his name, so I said, "Hi there. Good to see you, too."
Similar exchanges happened a few times until I finally looked up his photo in our directory and realized his name was John. When I see him now I use his name. How appropriate and adult of me, right? I thought so. I noticed that whenever John approaches me from the north, he thinks my name is Jackie. Whenever he approaches me from the south, he thinks my name is Katie. Because I'm so appropriate and such an adult, I just let it be and didn't say a word to him about it. At this point, it's become kind of awkward that he's called me Jackie from the north for so long, and I didn't want to point out that I'm an idiot who didn't realize what name he'd called me until we were already conversing. It's totally awkward to break into a conversation and be like, "Yeah, so you know how you call me Jackie? That's not my name. But how are you anyway?" I mean, there's just no comfortable way to begin that conversation.
One day, one of my bosses was at my desk asking me to do something or check on something and John approached me from the north. He greeted me with the usual, "Hi Jackie." and kept walking. I politely answered back, and then turned to my boss who was looking at me with this funny look on his face. It was then I realized, yep, that just happened when my boss asked, "Did he just call you Jackie?" Why yes, yes he did. So I explained to my boss that when John comes from the north I'm Jackie, and when he comes from the south I'm Katie. And my boss was laughing. The secretary that sits across from me was laughing. It hadn't dawned on her why John only occasionally got my name correct. I had put two and two together, but she hadn't realized that he really thought of me as two different people and the name he chose to use depended on which direction he was coming from.
I tried to downplay it by saying to my boss and the secretary, "Yeah, it happens. But don't worry about it. I've figured out how to fix it." My boss said, "Oh, you're going to tell him he's calling you by the wrong name?" And I said, "Oh no! Heavens no. I don't want to embarrass him." They both looked at me like I was crazy, so I explained my logic. "When he approaches me from the north and calls me Jackie, I'm just going to say, 'Hi Steve!' And when he approaches me from the south and uses my real name, I'm going to say, 'Hey John.'"
They both nearly fell on the floor laughing. I thought it was a logical plan. No? My boss got control of himself and said, "He's going to stop and say his name isn't Steve and ask why you're calling him that." I said, "I know. That's the beauty of it. When he stops and says that I'll say, 'Oh really? Well, my name isn't Jackie, never has been Jackie, and never will be Jackie. I guess we're even.'"
Totally appropriate and adult-like, right? Yes, I'm very mature like that.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Girl's Camp
I'm really tired today, but still wanted to write something of value, so I turned to the list of blog ideas, saw "Girl's Camp" and thought, 'Yep, that's a good one to write about since the tired I feel today compares a little with the tired I felt then.'
This is not for the light-stomached. I still kind of gag thinking about it.
Right after I turned 13, we moved to a different house in a different city. As spring approached, the mom across the street asked if I was planning on going to Girl's Camp (it's about a week long [sometimes more, sometimes less] camp that the Young Women ages 12-18 in the LDS Church attend to learn practical camping, survival, first aid, and other skills along with spiritual development). I missed out on going to Girl's Camp the previous year because I was in Mexico with Mom and Dad (another blog post that will take ages to write). Anyway, I told the neighbor mom I was not planning to attend because we weren't really a big camping family. In truth, I didn't want to go because I've always found it very difficult to be away from home overnight. Plus, it was far away and would be spent with a group of girls and leaders that I hardly knew.
Somehow, Dad found out that I had said I was not going to Girl's camp. He thought/felt it was a good idea that I go to bond with the other girls and make friends. In his defense, for that aspect, it was probably a good idea for me to go, but I went to school with all of those girls, so I did kind of know them. They just weren't in the crowd I hung out with at school. Dad was really trying to help and just wanted what was best for me. He encouraged (read: decided for) me to attend Girl's Camp. To appease him, I went through the process of getting certified and catching up with my age group so I wouldn't be behind everyone else. I'm sure the leaders were sick of me by the time Girl's Camp actually rolled around because I gave them grief at every turn in the certification process. It just wasn't my idea of fun, and I was only there for Dad, not because I wanted to be there.
The day arrived for Girl's Camp. I got up early, someone (probably Dad) took me to the church building with all my stuff, we loaded up in four-wheel drive vehicles, and we headed for the mountains. I was in a car full of girls who did nothing but giggle the whole way and talk about boys and who has a crush on whom. At 13, I still thought boys smelled funny and were only good for opening jars with too-tight lids. I was FAR from boy crazy and wished the entire ride in the car to camp I would have brought a library of books with me to read. It was torture to have to sit through that, and if I remember right, I think I ended up just talking to the leaders that were in the car with us.
We arrived at camp safely, unpacked the vehicles, made our way to our dorms/tents, and were told to quickly head back to the main lodge for name tags, shirts, and introduction activities. I threw my stuff on one of the bottom bunks in our dorm. As soon as I did so, one of the other girls a year younger than me asked if she could be my "bunk mate" and sleep on the top bunk. She was a fun girl and one that was always friendly, so I figured it couldn't be too bad and agreed she could have it. I noticed something flying around the eaves of our dorm and asked another girl about it. "Those? Oh, those are just birds. Sometimes they nest in the eaves. They won't bother you. It's fun to have them around!" And off we went to the lodge. All the while I thought, "Uh, I don't like things that fly and flap around. And I like it even less when birds chirp in the early morning and wake me up. This could get interesting."
We had a good time at the lodge, I learned people's names, found a group of girls I knew from school that I was comfortable with, and we sang songs, talked about crafts we were going to do, and got a schedule for the week. We were informed that showers were available, but they were in the girl's outhouse section of toilets, and the water was very cold. If we had long hair, they suggested we keep it tied up (braided, in a bun, etc.) for the week and plan to wash it when we got home. Me: "Um, gross." I could maybe go every other day without washing it, but almost a week? They were kidding, right?
I don't remember a whole lot about what we did during the days, but I do know we made some neat crafts, hiked, looked for and identified certain plants and animals, and generally had an okay time (for camping, I mean). I believe it was the second night we were there (that year camp went from a Tuesday to Saturday morning) that the leaders had us help them make chicken and dumplings in a cast iron stove over the fire, Dutch-oven style. Everyone pitched in and did their parts, but I was not excited to be eating that for dinner. I've always been a texture person, and that food looked like a blob of goo that was just going to get bigger the more you chewed it. I had, however, learned a lot about myself and my tolerance levels in Mexico, so I was trying to suck it up and be a big girl. I ate a couple of biscuits with a little bit of gravy on them and called it good. The other girls must have been starving because they ate every last bit of it.
We played games that night in our dorm, and I carefully watched the "birds" flying around in the eaves. They called for lights out, so we huddled down in our sleeping bags. Lots of the girls continued to talk and laugh into the night. I'm sure it drove our leaders crazy. It drove me crazy! I wasn't sleeping well because I was away from home, and they were jibber-jabbering until the sun came up (or so it seemed). Things finally got quiet, and I listened to the "birds" shifting in the eaves until I was so tired I basically passed out.
Early in the morning, before it was even light, I heard, "Geh. Ohhh. Geh. Cough." And then I felt it: SPLASH. And then I smelled it. Vomit. All over me. All over my pillow, all over my sleeping bag, all over my face and hair, and now dripping towards the floor and my bag of stuff for the week. The girl above me on the bunk bed had puked up her chicken and biscuits in her sleep. To make matters worse, she wasn't awake when she did it, so I leaned over quickly, shoved my bag to the other end of the bed (in hopes of saving some of my clothes from getting soaked in puke), and sat up in bed. Right as I sat up, she leaned over and heaved out the rest of her chicken and biscuits. It was all over my hair, face, and lap. I yelled her name, "Karolyn!", and she woke up from her sleep only to say, "Ew, I don't feel very good." Really? REALLY?! YOU don't feel good? I'm covered in your vomit and smell so bad it's a wonder every girl didn't wake up, and YOU don't feel good? One of the leaders woke up when she heard us talking. She turned on her flashlight and made her way over. I will never forget her holding that flashlight and dry heaving while she looked at me, looked at Karolyn, and told me to go get washed up in the girl's bathroom. I was covered in puke. Exactly how was I supposed to get cleaned up without leaving a trail of vomit behind me?
Thankfully, one of my hands was still sort of clean, so the leader grabbed me some clean clothes from my bag, sent me on my way, and she cleaned up the trail of puke after I left the dorm. Not so thankfully, I remembered as I stepped out the door that there had been a bear sighting earlier the day before, and they had specifically said, "DO NOT leave your dorms at night. If you have to go to the bathroom, go in pairs, and BE SURE to take a flashlight." There I was. On my own. Leaving the dorm in the middle of the dark night. Nobody to accompany me. No flashlight. Hands full of clean clothes, smelling like fresh chicken and biscuits. Just paint a target on my back and yell for the bear. I ran as fast as I could to the bathroom and quickly locked the door of the stall behind me. As if that would have kept a bear out. I used a massive pile of toilet paper to clean up the chunks of puke still hanging from me and wiped my face, arms, and hands off so I could put on clean clothes without getting puke everywhere.
As quietly as I could, I left the stall and turned on the water. Ice cold. And by ice cold, I mean Antarctic. It was the middle of the night. There'd been no sun out for a while to heat the water tanks a bit, which only remotely changed the temperature of the water from Antarctic to sub-zero. But I was desperate, so I rinsed out my clothes as well as I could and squeezed them as dry as I could get them. I used paper towels, soap, and Antarctic water to wash off the rest of my face, arms, and hands. There was no light, so I was going strictly by feel. I was shivering so fiercely that it felt like my internal organs would be blended like a smoothie. And then I remembered my hair. I knew it was covered in puke. And I knew there was NO WAY I was sticking a head full of starchy biscuits in that cold water. My dad was a dry cleaner by profession. I knew very well what cold water would do to that biscuit mess, and I knew they'd have to shave all of my hair off (hair that was nearly down to my rear end in length, mind you) to get the biscuits out. I needed hot water to get out of this hot mess. Instead, I ran my hands over my hair with the paper towels and tried to get as many of the chunks out as I could. When it felt semi-dried, I gathered up my vomit clothes and returned to the dorm.
As I walked into the dorm the leader says, "Why didn't you wash your hair?!" Dumbfounded, I looked at her. She asked me again. This time I said, "Look, lady. My dad is a dry cleaner. If I wash this hair in cold water it will make things worse. I'll have to shave my head." She could see (I guess) that I was in no shape to argue with, so she told me to go back to bed. "On what?" I asked. "My pillow and sleeping bag are covered in puke." She stared at me, sighed heavily, and said, "Can you just turn them over for now." I'm sure my look of disgust sent the exact message I intended, and I'm pretty sure she understood it. She and another leader said they'd be right back with paper towels and help me clean things up as best as we could. I dropped my cold, wet clothes near my bag and waited. A few minutes later, they were back with stacks of paper towels, and we wiped off my sleeping bag and pillow enough that I could turn it over and sleep. Karolyn? She was asleep the whole time. It was probably the best night's sleep of her whole life.
I got in my sleeping bag and hunkered down. While I was adjusting my pillow and trying to drag it into the sleeping bag with me in case of another "incident", I heard the two leaders talking and one asked the other, "Do you think we should tell the girls we're in a dorm with bats, or should we keep telling them it's birds?" My eyes the rest of the night: O-O.
The next morning, I awoke out of my haze to girls complaining about the smell. Ugh. Yeah. It's me. And it's bad. Karolyn wanted to know what happened. Why did I have puke in my hair? "You put it there. You tell me." It was not the best morning I've ever had. (Mornings aren't good for/to me anyway.) And Karolyn was in denial. She honestly had no clue it had happened. Her only response, "Well, I'm starving! Do you think they'll have eggs for breakfast?" Sure, Karolyn. Eggs - just for you.
Everyone headed to the main lodge while I slowly got re-dressed and tried to put on some deodorant in hopes of not smelling TOO bad. It was a futile effort. Completely hopeless. So I walked to the lodge with my hair matted with puke. The other leaders were completely grossed out, and I asked one of the main leaders if I could please wash my hair in the warm water in the lodge where the main leaders were sleeping. The answer: no. If I washed my hair there than every other girl would think they should be able to wash their hair in the lodge. Riiiiiiiiight. "Okay." I said. "I'll just wait until I get home then." Their eyes for the rest of the day: O-O. They were NOT happy with me, but I held my ground and refused to wash my hair in cold water. At one point, I even explained what the cold water would do to the starchy biscuits. And I explained it in great detail. "It will first go to mush. Then, it will spread through the rest of my hair. No amount of shampoo will change that. I will be picking biscuit out of my hair for years to come unless I decide to shave my head." I'm sure they thought I was being dramatic, but I held my ground.
The day wore on. It got warmer outside. We were outside ALL day. The heat warmed up the puke. The puke started to smell worse and worse by the minute. Girls complained. Leaders complained. I just smiled and said, "It will all go away as soon as I can have some warm water to wash my hair." By that night, nobody could stand to be around me. I couldn't taste or smell anything but chicken and biscuits. Clarify: digested chicken and biscuits. There's a difference. Finally, when we went to the lodge for dinner, one of the leaders pulled me aside. She handed me a towel and some shampoo, and without saying a word, pointed to the lodge bathroom. Win. And bless her!
I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until my head was nearly raw. Hair that long needs conditioner, but at that point I didn't even care. I washed it multiple times until it squeaked as I squeezed the water out of it. The vomit had made my head itch uncontrollably, and it was nice to have that feeling gone. By the time I finished with my hair, everyone had eaten their dinner and gone back to their dorms. Someone saved me a plate of food, which I gobbled up quickly. I returned to the dorm to find that Karolyn had moved her bed and nobody was now sleeping above me. Another win.
The stench was gone, nobody else got sick, and we only had a couple of days left with the "birds" in the dorm, which I finally told everyone the night before we left were actually bats. That didn't go so well. Nobody slept that night, and every time one moved a girl would scream. It was justice, if you ask me. I hadn't slept because of them and because of the vomit for almost a week. Deal with it, you sissies.
I was so glad when Girl's Camp was over! Dad picked me up at the church when we got back to reality. "How was it?" he asked excitedly. "Do you think you'll go back next year."
Me: silence. And a death stare.
And then I said, "I will never go back to Girl's Camp, Dad. And I'm not going to talk about it."
It wasn't until years later that he found out exactly what happened. His response? "No wonder you didn't want to talk about it." Ya think?!
This is not for the light-stomached. I still kind of gag thinking about it.
Right after I turned 13, we moved to a different house in a different city. As spring approached, the mom across the street asked if I was planning on going to Girl's Camp (it's about a week long [sometimes more, sometimes less] camp that the Young Women ages 12-18 in the LDS Church attend to learn practical camping, survival, first aid, and other skills along with spiritual development). I missed out on going to Girl's Camp the previous year because I was in Mexico with Mom and Dad (another blog post that will take ages to write). Anyway, I told the neighbor mom I was not planning to attend because we weren't really a big camping family. In truth, I didn't want to go because I've always found it very difficult to be away from home overnight. Plus, it was far away and would be spent with a group of girls and leaders that I hardly knew.
Somehow, Dad found out that I had said I was not going to Girl's camp. He thought/felt it was a good idea that I go to bond with the other girls and make friends. In his defense, for that aspect, it was probably a good idea for me to go, but I went to school with all of those girls, so I did kind of know them. They just weren't in the crowd I hung out with at school. Dad was really trying to help and just wanted what was best for me. He encouraged (read: decided for) me to attend Girl's Camp. To appease him, I went through the process of getting certified and catching up with my age group so I wouldn't be behind everyone else. I'm sure the leaders were sick of me by the time Girl's Camp actually rolled around because I gave them grief at every turn in the certification process. It just wasn't my idea of fun, and I was only there for Dad, not because I wanted to be there.
The day arrived for Girl's Camp. I got up early, someone (probably Dad) took me to the church building with all my stuff, we loaded up in four-wheel drive vehicles, and we headed for the mountains. I was in a car full of girls who did nothing but giggle the whole way and talk about boys and who has a crush on whom. At 13, I still thought boys smelled funny and were only good for opening jars with too-tight lids. I was FAR from boy crazy and wished the entire ride in the car to camp I would have brought a library of books with me to read. It was torture to have to sit through that, and if I remember right, I think I ended up just talking to the leaders that were in the car with us.
We arrived at camp safely, unpacked the vehicles, made our way to our dorms/tents, and were told to quickly head back to the main lodge for name tags, shirts, and introduction activities. I threw my stuff on one of the bottom bunks in our dorm. As soon as I did so, one of the other girls a year younger than me asked if she could be my "bunk mate" and sleep on the top bunk. She was a fun girl and one that was always friendly, so I figured it couldn't be too bad and agreed she could have it. I noticed something flying around the eaves of our dorm and asked another girl about it. "Those? Oh, those are just birds. Sometimes they nest in the eaves. They won't bother you. It's fun to have them around!" And off we went to the lodge. All the while I thought, "Uh, I don't like things that fly and flap around. And I like it even less when birds chirp in the early morning and wake me up. This could get interesting."
We had a good time at the lodge, I learned people's names, found a group of girls I knew from school that I was comfortable with, and we sang songs, talked about crafts we were going to do, and got a schedule for the week. We were informed that showers were available, but they were in the girl's outhouse section of toilets, and the water was very cold. If we had long hair, they suggested we keep it tied up (braided, in a bun, etc.) for the week and plan to wash it when we got home. Me: "Um, gross." I could maybe go every other day without washing it, but almost a week? They were kidding, right?
I don't remember a whole lot about what we did during the days, but I do know we made some neat crafts, hiked, looked for and identified certain plants and animals, and generally had an okay time (for camping, I mean). I believe it was the second night we were there (that year camp went from a Tuesday to Saturday morning) that the leaders had us help them make chicken and dumplings in a cast iron stove over the fire, Dutch-oven style. Everyone pitched in and did their parts, but I was not excited to be eating that for dinner. I've always been a texture person, and that food looked like a blob of goo that was just going to get bigger the more you chewed it. I had, however, learned a lot about myself and my tolerance levels in Mexico, so I was trying to suck it up and be a big girl. I ate a couple of biscuits with a little bit of gravy on them and called it good. The other girls must have been starving because they ate every last bit of it.
We played games that night in our dorm, and I carefully watched the "birds" flying around in the eaves. They called for lights out, so we huddled down in our sleeping bags. Lots of the girls continued to talk and laugh into the night. I'm sure it drove our leaders crazy. It drove me crazy! I wasn't sleeping well because I was away from home, and they were jibber-jabbering until the sun came up (or so it seemed). Things finally got quiet, and I listened to the "birds" shifting in the eaves until I was so tired I basically passed out.
Early in the morning, before it was even light, I heard, "Geh. Ohhh. Geh. Cough." And then I felt it: SPLASH. And then I smelled it. Vomit. All over me. All over my pillow, all over my sleeping bag, all over my face and hair, and now dripping towards the floor and my bag of stuff for the week. The girl above me on the bunk bed had puked up her chicken and biscuits in her sleep. To make matters worse, she wasn't awake when she did it, so I leaned over quickly, shoved my bag to the other end of the bed (in hopes of saving some of my clothes from getting soaked in puke), and sat up in bed. Right as I sat up, she leaned over and heaved out the rest of her chicken and biscuits. It was all over my hair, face, and lap. I yelled her name, "Karolyn!", and she woke up from her sleep only to say, "Ew, I don't feel very good." Really? REALLY?! YOU don't feel good? I'm covered in your vomit and smell so bad it's a wonder every girl didn't wake up, and YOU don't feel good? One of the leaders woke up when she heard us talking. She turned on her flashlight and made her way over. I will never forget her holding that flashlight and dry heaving while she looked at me, looked at Karolyn, and told me to go get washed up in the girl's bathroom. I was covered in puke. Exactly how was I supposed to get cleaned up without leaving a trail of vomit behind me?
Thankfully, one of my hands was still sort of clean, so the leader grabbed me some clean clothes from my bag, sent me on my way, and she cleaned up the trail of puke after I left the dorm. Not so thankfully, I remembered as I stepped out the door that there had been a bear sighting earlier the day before, and they had specifically said, "DO NOT leave your dorms at night. If you have to go to the bathroom, go in pairs, and BE SURE to take a flashlight." There I was. On my own. Leaving the dorm in the middle of the dark night. Nobody to accompany me. No flashlight. Hands full of clean clothes, smelling like fresh chicken and biscuits. Just paint a target on my back and yell for the bear. I ran as fast as I could to the bathroom and quickly locked the door of the stall behind me. As if that would have kept a bear out. I used a massive pile of toilet paper to clean up the chunks of puke still hanging from me and wiped my face, arms, and hands off so I could put on clean clothes without getting puke everywhere.
As quietly as I could, I left the stall and turned on the water. Ice cold. And by ice cold, I mean Antarctic. It was the middle of the night. There'd been no sun out for a while to heat the water tanks a bit, which only remotely changed the temperature of the water from Antarctic to sub-zero. But I was desperate, so I rinsed out my clothes as well as I could and squeezed them as dry as I could get them. I used paper towels, soap, and Antarctic water to wash off the rest of my face, arms, and hands. There was no light, so I was going strictly by feel. I was shivering so fiercely that it felt like my internal organs would be blended like a smoothie. And then I remembered my hair. I knew it was covered in puke. And I knew there was NO WAY I was sticking a head full of starchy biscuits in that cold water. My dad was a dry cleaner by profession. I knew very well what cold water would do to that biscuit mess, and I knew they'd have to shave all of my hair off (hair that was nearly down to my rear end in length, mind you) to get the biscuits out. I needed hot water to get out of this hot mess. Instead, I ran my hands over my hair with the paper towels and tried to get as many of the chunks out as I could. When it felt semi-dried, I gathered up my vomit clothes and returned to the dorm.
As I walked into the dorm the leader says, "Why didn't you wash your hair?!" Dumbfounded, I looked at her. She asked me again. This time I said, "Look, lady. My dad is a dry cleaner. If I wash this hair in cold water it will make things worse. I'll have to shave my head." She could see (I guess) that I was in no shape to argue with, so she told me to go back to bed. "On what?" I asked. "My pillow and sleeping bag are covered in puke." She stared at me, sighed heavily, and said, "Can you just turn them over for now." I'm sure my look of disgust sent the exact message I intended, and I'm pretty sure she understood it. She and another leader said they'd be right back with paper towels and help me clean things up as best as we could. I dropped my cold, wet clothes near my bag and waited. A few minutes later, they were back with stacks of paper towels, and we wiped off my sleeping bag and pillow enough that I could turn it over and sleep. Karolyn? She was asleep the whole time. It was probably the best night's sleep of her whole life.
I got in my sleeping bag and hunkered down. While I was adjusting my pillow and trying to drag it into the sleeping bag with me in case of another "incident", I heard the two leaders talking and one asked the other, "Do you think we should tell the girls we're in a dorm with bats, or should we keep telling them it's birds?" My eyes the rest of the night: O-O.
The next morning, I awoke out of my haze to girls complaining about the smell. Ugh. Yeah. It's me. And it's bad. Karolyn wanted to know what happened. Why did I have puke in my hair? "You put it there. You tell me." It was not the best morning I've ever had. (Mornings aren't good for/to me anyway.) And Karolyn was in denial. She honestly had no clue it had happened. Her only response, "Well, I'm starving! Do you think they'll have eggs for breakfast?" Sure, Karolyn. Eggs - just for you.
Everyone headed to the main lodge while I slowly got re-dressed and tried to put on some deodorant in hopes of not smelling TOO bad. It was a futile effort. Completely hopeless. So I walked to the lodge with my hair matted with puke. The other leaders were completely grossed out, and I asked one of the main leaders if I could please wash my hair in the warm water in the lodge where the main leaders were sleeping. The answer: no. If I washed my hair there than every other girl would think they should be able to wash their hair in the lodge. Riiiiiiiiight. "Okay." I said. "I'll just wait until I get home then." Their eyes for the rest of the day: O-O. They were NOT happy with me, but I held my ground and refused to wash my hair in cold water. At one point, I even explained what the cold water would do to the starchy biscuits. And I explained it in great detail. "It will first go to mush. Then, it will spread through the rest of my hair. No amount of shampoo will change that. I will be picking biscuit out of my hair for years to come unless I decide to shave my head." I'm sure they thought I was being dramatic, but I held my ground.
The day wore on. It got warmer outside. We were outside ALL day. The heat warmed up the puke. The puke started to smell worse and worse by the minute. Girls complained. Leaders complained. I just smiled and said, "It will all go away as soon as I can have some warm water to wash my hair." By that night, nobody could stand to be around me. I couldn't taste or smell anything but chicken and biscuits. Clarify: digested chicken and biscuits. There's a difference. Finally, when we went to the lodge for dinner, one of the leaders pulled me aside. She handed me a towel and some shampoo, and without saying a word, pointed to the lodge bathroom. Win. And bless her!
I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until my head was nearly raw. Hair that long needs conditioner, but at that point I didn't even care. I washed it multiple times until it squeaked as I squeezed the water out of it. The vomit had made my head itch uncontrollably, and it was nice to have that feeling gone. By the time I finished with my hair, everyone had eaten their dinner and gone back to their dorms. Someone saved me a plate of food, which I gobbled up quickly. I returned to the dorm to find that Karolyn had moved her bed and nobody was now sleeping above me. Another win.
The stench was gone, nobody else got sick, and we only had a couple of days left with the "birds" in the dorm, which I finally told everyone the night before we left were actually bats. That didn't go so well. Nobody slept that night, and every time one moved a girl would scream. It was justice, if you ask me. I hadn't slept because of them and because of the vomit for almost a week. Deal with it, you sissies.
I was so glad when Girl's Camp was over! Dad picked me up at the church when we got back to reality. "How was it?" he asked excitedly. "Do you think you'll go back next year."
Me: silence. And a death stare.
And then I said, "I will never go back to Girl's Camp, Dad. And I'm not going to talk about it."
It wasn't until years later that he found out exactly what happened. His response? "No wonder you didn't want to talk about it." Ya think?!
Friday, April 10, 2015
How are you still married?!
I'm kind of fuming right now, so if this post doesn't make much sense it's because of the steam spouting from my ears.
Today at lunch, I walked across the street to a massive grocery store to pick up part of a birthday present for a sister-in-law. I found what I needed (and then some - I'm a sucker for a good grocery store and interesting food items, plus ... they had specialty cheeses!!!) and headed back to work. It was quite a walk and took longer than I had anticipated (see: cheeses), so I was in a hurry and kind of tired and wishing I'd worn different shoes and basically, I was in my own world. As I'm coming up the last escalator, I get behind a family and hear the following conversation:
Husband to Young Son: "Do you still need to go potty?"
Wife to Husband: "Are you stupid?!"
Husband: " .... "
Wife to Husband: "The restrooms are right there. Can't you see?"
Husband to Wife: "There are restrooms there? I must have missed them."
Wife to Husband: "That's because you're an idiot. Just open your eyes for once!"
Young Daughter to Young Son: SHOVE
Husband to Young Daughter: "Please be nice to your brother and don't shove him."
Wife to Husband: "So are you taking them to the restroom or what? We don't have all day. And where's my phone? You have it. I know you do!"
Husband to Wife: "I have your phone? I don't think I have it."
Wife to Husband: "You're always walking off with my phone. Where is it?! Find it!"
Husband: Frantically looking for Wife's phone and not finding it
Wife to Husband: "If you can't find it you're buying me a new one."
Wife to Young Children: "Stop it! I can't stand it when you do that!"
Husband to Young Children: "Kids, please stop shoving each other. Let's be nice to one another, okay? Let's just keep our hands to ourselves."
Wife to Husband: "If you're not taking them to the restroom let's go. I have things to do. You can mess around with your stupid stuff on your own time."
Husband to Young Children: "Who needs to go to the restroom?"
Wife to Husband: "Just take them already! And find my phone!"
Me: "&*%!%$@^#%$%$^*%$!*$*&!$^$@&*%#$^*%*&^@#$!!!!!!!!!!"
In fact, what I said rather loudly as I finally passed the maddening scene was, "Giiiiiiiiirl, you're lucky he puts up with your nasty, egotistical attitude because any other man would have dumped you on your rear end a LONG time ago!" And then I fumed almost all the way back to work. It made me so mad to see a wife treat her husband like that, especially in front of her children. Her daughter is obviously learning the mother's behavior since she shoved her younger brother for NO REASON WHATSOEVER. He was there, so she shoved him. It happens at home, so she can do it anywhere. Of course that made logical sense to her. If I had known the number for a battered husband's shelter at that moment I would have called it and then called child protective services to have those kids receive some help and counseling in order to have functioning and healthy relationships of their own some day. Heaven knows they're going to need it.
To make matters worse (maybe it does, maybe it doesn't), this woman was wearing designer everything. She didn't have on Target jeans or Walmart boots. She was wearing high-end stuff. The kids were dressed in pretty average apparel, and her husband was dressed in average apparel as well. Did she think putting on the expensive stuff would make her worth more? Because it didn't! And it won't! I know she's a daughter of God, and I really wish I could have seen her in that way, but at that moment she was a child of the Devil by the way she acted. I don't profess to know what their home life is like, but I can bet you it's pretty close to what I witnessed today (if not worse), and for that my heart breaks. That husband deserves more and so do those kids.
The bright spot? I re-entered Temple Square and noticed a new groom and bride waiting to have their pictures taken on the pedestal near the water fountain with the temple as their background (commonplace occurrence around these parts; happens almost daily). They were looking on as another couple became engaged on that very pedestal. It made me smile, and then it made me send up a quick prayer that those two couples would treat each other with more respect and dignity than the woman I had just heard.
If my hands hadn't been full I would have been tempted to slap Miss Attitude. She should thank heavens for grocery bags full of birthday gifts, dog treats, and lunch.
Today at lunch, I walked across the street to a massive grocery store to pick up part of a birthday present for a sister-in-law. I found what I needed (and then some - I'm a sucker for a good grocery store and interesting food items, plus ... they had specialty cheeses!!!) and headed back to work. It was quite a walk and took longer than I had anticipated (see: cheeses), so I was in a hurry and kind of tired and wishing I'd worn different shoes and basically, I was in my own world. As I'm coming up the last escalator, I get behind a family and hear the following conversation:
Husband to Young Son: "Do you still need to go potty?"
Wife to Husband: "Are you stupid?!"
Husband: " .... "
Wife to Husband: "The restrooms are right there. Can't you see?"
Husband to Wife: "There are restrooms there? I must have missed them."
Wife to Husband: "That's because you're an idiot. Just open your eyes for once!"
Young Daughter to Young Son: SHOVE
Husband to Young Daughter: "Please be nice to your brother and don't shove him."
Wife to Husband: "So are you taking them to the restroom or what? We don't have all day. And where's my phone? You have it. I know you do!"
Husband to Wife: "I have your phone? I don't think I have it."
Wife to Husband: "You're always walking off with my phone. Where is it?! Find it!"
Husband: Frantically looking for Wife's phone and not finding it
Wife to Husband: "If you can't find it you're buying me a new one."
Wife to Young Children: "Stop it! I can't stand it when you do that!"
Husband to Young Children: "Kids, please stop shoving each other. Let's be nice to one another, okay? Let's just keep our hands to ourselves."
Wife to Husband: "If you're not taking them to the restroom let's go. I have things to do. You can mess around with your stupid stuff on your own time."
Husband to Young Children: "Who needs to go to the restroom?"
Wife to Husband: "Just take them already! And find my phone!"
Me: "&*%!%$@^#%$%$^*%$!*$*&!$^$@&*%#$^*%*&^@#$!!!!!!!!!!"
In fact, what I said rather loudly as I finally passed the maddening scene was, "Giiiiiiiiirl, you're lucky he puts up with your nasty, egotistical attitude because any other man would have dumped you on your rear end a LONG time ago!" And then I fumed almost all the way back to work. It made me so mad to see a wife treat her husband like that, especially in front of her children. Her daughter is obviously learning the mother's behavior since she shoved her younger brother for NO REASON WHATSOEVER. He was there, so she shoved him. It happens at home, so she can do it anywhere. Of course that made logical sense to her. If I had known the number for a battered husband's shelter at that moment I would have called it and then called child protective services to have those kids receive some help and counseling in order to have functioning and healthy relationships of their own some day. Heaven knows they're going to need it.
To make matters worse (maybe it does, maybe it doesn't), this woman was wearing designer everything. She didn't have on Target jeans or Walmart boots. She was wearing high-end stuff. The kids were dressed in pretty average apparel, and her husband was dressed in average apparel as well. Did she think putting on the expensive stuff would make her worth more? Because it didn't! And it won't! I know she's a daughter of God, and I really wish I could have seen her in that way, but at that moment she was a child of the Devil by the way she acted. I don't profess to know what their home life is like, but I can bet you it's pretty close to what I witnessed today (if not worse), and for that my heart breaks. That husband deserves more and so do those kids.
The bright spot? I re-entered Temple Square and noticed a new groom and bride waiting to have their pictures taken on the pedestal near the water fountain with the temple as their background (commonplace occurrence around these parts; happens almost daily). They were looking on as another couple became engaged on that very pedestal. It made me smile, and then it made me send up a quick prayer that those two couples would treat each other with more respect and dignity than the woman I had just heard.
If my hands hadn't been full I would have been tempted to slap Miss Attitude. She should thank heavens for grocery bags full of birthday gifts, dog treats, and lunch.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Things I should blog about (another list ...)
Those who know me know I am a people-watcher. I'm an observer. Good friends know that we can be in the middle of conversing and lunching while I'm gathering tons of information about the people around us. All of that happens while carefully listening to every word my friends are saying. Today, I happened to be at a very busy place for lunch. It's Spring Break around these parts, so a lot of kids are out of school and parents are away from work. There was a plethora of information gathering going on at lunch today! So. much. to. observe!
On my return walk to work, I thought, "There are literally hundreds of things I could blog about simply from what I saw while at lunch today." That thought was quickly followed by, "Oh! I should blog about this and this and that and this." It occurred to me that there's not enough time in the world to blog about everything I'd like to blog about, so the idea came that I should make a list (I love lists!) of things I could blog about. That way, if/when I ever have writer's block and need a topic there will be an entire list waiting for me. Smart idea, no? Meh, I'm doing it anyway.
Things I'd like to blog about:
I'm sure there will be more to add at some point, but these will be a good starting point if I ever need a topic to write about. It's funny to me that one lunch hour could produce so much thought. Think what I could come up with if I had more sleep and didn't have a full-time job! I'd take the interwebs by storm with all the stuff I could write/talk about. As long as I don't have to actually talk to people about it. (See: "being an introvert" above.) It's probably a good thing the only people that read my blog are family. Except sometimes they don't even "get" me.
On my return walk to work, I thought, "There are literally hundreds of things I could blog about simply from what I saw while at lunch today." That thought was quickly followed by, "Oh! I should blog about this and this and that and this." It occurred to me that there's not enough time in the world to blog about everything I'd like to blog about, so the idea came that I should make a list (I love lists!) of things I could blog about. That way, if/when I ever have writer's block and need a topic there will be an entire list waiting for me. Smart idea, no? Meh, I'm doing it anyway.
Things I'd like to blog about:
- Prejudices (EVERY PERSON in the human race is prejudice)
- Children (and sometimes their lack of parental supervision)
- RECIPES!!! (because I'm a pretty good cook and sometimes make up my own stuff)
- Feelings of inadequacy (we all have 'em)
- Word usage (their/they're/there, your/you're - incorrect usage kills me! *update - done!)
- More word usage (I drank, but I have drunk - seriously, lots of people don't get it)
- Things that annoy me (this is actually one I almost posted this week because I was annoyed about something, which doesn't take much)
- Grandma and Grandpa Koyle
- Grandma and Grandpa Miller
- Broken bones and stitches (*update - done!)
- Summers as a kid
- Big wheels and diarrhea (believe me - this one is a must read) (*update - done!)
- Dog bites
- A homemade green dress and the jealousy that ensued (*update - done!)
- I can't make Jell-O (but boy, can I cook/bake!)
- Living in Mexico
- Places I've visited (spoiler: least favorite place was Paris, France)
- Places I want to go (this would have to be another list complete with the reasons why I want to go to those places) (*update - done!)
- Music
- The 24th of July
- Why I suddenly had a hate-hate relationship with winter after loving it forever
- Friends (in all their varieties)
- Anything sentimental (because I'm a sap)
- Christmas memories and Christmas stories (maybe I'll even share some I've written?)
- Funny things from elementary school
- A fly in my Mexican food (*update - done!)
- Dad's rain stick (or is it Mom's rain stick?)
- I'm a dreamer
- Favorite movies
- The guy who calls me Jackie (*update - done!)
- Grounded from recess by Miss Jordan
- Cousin (and principal) Beckstrom's sneezes
- Childhood friends
- Ice caves and igloos
- Golfing up a sidewalk hill
- Trampoline bouncing (and some involvement of power lines)
- Crushes
- Patriarchal blessing (I don't know that I'll ever write this one; it's a little personal)
- Learning to sew (and realizing I kind of enjoy it)
- What I'd do if I won the lottery
- The dog that followed me to school (*update - done!)
- Why technology is great and why it's ruining us as a society
- Most memorable birthdays
- Dad's death
- Margarine
- Choking on bacon (*update - done!)
- Weight can be genetic (I don't care what anyone else says/thinks about that issue)
- Reading The Book of Mormon in Spanish (yes, I actually did it)
- The Mormon Miracle Pageant in Manti, long hair, and ... gum
- Girl's camp (this one will bring back nightmares for me) (*update - done!)
- Why I'm a realist, not a pessimist (Mom's probably laughing at that one)
- Rationalizations (about anything and probably everything)
- Things that speak to my heart/soul
- Being an introvert
- Mowing the lawn and *shudder* snakes
- Keeping the peace
- Family BBQs and volleyball (we're hip like that)
I'm sure there will be more to add at some point, but these will be a good starting point if I ever need a topic to write about. It's funny to me that one lunch hour could produce so much thought. Think what I could come up with if I had more sleep and didn't have a full-time job! I'd take the interwebs by storm with all the stuff I could write/talk about. As long as I don't have to actually talk to people about it. (See: "being an introvert" above.) It's probably a good thing the only people that read my blog are family. Except sometimes they don't even "get" me.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Grape Vines and a Hole in the Fence
Our backyard had a peach tree, a pear tree, a HUGE lilac bush that was more like a tree (dang, I miss that bush - it always smelled soooo good), and a fence with grape vines that actually produced a few times. If I had grown up in California you might ask, "Your point?" Since I didn't grow up in California, it was a big deal. Grapes don't just thrive in Utah. I mean, it snows in Utah. And the summers are hot and arid. Our average humidity is zero. Okay, there might actually be a percentage of humidity, but you know what I mean. It was a miracle that these grapes thrived at all.
We "shared" the fence with an adjoining backyard. This, however, was no ordinary fence. Nope. This fence had a hole in it. You're saying, "Big deal!" right now, aren't you? Well, yes, in fact. It WAS a big deal. Because the hole in THIS fence was big enough that (small) people could fit through it. And it was ... wait for it ... hidden! When the vines of the grapes grew it became even more hidden. It was like a secret passage to a faraway hidden land. Like the gate in "The Secret Garden." Except the faraway hidden land was really the Leifson's backyard. And you had to be careful not to wreck Mark's beautiful garden when you went through. It wasn't the same as the Secret Garden, but it was a BIG garden. You could get lost in that thing. (I think one time I might have! Sometimes I'm still afraid of corn fields because they make me claustrophobic. I might have night terrors tonight.)
The hole in this fence was how I got to my best friend, Shauna's, house. It just made us so much cooler than any other kids on the block. When a group of us wanted to get together and the meeting point was at my house or Shauna's house we were both the first people there. Every time. I think the others thought we potentially had magical powers. And we didn't share that secret fence with very many. A handful of other kids knew about it, but for the most part we kept it to ourselves.
One year, we had an exceptionally good grape crop. I remember Mom (at least I think it was Mom) bottling jar after jar of stuff from those grapes. (I might only remember this because I had to carry a ton of those jars downstairs to our food storage room. And now I will have nightmares. *shudder* That room was sketchy.) Anyway, I remember helping with the grape picking that year and being sad when we finally picked the last batch because you could see through the fence completely and our hole (our secret passage) was now visible. Exposed for all to see. No longer a secret.
And then I realized the only people who ever used it even when others knew about it were me and Shauna (and some of our siblings). It really wasn't that big of a deal that you could see it. But it was still cool. Because I said so. And because we still talk about it. And because it is STILL THERE. We moved, but the Leifson's stayed put. The people that bought our house were a daughter and son-in-law of our other best friends, the Huffs. They kept the secret passage. And I believe Mark said they use it, too. I think the daughter and son-in-law use some of Mark's property for their own garden and get to it through the hole in the fence.
Now, I just need to find out if they still get any grapes from those vines or if they cut them down. I love it when life carries on the way it should (ahem, I mean, the way you remember it) even after you're long gone (not dead, just moved away). Next time Shauna's in town I think we might need to visit the hole in the fence and examine the grape status. And then say a prayer of thanks that we don't have to bottle those things!!!
We "shared" the fence with an adjoining backyard. This, however, was no ordinary fence. Nope. This fence had a hole in it. You're saying, "Big deal!" right now, aren't you? Well, yes, in fact. It WAS a big deal. Because the hole in THIS fence was big enough that (small) people could fit through it. And it was ... wait for it ... hidden! When the vines of the grapes grew it became even more hidden. It was like a secret passage to a faraway hidden land. Like the gate in "The Secret Garden." Except the faraway hidden land was really the Leifson's backyard. And you had to be careful not to wreck Mark's beautiful garden when you went through. It wasn't the same as the Secret Garden, but it was a BIG garden. You could get lost in that thing. (I think one time I might have! Sometimes I'm still afraid of corn fields because they make me claustrophobic. I might have night terrors tonight.)
The hole in this fence was how I got to my best friend, Shauna's, house. It just made us so much cooler than any other kids on the block. When a group of us wanted to get together and the meeting point was at my house or Shauna's house we were both the first people there. Every time. I think the others thought we potentially had magical powers. And we didn't share that secret fence with very many. A handful of other kids knew about it, but for the most part we kept it to ourselves.
One year, we had an exceptionally good grape crop. I remember Mom (at least I think it was Mom) bottling jar after jar of stuff from those grapes. (I might only remember this because I had to carry a ton of those jars downstairs to our food storage room. And now I will have nightmares. *shudder* That room was sketchy.) Anyway, I remember helping with the grape picking that year and being sad when we finally picked the last batch because you could see through the fence completely and our hole (our secret passage) was now visible. Exposed for all to see. No longer a secret.
And then I realized the only people who ever used it even when others knew about it were me and Shauna (and some of our siblings). It really wasn't that big of a deal that you could see it. But it was still cool. Because I said so. And because we still talk about it. And because it is STILL THERE. We moved, but the Leifson's stayed put. The people that bought our house were a daughter and son-in-law of our other best friends, the Huffs. They kept the secret passage. And I believe Mark said they use it, too. I think the daughter and son-in-law use some of Mark's property for their own garden and get to it through the hole in the fence.
Now, I just need to find out if they still get any grapes from those vines or if they cut them down. I love it when life carries on the way it should (ahem, I mean, the way you remember it) even after you're long gone (not dead, just moved away). Next time Shauna's in town I think we might need to visit the hole in the fence and examine the grape status. And then say a prayer of thanks that we don't have to bottle those things!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)