When I was 14, my family thought it would be a great idea to visit our nation's capitol. I love traveling and was all for it. However, traveling, as the word implies, means you have to travel to get to your destination, which is, the last time I checked, everyone's least favorite part of visiting places.
The day of our flight arrived. It was a morning flight, and we live about an hour from the airport, so we had to get up around five in the morning. I woke up feeling sort of sick to my stomach, but brushed it off, figuring it was probably just from waking up so early (but I was taking early-morning seminary, so I should have ruled that idea out from the get-go.) We got to the airport and decided to breakfast at the McDonald's located on the way to our gate. Now, I have never been a huge fan of fast-food breakfast. Something about it, no matter where it's from or what it is, always makes me feel ill. I ate some hashbrowns and orange juice anyway.
We eventually boarded our plane and we headed on our way toward the next airport where we would have a layover. The flight was at least a couple hours, and not too long into the flight, I really started feeling queasy. I glanced at the bathroom, but there was a rather long wait. So I decided I would wait until the line got shorter. But my insides did not have the courtesy to wait. My stomach began to churn in a most uncomfortable manner. But I held strong. About 15 minutes later, I looked toward the restroom again, and to my dismay, the line was not any shorter. So I waited.
Not too long afterwards, my internal systems started sending out S.O.S. signals, and I knew it was now or never. I joined the long line to the bathroom, hoping I would make it by the time the five or so people in front of me had done their business.
Then, without preparation, Old Faithful erupted. While I was in line. The most amazing thing, however, was that somehow I managed to keep my mouth closed. This feat made me look something similar to a chipmunk...only not as cute.
I immediately realized I was in a unique predicament and began to panic. I couldn't just release my regurgitated breakfast all over the aisle in front of more than a hundred passengers, and I was unable to vocalize my urgent necessity as my mouth was...uh...clogged. I hurried to the back of the plane, where a caucasian stewardess and an asian steward were. Since I was unable to talk, I just stood there and helplessly looked at them with my hands to my water-balloon-like mouth. It took them about three eternally long seconds to realize my problem. The male grabbed a paper department store shopping bag and held it out to me, which I promptly grabbed. Unfortunately, the bag was only partially situated in the "splash zone" and as I released, only half of it made it into the bag, while the other portion of my internalized culinary concoction cascaded to the floor into a pile of putrid slop. I stood there, holding my improvised barf bag, hunched over in shame. I don't why it mattered, but I felt that I needed the flight crew to know that I wasn't some wimpy motion sickly person, so I muttered something like, "I'm not motion sick...." and watched them pour something resembling baking soda over what had not landed in my bag.
I honestly cannot remember any of what happened in the next couple hours. I don't remember giving the bag back, or going back to my seat to endure the remainder of the flight in helpless misery, but I do vividly remember puking out every last ounce of sprite I had drank earlier to supposedly calm my tummy down on the next flight into the handily provided throw-up bag of the pocket of the seat in front of me. I also vividly remember the horrific disgusted expression of my younger sister's face, who unfortunately had been seated next to me, and would have rather been in any other place than where she currently was. I am sorry Kathryn.
By the time we made it to our hotel in Virginia, my stomach had successfully rejected every particle I had tried to consume that day. My mom vocally wondered if I had an intestinal blockage. Me eating dinner was definitely out of the question, so my family left to eat while I stayed behind in the hotel room. But the idea of a possible intestinal blockage horrified me so much, that not even sixty seconds after everyone had left, I went to my bed and sobbed my eyes out and prayed and prayed that I would be okay. I had horrible visuals of me needed emergency surgery in an unfamiliar place and ruining our family vacation.
Fortunately, I recovered. When Family returned I nibbled on some crackers, which gratefully stayed down. By the next day I was completely fine.
Unfortunately, a few days before the trip ended. I caught a terrible cold that stayed until we went home. Sigh. It was a hopeless battle.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
#10: The Number ONE most awkward moment. of. my. life.
Those who know me know that I am artistic. Drawing is one of my favorite hobbies, especially figure drawing. Before I changed my major to art education, I was actually planning on getting my degree in Fine Arts. That said, let me take you back to my Sophomore year in college during spring term. One of the older single adults, Prabhu*, had been assigned to be my home teacher. Prabhu was of Indian descent (dot Indian, not feather) and was a convert to the church. He was an aspiring actor, and was a rather... uh... unique individual.
Towards the end of one winter semester, Prabhu and I found ourselves at the same social gathering in a mutual friend's apartment. We small-talked for a bit, during which he found out about my artistic talents. He then suggested that he could model for me sometime, as in, model different types of characters, which would help him with his acting. I said something like, "Oh, yeah totally!" and we decided to wait until spring term started and weren't totally bogged down by school. I brushed the conversation off, thinking it would be forgotten about.
Then, one fine spring day, I got an unexpected phone call. It was Prabhu, following up. Mostly I thought, "Oh crap, he was serious!" but coordinated a time to have a modeling session with him anyway.
Now, I'm not sure at what point this was decided, but instead of doing it at either of our apartments where roommates could walk in, Prabhu informed me that we would be doing it at his parents' house in Orem, the neighboring city. This created some awkwardness, as I had no car and would have to ride with him. When the day came and I found myself in his car on the way to his house, I was 50% sure I was about to be raped and would have no escape. I had no idea where his house was, and only knew one other person that lived in Orem, and had no idea how to get to their house either.
When we got to the house, I quickly mapped away the layout of his house, just in case I would need a quick escape and have to run for it. Fortunately, that wasn't necessary. At least, for the reasons I was thinking of.
We began our little drawing session. I sat on his couch and had him pose (in his clothes, thank you very much). However, he kept dropping awkward hints by saying things like, "Just so you know, I'm very comfortable with my body..." I tried to ignore what he was insinuating and said what he was doing was just fine. Eventually he suggested putting on a bathrobe to change things up. I figured, "What the heck."
Bad idea.
Prabhu disappeared for a moment and returned wearing a little white bathrobe that only reached his knees. I had him do a few poses, but I couldn't help but feel that he was making some of his poses just slightly more revealing than necessary. And after more hints, and me being firm in that him being clothed was just fine, he then started giving me this lecture on how I shouldn't be ashamed of the human body and yadda yadda yadda.
Ummm HELLO. You are my freaking home teacher. I would have absolutely no problem drawing a live nude. As long as I didn't know them personally, let alone the person who comes to my home once a month to give me a spiritual message. Good heavens. There is an unsaid barrier between artist and model, and it is always, I repeat always, awkward when that barrier is breached.
I compromised by telling him he could put on some shorts and leave his shirt off. He disappeared again. And reappeared. Wearing only his boxer shorts.
Fortunately, I had the session end shortly after. We had an awkward drive home, and I think Prabhu said something about trying to do it again sometime. I think I told him I'd get back to him on that. You are correct if you assumed I never did.
Now, whenever I go through that sketchbook, I laugh a little to myself as I see my model slowly lose his clothes. And I laughed a little when I saw Prabhu's face on a billboard and in a movie preview advertising some Mormon movie.
Guess you never know what you can ask your home teachers to do for you.
*For privacy issues, names have been changed
Towards the end of one winter semester, Prabhu and I found ourselves at the same social gathering in a mutual friend's apartment. We small-talked for a bit, during which he found out about my artistic talents. He then suggested that he could model for me sometime, as in, model different types of characters, which would help him with his acting. I said something like, "Oh, yeah totally!" and we decided to wait until spring term started and weren't totally bogged down by school. I brushed the conversation off, thinking it would be forgotten about.
Then, one fine spring day, I got an unexpected phone call. It was Prabhu, following up. Mostly I thought, "Oh crap, he was serious!" but coordinated a time to have a modeling session with him anyway.
Now, I'm not sure at what point this was decided, but instead of doing it at either of our apartments where roommates could walk in, Prabhu informed me that we would be doing it at his parents' house in Orem, the neighboring city. This created some awkwardness, as I had no car and would have to ride with him. When the day came and I found myself in his car on the way to his house, I was 50% sure I was about to be raped and would have no escape. I had no idea where his house was, and only knew one other person that lived in Orem, and had no idea how to get to their house either.
When we got to the house, I quickly mapped away the layout of his house, just in case I would need a quick escape and have to run for it. Fortunately, that wasn't necessary. At least, for the reasons I was thinking of.
We began our little drawing session. I sat on his couch and had him pose (in his clothes, thank you very much). However, he kept dropping awkward hints by saying things like, "Just so you know, I'm very comfortable with my body..." I tried to ignore what he was insinuating and said what he was doing was just fine. Eventually he suggested putting on a bathrobe to change things up. I figured, "What the heck."
Bad idea.
Prabhu disappeared for a moment and returned wearing a little white bathrobe that only reached his knees. I had him do a few poses, but I couldn't help but feel that he was making some of his poses just slightly more revealing than necessary. And after more hints, and me being firm in that him being clothed was just fine, he then started giving me this lecture on how I shouldn't be ashamed of the human body and yadda yadda yadda.
Ummm HELLO. You are my freaking home teacher. I would have absolutely no problem drawing a live nude. As long as I didn't know them personally, let alone the person who comes to my home once a month to give me a spiritual message. Good heavens. There is an unsaid barrier between artist and model, and it is always, I repeat always, awkward when that barrier is breached.
I compromised by telling him he could put on some shorts and leave his shirt off. He disappeared again. And reappeared. Wearing only his boxer shorts.
Fortunately, I had the session end shortly after. We had an awkward drive home, and I think Prabhu said something about trying to do it again sometime. I think I told him I'd get back to him on that. You are correct if you assumed I never did.
Now, whenever I go through that sketchbook, I laugh a little to myself as I see my model slowly lose his clothes. And I laughed a little when I saw Prabhu's face on a billboard and in a movie preview advertising some Mormon movie.
Guess you never know what you can ask your home teachers to do for you.
*For privacy issues, names have been changed
Friday, January 21, 2011
#9 The Creature from the Black Lagoon...coming soon to a bathroom near you!
This isn't necessarily an embarrassing story, but it was a funny moment.
Background: I'm on my mission in this little podunk town called Villa Hayes. I was almost a year out and my current companion was none other than Hermana Hayes, a "valley girl" from Wyoming. We lived in a little house that really nice compared to Paraguayan standards, but might be considered a dump anywhere else. But it had air conditioning, and that is all that really mattered in the 120 degree sweltering melt-your-face off heat. And it was pink, which just made Hermana Hayes day when she moved in.
Now, the bathroom of that house was....special, to put it lightly. It was always having problems. Toilet clogging, sink clogging from previous idiot missionaries putting paper down the drain (really????), you name it. And out shower, which was electric (water heaters are only for the richest of Paraguay) burned out in the coldest part of winter, so for a few days I had to sponge-bath (rinse 2 seconds in ice water, lather with loofa, rinse quickly, done) and to wash my hair I heated up water on the stove and poured the pot over my head, lathered, and poured again to rinse. After I got transfered, the toilet actually completely detached itself from the wall it was connected to. Glad I wasn't there for that one.
Here's a picture of the sink episode:
But this blog isn't about any of those incidences. Actually, most of these issues happened after the one I want to write about. Let's just say that the bathroom had "some serious issues" as Hermana Hayes would put it. And in Paraguay, shower curtains didn't really exist, and neither did bathtubs. So the showers were in the corner of the bathroom, and the part you stood in to bathe was a few inches lower than the rest of the bathroom floor. For that reason, everyone was also provided with a squeegee thing to clean up shower water that sprayed beyond its necessary boundaries.
Now, the town of Villa Hayes had some issues of its own. Despite bordering the only river in the country, the power and the water would sometimes shut off (thankfully never at the same time.) These events were never pre-announced, so you just had to be prepared. The town was also located in the part of the country known as "el chaco," which pretty much meant "in the middle of nowhere...really." It was a 45-minute bus ride to the closest big city, which is where we had our district meetings on Tuesdays and where we had to do our grocery shopping on Monday.
Now that I've painted the picture of our circumstances, it's story time:
One night, while we were sleeping, we had a storm. Not a bad one, but it consisted of lots of rain. And when it rained, Villa Hayes became a rather muddy place since very few of its roads were paved. Anyway, the 6:30 alarm buzzed its not-so-cheerful tune and we woke up and began to say our morning prayers. Hermana Hayes finished first and went out of the bedroom to go to the bathroom.
I was still praying when I heard in a voice not unlike Alicia Silverstone from Clueless cry, "OH....MY...GOSH...."
My first thought was that there must have been some huge, atrocious-looking vermin in the house, which was not uncommon in the mission. I quickly finished praying and followed Hermana Hayes. As soon as I left the bedroom doorway, I was hit in the face with a wall of stench that about made me keel over right there. It was like getting hit in the nostrils by a brick made by New York City Sewer System's worst.
My companion turned on the bathroom light, which revealed that there was a lot of nasty-looking water invading our hallway. We peered into the bathroom, where we saw, to our horror, that the shower drain had decided to regurgitate itself during the night and was filled with black water. So much water had come up, that it had filled the shower area below the normal floor level, had overflowed, crept across the bathroom tiles and into our hallway. It was like something out of a horror movie had decided to make its residence in our bathroom. Apparently, due to the rain storm, the drain had clogged and reversed tides, which made it come back where it came from, along with all the oozing black smelly dirt it could bring with it.
I grabbed our squeegee and began to push the water towards the shower. Most fortunately, the effect of rippling waves of water was enough to make the water go back down the drain. Unfortunately, the black, odorous dirt was too heavy to easily follow, so it remained clinging to the blue ceramic tiles of the shower floor. The next half hour was spent getting the stinky dirt down the drain where it belonged, and pouring LOTS and LOTS of bleach down the drain.
I'm sure you can understand why we always wore sandals inside our house.
Fortunately, our drain monster never visited us again during my time there. But it's still there...lurking quietly...waiting for the next pair of unsuspecting, innocent sister missionaries to make its stealthy attack.
You just never know what adventures you will have in Paraguay.
note: this picture was taken after we had already started to remove the water. When we found it, ALL of the water was black and had overflowed.
Background: I'm on my mission in this little podunk town called Villa Hayes. I was almost a year out and my current companion was none other than Hermana Hayes, a "valley girl" from Wyoming. We lived in a little house that really nice compared to Paraguayan standards, but might be considered a dump anywhere else. But it had air conditioning, and that is all that really mattered in the 120 degree sweltering melt-your-face off heat. And it was pink, which just made Hermana Hayes day when she moved in.
Now, the bathroom of that house was....special, to put it lightly. It was always having problems. Toilet clogging, sink clogging from previous idiot missionaries putting paper down the drain (really????), you name it. And out shower, which was electric (water heaters are only for the richest of Paraguay) burned out in the coldest part of winter, so for a few days I had to sponge-bath (rinse 2 seconds in ice water, lather with loofa, rinse quickly, done) and to wash my hair I heated up water on the stove and poured the pot over my head, lathered, and poured again to rinse. After I got transfered, the toilet actually completely detached itself from the wall it was connected to. Glad I wasn't there for that one.
Here's a picture of the sink episode:
But this blog isn't about any of those incidences. Actually, most of these issues happened after the one I want to write about. Let's just say that the bathroom had "some serious issues" as Hermana Hayes would put it. And in Paraguay, shower curtains didn't really exist, and neither did bathtubs. So the showers were in the corner of the bathroom, and the part you stood in to bathe was a few inches lower than the rest of the bathroom floor. For that reason, everyone was also provided with a squeegee thing to clean up shower water that sprayed beyond its necessary boundaries.
Now, the town of Villa Hayes had some issues of its own. Despite bordering the only river in the country, the power and the water would sometimes shut off (thankfully never at the same time.) These events were never pre-announced, so you just had to be prepared. The town was also located in the part of the country known as "el chaco," which pretty much meant "in the middle of nowhere...really." It was a 45-minute bus ride to the closest big city, which is where we had our district meetings on Tuesdays and where we had to do our grocery shopping on Monday.
Now that I've painted the picture of our circumstances, it's story time:
One night, while we were sleeping, we had a storm. Not a bad one, but it consisted of lots of rain. And when it rained, Villa Hayes became a rather muddy place since very few of its roads were paved. Anyway, the 6:30 alarm buzzed its not-so-cheerful tune and we woke up and began to say our morning prayers. Hermana Hayes finished first and went out of the bedroom to go to the bathroom.
I was still praying when I heard in a voice not unlike Alicia Silverstone from Clueless cry, "OH....MY...GOSH...."
My first thought was that there must have been some huge, atrocious-looking vermin in the house, which was not uncommon in the mission. I quickly finished praying and followed Hermana Hayes. As soon as I left the bedroom doorway, I was hit in the face with a wall of stench that about made me keel over right there. It was like getting hit in the nostrils by a brick made by New York City Sewer System's worst.
My companion turned on the bathroom light, which revealed that there was a lot of nasty-looking water invading our hallway. We peered into the bathroom, where we saw, to our horror, that the shower drain had decided to regurgitate itself during the night and was filled with black water. So much water had come up, that it had filled the shower area below the normal floor level, had overflowed, crept across the bathroom tiles and into our hallway. It was like something out of a horror movie had decided to make its residence in our bathroom. Apparently, due to the rain storm, the drain had clogged and reversed tides, which made it come back where it came from, along with all the oozing black smelly dirt it could bring with it.
I grabbed our squeegee and began to push the water towards the shower. Most fortunately, the effect of rippling waves of water was enough to make the water go back down the drain. Unfortunately, the black, odorous dirt was too heavy to easily follow, so it remained clinging to the blue ceramic tiles of the shower floor. The next half hour was spent getting the stinky dirt down the drain where it belonged, and pouring LOTS and LOTS of bleach down the drain.
I'm sure you can understand why we always wore sandals inside our house.
Fortunately, our drain monster never visited us again during my time there. But it's still there...lurking quietly...waiting for the next pair of unsuspecting, innocent sister missionaries to make its stealthy attack.
You just never know what adventures you will have in Paraguay.
note: this picture was taken after we had already started to remove the water. When we found it, ALL of the water was black and had overflowed.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
#8 A good reason to not work when sick
This is a mission story. And dedicated to dear Hermana Welch.
So, sometime during my 5th or 6th transfer, I caught a really nasty cold. I was super congested and felt super crummy. But the idea of not working wasn't an option for me, because I could still function pretty well. However, the internal cork in my nose came loose and I was a constant running faucet. No amount of tissues were adequate and every visit for those couple of days consisted of me requesting toilet paper of the residents...which was already slightly embarrassing.
Well, one night, when I was at the peak of my cold, we had agreed to help a less active member move. The move was just about a block away, but since I was sick, basically my job consisted of sitting on a chair and guarding the stuff while the family moved it.
For a brief moment, my comp and the less active member, a 16-year old girl named Beatris, were just chilling outside chatting. My nose started to tickle and I felt a sneeze coming on. I had the pre-sneeze gasp-like inhale and then suddenly I felt something enormous and disgusting explode out of my face. About half a second passed before I realized what had happened and my companion burst into hysterical fits of laughter. Sitting on the sleeve of my right shoulder was the most massive glob of whitish-green goop I had ever beheld. And it had come from the inside of my head. I will spare you a more detailed description of what it looked like. Let's just stay with that it was huge, and it was disgusting. To make it worse, I was wearing black, which could not have been a more contrasting color to emphasize this horrific thing's presence. And I had no more tissues.
As my companion was on the verge of having cardiac arrest from laughing so hard, Beatris saved me by getting me lots of TP and I promptly removed the giant amoeba-like blob that was oozing its way across my shoulder. For those of you who have seen the movie Better Off Dead, think of the scene where the mom has cooked some nameless green goop with raisins inside it and it crawls off of her son's plate. It was that disturbing. I think it took us about 10 whole minutes to recover--me from trying to have my cherry red face conform to a semi-normal hue, and my companion from her suffocating fits of (rather loud) laughter.
We got a hold of ourselves and the moving process continued. Not long after, my comp and I found ourselves sitting on the curb next to the house that had been moved into. That's when I felt another sneeze coming on.
Without much preparation, I aimed to the left and out flew at record speeds Snot Rocket #2, splattering my other shoulder. My internal systems probably just wanted to even things up. Fortunately for the last ounce of dignity I had, my comp was sitting on the other side of me, and could not see it. But when I remained in my frozen position of trying to block her from the atrocious view of my booger blob, she knew what was up.
"Did you do it again???"
"......yes...*whimper*...."
Naturally, more hysteric laughing followed. Let me tell you, it took a lot of convincing and pleading to make her not tell any of the other missionaries. But the moment became forever famous in our 3-month companionship. Pretty much any letter I got from her included a "Hey, remember when you sneezed that HUGE snot rocket at Beatris's house???
*sigh.* How could I forget?
So, sometime during my 5th or 6th transfer, I caught a really nasty cold. I was super congested and felt super crummy. But the idea of not working wasn't an option for me, because I could still function pretty well. However, the internal cork in my nose came loose and I was a constant running faucet. No amount of tissues were adequate and every visit for those couple of days consisted of me requesting toilet paper of the residents...which was already slightly embarrassing.
Well, one night, when I was at the peak of my cold, we had agreed to help a less active member move. The move was just about a block away, but since I was sick, basically my job consisted of sitting on a chair and guarding the stuff while the family moved it.
For a brief moment, my comp and the less active member, a 16-year old girl named Beatris, were just chilling outside chatting. My nose started to tickle and I felt a sneeze coming on. I had the pre-sneeze gasp-like inhale and then suddenly I felt something enormous and disgusting explode out of my face. About half a second passed before I realized what had happened and my companion burst into hysterical fits of laughter. Sitting on the sleeve of my right shoulder was the most massive glob of whitish-green goop I had ever beheld. And it had come from the inside of my head. I will spare you a more detailed description of what it looked like. Let's just stay with that it was huge, and it was disgusting. To make it worse, I was wearing black, which could not have been a more contrasting color to emphasize this horrific thing's presence. And I had no more tissues.
As my companion was on the verge of having cardiac arrest from laughing so hard, Beatris saved me by getting me lots of TP and I promptly removed the giant amoeba-like blob that was oozing its way across my shoulder. For those of you who have seen the movie Better Off Dead, think of the scene where the mom has cooked some nameless green goop with raisins inside it and it crawls off of her son's plate. It was that disturbing. I think it took us about 10 whole minutes to recover--me from trying to have my cherry red face conform to a semi-normal hue, and my companion from her suffocating fits of (rather loud) laughter.
We got a hold of ourselves and the moving process continued. Not long after, my comp and I found ourselves sitting on the curb next to the house that had been moved into. That's when I felt another sneeze coming on.
Without much preparation, I aimed to the left and out flew at record speeds Snot Rocket #2, splattering my other shoulder. My internal systems probably just wanted to even things up. Fortunately for the last ounce of dignity I had, my comp was sitting on the other side of me, and could not see it. But when I remained in my frozen position of trying to block her from the atrocious view of my booger blob, she knew what was up.
"Did you do it again???"
"......yes...*whimper*...."
Naturally, more hysteric laughing followed. Let me tell you, it took a lot of convincing and pleading to make her not tell any of the other missionaries. But the moment became forever famous in our 3-month companionship. Pretty much any letter I got from her included a "Hey, remember when you sneezed that HUGE snot rocket at Beatris's house???
*sigh.* How could I forget?
Monday, January 17, 2011
#7: Ignore the Smell of Something Burning...Another Culinary Catastrophe
So, one of my hobbies is baking. That is partly why so many of my embarrassing situations involve baked goods. Now, it was my Freshman year, and I had promised a couple of my guy friends some brownies. One of them had requested "Rocky Road Brownies," which I had never before made, but I was up for the culinary challenge.
This particular day of baking happened to be the first Saturday of October, which meant General Conference. Everyone in the dorms congregated to the lobby to watch it, and during the 2-hour break between sessions, I went downstairs to the dorm kitchen to bake my next masterpiece.
Everything went well--I had everything I needed and things were going smoothly. Now, Rocky Road Brownies required a technique I had never used before: you bake the brownies until they're almost done, and then take them out. You sprinkle marshmallows on top, and then set the oven on "broil" and bake the brownies for 2 minutes (according to the recipe I was using) and then walla! you have a beautiful chocolate delicacy mixed with the glorious taste of roasted marshmallows. I followed the instructions: marshmallows+broil. It wasn't too complicated.
While the brownies were completing their incubation I started to clean up. Not long after washing some of the dishes, I turned around and noticed that white fumes were coming forth from the 70's looking yellow oven. Now, since I had never used the "broil" setting, I figured that maybe the oven just maybe emitted white vapors when that setting was being used. (I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed in the common sense department then...) I went back to washing dishes. About 30 seconds went by when a nagging feeling compelled me to check on the brownies, just in case.
I opened the oven door. To my utter horror, instead of Martha Stewart's next cover feature, my brownies had undergone a chemical transformation and I beheld 9x13 inches of what appeared to be newly formed volcanic rock in my glass baking pan. Just like that, I had gone from Bon Appetit to National Geographic. Then, 2 seconds later, due to the new rush of oxygen caused by my opening of the oven door, the whole pan erupted into flames.
Now, no one had ever taught me what to do in this kind of emergency. I couldn't just take the pan out--I would get burned. I couldn't throw water on it--it was inside an electrical appliance. So, I opted for plan C: do nothing. I stood there against the kitchen wall, wide-eyed, watching my dessert complete its utter apocalyptic destruction. Eventually the flames died down, and my brownie a flambe was left a black sizzling pile of the best archeological digging site since Pompeii. Then, I did what I usually do in situations like this: I burst into hysterical fits of laughter.
After I'd had a good laugh, I ran upstairs to grab my friend Reba. The next session was about to start, so a good group had gathered together in the lobby. I frantically told her that I had burned the brownies, and she hurried back downstairs with me, where we were greeted with a nose-retching stench of smoke. The brownies were still in their same magma-like state. I think I tried to take a bite because the middle of it still looked almost edible...but my taste buds quickly told me that there was no saving this one.
To end the tail in a nutshell, I have never made those brownies since, I try to avoid cooking things that require broiling, and that kitchen smelled like smoke for the next several weeks.
This particular day of baking happened to be the first Saturday of October, which meant General Conference. Everyone in the dorms congregated to the lobby to watch it, and during the 2-hour break between sessions, I went downstairs to the dorm kitchen to bake my next masterpiece.
Everything went well--I had everything I needed and things were going smoothly. Now, Rocky Road Brownies required a technique I had never used before: you bake the brownies until they're almost done, and then take them out. You sprinkle marshmallows on top, and then set the oven on "broil" and bake the brownies for 2 minutes (according to the recipe I was using) and then walla! you have a beautiful chocolate delicacy mixed with the glorious taste of roasted marshmallows. I followed the instructions: marshmallows+broil. It wasn't too complicated.
While the brownies were completing their incubation I started to clean up. Not long after washing some of the dishes, I turned around and noticed that white fumes were coming forth from the 70's looking yellow oven. Now, since I had never used the "broil" setting, I figured that maybe the oven just maybe emitted white vapors when that setting was being used. (I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed in the common sense department then...) I went back to washing dishes. About 30 seconds went by when a nagging feeling compelled me to check on the brownies, just in case.
I opened the oven door. To my utter horror, instead of Martha Stewart's next cover feature, my brownies had undergone a chemical transformation and I beheld 9x13 inches of what appeared to be newly formed volcanic rock in my glass baking pan. Just like that, I had gone from Bon Appetit to National Geographic. Then, 2 seconds later, due to the new rush of oxygen caused by my opening of the oven door, the whole pan erupted into flames.
Now, no one had ever taught me what to do in this kind of emergency. I couldn't just take the pan out--I would get burned. I couldn't throw water on it--it was inside an electrical appliance. So, I opted for plan C: do nothing. I stood there against the kitchen wall, wide-eyed, watching my dessert complete its utter apocalyptic destruction. Eventually the flames died down, and my brownie a flambe was left a black sizzling pile of the best archeological digging site since Pompeii. Then, I did what I usually do in situations like this: I burst into hysterical fits of laughter.
After I'd had a good laugh, I ran upstairs to grab my friend Reba. The next session was about to start, so a good group had gathered together in the lobby. I frantically told her that I had burned the brownies, and she hurried back downstairs with me, where we were greeted with a nose-retching stench of smoke. The brownies were still in their same magma-like state. I think I tried to take a bite because the middle of it still looked almost edible...but my taste buds quickly told me that there was no saving this one.
To end the tail in a nutshell, I have never made those brownies since, I try to avoid cooking things that require broiling, and that kitchen smelled like smoke for the next several weeks.
#6: Probably Why Toilet Seat Covers Were Invented
So, I'd just gotten out of my miserable Italian 201 class (the class that still reflects my worst grade in the last 9 years) and I needed to make a stop to the lady's room. Now, at the time (pre-mission), I was a little paranoid about germs due to horror stories of e-coli. and a germaphobic father. That said, when I got to the bathroom, to my slight disappointment, there were no toilet seat covers available. Well, that was fine. I just tore off two strips of TP and laid them on the points of contact to protect my bare bum from getting any possible disease left by previous users. I did my business and left.
Now, to appreciate this story, I need to deviate a little and describe the layout of the part of the building I was in. For those familiar with BYU, I was in the bottom floor of the JKB. The restroom is at one end of the hall, the stairs to exit are at the other, with lots of classrooms in between. Along the walls there are built in benches for students to sit and study, sleep, talk, wait, etc. This part of the day was in between class periods, so the hall was pretty busy with lots of college students on their way to or leaving from class. I had made my way through the hall and was almost at the stairs that would direct me to outside, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I turn and it's someone I've never met before. I think it was a girl, but that detail became minor after what he or she informed me: "Hey, just so you know, you have toilet paper hanging out of your pants."
I reached around my backpack to the area of my caboose and sure enough, there was a 4-square long strand of toilet paper hanging out of my rear. I had walked down the entire hall, with a toilet paper tail flapping behind me in the breeze for all to see. I think I thanked the kind stranger who had most mercifully stopped me before I had wandered outside into the open university quad and quickly threw the toilet paper away. Apparently, when I had pulled up my pants after using the bathroom, one of the pieces of toilet paper I had laid on the seat had gotten caught and just went right out the door with me. Wow. I am awesome. I hurried out of the building to get away from onlookers as fast as I could, and tried not to think about what would have happened if had I actually made it outside naively with...*shudder*. And I can't imagine what possibilities people were coming up with as to how I had accessorized myself with my new bathroom belt...eew. Best not to think about that one.
When I got to work, my supervisor told me of something embarrassing that had happened to her--she had slipped and fallen in front of a bunch of customers. To make her feel better, I told her of my experience that day. Not only did it successfully make her feel better....she laughed about it during the rest of my shift. Sigh. At least my moments of humiliation provide better self-esteem to others.
Now, to appreciate this story, I need to deviate a little and describe the layout of the part of the building I was in. For those familiar with BYU, I was in the bottom floor of the JKB. The restroom is at one end of the hall, the stairs to exit are at the other, with lots of classrooms in between. Along the walls there are built in benches for students to sit and study, sleep, talk, wait, etc. This part of the day was in between class periods, so the hall was pretty busy with lots of college students on their way to or leaving from class. I had made my way through the hall and was almost at the stairs that would direct me to outside, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I turn and it's someone I've never met before. I think it was a girl, but that detail became minor after what he or she informed me: "Hey, just so you know, you have toilet paper hanging out of your pants."
I reached around my backpack to the area of my caboose and sure enough, there was a 4-square long strand of toilet paper hanging out of my rear. I had walked down the entire hall, with a toilet paper tail flapping behind me in the breeze for all to see. I think I thanked the kind stranger who had most mercifully stopped me before I had wandered outside into the open university quad and quickly threw the toilet paper away. Apparently, when I had pulled up my pants after using the bathroom, one of the pieces of toilet paper I had laid on the seat had gotten caught and just went right out the door with me. Wow. I am awesome. I hurried out of the building to get away from onlookers as fast as I could, and tried not to think about what would have happened if had I actually made it outside naively with...*shudder*. And I can't imagine what possibilities people were coming up with as to how I had accessorized myself with my new bathroom belt...eew. Best not to think about that one.
When I got to work, my supervisor told me of something embarrassing that had happened to her--she had slipped and fallen in front of a bunch of customers. To make her feel better, I told her of my experience that day. Not only did it successfully make her feel better....she laughed about it during the rest of my shift. Sigh. At least my moments of humiliation provide better self-esteem to others.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
#5: The Cake Massacre
This story was lucky enough to be photo-documented.
Date: September 2006
Location: BYU Freshman dorm, Provo, UT, USA
So, my freshman year of college, my roommate and dear friend Reba and I had made this amazing new friend Lindsay, who lived just a couple doors down. We are all still great friends to this day. Well, it was Lindsay's birthday and we wanted to surprise her with a cake. So using the kitchen facilities of our dorm and Creamery-bought cake decorations, we made a wonderful little cake.
We had Lindsay come to our room, and when she opened the door, there we were, with our glowing sugary gift. Her reaction was just what we were hoping: she loved it.
Well, we decided we wanted a picture with the cake, so we propped it up onto one of the dorm-provided chairs, so that the letters would be visible. Unfortunately, we didn't take into account that the chair had a big opening in the back of it.
Our beautiful cake!!! Lindsay's birthday!!! Noooo!!!
All three of us just stared at the wreckage. Had we really just dropped Lindsay's birthday cake??? Yes. And had it really landed frosting-side down??? Yes. There it was. Destroyed. Ruined. Gone. On the disgusting warehouse carpet worn thin from the sweaty feet and dirt-covered shoes of hundreds of previous residents. We had successfully ruined our friend's birthday.
But Reba and Lindsay are not the types to give up easily. A salvage-attempt was made.
Reba, are you EATING it???? Off of the floor???
(editor's note: after serving a mission in South America, I would have done the same without thinking twice about it.)
But, life had taught us to make lemonade out of lemons, so we made a cake fight out of cake.
In the end, we just scraped off the frosting, put new frosting on...and ate it anyway. Lindsay, we're sorry we didn't think that one through better.
.....but for the memory it made, I don't regret it too much. ;)
(2nd Editor's note: frosting is very itchy when plastered to your face. Avoid using it as a substitute make-up mask when possible.)
Date: September 2006
Location: BYU Freshman dorm, Provo, UT, USA
So, my freshman year of college, my roommate and dear friend Reba and I had made this amazing new friend Lindsay, who lived just a couple doors down. We are all still great friends to this day. Well, it was Lindsay's birthday and we wanted to surprise her with a cake. So using the kitchen facilities of our dorm and Creamery-bought cake decorations, we made a wonderful little cake.
We had Lindsay come to our room, and when she opened the door, there we were, with our glowing sugary gift. Her reaction was just what we were hoping: she loved it.
Well, we decided we wanted a picture with the cake, so we propped it up onto one of the dorm-provided chairs, so that the letters would be visible. Unfortunately, we didn't take into account that the chair had a big opening in the back of it.
Our beautiful cake!!! Lindsay's birthday!!! Noooo!!!
All three of us just stared at the wreckage. Had we really just dropped Lindsay's birthday cake??? Yes. And had it really landed frosting-side down??? Yes. There it was. Destroyed. Ruined. Gone. On the disgusting warehouse carpet worn thin from the sweaty feet and dirt-covered shoes of hundreds of previous residents. We had successfully ruined our friend's birthday.
But Reba and Lindsay are not the types to give up easily. A salvage-attempt was made.
Reba, are you EATING it???? Off of the floor???
(editor's note: after serving a mission in South America, I would have done the same without thinking twice about it.)
But, life had taught us to make lemonade out of lemons, so we made a cake fight out of cake.
In the end, we just scraped off the frosting, put new frosting on...and ate it anyway. Lindsay, we're sorry we didn't think that one through better.
.....but for the memory it made, I don't regret it too much. ;)
(2nd Editor's note: frosting is very itchy when plastered to your face. Avoid using it as a substitute make-up mask when possible.)
Saturday, January 15, 2011
#4: ACT actually stands for Agonizing Corporal Trauma
Chronicle #4
So, at the beginning of my senior year in high school, I signed up to take the ACT, which is like the SAT, but I was trying to get into BYU, which preferred the ACT. I had already taken the ACT at the end of my junior year, but I wanted to see if I could get a better score and (*crossing fingers*) get a scholarship.
The day of the test came, and I wasn't terribly nervous, but I'm pretty sure I ate a tuna sandwich for breakfast because I'd heard tuna helps your brain and thus is good to eat before taking tests.
Fast Forward a couple hours. I'm taking the test, with probably at least 30 other kids in the room. I was in the aisle closest to the door, almost in the back, but there were a few other people behind me. It was deathly quiet, kids hurrying to fill in the correct black bubbles, determined to get into the universities of their choice...or into any college at all. Most of us just wanted the torture to be over. Nerves are on edge, everyone is extremely focused on one thing--to conquer the ACT, without collapsing into a mind-breaking apathetic state that would ruin their test scores.
And then, out of nowhere, somewhere between Question 56 and Question 372, the most unfeminine noise erupted forth from between the crevices of my butt cheeks.
Sweet mother of every test I have ever taken, was that ME?!?!?!?
I couldn't believe it. I had really just passed audible gas in the most quiet place within a 150-mile radius. I didn't look around. That would give me away. Every organ in my body seemed to have stopped in utter disbelief that my bowels would do something so unethical at such an inopportune moment. But then, in rebellion, and as if to dispel any doubt that what had happened had really taken place, my stomach began to sound off warning bells. I clenched my cheeks. I tried to close off every possible escape route. But the second emerging bubble of internal toxins was as eager to reach the light at the end of the tunnel and leave the vicinity of my body as I was to leave the vicinity of the building.
Sssssshpthpthp!!!!!!!!
Oh please merciful heavens why NOW?? At this point, I probably started praying to God, that if He would have mercy on me, that he could have my intestines calm down at least until the test was over. But in this war of good and evil, God gave way to His sense of humor and the hosts of heaven started busting out the popcorn to sit on their comfy cloud couches and sadistically watch me suffer in miserable humiliation as my bowels continued to have a full-blown intestinal fiesta. I think about every 2 or 3 minutes a gaseous comet blasted out of its previous solar system into the classroom's atmosphere, making its presence known without fail every time. In a state of frantic desperation, I started to rub my pencil's eraser onto the surface of my desk, hoping against hope that it would produce the same noise my body was creating, so people would blame that source instead. But my attempt at scapegoating failed and I just magnetized the direction of my face toward my test. I then realized I couldn't remember how many people were behind me. Even if the people on the other side of the room hadn't heard, surely the person behind me had. Unless he or she were physically deaf. But I doubt it. I just was sure not to look around to give myself away. People had to be staring disgustedly in my direction, boring laser beams of tangible hatred into my soul...I was sure of it.
I can't remember how long the torture lasted. Whatever it was, it was too long. The test ended about a decade later, and I left, careful to avoid the eye contact of anything else that had a heart beat. I waited outside for my ride and finally left that horrible place that had, through no fault of its own, become a site of teenage torture.
A few months later, I received my test scores. I got an overall score of 2 points lower than the first time. So long scholarship. Looking back, eating a tuna sandwich that morning probably hadn't been the best idea. I don't think I've done that since. And even though I wasn't pleased with my score, and easily had enough time to try again, I have never taken another ACT exam since either.
P.S.
For those following this blog, PLEASE leave comments. That way I can know if I should keep this up. Please especially comment on your favorites. Also, if I have been with you and suffered an embarrassing moment with you, please remind me of it so that it can be included. Thanks!
--Ang
--Ang
#3: The Cake Crossing
Note: This happened in June of 2008 and was written right after the incident. I posted it on my facebook, so you may have already read this. But for those who haven't, here it is, with some minor editing for quality improvement:
#3: The Cake Crossing
So awhile ago, I decided on a whim to take a fondant cake decorating class and tonight was the final night and we were supposed to make our final amazing-looking cake. But I didn't have much time today to prep for it because I had an English class right before my cake dec. class.
So I get home, frantically frost my cake because I don't have that much time, making the biggest mess, gather everything I need and I realize that I really have a lot of stuff to carry, including a cake. And I don't have a car. The walk wasn't far since I basically live across the street from the (giant) parking lot of the Wilkinson Center, where the class was. My roommate and friend weren't home either, and I didn't feel comfortable asking anyone else to give me a ride. And I figured it really wasn't that far and I'd done it before so I could manage. So, picture this, I'm walking along 9th east at 7 at night, bulging purse on shoulder, giant plastic bag full of cake stuff hanging on my left forearm, giant cake kit in my left hand, and the ugliest frosted cake on a cookie sheet in my right hand. And I think 7:00 must be a busy time because there were tons of cars. I felt like an idiot, but I was like, whatever, I've been in more embarrassing-looking situations.
Now, the crosswalks on 9th are too far away for me to conveniently use--I'd have to backtrack to get to one, and herds of EFY kids were crossing the other anyway. So I have to do what I call the "daily dash," meaning, wait for a gap in traffic to cross the street, which has two lanes on each side and turning lane in the middle. Keep in mind there are lots of cars, but I finally see a nice gap and begin crossing. I hadn't even reached the middle turning lane, when, without any kind of forewarning, my huge plastic bag's handles BREAK. Tupperwares of frosting and my egg carton holding my frosted flowers spill out in the middle of the road, and meanwhile cars are approaching and I can't save both the frosting and the flowers. In frantic desperation I kick the frosting out of the way of the oncoming traffic, grab the egg carton and try to hurry across the next 3 lanes with what little dignity I had, trying to act like it wasn't a big deal because I was so embarrassed and cars were slowing way down. I manage to make it across the street in one piece minus 2 tubs of frosting which had to be left behind. Keep in mind I have almost completely stopped traffic and some Provo citizen has stopped his car and is rolling down his window to see if I'm okay. I ignore him and continue my trek.
Now I have to walk across the HUGE parking lot with a broken bag plus all my other stuff and I'm still so embarrassed, I can feel the heat of my face turning red, and the whole rest of the way I give myself a mental lecture on being assertive and asking for rides when I need them. And when I get to the building I have to press the stupid blue "handicapped" button to automatically open the doors for me because my arms are so full. Fortunately the guy behind me had some courtesy to open the next door for me. So I FINALLY make it to class. I start pulling out the things I need, and realize something horrible: all my fondant is gone. It was lying in the middle of 900 East, probably already squished by a merciless car. Of all the 8 or so frosting containers I had, the one with all of my fondant didn't make it out of the wreckage. The whole time I'm thinking "my posterity will sure get a kick out of this story when they read my journal." So I just kind of sit there dumbfounded, kind of wishing I'd just stayed home. At least I didn't get hit by a car, right? But bless my teacher's heart, when I told her where my fondant had gone she was able to get some for me from the floral shop. So you know, it all worked out. After the class was over, I called Reba to see if she could pick me up (I learned my lesson once), but she wasn't home, so I got a hold of my roommate Natalie who came to get me. So I told her about my semi-traumatic story and she laughed, and when we pulled out of the parking lot, there was my tupperware smashed in pieces in the middle of the road, right next to a sad-looking white lump of fondant frosting. We just laughed. Maybe I'll be able to clean up my mess tomorrow on the way back from class...hahaha
After note: The wreckage was never cleaned up. The day after the incident, the tupperware had been smashed by so many vehicles that it had the appearance of broken glass all over the street. My neighbors thought there had been a car accident. The fondant had become one with the road. The cake was given away. And I eventually got a car. Which got totaled three months later. (Wasn't my fault. The three other passengers can testify.)
Friday, January 14, 2011
#2: My First Talk
My next moment of embarrassment worthy of being recorded happened 5 years after the Frazier Incident. When I was twelve I reached the age of graduating from beloved Primary to the eagerly awaited Young Women's. Part of the deal though included giving a talk twice a year for the next six years in the ward. But I had no problem with this--I had been in many speech tournaments and plays and public speaking was just up my alley. Soon enough came the time for me to give my first talk and I was eager to give it my best. I spent 2 weeks preparing my 5-minute sermon on "Faith". I wanted it to be good. Scriptures were scoured, lds.org received visits, and after hours of compilation, I felt like I had created a masterpiece worthy of delivering over the pulpit.
Sunday came and I took my place on the stand. I was starting to get nervous. Like, need-to-go-to-the-bathroom nervous. (No I did not pee my dress on the stand, for those who are wondering.) I was the first speaker and was having monster butterflies. The minutes passed more quickly than I would have liked, but eventually, D-day came and my moment of execution had arrived. The Bishopric member conducting sat down after announcing the program, and I arose with shaky legs.
I got to the pulpit, and once I started going, I actually felt alright, my nerves calmed down and I gave my talk. When I sat down, a wave of relief swept over me. I had done it. My first talk. I was sure that the whole congregation had felt the Spirit and had renewed their faith through my carefully prepared words of carefully concocted scriptures and prophet quotes. Then, I felt something brush against my left arm up by my shoulder. I looked.
Crap.
My bra strap.
There it was, hanging in its Tree-of-Life glowing white glory down my shoulder where the whole 250-member congregation could see. It had been hanging down, menacingly sneering at onlookers, during the whole talk. I was slightly mortified. Not that this was a new thing--my strap was always falling down because I was still getting used to wearing a real bra. But it had never had the gall to pull a stunt like rear its ugly head in front of such a crowd. And in a place of holy worship for goodness sakes.
I hurried and put it back into its proper place and brushed it out of mind. When Sacrament Meeting ended, I came off the stand. I had almost forgotten about the whole thing when one of the young women, a year older than I, approached me and inquired, "Hey, did you know your bra strap was hanging down during your talk?" Thank you for providing the lemon juice to the wound my dear peer. When I got to Young Women's, my good friend came up and, as if I needed someone else to tell me, also informed me that my upper underwear had been indecently exposed to the entire Camarillo Second Ward. Sigh. Thank you for the salt.
Well, I'm pretty sure that my ward did not remember a word I said past the second speaker. But at least all of the women were reminded to tighten their over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, primary aged children got an education on puberty, and the young men got a cheap laugh. You're welcome my dear ward.
Welcome to my new book + Chronicle #1: The FIRST aka The Frazier Incident
Alright, basically ever since I had the capacity to imagine, I have always wanted to publish a book. When I was six or seven I would make these little illustrated books using computer paper stapled together. I even made a series about "Marvin the Mouse," the first one being about him when he noticed a pretty girl mouse for the first time when he was 11...or around there. I even wrote and illustrated this book about a girl bunny who got mad that her mom, who was busy on the phone, wouldn't pay attention to her. So she runs away. And then gets married and lived happily ever after. I'm not sure what kind of message I was trying to get across....kinda sounds like the Little Mermaid....
Anyway, so being the clumsy person that I am, I have accumulated many a good embarrassing moments in my life. So I thought it might be fun to document them. So, I'm going to try them out on my blog, see if they're a hit, and if anything, at least I'll make my friends laugh.
So, introducing: The Angela Chronicles (Title subject to change.)
CHRONICLE #1: My Earliest Memory of Humiliation
The first time I remember actually feeling embarrassed happened when I was seven and in the 2nd grade. I had had this little game I played during recess with my male classmates, that I guess was kind of like a form of tag, only I did all the tagging. It went like this: chase boy around the field until catching him. Kiss him on the cheek as he screams in agony of obtaining girl cooties. Release. Chase new boy. Kind of amazing I remained a VL until I was 20. There was this particular boy, Frasier, that I frequently preyed upon, but eventually I decided that I had become mature enough to stop "kiss tag," and felt it my duty to let my male victims be aware. So, one cold recess day, I saw Frazier on the bright rubber-plastic play equipment and caught up to him. Our conversation went like this.
"Frazier! I don't kiss boys anymore!"
Awkward pause.
The kid gave me a weird look and responded, "I'm not Frazier."
We stared at each other. This carbon copy of Frazier was giving me a most repulsive 6-year old face, and I realized in horror that it indeed was not my kissing victim. And now this Frazier look-alike, who I had never before met, knew about my horrible Kissing Game and would now judge me of being a kissing whore. I didn't know what a whore was back then, but my feelings were something to that effect. I think I made some brilliant comeback, like "Oh..." and then we awkwardly parted. I never was able to tell the real Frazier that he would be able to freely roam the playground free of my kissing escapades. And at the end of the year, I moved to California, so there was really no need, except that Frazier never got to glory with me in my overcoming of an addictive habit. I never saw Frazier, nor any of my other kissmates, ever again. And I didn't kiss another male until 13 years later. Go figure.
Thus, the Frazier Incident became engraved in my mind as the first of an endless series of traumatic events in my life. To end the story, I recently did some facebook stalking and found who I think is the real Frazier (and hubba hubba!) He seems to be emotionally stable after recovering from 2nd grade sexual harassment and probably has no recollection of me.
...Hopefully.
Anyway, so being the clumsy person that I am, I have accumulated many a good embarrassing moments in my life. So I thought it might be fun to document them. So, I'm going to try them out on my blog, see if they're a hit, and if anything, at least I'll make my friends laugh.
So, introducing: The Angela Chronicles (Title subject to change.)
CHRONICLE #1: My Earliest Memory of Humiliation
The first time I remember actually feeling embarrassed happened when I was seven and in the 2nd grade. I had had this little game I played during recess with my male classmates, that I guess was kind of like a form of tag, only I did all the tagging. It went like this: chase boy around the field until catching him. Kiss him on the cheek as he screams in agony of obtaining girl cooties. Release. Chase new boy. Kind of amazing I remained a VL until I was 20. There was this particular boy, Frasier, that I frequently preyed upon, but eventually I decided that I had become mature enough to stop "kiss tag," and felt it my duty to let my male victims be aware. So, one cold recess day, I saw Frazier on the bright rubber-plastic play equipment and caught up to him. Our conversation went like this.
"Frazier! I don't kiss boys anymore!"
Awkward pause.
The kid gave me a weird look and responded, "I'm not Frazier."
We stared at each other. This carbon copy of Frazier was giving me a most repulsive 6-year old face, and I realized in horror that it indeed was not my kissing victim. And now this Frazier look-alike, who I had never before met, knew about my horrible Kissing Game and would now judge me of being a kissing whore. I didn't know what a whore was back then, but my feelings were something to that effect. I think I made some brilliant comeback, like "Oh..." and then we awkwardly parted. I never was able to tell the real Frazier that he would be able to freely roam the playground free of my kissing escapades. And at the end of the year, I moved to California, so there was really no need, except that Frazier never got to glory with me in my overcoming of an addictive habit. I never saw Frazier, nor any of my other kissmates, ever again. And I didn't kiss another male until 13 years later. Go figure.
Thus, the Frazier Incident became engraved in my mind as the first of an endless series of traumatic events in my life. To end the story, I recently did some facebook stalking and found who I think is the real Frazier (and hubba hubba!) He seems to be emotionally stable after recovering from 2nd grade sexual harassment and probably has no recollection of me.
...Hopefully.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
1st week of School in over a year and a half
Well! I don't like having all of my posts be about my life and doings, but like to also write about things to get you thinking, but since this was a sort of epic part of my life, I thought I'd do a little post.
So, I survived my first week back at school. Coming back from the mission, I heart-breakingly decided to not apply to the Bachelor of Fine Arts program, and to pursue a psychology minor instead, which would help me with getting into my desired Master's program of Art Therapy. My career options are Plan A: Art Therapist (yes, such a job exists), and if that doesn't work out, Plan B: Art Teacher for junior high or high school. So, right now I'm majoring in Art ed with a Psych minor. After this week, I have NO regrets. I absolutely am fascinated with my classes (probably partly from being educationally deprived for so long). I also figure I don't need a degree in art to be an artist, and art classes are always available, whether or not I'm in college. So, I'll still be keeping up my artistic pursuits.
Ummmm....oh I had an AWESOME Christmas break. Paintballing...helicopter ride over the ocean and hundreds of dolphins...some excellent dates if I say so myself...eating the best food of my life in Beverly Hills for my parents' 30th anniversary, and seeing my whole family for the first time in 2 years. My niece and nephews are SOOOO cute. Being an aunt is the best. Pretty much. :)
Aaaanyway, that's it for now. Toodles.
So, I survived my first week back at school. Coming back from the mission, I heart-breakingly decided to not apply to the Bachelor of Fine Arts program, and to pursue a psychology minor instead, which would help me with getting into my desired Master's program of Art Therapy. My career options are Plan A: Art Therapist (yes, such a job exists), and if that doesn't work out, Plan B: Art Teacher for junior high or high school. So, right now I'm majoring in Art ed with a Psych minor. After this week, I have NO regrets. I absolutely am fascinated with my classes (probably partly from being educationally deprived for so long). I also figure I don't need a degree in art to be an artist, and art classes are always available, whether or not I'm in college. So, I'll still be keeping up my artistic pursuits.
Ummmm....oh I had an AWESOME Christmas break. Paintballing...helicopter ride over the ocean and hundreds of dolphins...some excellent dates if I say so myself...eating the best food of my life in Beverly Hills for my parents' 30th anniversary, and seeing my whole family for the first time in 2 years. My niece and nephews are SOOOO cute. Being an aunt is the best. Pretty much. :)
Aaaanyway, that's it for now. Toodles.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Labels
Labels are a funny thing. We use them to easily identify people, for example, "She's single." "He's gay." "She's a musician." "He's a loser." "She's a schizo." "He's divorced." "She's a *%##." "He's a doctor." But doing that creates everyone a disservice: we come to see people under just one or two labels (often bad, and always leading to other assumptions or other labels about them) instead of a being with a concoction of gifts, talents, personality traits, weaknesses (you have them too, as I'm sure you're already aware), good and rough experiences that have shaped this being into a unique child of God who has the potential to become like Him. And even if we don't think that the person is terribly unique, they are still a child of God and I think it makes God pretty sad to see His children ignorantly bashing on His other children.
The worst thing, is often we identify ourselves with labels, which shape how we look upon ourselves, which determines our self-esteem. And I think that makes God sad too.
Here's an example of how I label myself with 2 different labels, and each of them affect my self-esteem.
Case 1: "I'm single." -->following thought process: 'Wow, something must be wrong with me...it seems like everyone else is already married or at least in a significant relationship...all the girls in my family were married by the time they were 19....wow I'm a loser! (just led to another bad label)"
Case 2: "I'm an RM" -->"Wow, that means I'm really cool. I wasn't even obligated to go and so that means I'm a pretty good person! I'm pretty righteous."
Both labels have different affects, and both ultimately lead to pride issues. Actually, thinking about it, it's the PRIDE that creates the labels. When we create bad labels for people, we feel we are better than them--thankful that such a label does not apply to ourselves (in our ignorant knowledge). Good labels on ourselves may make us feel like we are better than those who do not follow under that label.
Now, think of those examples--when you labeled someone with case 1 label or case 2, did my thought process match up with what your perception of me would be if you only knew me under one of the two labels? If you're Mormon and grew up in the Mormon culture (I just labeled you!) then chances are they matched up pretty well. Interesting how a society or culture creates the meanings and feelings associated with the labels, and they gain a general consensus.
Now, if I gave you a list of all the different labels that apply to me instead of one, you'd get a more accurate picture of who I am, instead of labeling me simply as "single" or "an RM."
Here's my list: *single *RM *Mormon *Republican *artist *college student *Relief Society member *quirky *art ed major *sister *daughter *friend *traveler *asthmatic ...etc.
And if one's perception of a label isn't even accurate, it makes it worse. For example, if I told someone I just met, "I'm Mormon," if they don't know much about that religion, then they might think, "Wow, she's going to be one of many wives of the same dude, what a sicko." (we don't follow that anymore btw--those are other religions thank you very much! research it.)
But....there is ONE label that applies to everyone, and will totally and completely change the perspective you have on everyone, whether they're previously labeled as "emo" "gangbanger" "rebel" "goody-two-shoes" "valedictorian" "cheater" "player" "tool" "saint" "scientist" or just a plain old "weirdo".
Here's the magical label that I challenge you to label everyone: Child of God.
It applies to everyone, including yourself. Did that alter your perspective? I hope it did. Pride can take no claim on that label, and it's the very label God would refer to each of His children, which He created and knows by name not to mention the number of hairs on their head.
To end, here's a video of a man, labeled as a "bum" because he was literally homeless. But learning how talented this man is completely alters what we think of him.
The worst thing, is often we identify ourselves with labels, which shape how we look upon ourselves, which determines our self-esteem. And I think that makes God sad too.
Here's an example of how I label myself with 2 different labels, and each of them affect my self-esteem.
Case 1: "I'm single." -->following thought process: 'Wow, something must be wrong with me...it seems like everyone else is already married or at least in a significant relationship...all the girls in my family were married by the time they were 19....wow I'm a loser! (just led to another bad label)"
Case 2: "I'm an RM" -->"Wow, that means I'm really cool. I wasn't even obligated to go and so that means I'm a pretty good person! I'm pretty righteous."
Both labels have different affects, and both ultimately lead to pride issues. Actually, thinking about it, it's the PRIDE that creates the labels. When we create bad labels for people, we feel we are better than them--thankful that such a label does not apply to ourselves (in our ignorant knowledge). Good labels on ourselves may make us feel like we are better than those who do not follow under that label.
Now, think of those examples--when you labeled someone with case 1 label or case 2, did my thought process match up with what your perception of me would be if you only knew me under one of the two labels? If you're Mormon and grew up in the Mormon culture (I just labeled you!) then chances are they matched up pretty well. Interesting how a society or culture creates the meanings and feelings associated with the labels, and they gain a general consensus.
Now, if I gave you a list of all the different labels that apply to me instead of one, you'd get a more accurate picture of who I am, instead of labeling me simply as "single" or "an RM."
Here's my list: *single *RM *Mormon *Republican *artist *college student *Relief Society member *quirky *art ed major *sister *daughter *friend *traveler *asthmatic ...etc.
And if one's perception of a label isn't even accurate, it makes it worse. For example, if I told someone I just met, "I'm Mormon," if they don't know much about that religion, then they might think, "Wow, she's going to be one of many wives of the same dude, what a sicko." (we don't follow that anymore btw--those are other religions thank you very much! research it.)
But....there is ONE label that applies to everyone, and will totally and completely change the perspective you have on everyone, whether they're previously labeled as "emo" "gangbanger" "rebel" "goody-two-shoes" "valedictorian" "cheater" "player" "tool" "saint" "scientist" or just a plain old "weirdo".
Here's the magical label that I challenge you to label everyone: Child of God.
It applies to everyone, including yourself. Did that alter your perspective? I hope it did. Pride can take no claim on that label, and it's the very label God would refer to each of His children, which He created and knows by name not to mention the number of hairs on their head.
To end, here's a video of a man, labeled as a "bum" because he was literally homeless. But learning how talented this man is completely alters what we think of him.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Welcome to my life....of clumsiness
So, I am now in Provo, ready to start another semester at BYU. December was AWESOME, complete with family, a helicopter ride over the ocean, paintballing, and a few exceptional dates. But all good things must come to an end, so here I am in Provo. So, let me just tell about my frustrating day that ended on a good note...
First, I woke up to find that the enormous red pimple that had appeared the say before was still rearing its ugly head near the perimeters of my mouth. Way to make a good first impression. I tried to cover it up with concealer, but making it the same color as my skin only made it look like I had a growth on my face. Lovely.
On my way out the door I called my sister to ask where the 154th ward meets (she attended the same one and my roommates hadn't arrived yet). She commented on how wasn't I a little late but gave me the directions I needed. I looked at the clock on my phone and thought, "It's 8:45, I still have 15 minutes, I'll totally make it." As I walked through the Wilk though, I noticed that all of the meetings had already begun, which I thought was strange, as I'd never heard of a BYU ward starting before 9. By the time I'd passed the third one, I realized with horror: I forgot to change my phone from CA to Utah time. ACK! I made it to the room and heard the last few testimonies of testimony meeting. During the 'break' I asked a girl what ward it was to be sure, and she responded that it was the seventy-something or onehundredandseventy-something ward. I just remember that it had at least 2 digits....which would only happen in a place like Utah, and that the girl seemed very eager to not talk to me any more.
So great, I was in the wrong ward and feeling very awkward. The ward must have moved during fall semester, but it couldn't be far. So I wandered back down the hallway and 2 of the wards had already gone to different rooms for Sunday School. The fourth one had a sign that said '195th ward', but as I walked by I thought I saw someone I knew! I backtracked and sure enough, Daniel Honey from my singles ward in Camarillo was there! Well, if I was going to spend church in the wrong ward, I could at least do it with someone I knew and who's company I enjoyed. I walked in and he seemed pleasantly surprised to see me. Unfortunately, he wasn't staying because he was meeting up with his brother and then flying back home. As soon as Sunday School started, he left, and I was left alone in a different ward that was not the one I belonged to, where more people didn't seem too keen on talking to me once they found out I didn't even belong there. Fortunately the teacher was mildly interesting, but I had a hard time focusing because I was too busy feeling like an idiot and bemoaning the fact that I felt like I was already failing on my quest to make friends or become marriage-quality.
After S.S. I was so frustrated that I didn't even go to a Relief Society where I felt I would be surrounded by more girls that wouldn't want to acknowledge me, so I found a couch, which was about as comfortable as a rock and just read my scriptures. I didn't go home because I still needed to take the Sacrament, and planned on sneaking in a 1:00 ward and then high-tailing it out of there. When noon rolled around another young woman came into the lounge and as we made eye contact we realized we knew each other. It was Sarah Rowley from my freshman ward. She had already graduated but was teaching nearby so she was still in BYU housing. After catching up she welcomed me to her ward, an invitation I gratefully took. While she worked on her S.S. lesson I read....some more... and among the people walking by saw a poor young man who had big purple birthmarks on his face. I suddenly didn't feel so bad about having a measly pimple. Then it was almost 1 (finally) and went with Sara to her ward where people were actually really nice, except for one decent looking guy who seemed to want to get to know me but gave up hope upon learning I was not a member of his ward. And the testimonies were even really enjoyable. I didn't stay for the rest of the meetings of the ward...I had had my fill of church, but at least I got to end with someone I knew. Next week should be better. I'm off to a great start, haha. Such is my life. Every day an adventure.
First, I woke up to find that the enormous red pimple that had appeared the say before was still rearing its ugly head near the perimeters of my mouth. Way to make a good first impression. I tried to cover it up with concealer, but making it the same color as my skin only made it look like I had a growth on my face. Lovely.
On my way out the door I called my sister to ask where the 154th ward meets (she attended the same one and my roommates hadn't arrived yet). She commented on how wasn't I a little late but gave me the directions I needed. I looked at the clock on my phone and thought, "It's 8:45, I still have 15 minutes, I'll totally make it." As I walked through the Wilk though, I noticed that all of the meetings had already begun, which I thought was strange, as I'd never heard of a BYU ward starting before 9. By the time I'd passed the third one, I realized with horror: I forgot to change my phone from CA to Utah time. ACK! I made it to the room and heard the last few testimonies of testimony meeting. During the 'break' I asked a girl what ward it was to be sure, and she responded that it was the seventy-something or onehundredandseventy-something ward. I just remember that it had at least 2 digits....which would only happen in a place like Utah, and that the girl seemed very eager to not talk to me any more.
So great, I was in the wrong ward and feeling very awkward. The ward must have moved during fall semester, but it couldn't be far. So I wandered back down the hallway and 2 of the wards had already gone to different rooms for Sunday School. The fourth one had a sign that said '195th ward', but as I walked by I thought I saw someone I knew! I backtracked and sure enough, Daniel Honey from my singles ward in Camarillo was there! Well, if I was going to spend church in the wrong ward, I could at least do it with someone I knew and who's company I enjoyed. I walked in and he seemed pleasantly surprised to see me. Unfortunately, he wasn't staying because he was meeting up with his brother and then flying back home. As soon as Sunday School started, he left, and I was left alone in a different ward that was not the one I belonged to, where more people didn't seem too keen on talking to me once they found out I didn't even belong there. Fortunately the teacher was mildly interesting, but I had a hard time focusing because I was too busy feeling like an idiot and bemoaning the fact that I felt like I was already failing on my quest to make friends or become marriage-quality.
After S.S. I was so frustrated that I didn't even go to a Relief Society where I felt I would be surrounded by more girls that wouldn't want to acknowledge me, so I found a couch, which was about as comfortable as a rock and just read my scriptures. I didn't go home because I still needed to take the Sacrament, and planned on sneaking in a 1:00 ward and then high-tailing it out of there. When noon rolled around another young woman came into the lounge and as we made eye contact we realized we knew each other. It was Sarah Rowley from my freshman ward. She had already graduated but was teaching nearby so she was still in BYU housing. After catching up she welcomed me to her ward, an invitation I gratefully took. While she worked on her S.S. lesson I read....some more... and among the people walking by saw a poor young man who had big purple birthmarks on his face. I suddenly didn't feel so bad about having a measly pimple. Then it was almost 1 (finally) and went with Sara to her ward where people were actually really nice, except for one decent looking guy who seemed to want to get to know me but gave up hope upon learning I was not a member of his ward. And the testimonies were even really enjoyable. I didn't stay for the rest of the meetings of the ward...I had had my fill of church, but at least I got to end with someone I knew. Next week should be better. I'm off to a great start, haha. Such is my life. Every day an adventure.
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