In Which I Probably Reveal Too Much

Hidey ho neighbors!  So I've been nominated by my dear SIL Caity for a silly little blog thingy award (silly only because nobody is giving me a prize NO FAIR).  It is called the "Liebster Award" (no, not lobster award, geez). Maybe I should've won a lobster.

TA DA

Anyway, so here are the rules for this major award:


1. Each person awarded must post 11 facts about themselves.
2. Answer the 11 questions the nominator has set for them.
3. Choose five bloggers to nominate.
4. Create 11 more questions for the bloggers they will nominate.
5. Let the lucky bloggers know.

Hokay.  We begin.  Eleven facts aboot moi:

1. Until I was...some age...I believed that I had a twin that died at birth.  My sister Megan told me she saw her ghost sitting on the stairs at our house wearing one of my dresses.  Then I saw her too because Megan had me so convinced.  This is not creepy, I promise you, it's funny.

2. I have a scar on my scalp from when a cat jumped on my head.  There was another time when a squirrel jumped on my head.  Also a lot of basketballs and volleyballs have hit my head.  My head is attractive.

3. Sam has seen me injured, broken, bleeding, sick, hospitalized, on drugs, you name it.  The worst I've seen him through is like a bad cold.  I kind of hope it stays that way.

4. I have a very specific dream for a lot of things.  Like the number of sheep I want or the names of future dogs.  Ever wonder why Brozhy is named Brozhy?  Because it's a random name I heard in school during a documentary on WWI many years ago.  And somehow it turned into a fantastic name for a cat.

5. There is a 3D, real-time calendar in my mind.  It's been running for as long as I can remember.  It's really hard to describe.  The weekends are fat and angular.  2010 is in the color black.  2007 is blue.  1998 is green.  Weekdays are a gradient gray.  This calendar can spin and go fast forward and reverse.  It is so real it's almost palpable.  It is COOL.

6. If I could have any two powers they would be 1) To be an Animorph.  Like be able to turn into any animal I "acquire," only with no time restrictions.  2) Be able to time travel, mostly to observe with minimal interaction so you don't mess up the space-time continuum.  You know, like when you come across a 100-foot deep pit in the middle of nowhere in you're like "What in tarnation..." You can just go back in time and see what it was used for!

7. I'm thinking that my dream career is to write, and be a photographer, and travel.  So...write about travel while I'm travelling to take peoples pictures?  Notice how this is all lazy freelance work...

8. Sam and I have almost completely different political views.  He's up there somewhere on the right.  And apparently I'm more Ghandi than Ghandi.

9. I did not understand the term "Fall" until maybe three years ago.  Prior to that, it meant hotter than Hades and burning death throughout the land, along with the subsequent choking smoke.  And then Halloween.  I like this quaint and pretty version much better.

10. Maybe I'll now tell you all the career paths I seriously pursued for any length of time: veterinarian, marine biologist, cinematographer, pastry chef, archaeologist, and now...whatever.  See #7.  I'm working on it.  Anyone want to buy me a DSLR, please?

11. I am unbelievably awkward and klutzy.  And I think everything is funny.  This makes me appear as a bumbling goofball.  That's why I primarily try to keep quiet and/or subdued around people until I know they aren't going to lynch me or be offended by my stupid jokes.  If I act that way around you, FEEL PRIVILEGED.

AND NOW, for my next trick!  I answer eleven questions posed by Caity:


1. Who is the one celebrity, where if your significant other confessed their undying love for her (or him?), you'd be like "....oh yeah I totally get that."?
Meryl Streep.  Because of this.  And because of everything.

2. Three words to describe your High School self:
Disconnected.  Smart.  Stupid.

3. Three words to describe yourself now:
Lazy.  Brave.  Stupid.

4. If you could eat any ONE thing (no genres, it has to be a single dish) for the rest of your life, nutrition/weight gain aside, what would it be?
Spaghetti.  With Kimberly Sauce.  Or maybe just Kimberly Sauce...

5. What's your favorite thing about yourself?
I really like how fast I can type.  Like for real.  I can type around 80 wpm.  I know that's not like LIGHTNING SPEED but I'm really quite proud of myself.

6. If you could have any super-talent (not super-power, just like, a super crazy talent that makes you better at that one thing than anyone else), what would it be?
I think glass blowing.  Because I could make my own dishes.  And if I was better than everyone else at a more common thing (like any of my hobbies...writing/painting/photography) I'd just feel bad all the time.

7. Do you color your hair?
Nay, Madam!  I don't.  I have been asked many many times if I do, or people have just assumed that I do.  But I don't.  On the rare occasion that I stop being lazy enough to get my hair cut at an actual salon, the hairdresser inevitably comments on my color and how difficult it would be to attain with dye.  Actually, when I was 19 and feeling a bit rebellious, I bought temporary red dye and dyed my hair dark red.  I looked like a cartoon character.  It was gone the next day.

8. If you could be a contestant on any reality-show, which would it be?
Ooooh that one where you go fill up a cart with a bunch of stuff in a certain amount of time and then at the end you get to keep it.  Is that a show?  It should be.  Then I wouldn't have to buy groceries for a while.

9. What's the last song you listened to?
It's hard to tell because my iPod is in the car, so I'm just going to say it was "Long, Cool Woman in a Black Dress" by the Hollies, because I looked it up on YouTube to post it in my other post.

10. What did you study in college/post-high school education?
Archaeology.  I went through a few other majors to get there, but that's not important right now.  I took more Anthropology and Archaeology classes than anything else, so there you go.

11. Who's your favorite Muppet?
Ummm.....Yoda?  I never watched the muppets.  Except for the Christmas one.

Drum roll please!  The nominations go to...
1. Megan !
2. Adrien !!
3. Kimmy !!!
4. "L" !!!!
5. Steph !!!!!

And finally, the NEW eleven questions!

1. How do you wake up in the morning?  ie what wakes you up?

2. If you could drive any car without worrying about gas or street regulations or maintenance, what would it be?

3. If you had to pick one feature on your face to be completely hideous, which would it be? (I'm thinking snaggle teeth and warty noses, don't disappoint me, guys)

4. Assuming you rule the universe, what would be the first thing you would tell people to stop doing?

5.  What is one inside joke you have with a sibling and how did it happen?

6.  Tell me a story about a time you ended up in the ER.  Please.

7.  What are your two guilty pleasures?  Anything.

8.  Why did you choose the post-high school career/education/family/whatever path that you did?

9.  What is the most adventurous thing you've ever done?

10.  What is one thing about yourself or your accomplishments that you are very proud of?

11.  What is your favorite children's book?

Ok, so if I've nominated you, don't despair.  This kind of takes a while, but it's fun, I prommy.  If I didn't nominate you, TELL ME ABOUT YOUR BLOG.  Or just do it anyway and pretend like I actually nominated you.  If you don't have a blog, GET A BLOG THEY ARE FUN.



Anyhoo.  Happy day to all!

A Conversation on Mandolins at Sunrise in the Desert

If you were wondering why I recently dropped off the face of the social networking planet, it's because until a couple days ago I was busily employed for a short stint as a contract archaeologist for a company based out of Salt Lake.  It was a very interesting experience.  Would I do it again?  Probably not.  Mostly because I prefer job security.  But though it was one of the hardest things I've ever done, I'm glad I did it.  And I guess you could say I learned a lesson.  Or six.

Lesson Number One:  Besides the fact that I've spent 20+ years of my life outside of Happy Valley, after only a couple of years there you start to expect people to fit a certain mold.  And holy crap is there a Happy Valley mold.  In fact, so many people realize that there's a mold that they try to break out of it, not realizing that by doing so they actually re-mold themselves.  I think that's why there're so many hipsters here.  Hm.  Anyway, getting out and up and meeting people that really didn't fit the mold at all was at first a little bizarre but then incredibly refreshing.  Get ready for a sidetrack.

Portrait of a Contract Archaeologist: (Maybe one of these days I will draw an actual portrait) They are primarily nomadic.  You kind of have to be in order to follow the uncertain and non-concrete work opportunities.  The more you travel, the more you work, the more connections you make (this is nation-wide mind you), the more you work!  They all have crazy stories to tell.  Like the guy who had a conch shell mask that he excavated tattooed on his forearm-- a tattoo he got in honor of the professor who led the dig who later was murdered in the Amazon HOW IS THIS REAL LIFE.  Some of them are hippies, some are video game nerds, some are men who knit, some are old salts (I really want a dog named Indiana too...), and they come from all over the country (there was even a guy who grew up as a Quaker--how awesome is that).  The one thing they seem to have in common though is an affinity for NPR, Americana/bluegrass, and music in general.  And archaeology.  I heard more excavation and survey story swaps then anywhere else.  And more bluegrass.  Why bluegrass?

Back to business.  Lesson Number Two:  I'm not as physically capable as I think I am.  I normally walk or run a few miles a week.  Go immediately from that to 6-10 miles a day and you will rethink your whole will to live.  Tylenol and Tiger Balm will become your new best friends.  Oh, not to mention your "social life" outside of work will cease to exist.

Lesson Number Three: Cold food can actually provide sustenance.  Breakfast at 6am in the dark in your car as you battle traffic at 60mph is hard.  I ate nothing but cold muffins and a little carefully-timed drink of orange juice from a bottle every morning.  Delish.  And for lunch it was cold pizza, cold spaghetti, cold beans and rice (never again, I swear), cold chicken-flavored pasta (surprisingly not bad), etc.  Thank goodness for honeydew melon, it makes anything bearable.

Lesson Number Four: SLEEP WHEN YOU CAN.  I think that's pretty self-explanatory.  Naps in the car once you get out of the field, and go to bed at 8:30.  Yep.

Lesson Number Five: There's always more to learn.  I learned how to navigate a Trimble GPS.  I learned how to gauge distance by how thirsty you are.  I learned better about how to tell the relative time by the position of the sun.  And I learned the term "baja" first hand.  Sidetrack again.

Baja [bah-hah] verb Driving in a truck (or jeep, or whatever can take it) across bumpy, holey, bushy, or otherwise crazy land that has no road with everybody hanging on for dear life and resisting the urge to laugh maniacally.  The baja-ing experience can be greatly improved by the appropriate song.  My personal choice is this lovely tune.

Lesson Number Six: I do love archaeology.  It's sometimes disproportionately all hard labor, and then you get to record sites and you use all your sciencey knowledge and you find crazy artifacts or you see a brilliant sunrise on your way to site, or you stand on a knoll next to a lone obsidian biface and look out over the cloudy afternoon valley with a breeze at your back and you remember why you want to be an archaeologist.  And that, my friends, is a great feeling.

(Heretoforth, some pictures, for those who don't follow me on Instagram)

Skull Valley: home of the 5,000 acre worksite

View from the previously mentioned knoll

Sunrise on the road

Historic cocoa tin

Mattress spring covering a (mine?) shaft at least 100ft deep

Cute little Log Cabin syrup tin :D

He's All...Higgeldy Piggeldy

I'm supposed to be writing our Italy plans down right now.  You know, like the contact info of our landlords while we're there, and how much cash in Euros we're going to need on hand, that sort of thing.  Important stuffs.  And yet...my brain is in full-blown Procrastinayshe Mode (yes, that's a thing, don't question my spelling).  Brozhy is waffling between grump and crazybones today (I have the scratches to prove it) so it's not like I can concentrate with the clicky-clack of his tiny claws on the wood floor as he runs from room to room, or the dragging of the feather wand (sans feathers a long time ago because he ate them) as he proudly takes his prey to his lair (or to me, if he's feeling generous).  In any case, concentration is not happening, and the Italy plans will have to wait a bit longer.

I know a lot of people who are pregnant right now or who recently had babies-- my sister-in-law and my half-sister for one (two?).  So naturally my brain constantly leaps to babies and the conglomerate features they derived from their parents.  Naturally.  And then I start pitying my unborn progeny.

A Wonderful List of Things My/Our Kids Have to Look Forward to:

1. They will never drink cows milk.  I'm lactose intolerant.  Sam is allergic to the horomones/antibodies/who-knows-what in milk not certified organic.  Or maybe he's just high maintenance.  But that random glass of chocolate milk at a friend's house or ice cream at a festival...probably never happening.

2. All they will ever be able to eat anyway is bread and water.  Combined, Sam and I make one big picky eater.  I can't eat foods high in fat or sugar-- or lots of peanut butter...or malt flavoring-- because I lost my gallbladder in 'Nam all those many years ago.  Sam is randomly allergic to fun foods like mint, apples (raw), and certain kinds of oil (uncooked).  At least I can eat all the carbs I can handle!  And Sam has pears.  He loves pears.

3. They will have teeth worse than a Liverpool sailor.  Sam had bad teeth as a kid.  He did the braces thing and only recently started wearing his retainers again.  I had terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad teeth.  I got braces at the beginning of 4th grade.  They were pink and purple.  Yep.  I had teeth coming in at weird angles and no where near where they were supposed to be.  I blame it on a lot of wonky-mouthed English ancestors.

Bad-teeth Shannon, age 6.  Fun Fact: This is the last time I showed my
teeth in a school picture until 8th grade. You now know why.

I still wear the same retainers I got a million years ago when I finally got my braces off just before High School.  At night, when the retainers have been popped into place, Sam and I have some pretty interesting conversations:

"Did gyoo know Frontier airlinthe ith shtopping their fligthsh out of Profo?"

"That ith shtoopid, they jusht shtarted!"

"Yeah, and I heard mosht of their flightsh are alwaysh full."

"Don't they only ko to lichhe Billingsh, Montana?"

And so forth.

4. They will sport a very bizarre and perhaps at times creepy sense of humor.  That will come primarily from me, but Sam's oddities are far from infrequent...why do you think I married him?

Exhibit A: "Dying Man" My siblings' and my darkish twist on Hangman.  Complete with nonsensical words that probably wouldn't make sense to many other people.

Hurt me!

Don't ask me, I have no explanation.

5. They'll have delightfully huge noses, skin issues, eye problems, the fat gene, psychological issues (they will never sit still...they will never concentrate...they will never be grounded in reality...yay!) BUT WAIT, if you call within the next seven minutes!

At the very least, they are going to have pretty hair (hopefully), and pretty eyes.  Yikes, I hope so, otherwise we will have to hide them in cages and pass their bread and water through the bars.

It's Raining Cats

I've mentioned before how important Brozhy has been for me.  He was there for me at night before my surgery when things were still terrible.  He was there for me to calm me down when things were crazy at school or with Sam.  And he was good for Sam too, who never liked cats until now, never wanted one, and never understood anything about them anyway.  In a way, Brozhy's kind of like a child, or a close companion, something.  When he goes, however that may be, it's going to be really hard for me.

Ach, just a wee thing then...

Maybe all of you don't know this, but before Sam & I got Brozhy, he was feral (with only a couple of weeks of socialization).  He was mellow and calm (as much as a kitten can be anyway), but a few months later he started getting a little aggressive.  It got to the point where it went past playing stalk/hunt for fun and got to the point where I couldn't walk anywhere without him leaping out at me and digging into my calves with his teeth, or lying quietly on the bed and without a warning he'd lash out at me again.  He does it sometimes with Sam, but more often than not, it's me he attacks.  Why?  No idea, but we came up with all these theories:

He's spoiled.

He's lonely.

He's not eating right.

He thinks I like it.

He thinks he's higher in status than me.

He does it to get attention.

Sam plays too rough.

And on and on.  Brozhy's behavior is actually a common topic of discussion in our house and out.  So we tried things:

Better discipline.

Don't let him sit above your head.

Find the right food.

More frequent & active play.

Don't act afraid.

Ignore him (ha! Better stock up on bandaids)

Try socializing him.

The socializing was hard.  The first thing we tried was to let in a lost cat that wound up on our porch one cold night.  Brozhy flipped.  The other cat walked in and Brozhy hissed and spat and booked it into our bedroom.  I decided the cat couldn't stay, even though it was cold, so I turned him back out, washed my hands, and went to go check on Brozhy.  He was sitting on the dresser growling.  I calmly approached him, but when I got close, he hissed and lashed out at me.

Obviously that wasn't a good way to go about introducing Brozhy to new cats, but I wanted to gauge where he was (which I've learned is negative bajillion) in his desire to meet new cats.  So we thought maybe if it was done slowly, or something, it would work.

The next try was when we went to Connecticut for the summer.  We left him with my sister, who has two cats.  He seemed okay at first.  By the time we were at the terminal, things had gone way, way south.  I wasn't there, obviously, but apparently he was hiding in the littler box, he hissed and attacked anyone who came near, and wouldn't eat.  They took him back to our apartment after one night and decided to check on him periodically for the two months we'd be gone.

As you might imagine, he went a little crazy having to be alone all the time.  We came home to chewed-off paint on a spot on the wall, a ripped up cloth lantern, and a general mess.  My sister told stories of how he was "Demon Cat," leaping from afar to attack her husband's face, biting viciously whenever anyone went near the door, and who knows what else.

We knew he was feral once.  We knew he had issues.  But when we got home, he calmed down a bit.  A day or two later, it started again, worse.  His "welcome home" gift was four nasty gashes on my right shin (from his teeth, mind you) that are still healing.  Every time I got on the phone or sat quietly too long he would attack.  My mom told me over the phone when she heard it happening that I needed to get rid of him.

Something had to change.  I was scared of him.  I was scared for any future babies we might have.  So we decided that maybe, just maybe, we could try introducing a young, small kitten, who would not be threatening, who Brozhy could adjust to at his own pace, in his own territory.  And then they could play together and Brozhy could redirect his attacks to something that wouldn't mind.

So we got little Addie.

Briefly calm...

She was an adorable grey and orange tortoise shell with a white dip on her tail tip and a voice like a megaphone.  We got her off of KSL from a nice family who hadn't spayed their cat in time and came back from vacation to a litter of kittens in their son's hockey bag.  She was 6 weeks old, eating solid food, but still relying some on her mother's milk.

Tuckered.

From the second we brought Addie inside, Brozhy went postal.  I'm not going to recount everything, but over the next four days, there was very minimal interaction between the two, and yet they both hated each other.  Brozhy hissed, growled, hid under the couch, hid in his litter box, jumped and hissed when people came into the room unannounced or startled him, and bit and slapped.

Once I went into the bathroom to hang up towels and he heard me too late, leapt up from behind the toilet where he was hiding, hit the toilet paper roll and sent it flying everywhere, slipped around and landed in the shower behind the curtain-- all in a two-second period.  I looked at the floor and saw it was covered in urine.

Another time when Addie was out, he ran into the bedroom and hid under the bed.  When I went to check on him later, he hissed and latched onto my arm and wouldn't let go.

I must add that during all of this, Addie, the most vocal and dramatic kitten I've ever encountered, was having her own issues.  She would hardly eat (Brozhy was barely eating either).  And when she wasn't asleep, she was screaming.  If she was alone locked in the bedroom she would scream and scream like she was being killed (I am not joking) and ram into the door.  I've never known a cat to do that, especially not a 6-week old kitten.

Monday afternoon I was at my wits' end, I had a huge list of chores and things that needed to be done that I couldn't do because I had to juggle that in addition to checking on Brozhy every few minutes, and, if she wasn't asleep, sitting and playing with Addie until she got tired and fell asleep so she would stop screaming and ramming the door and making Brozhy freak out more.  It felt a little like having an infant during that stage where all they do is cry while simultaneously trying to take care of a sick toddler throwing a tantrum and clean the house, on little to no sleep because the kitten kept us up at night.  But what do I know about that?

We'd put up a listing on KSL when we got Addie just in case things didn't work out and we had to give her away.  But after 4 days, we hadn't had any serious calls.  When Sam got home Monday evening and saw me in tears from the stress of the situation and heard Addie still screaming and found Brozhy again cowering in the litter box, he suggested we got to the Humane Society and give her up.

I'd considered this, and had for some reason posted a question regarding our situation on Yahoo Answers (a note about Yahoo Answers-- don't ever post a question unless you want to be publicly ridiculed with no way to retaliate).  All I got were people yelling at me about my ignorance to the ways of cats, how cruel I was to consider "ditching" Addie at a place where she'd be euthanized in 3 days, how stupid I was for not just putting them in the same room together and letting them figure it out (really?), yada yada yada.  Awful stuff.

Sam reassured me that she would find a home quickly because she was cute and young and impressionable.  So we put her in a basket and set out on our way.  A little way down the road, Sam decided to double check the shelter hours, and saw that we had missed the time by 45 minutes.  Addie started screaming louder, in that murderous-cry way.  And loud enough it was hurting my ears and making me crazy.

Poor Sam.  He has to deal with all these crazy people and animals all the time.  And no doubt he felt a little guilty because pushing the kitten idea was his thought the other day.  After sitting in the car for a minute, he decided to call the woman who had originally given us Addie and tell her that Addie wasn't eating and it was possible she needed to be with her mother a week or two longer, and besides that, our cat was getting sick with the stress of having her around.

Thank goodness people in Utah are so kind.  She agreed to take Addie back without question, so we made the drive back.  It was the longest 25 minutes of my life, with Addie still screaming and the stress still ebbing.

In retrospect, I know we should have considered the kitten idea a little longer, but it had to be done at some point.  Now we know that Brozhy can't be socialized.  He is still attacking me today, but I've found that as long as I talk quietly and calmly to him, myself, Sam, and inanimate objects, then the likelihood is lower that I'll end up with bleeding welts on my arms and legs.

We've talked though, and know that if things don't get better over the next few months, there's a good chance Brozhy will have to go, and that upsets me most.  But for now, I'll just (softly) stroke the sleeping dragon by my side and hope that things will get better, and that somehow he'll be my cuddly, purring Brozhy again.

Je Suis un Singe

You know that feeling of hopelessness you have when you're speeding down your friend's hilly driveway on a razor scooter at 50mph and it's the first time you've ever used a scooter and you don't know how to stop and you know that no matter what you do, you are inevitably rushing full-speed and head-on into a painful situation?

That was me today.  And all of yesterday.  Also me when I was 15 with the scooter, but that's another story.

Here's the sitch:  

Wednesday evening I got a call from a man at one of the places I interviewed but didn't get the job.  He said that a friend of mine (who did get the job) had recommended me for a job involving customer service for Canadians, and that they needed French-speakers.  During the course of the brief phone call, I heard myself agree to an interview and he gave a bunch of information, all of which leaked out my ears except "And part of the interview will be in French."  Of course.  What did I expect, Swahili?

Now, aside from the two years in high school and the one semester I took in college, the only French-speaking experience I have is a day in Paris, and random conversations with my mom.  While I can get by in basic conversations, I don't really speak French.  I speak Franglais.  You can't do customer service with frustrated customers whose native language is French when you speak Franglais.

Tra la la... c'est moi, c'est moi!
No speaka-de-Fronch!

The moment I hung up the phone, I dashed to the bookshelf that (thankfully) contains all kinds of readers, stories, dictionaries, and grammar exercises for learning French.  I planted myself on the couch and yelled in slight hysterics for Sam not to bother me (which was irrelevant because he was quietly studying in the other room).

The next day I woke up and decided it had been some kind of weird dream, and I didn't actually need to interview for a job.  I thought "Heck, I just won't go."  But instead I dragged myself again to the couch to do pages from a review workbook.  All day long.

By bedtime I was on the verge of panic.  It wasn't so much that I wanted the job and I knew I would fail, it was that I felt that by accepting the interview I had led them to believe that I spoke French super well and then I was just going to go in there and stare blankly at the French guy's face with my mouth hanging open and drool hanging from my chin.  And that's just embarrassing.

This morning I wasn't hungry for breakfast and went through the morning routine like I was preparing for a funeral.  On the way out the door I freaked out one last time, and Sam tried to reassure me by saying that, for arguments sake, Lamarckian Evolution is a scientific truth, and that this interview was the leaves at the top of the tree, and that I, as a short-necked giraffe, needed to stretch and stretch to reach them.  I probably wouldn't reach them now, but if I kept stretching and trying, eventually I would get the leaves I wanted.  (Get it?  Get it?  Geez, my whole life is obscure.)

SEE???

Let's fast forward.  So I got to the place and, despite wanting to barf and run away, I went through the motions.  Most of the interview was in English, which was awesome.  Finally, the native speaker (from Paris) asked me to tell him what I put on my resume/CV, so I told him a few things.  Then he asked where I learned French, and I told him about school and my mom.  Then he asked where my Mom learned French.  I wasn't sure of the answer, so I said she learned it from a friend (safe bet, right?).  He then asked if I'd been to France and I said yes, Paris.

I thought I did okay.  And then he asked me to write some stuff from my resume in French.  Yikes.  Let me tell you, writing a resume in French is different than English.  And I tend to use big/persuasive/whatever words in resume to make it sound awesome and impressive that I can't even think of close synonyms for in French.  And I don't know how to say "database" or "volunteer" or "intern" or "inventory" or anything relevant, really.

I think that was the only way I really felt that I made a fool of myself, because I'd talked up the writing skills.  Shouldn't've done that, eh?  (HEY! I speak Canadian!  Ok yeah, that was lame.)

I don't expect that I'll get the job.  I don't even think I want it, really, because then it'll be the same thing as today every day.  But I've stretched my little neck, and I'll keep stretching, and one day (soon I hope) I'll get the job I need and want.

Hie to the Post

The past couple of days have been really interesting.  I had my first day of training at that new job.  This morning I quit.  It wasn't because I had to talk on the phone or ask people for money.  It's because I had to lie to them, and to make people in a very dark place already feel even worse.  I can't do that to people, not for a million dollars.  Then last night was a surprise party for my sister.  It was so great to have family together laughing and eating and having a good time on a day that wasn't Sunday.

Today was a little rough, despite feeling better that I'd quit.  I am bored again, and I hate being bored.  My cat keeps attacking me.  There's nothing to do or clean or organize.  I went to lunch with my sister and spent some time haunting the museum where I used to work.  And now I'm eating cookies.

I read a post that my sister-in-law wrote about her September 11th story.  It was interesting to read her perspective as an east-coast transplant to Texas.  It got me thinking about things though.  And since I've been wanting to write down an "in retrospect" post for a while, I figured I'd do it today.  One thing I want to say, though, is that as you read this, I know you'll be thinking about your own story.  That story is just as interesting to me.  I want to hear it.  Because everyone's experience, unless you were literally under a rock, is important, and adds to the fabric of emotion that was that day (too prosaic?).  Anyway, the point is, think about it, because at the end I want you to share yours with me.  Do it in the comments, post on your own blog, email it to me, I don't care.  I want to hear it.  And here we go:

Tell your kids to keep a journal, seriously.

I was in 7th grade on September 11, 2001.  I remember what I wore to school that day.  Khaki overall shorts, if you're wondering.  That morning, my parents had the TV on during breakfast, which never happened.  My dad watched the news before we got up and then that was it.  Not only was it on, but my mom was watching it, which never happened in the morning.  My sisters went off to seminary.  Later on, my mom told me she'd be taking me to school, which normally my dad did.  We picked up my older sisters from seminary and once all four of us kids were in the car, my mom told us that an airplane had flown into one of the towers of the World Trade Center in NYC.  It was suspected it was a terrorist attack.  She wasn't sure about the status of the other tower, but she thought she'd heard it'd been hit too.  We went to school.

In every class I went to, the TVs were on.  We did nothing in any of our classes.  The teachers just sat and watched the news, as mesmerized as we were.  We watched the towers fall over and over.  At lunch my friends and I speculated.

"It's a terrorist attack.  And we're next."

"Why would we be next?  You're crazy.  What are they going to do, bomb the avocado groves?"

"No, stupid, Fallbrook is practically on Camp Pendleton, and that's like the biggest marine base on the west coast." [side note: is it?]

And on and on.

In band, one of my friends (actually just an acquaintance at this point, but I still remember it vividly, and she later became one of my very best friends) was pulled out to go home.  She had family in New Jersey that worked in New York and hadn't heard either way about their safety.  In my next class, another girl got pulled out, told something, and burst into sobs right there in front of the classroom windows.

Finally school ended and we went home.  We were allowed to watch TV for the rest of the day.  I remember the CNN newscaster looked scared.  He was disheveled and had the hiccups.  There was a stack of papers and a bottle of Tums next to him.  They showed recap footage all night, including people jumping out of the buildings.  Those particular images scared me the most.

I don't think I had ever felt more grown up as a 12-year-old than I did that day.  I wrote in my journal how tragic and awful it all was, but I may not have entirely understood everything that it meant.  It meant that people would lose members of their family in our town for a while as hordes of troops were shipped to Afghanistan, Kuwait, Iraq, everywhere; for years to come.  Test bombings would shake our windows far more often than they had before.  No one would be allowed on base without military ID.  Travel by plane would become far more difficult.  The news would be on far more often in our house, in peoples' cars, and I would start to pay attention.  For me, September 11th was a realization that there was a huge, enormous, and scary world beyond the hills of Fallbrook, and it was brought right there to me, and I had to learn to deal with it.

---

PS I just got a phone call from the Prophet Manasseh Jordan, telling me he knew how hard times were but that I could find salvation in God.  I feel so blessed now.

How to Keep Your Kitchen From Resembling Gollum's Cave

You may have been wondering what I do with all my free time (more likely not, I can't see you sitting, brow-furrowed, contemplating my possible activities, while your tots tear apart your living room for the twelfth time this week).  Well, stop biting your nails in anticipation-- I have been organizing and cleaning the apartment.  Yaaaaaaayyy...

The biggest beast was the kitchen.  I haven't really touched it (aside from the weekly cleaning of visible spots) since we moved in.  And it developed into rather an unpleasant place to be.  It was dark and dusty and smelled vaguely of lurking onions.

They know where you eat...

I made it my personal crusade to make the kitchen once again a pleasant place to bake, cook, eat, and be.  Heretoforth, the steps, in case you want to do the same:

1. Organize the cupboard under the sink.  Get rid of rusty old dish rags, that broken ceramic bowl you thought you might make into a mosaic someday (never mind you've never made a mosaic in your life), and old cat things.  It might help, if you have plastic bags taking over, to take an old milk jug, cut a hole in the side, line the sharp edges with tape, and thereby create a plastic bag holder that you can have easy access to.  If you are curious about this, I can give you further detail, but it's really simple.  Anyway, get a box or tub and put all your cleaning supplies in it, in order of which you use most often (front to back).  Done.

2. Tackle your food cupboards.  Put all the cans in one cupboard, all the breakfast/bread/cereal stuff in another, all the baking mixes/dinner things in another, etc.

3.  Organize your other cupboards.  All the pots should go together (plus I did it by stick and non-stick) and all your frying pans together (same same).  Take that expensive Fontagnac pot from above the fridge and put it with the other pots so you will actually use it.  All gadgets should go together and all bakingware that doesn't make sense to go under your oven should go together too.

Excellent progress, fellows!

4.  Do the dishes.  Yes, the dirty ones in the sink.  Then put them away.  Then go into those places and get rid of the 37,000 mugs that you will never use, and the extra colanders, and limit yourself on what you keep for sentimental value.  I saved three mugs, two bowls, and a handful of plates from my childhood.  That seems excessive, but trust me, it's improvement.  And your friendly neighborhood greasy/dusty thrift store will be glad to receive them.

5.  Next go through your utensil containers and drawers.  Aside from getting rid of doubles, melted things, bent things, things you never use, etc, rearrange drawers so that like things are together and everything makes logical sense.  I'm still dancing around trying to remember where I moved the silverware, but it really does make a lot more sense where it is now, promise.

6. Organize your junk drawer, your trash drawer, your towel drawer, whatever.  If you need to (like for the junk drawer), buy organizers.  They're cheap at Target.

I forgot to mention that this organization and such took place over the period of a few days...

7.  Move counter appliances around.  We got a Kitchenaid when we got married.  It's very pretty, but it has, until now, been hiding in a corner behind the fridge, wasting its pretty green color and not getting much use because we didn't want to lug it to the other side of the kitchen where the counter space was.  The microwave was sitting skiwompis (does anyone even know how to spell that word?) in a corner with the toaster shoved behind it.  And it was ugly.  And the outlet it was in wasn't a high-power outlet, so every time we used the microwave it sounded like the fuse box was going to burst into flames, and the lights flickered like we were in the middle of a haunting and I hate hate hated it.  So.  Sam came home and did the heavy lifting.  We moved the Kitchenaid temporarily, then picked up the microwave and moved it behind the fridge where the Kitchenaid was.  And there, behind where the microwave had sat... A FRUIT MUMMY!!!

THE HORROR!

While I stood there yelling about how disgusting it was that there was something so creepy and gross sitting in our kitchen this whole time (yes, I'm very mature), Sam picked it up and threw it away.  It was essentially a dried up, desiccated fruit thing.  Sam thinks it might've been a plum.  We've never bought plums.  The mystery deepens...

8. Put heavy things where you can reach them.  I am not a short person.  But I am a weak person.  Therefore, it was ridiculous to put our 50lb sacks of stuff on the highest shelf (above the fridge, no less).  It got a bit embarassing every time I needed something up there to call out sheepishly, "Sammy...can you get down the flour/rice/ten-ton weights for me please?"  I'm sure he has better things to do when I'm not in the room.  And so down they came to the bottom-most shelf.

9. The spice cupboard.  Ugh.  I put this off for ages.  But eventually I pulled everything out, consolidated or threw away duplicate bottles (trust me, you will never have reason to own three bottles of poppy seeds), and when I was done, EVERYTHING FIT! And you could actually see every label!  And I don't have to live in fear that whenever I open that cupboard I will be buried in an avalanche of scented plastic bottles!

10.  I might've done other stuff too, but this post is already too long.  Pour some vinegar down the garbage disposal and run it, light a scented candle or something, hide the broom behind the fridge, organize your bulletin board and hey-ho your kitchen is actually nice!  The lighting is still bad so you probably still have shadows, but you know nothing is growing--or mummifying-- anywhere.  Also we have a lot more counter space now (and have room to make yummy things like this!), which makes me very happy.

THE END.

Conundrums Abound

Sometimes Sam thinks he's Antonio Banderas dancing a flamenco.  He's not.  After I had convinced him of this and he set about finishing getting ready for school this morning, I got a phone call.  It was a woman from DLG Law asking if I'd like to come in for an interview.  An interview!  Me!  My very first since losing my job at the museum and applying to every job known to mankind.

I dropped Sam off at school ("Make good choices!") and headed to about 4 different stores looking for interview-appropriate attire (threadbare jeans and flowery skirts don't cut it).  Let me tell you that apparently the size 0-10 work force is very well-dressed.  At the first few stores I went to there was NOTHING smaller than a size 12.  At the last store I found that most people apparently believe that leggings are pants, and everything in the size 2 section showed it.  Until Lo!  Three pairs of grey trousers, and only one a little ugly.  I snatched them up and ran to the dressing rooms, only pausing to scowl at a row of discounted knit (as in needles, not that stretchy/flowy stuff) garments passing as shirts.

The first pair fit alright, albeit loosely.  The second pair came to a few inches above my ankles ("city fit" my foot).  The third pair was a size 6 masquerading as a 2.  I decided the first pair would have to do, overly long inseam and baggy rear aside, and it was only $20.  I then wandered the store considering discount scrub brushes (TJ Maxx has great deals on scrub brushes guys) until I realized it was almost noon and my interview was in two hours.

With a little safety-pinning of the hem I was in the car and on my way.  The interview was in Draper, just past Ikea.  Once inside the building and announced, I sat down and stole furtive glances at the employees I could see.  Nose rings.  Threadbare jeans.  Hm...

I interested myself with an oversize encyclopedia of horse breeds where most of the pictures showed horses with alternately majestic and surprised (yes it is possible) looks on their faces.

See?  Nevermind that it's a statue.

I was snickering to myself when my interviewer walked in-- in cargo shorts and a polo.

The interview was easy-- he asked the usual questions about what my strengths are and why I deserve the job and how good my water cooler chatter is and yada yada yada.  And then he offered me the job and asked me to pick a shift, right then and there.  I sat there hemming and hawing before picking a 9-6 shift and agreeing to show up for training on Monday.  He then shook my hand, mentioned that the dress code was very relaxed (thank you Captain Obvious), and showed me the door.

On my drive back home I got to thinking, as Daddy Yankee provided philosophical input.

"Ok, so it's a full time job at $10 an hour, with benefits after 3 months..."

Na na na na na na na na na na na na na Daddy Yankee!

"But it's all the way up in Draper, that's a lot of gas money.  Plus, to be there at 9am I'd have to leave at like 8:15..."

Rompe rompe rompe!

"We really, really need the money.  And I get weekends off!  And they buy us lunch once a week..."

No escondas todo eso que traes; Yo baby, que es la que hay?

"Ugh but it's 100% on the phone, all the time.  All incoming calls, but still.  I'm so awkward on the phone.  And that headset would give me a headache..."

The way she move ella lo; rompe rompe rompe; break it down; go go go go

"Thanks Mr Yankee, you're a real pal."

So it pays the bills.  And it's a good paycheck.  And Sam and I have decided it's time I weed out the awkward phone bit.  What better way to do it than work in a call center?  I just wish it were a lot closer.  I'm showing up for training on Monday, but in the meantime, I'm praying real hard something better will come up in the next couple of days.  If not, at least I don't have to go hunting for any more dress pants.

PS Our new manager just came to collect our rent and indirectly insulted the painting I did for our kitchen.  Harumph.  Maybe I should take it down.

Give Me Problems, Give Me Work

It's Monday, and the first day of fall semester at BYU.  The only thing that means for me is that I get to spend the day alone while Sam is away educating himself.  So it's just me and the cat, twiddling our thumbs (yes, the cat has thumbs).  Sam's only been gone a few hours and I've already reorganized the bathroom and most of the second bedroom.  I've looked up recipes for baked goods I can make with all the Greek yogurt we have (who knew those giant tubs only last five days before they expire?).  Guys, I need a job.  I can't say it enough.  Being graduated is both awesome and lame.

Fortunately, I finally have a space where I can work (oh, right, I mostly did it for Sam so he could do his homework here, right).  We have been saving and planning for this since Sam moved in a year ago, but my pickiness put it on hold until LO this amazing find came up on Friday!

Only slightly styled, promise.

I'm talking about the table.  I wanted something already kind of crappy because I plan on doing my painting on it since doing it on the floor just doesn't cut it anymore (did it ever? how many carpets have I painted on by accident?).  I also wanted something sturdy, preferably real wood.  Sam said a thousand times he'd just make me desk, but he never has the time he thinks he does.  Thus, enter this old chemistry table, complete with initials, hearts, phallic symbols, and declarations to "eff the homo" and that "Chere Hood sucks!" scratched into the surface.  Don't worry, an aptly placed Philips screwdriver and a bit of elbow grease got the nastiest bits off.  But you were in high school once.  You know how it is.  And it's perfect for what I wanted, honestly.

Maybe I'll go make zucchini muffins with the yogurt.  That'll be something.  Oh look, the cat got bored waiting for me to be interesting:

Dog Park

Occasionally I take Spot to the dog park (there's not a ton to do around here sometimes, and Spot loves the dog park more than life itself).  Spot enjoys sniffing and licking other dogs, but I prefer to watch the people.  If you've ever watched people interact with pets or children, you discover a whole different side to them.  People will talk in crazy voices, do crazy dances, who knows what else.  Do you know what I'm talking about?  Do you have some great gems to share?  Please do.

Only pretending to be normal.

In the Dark of the Night

Yesterday I spent the morning searching for Caity's lost childhood stuffed animal.  I searched through countless tubs, boxes, closets, and cupboards.  Eventually I did find the elusive Jojo, but in the mean time, I found some strange stuffed animals.

Exhibit A:
I remember seeing ads for this cat on tv when I was little.  I begged and begged Mom for one, but she staunchly refused.  Now that I've seen how creepy they actually are through an adult's eyes, I'm kind of glad she didn't let me.
Here it is...

What a beautiful half-plastic face you have

What's this?

Ta da!!

Nom nom nom.

Exhibit B:
I was feeling around in a dark armoire and discovered this bear.  Wearing a wig.  A green wig.  What.

I hair you're looking for something...

Son of Man

I've been sorting some old photographs and putting prints into albums for Sam's Mom lately.  I ran across these pictures of Sam when he was in high school, teaching some Tarzan song and dance moves to some little kids at a day camp.  They are totally adorable (the pictures...although I guess that little girl is kind of cute), in my completely and utterly unbiased opinion.

All Is Not Lost!

Last Monday evening the Wasden gang loaded onto a plane for a surprise family trip (in honor of Peter's return after a two-year absence) to Orlando to hang out at Universal Studios' Harry Potter Land for three days!  Our flight was scheduled to leave around 7pm.  We boarded around 6:40.  The plane started to taxi, and three hours later, we were still taxiing, durn the durn fog.  There were about 30 planes ahead of us in line, the wind was two knots over the allowable limit for takeoff, planes that needed to land were being given priority because they were low on fuel, the air conditioning was turned off for taxi, the flight attendants were yelling over the intercom for people to stay in their seats (apparently the law is that while taxiing, everyone must remain seated, even though little children and some adults have apricot-sized bladders and really hadn't planned on taxiing for three hours), and we were within minutes of reaching the legal time limit that passengers can be on a plane without taking off.  Emotions were running a little high, to say the least.

At long last, we were rerouted to a different runway, the wind died down, the rain stopped, the planes ahead of us in line timed out and were forced to return to the terminal and wait for another flight, and we were free to leave.  All the passengers cheered and applauded and we were on our way to Florida before we knew it, albeit three hours later than planned.  At least there was no traffic at that point?

The next few days were fun-filled although boiling hot.  Harry Potter Land (is that even what it's called?) was a lot of fun and really cool, but too small.  Maybe I'll blog about HP Land separately another time.

Thursday afternoon we dragged ourselves to the airport again for our 4:30 flight.  We got there maybe two hours early.  Around four o'clock they announced the flight was delayed an hour.  Awesome.  An hour later, they announced it was delayed another hour.  The next announcement informed us that La Guardia airport was closed indefinitely to all flights due to inclement weather.  Yep.

I think it was around 10pm when we heard a boarding call for a flight to LGA.  We raced from the Delta lounge we were lucky enough to be able to crash and ran to the terminal.  It was sort of like this:

The flight wasn't ours, but we were optimistic that ours would soon be leaving too.  They told us that our flight wasn't ready to leave yet because our crew had timed out and we were waiting for another crew so that we could leave.  Another hour later, the lady at the desk told us that there was a chance the flight might be cancelled if they couldn't find another crew.  At that point, the people who had been waiting since 3:30 that afternoon with screaming babies and rowdy children and whatever else had had enough.

People stood and waved their arms, people rushed the desk, audible "Aw come on!" "You've got to be kidding me!" "What??!?" etc could be heard in the except-for-us empty terminal.  There was one guy who had the screamiest baby for the past four hours (I shall call him hereafter "wifebeater" because he was wearing one) who started slamming the desk and yelling "You have to communicate with us!  We have children!"  The woman at the desk sounded very emotional when she spoke.  A few people gave up and left.  Then the Orlando Police showed up (well, three of them anyway).  At that point, the woman at the desk announced the flight was cancelled.  It was shortly before midnight.  The crowd yelled and roared.  People left in droves.  I heard an angry men yell "Come on, let's get out of here!" in a voice of death.  After a few minutes, most people were focused on yelling at the woman at the desk to get them on another flight.  A group of thirteen-year-olds on a basketball team or something gathered the rest of the similarly-aged kids in the terminal and started some sort of stomping/clapping/chanting dance circle that was obnoxiously loud.  Just as Wifebeater had gathered his brood and started to head out, the crew from our flight, who had been clocked in the entire time, high-tailed it out of the terminal.  He chased after them yelling "Oh now you decide to show up?  Blah blah blah obsecenities and such!"  But the police gave him the eye, and he quit.

We had to spend the night at a random hotel (and got the very last two rooms they had) and sat around all day until an afternoon flight that honestly I don't even remember taking.  La!

PS Can I say how proud of myself I am right now?  Saturday I went over to help some people organize/clean/unpack in their new house.  My task, besides sweeping and vacuuming, was to organize the kids' playroom.  It was a bombsite beforehand (the movers had classily dumped everything from the boxes onto the floor, and a lot of it wasn't even toy-related, ie toiletries, underwear, electronics, what??), and the before picture shows the mom's initial attempt at organization.  The after shows the results from my five hours' hard and continuous work.  And all those tubs were disorganized and had to be dumped out and redone.  So you know.  I can't stop looking at these pictures.  It makes me feel so awesome.  And I got paid $75 for it!

Luniversary

When I originally wrote this post, it was a little too personal; and while I'm trying to be more honest in my blogging, I think it was just a little too much.  So I'll take the good parts and try again.

June 17th marks six months of Sam and me being married.  It was also around a year after we decided to get engaged.  It's odd to look back and think about how much things have changed.  I've always been perhaps overly nostalgic and thought too fondly of "how things used to be."  But this time, I don't feel that way.  And it's definitely not because things have been soooo good OMG since we got married, because to say that would be a big fat lie.  It's because I've changed, we've both changed, and I really like the changes.  We are nowhere near perfect, still.  To say that after only six months of marriage...hoo boy...we'd be ready for ascension or something, let me tell you.

There comes a point when you decide that your love for someone outweighs all of the other stuff, like thinking you're a swell person or always needing to be right.  That point for me was some time a couple of months ago.  Sam was at a meeting, and I was thinking about a disagreement we'd had.  I suddenly thought of "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac, particularly this part:

"Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above?

And can I sail through the changing ocean tides

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Oh oh I don't know, oh I don't know

...Well, I've been afraid of changing

Cause I've built my life around you

But time makes you bolder

Children get older

I'm getting older too"

I'll spare you my detailed mental analysis, but essentially, I decided that I was the one I had built my life around, and that if I was going to think about what it really meant to love someone, I was going to have to stop being a child and grow up in order to take what life threw my way.  And I really do love Sam, and I'm pretty sure he would shrivel up into a raisin if I ever did anything drastic, so I sat on the bed until he came home and talked to him about it.  I confessed to him that I had no idea what I was doing half the time, and he said he had no immediate solution, so we just hugged and called it good, promising to work on it.  You can't win every battle.  We just try our darndest to be aware of our shortcomings and work around them, and I try hard to always give Sam the benefit of the doubt.

We still have our disagreements.  Like the time we fought about whether or not people in the 1920s were better at reading body language because of their exposure to silent films.  Geesh.  And I wish I could talk to him about environmental or political issues without feeling the need to prepare for battle.  But all of the other stuff I don't worry about as much anymore.  Because we are far from perfect, and even if I don't know what to do sometimes, I don't have to worry, because that's okay.  Just take it as it comes.

All in all, I'm happy I got married.  Sam makes me a better me.  And he's pretty fine looking too, if I do say so myself :)

He's growing a beard.

A Whole Year

Some birthdays are just regular birthdays.  But I think your first birthday is a very important one.

Happy birthday to my darling niece Maya.  Here's to many, many more!

Oh, and a happy birthday to my sister Caity, should she ever read this.  I've only been 23 myself for a few weeks, but I can attest that it is a good age to be ;)

And happy flag day.

A Witty Fool

I often get insomnia.  Bad.  Thank heavens for melatonin and a bedmate who also often gets it, so at least you can be bored and sleepy together, and do things like read or talk about how to get the cat to stop biting peoples' legs when they walk by.

But sometimes when Sam is snoring away and I'm lying there staring at the inside of my eyelids, my mind wanders.  I let it, because concentrating on going to sleep never helped me, and if I'm thinking about designs for chicken coops for the chickens I don't have, maybe it will turn into a dream, and then I'll be asleep!  Plus, as long as its not the repetitive lyrics to an obnoxious 90s song, it's nice to think about random things.  Last night my mind wandered to memories of early summer a few years ago and I thought of a time when sometimes we make a fool of ourselves, but it's funny in retrospect, namely as with the time I call My Worst Date Ever (or, Shortest Record Time I've Had a Crush on Someone).

I googled "Awkward Date" and this was the best picture, sadly

I'm going to call this guy Greg, because I don't think I've ever met anyone in my decade named Greg, so it's a safe name (but sorry if I have, Greg, correct me).  Greg and I ran into each other after church one time, and I'd known him from back in California, but only on a professional basis (vagueness is important here, I promise).  Anyway, he proposed that I hang out with him and his friend, who I also knew.  I was moving to a new neighborhood and in need of some friendship, so I was excited about it.  I also decided this Greg fellow was my new crush.

A week or two later, we met up and had dinner (all three of us), then Greg's friend left the state for the summer.  A week after that, Greg and I were texting.  I figured with Greg's friend out of the picture, I had the opportunity to make some kind of hint of a move.  So, we decided that I would walk over to Greg's house to watch a movie.

I think my first mistake was that I was under the impression that this was some kind of date.  I may have been a skoshe desperate for one.  I mean really, I was young and single and in Provo and I hadn't had a single date that wasn't a set-up since I'd moved there (if you know me, you know I've been asked out on all of 1 actual date total, which ended up in marriage).  Whatever.

Anyway, so I got to his house, knocked on the door, anxious (and wearing perfume).  I heard a shout of "come on down" from the belly of the house, and did so.  There was Greg, sitting on the couch watching basketball with his ripped jeans on and bare feet on the coffee table.  If he drank bottled beverages, I bet there was one in his hand.  I sat on the opposite end of the couch and crossed my legs, trying to make small talk, which didn't happen, because clearly he was more interested in the basketball game than anything else.  After a while, I started to notice that his feet were the source of most of the stink in the room and wanted something to distract me, so I said "...Well, can we watch that movie?" and he was like "Oh sure, they're over on the table, pick one."

There were a handful of movies scattered on the table, so I picked through.  I saw Master and Commander, which happens to be one of my favorite movies of all time.  I picked it up, unable to control the "Ooooh!" that escaped my lips because, hey, a guy who likes Master and Commander is awesome in my book.  Greg reacted to my noise by saying "Oh, that, yeah, I borrowed it from a girl I know.  It was really boring."  Oh.  Hrrr....

Finally we settled on Hotel Rwanda, the only one that we could agree on (because neither of us had seen it yet).  And that was a bad idea.  Genocide and such...not great date material.  I was trying not to cry because I'm a sap, and I have no idea what awkwardness was going through Greg's mind.

Ten minutes before the movie ended, Greg's roommate came home (it was now almost 12:30AM), and said "Oh hey, Hotel Rwanda, that's a good movie" and thankfully joined us in watching the ending.  It ended, and the roommate said something about the time, which prompted Greg to turn to me and say "Yeah, if it wasn't Friday night, I would've asked you to leave a long time ago."  Yikes.  Curfew's not til 1AM, son.

I couldn't get out of the house fast enough, let me tell you.  And before I'd reached home, I'd recovered from crushing on the fellow-- good thing, too, otherwise I'd be stuck with musing about chicken coops.

Memorial Day Weekend

First there was a wedding:

And then a beautiful stormy lake:

And then a fun game of croquet: