Oh what a to do...

Remembering Grandpa Parker

2012-02-17T16:29:00.004-07:00

Grandpa Parker (Andy’s Grandfather) passed away last month. He was 98 years old. I had the honor of spending some time with him (twice) and cherish that time. He was an incredible person with fantastic stories, beautiful memories, and invaluable advice.

Here are a few things I will remember about Grandpa Parker:

• He and his dog “Stump” would steal watermelons from his neighbor’s yard.
• He experienced Southern California before it was overpopulated and polluted.
• When asked what his wife did that drove him crazy, he responded with, “She never did anything to drive me crazy. She was perfect.
• He loved to dance when Andy played piano. He really cut a rug to “Old Adam” by William Bolcom.
• He loved watching a DVD we made for him (of his grandkids displaying their talent).
• He carved wood brilliantly, even after his eyesight failed.
• He was very interested in when Andy and I were going to start a family.
• He loved poring over maps to understand where he was and how far he was from everyone else.
• He was married to his best friend for 73 years.
• He couldn’t remember my name but came up with some awesome substitutes.
• He enthusiastically embraced one of my family’s Christmas traditions and wore the pajamas I gave him for Christmas.
• He had a special magnifying glass with a light attached to it so he could read.
• He was dedicated and loyal to his wife his whole life. As her health faded a few years ago, he never left her side. He stayed with her until the end.
• He insisted on doing the dishes. Also, his way of doing the dishes put me to shame.
• His wonderful smile and contagious laugh.
• He was patient and maintained an optimistic outlook on life. I never heard him complain.

My only grievance is that I didn’t know more about him; I didn’t hear enough of his memories. I rejoice that he has returned to his wife. I rejoice that he is no longer suffering from old age, blindness, or any other ailment of which he never complained. I rejoice that he was ready to leave this world and did so with peace and dignity.
But I feel his loss. I mourn what the world has lost. And because of that, I still feel sorrow.

Grandpa Parker, you were an extraordinary person. Thank you for sharing your stories and self with me. It was an honor to know you, if only for a short while. I will strive to see the world as you saw it. You are not forgotten and will remain in our hearts always.

Who pulls a bus over?

2012-01-18T15:53:00.002-07:00

So, my darling coworker told me a quizzical story that I had to pass along.

She commutes daily on the fast bus from Orem to Salt Lake City. The fast buses are really nice: coach style, easy to sleep on, smooth ride, etc. She enjoys the fast bus for many reasons and has taken it for some time now.

During her commute two weeks ago, her bus was pulled over. 70-something passengers watched in mild rage as the cocky police man walked to the bus, boarded, and left.
People were silent as they tried to figure out what the issue was. Tail light out? Possible. Improper use of signal? Who uses a signal in Utah anyway? Speeding? My coworker mentioned there were several cars passing on the right.

No one knew and no announcement was made.

All that was certain was that there were 70 people who were either late for work or missed their transfer. I would be pissed.

The next day my coworker learned the bus driver received a speeding ticket.

So here are some questions I had:

• WTF? Who pulls over a bus?
• I would have assumed the police department would have some agreement with UTA to take a license number or something rather than delaying the route and passengers. Even to just save face for UTA.
• Who pays the ticket?
• I feel that tax payers are paying for the cop to pull the bus over AND possibly for the resulting ticket. That thought is frustrating and stupid.
• What is the consequence for the driver?
• Was the policeman just trying to meet his quota for the entire month with one vehicle?
• Did he feel that he had to pull the largest vehicle over to prove manhood?

I don’t know. I feel that the whole situation is ridiculous.

Traditional Wednesday Depression

2012-01-11T11:37:00.003-07:00

I am a huge fan of Travelzoo.com. They have provided some of my favorite vacations and typically have really good deals. If you are ever able to take advantage of their offers, you won’t be disappointed (at least, I haven’t been yet). Every Wednesday they send out a “Top 20” list which features the best deals on travel for that week. This list incorporates deals from local to international, from hotels to full vacation packages. It’s a wonderful list to read, plan your next getaway, and dream about the possibilities.

DISCLAIMER: Part of me hates Travelzoo because they send their Top 20 list on Wednesday morning. WEDNESDAY MORNING. Why would they send it halfway through the work week? Why would they send it when I’m tired from the first two days of the week but know full well that I still have two full days left? It’s cruel to send these dreams to the average worker.

I hereby present you with my Wednesday tradition (which generally leads to mild depression):

• Open the weekly "Top 20" deals email from Travelzoo
• Daydream at my desk of going/being somewhere cooler than here
• Pick my favorites and send them to Andy
• Get no response from Andy (because he ignores my email)
• Remember that there is no cool vacation in the near future (and no reprieve from the 27 degree weather and inversion)
• Buy an ice cream sundae sprinkled with Reese’s peanut butter cups or a large order of French fries to ease the pain
• Go back to work

This is a typical Wednesday. Thanks, Travelzoo.

Pause. The Flashmob.

2012-01-07T15:03:00.003-07:00

I had the opportunity to participate in a flash mob this morning. It was a Zumba flash mob at a nearby mall. Being part of a flash mob has always been pretty high on my bucket list so I was thrilled to be part of it. The song (and dance) was "Pause".

I put on a long sleeve t-shirt and jeans so I could appear to be a mere unsuspecting shopper. I donned my Sorel's (as it was snowing) and arrived at the mall with 15 minutes to spare. I met my friend there and we stood nervously wondering how this whole thing was supposed to work (this flash mob was not particularly well organized).

11 o'clock came and went and my friend and I wondered if this flash mob would even happen. Sure enough, at 11:12 the song "Pause" began blasting through the mall sound system. My friend and I ran to join in on the dance.

I'm a show off by nature and enjoy being front and center. I ran to the front and began busting a move. About 10 seconds into the dance I realized a serious problem. My long sleeve t-shirt was inching up. Keeping up with the dance I desperately tried to pull the shirt back into place. It refused.

For a while I tried and tried to keep my shirt down. Then, I shrugged and stopped tugging it down. How bad could it get? Then I realized that the shirt had made it's way up to my bra. Awesome.

Ever aware of the many onlookers with cameras and other recording devices I tried to decide what would be worse: Self consciously pulling my shirt down or being proud of my personal "Truffle Shuffle".

Before I could reach a decision, the song ended. I hope everyone enjoyed watching my belly bounce in the opposite direction of the rest of my body. But this experience will serve as a great motivation to start running again.

Confirming the Stereotype

2011-12-20T09:14:00.005-07:00

Andy wanted an external hard drive (EHD) for Christmas. Easy.

I went to our local Apple store and made my way to the back corner where the EHDs live. I stared at the huge wall of multiple brands and sizes trying to make heads or tails of what I was looking at. 500GB, 750GB, 1TB, 2TB, 3TB, Iomega, Western Digital, LaCie, G-tech, Porche… I was overwhelmed.

As if sensing my distressed state (or perhaps just seeing a girl staring at a wall), an employee approached me.

“May I help you find something?” said Scott with a sympathetic smile.

I continued staring, baffled, at the wall of possibilities. “Um, I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.” I immediately hate myself for not doing some homework about these little boxes and how many I would have to choose from.

“Well, you’re standing in front of the EHDs”.

“Right. That’s what I need but I don’t know much about them.” SHAME.

“Ok, well, what size do you need?”

“I don’t know.” SHAME.

“How much memory is on your computer currently?”

“I don’t know.” SHAME.

“What kind of computer do you have?”

“A black one.” SHAME.

“A black one. What year did you buy it?”

“Uh…five years ago maybe? Four?” SHAME.

“Was it four or five years ago?”

“I don’t know.” SHAME.

“What will you be storing?”

“Music and pictures.” AHA! I knew this one.

Scott grabbed a 500 GB EHD and began telling me about how it was his favorite brand and it rarely had problems. I held the box and stared at it waiting for it to tell me that it was just what I was looking for. I turned the box around in my hand pretending to look for something and trying to seem interested in what Scott was saying. At least, I think I nodded my head in the correct places.

“So, when I say we’re storing music, I’m talking about hundreds of albums” I challenged Scott. “Do I need something bigger than this?”

“Oh” said Scott. “A lot of music. Ok.” He took the 500 GB EHD out of my hand and replaced it with a 1 TB EHD. He thought this would hold us over for a while.

Unfortunately they didn’t have this size in his favorite brand, but he thought this other brand would be ok.

I thanked him for his help and checked out. Leaving the store, I hung my head in shame as I had just confirmed the stereotype that women know nothing about technology.

Thank God women like my sister are in the world to prove this stereotype wrong.

Nothing went according to plan.

2011-12-13T16:48:00.001-07:00

A week ago, Andy and I had the opportunity to present a Christmas program for a delightful group at our church. We were approached by this group two months in advance and agreed to provide background music for a Christmas dinner. They would graciously provide dinner for us in return for our involvement.

One month ago we found out we would not be providing background music. We were asked to put together a 45 minute concert to serve as entertainment after dinner.

OK. Not what we were expecting. But OK.

Andy and I sat down and talked about the possibilities. We came up with the following program:2 songs by Andy, one song by me, 6 song group carol sing, one song by Andy, a duet, and end with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”. We figured that this would cover about 45 minutes.

We purchased the music and worked on our program.

The night of the dinner/concert:

I raced to the church after work with my change of dress in tow. I quickly made a power point slide show for the group carol sing. Andy showed up and we warmed up, checked levels, and sang through a few songs. Due to our frazzled state, we asked if our dinner could be held for us until after the concert.

A group of singers asked if they could join us onstage for the carol sing in the middle of the program. The more the merrier, I figured.

With the guests pleasantly filled with their delicious dinner, the program began as perfectly as could be desired. Andy rocked his first two songs (hardly a dry eye in the house) and I was pretty content with my own performance. We invited the group of singers onto the stage and we led the audience in a 6-song-medley. All was going well until a lovely lady (with the very best of intentions) announced to the audience:

“GOOD NIGHT AND HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

At her announcement, everyone in the audience grabbed their belongings and headed for the door. Andy and I remained on stage trying to figure out what had just happened. We still had the other half of our program to do. Did we care? Did we call out for everyone to come back? Did we just shrug it off and go get dinner?

We chose the latter. We chuckled over the strange ending to our concert and went to the kitchen to retrieve our dinner.

Before we reached the kitchen, we were met by a guilty looking lady who informed us (with her head hung low) that our meals had accidentally been thrown out. She firmly thrust a $20 bill into Andy’s hand and apologized over and over again for how the night turned out.

Then she asked if we would do a concert for their mother/daughter dinner they hold in May.

To which we replied: Yes.

You know what you should do...

2011-11-21T10:50:00.003-07:00

Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that advice givers speak from the kindness of their hearts with the sole purpose of helping others through their expertise and wisdom. That said...

I have some sort of bug, a virus that is dwelling in my throat and making me sound like a sultry baritone. I am not congested. I am not sneezing, hacking, or sniffing. I generally feel fine. I merely sound like a dude.

Have you ever noticed how much advice you get when you sound like you might be sick? I’ve noticed advice givers a lot lately(particularly myself…I LOVE to give advice—I’m working on it). While advice about curing a virus usually makes me roll my eyes, I prefer the advice givers to the people who form a cross with their index fingers and scream “STAY AWAY” at me. However, that is another post for another day.

Since I lost my voice four days ago I have compiled a list of the spontaneous advice I’ve been given to cure me. 9 times out of 10 the advice giver begins his or her session with the following words:

You know what you should do…

• Emergen-C (people always swear by it)
• Gargle Cayenne pepper
• Put eucalyptus oil into a pot of boiling water and inhale for 20 minutes
• Drink tea (preferably a concoction of pickled ginger, cayenne pepper, tobacco sauce, vinegar, and black pepper)
• Increase your vitamin intake
• Wear two scarves (or 3 if you have a third)
• Gargle lime juice
• Netty pot (ugh)
• Stop talking (which, I admit, I agree with and failed to do over the weekend)
• Massage eucalyptus oil into your pressure points
• Put Vic’s vaporub under your nostrils and eyes—apparently it doesn’t work as well when it’s just on your chest

This is my list from the past four days. If anything else noteworthy is mentioned, I’ll be sure to update the list. As for now, I thought this was a good start.

My personal chauffer

2011-11-15T14:41:00.001-07:00

My morning commute began as it always did. The short walk from my front door to the bus stop, waiting for the bus which is notoriously 10 minutes late, the grumpy grunt in response to my “good morning”. Nothing out of the ordinary. I snuggled into a seat and immersed myself in my book.

Ten minutes later, the bus turned right and began heading up the hill when the driver called out, “Hey! Does anyone know where this route goes from here?”

The passengers of the 213 nervously looked at each other. The woman one seat in front of me spoke up: “You don’t know the route?” I recognized this woman as a regular rider.

Apologetically, the driver confessed that she hadn’t driven this route in six months and the route had changed since that time. Additionally, she hadn’t reviewed the route before she began her shift.

The woman in front of me smiled maliciously and whispered “This means we can have her drop us off wherever we want!”

Before I could respond, the woman stood up and ran to the front of the bus to help the poor driver find her way.

As we pulled up to the stop where everyone should have gotten off, I stood up to exit the bus. The woman looked at me and said, “Don’t you remember? The route changed and this bus now goes all the way up to the Hospital!” I expected her to give me a giant wink.

“Ma’am,” I began to the bus driver, “this woman is lying to you. The route changed three weeks ago. This bus no longer services the hospital. At the next light, you are supposed to make a left and head down to Central Campus."

The driver looked at me, then at the woman giving her directions. The driver shrugged and said, “Eh. I’m in no hurry. I don’t mind heading up to the hospital.”

I immediately exited the bus frustrated by the woman who used public transportation as her personal car service. I was also frustrated by the driver who gave into it.

Resurfacing

2011-10-12T17:43:00.004-06:00

Restructuring your life, starting over, turning over a new leaf, shaking it up, etc. These have been my never ending mantras for the past several months. I woke up one morning in June and found myself in a funk. I was unhappy. And I couldn't figure out how to get happy. I was bored with everything and craved a change. I sat down and began to brainstorm the kind of change I was looking for. Unfortunately, the product of my brainstorming session was either too expensive for our current lot (travel the world) or just impractical (move to a new state). I considered school for a while but really had no direction or motivation to speak of.

After dismissing all of my ideas for change, I decided I just needed to get a grip. That's always my first thought when I encounter another person in a funk. Dude, snap out of it. So I gave that a shot.

I dwelled on the blessings in my life (of which there are far too many to count). I made an effort to recognize and acknowledge every kindness that was shown me. I constantly reminded myself how selfish it was to wander around in a grumpy funk. To no avail. I just couldn't shake it.

Hence my three month break from blogging.

I sat down once more at the end of September to list out exactly what was wrong. First on the list (an almost instantaneous addition) was my job. My job was a constant source of anxiety and heartache. I was grateful to have a job but decided that my mental health could use a break from the ever-present stress. Ok. Good progress. #2 on the list: my zumba class. I was lucky enough to find a place that would let me teach zumba. I worked hard to make sure my classes were perfect. I was early to every class and ready to go with a bounce and a smile. Class after class, week after week, no one showed up. I truly felt like a failure. Other things were added to the list from body image to attitude; from spiritual walk to not knowing where to go from here. Each line item knocked me down a peg. The simple act of opening my blogger account made me feel hopeless and discouraged. I felt out of control.

Do you know the best way to handle feeling out of control? You find something small that you do have control over and do something drastic with/to it.

I cut 12 inches off my hair.

I instantly felt better and more confident. Not because I chopped my hair off but because it was MY decision. It may sound stupid but I felt liberated. I was lighter and magically developed an optimistic outlook.

Slowly, things are turning around and I am resurfacing in the world of the functional and content. I quit my failing zumba class which was wasting my time and gas. I will find another class sometime but it isn't my focus right now. I accepted a new job today. I can't say with any certainty that it will solve my problems but it's a change. And anything different is good.

Anything different is good.

Mourning books

2011-07-08T08:47:00.003-06:00

When I get attached to a book (I mean, really attached) I will mourn its end. Regardless the ending, I am depressed that it’s over. This doesn’t happen very often but when it does, I really feel that I go into some kind of mourning.

I recently finished a series that had me absolutely captivated (800 pages in 2 days tells you something). When I read the final page, I was so content with the ending and so sad to have lost this new world. I mentioned this feeling to a coworker and she looked at me like I was an idiot.

So, I just want to throw this out there: Does anyone else mourn the end of a really good book? I can’t imagine that I’m the only one who goes through this. Or perhaps, is there a better way to describe it? Is it more of a withdrawal?

Regardless, I’m usually sad for a few days, consider reading it again, and finally choose a book that is a polar opposite of the book in mourning.

What books do you mourn and how do you deal?

Do you feel SO much better now?

2011-07-07T08:38:00.003-06:00

Andy and I had the pleasure of visiting some friends and family over the 4th of July holiday. We made the miserably dull drive to Reno and celebrated the birth of our nation in style. We barbecued, we hiked, we enjoyed the casino scene, we saw some fireworks—it was an all around fabulous trip.

When we arrived at our friends’ house Aron told Andy their t-time was at 1 and Mara had the brilliant idea of the girls hitting the spa while the boys golfed. I couldn’t have picked a better pastime. We chose a spa located in a hotel in South Reno. I’d never been there, she’d never been there. It was an adventure. We arrive at the spa, fill out the paperwork, change into robes, and wait for our massage therapists.

Cindy emerges from the bowels of the spa and leads me back to a room. On my way, I notice that the spa has a nice ambiance and friendly staff. So far, so good. Upon entering the room, my attention is drawn to a reusable grocery bag filled with used Tupperware and trash. Apparently, Cindy has just finished her lunch and left it in the treatment room. I silently wondered if they don’t provide a break room and lockers in which Cindy could have left the remains of her lunch. I shrug off the thought and prepare for the heaven that is a massage.

Cindy increases the volume of her zen-friendly music and the massage begins. “So, are you a guest here?” asks Cindy. Ugh. Chatty therapist. This is always a tricky situation. I don’t want to be rude but I also don’t want to talk. Thankfully, I escape the situation when someone knocks on the door and enters followed by a very loud whisper saying “UGH!! I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE WITH A CLIENT. I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!!!!” Cindy begins laughing loudly and hysterically and feels in necessary to tell me what she finds so funny. She begins a monologue about every single time she’s been interrupted or starts working on the wrong client. I close my eyes and try to tune her out.

After Cindy’s recount of several stories she falls silent. I think I’m in the clear until “Man! Your skin is soaking up my oil! You must be dehydrated!” I feel that this statement goes into the category of “things you shouldn’t tell people who are tipping you.” I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that she was using cheap scented oil. But, whatever. Maybe I was.

Usually a massage therapist will ask you how the pressure is. I waited for this question and it never came. So I softly clear my throat and say, “Would you mind doing a deeper pressure?”

“Oh no,” Cindy begins. “This is a Swedish massage. Did you want a deep tissue?”

The massage continues and I notice that my heart rate is up and something is weird. Then I place it. Her zen-friendly music has morphed into a bad ass electric guitar solo. I am listening to hair metal at half volume.

That was it. I was ready to leave. 45 minutes had gone by and I wasn’t relaxed at all. I was frustrated and formulating this blog post the entire time. Cindy takes a final breath signaling that the massage was over.

“Well, that's it," says Cindy. "Do you feel SO much better now?”

What can I get you to drink?

2011-06-06T09:26:00.002-06:00

My #1 largest pet peeve at a restaurant is the following:

You go to a restaurant, you are seated at an acceptable table, and you begin perusing the menu options.

You are enjoying a conversation with your dinner companion when the waiter (or waitress) approaches.

"Good evening," begins the wait staff. "What can I get you to drink? Coke (or Pepsi) products? iced tea? raspberry iced tea? lemonade? raspberry lemonade? coffee? hot tea? or perhaps an adult beverage?" (so on and so forth)

This introduction drives me bonkers.

I imagine it's pretty rare for someone not to know what they want to drink. Also, if you pose a question to your customers, isn't it only courteous to wait for an answer (rather than bombarding them with twelve different drink options)? If the customer has a question regarding the restaurants offerings in the way of beverages, don't you think they'd ask?

Seriously.

What I'll endure for Zumba

2011-05-29T17:08:00.002-06:00

I walked into a nearby Gold's Gym on Friday evening to attend a Zumba class. I had to miss my Thursday class and was feeling a little roly-poly. I walked directly to the front desk.

Helper: "Hello! Welcome to Gold's Gym! How can I help you?"

Me: "Hi. I would like to purchase a drop in class for the 5:30 Zumba class."

Helper: "OK! The guest fee is $10, I'll need you to fill out this form and I will also need your ID. We hold onto this until you're done with your workout."

I handed over my card and ID and started filling out the form. Pretty standard.

Helper: "Oh, by the way, I'd really like to introduce you to my friend Brett! He would love to meet you!"

Brett: (from a nearby cubicle): "Well, hello there! I'm Brett!" --Yeah. Got that much.

Me: (to the helper) "I'm not interested in a membership. I only want a drop in class."

Helper: "Brett, this lady is doing a drop in for ZUMBA!"

Brett:"Oh, you don't want to pay for a drop in class! You want a membership!"

Me: "I'm not interested in a membership. I'm here for a drop in class."

Brett: "But why pay for it when you could sign up for a membership and get the class free?"

Me: "Yeah. I'm pretty sure I'd still be paying for it. I don't want to be part of Gold's Gym. I'm just here for a drop in class." --(I feel like a broken record)

Brett: "But if you sign up today, your class is absolutely free."

Me: "I'm here for a drop in class. I'm not interested in becoming a member."

Brett: "Why aren't you interested in becoming a member?"

Me: :"Y'know Brett, I feel like you aren't listening to me. I'm going to say this one more time. I'm not interested in membership. I am here for a drop in class."

Brett surrendered my ID and showed me to the classroom.
The Zumba class was less than thrilling. But better than nothing.

The end.

26 facts about this 26 year old.

2011-05-25T13:50:00.011-06:00

In honor of my 26th birthday, here are 26 facts you may or may not know about me:

1. I peel bananas backward.
2. I use the New York Times bestseller list to know what NOT to read.
3. I don't like the feeling of my teeth scraping a fruit pit so I don't eat fruit with pits. Even if the fruit has been cut up.
4. I was diagnosed with hearing loss in fourth grade and wore supplemental hearing aids until high school.
5. I know all of the words to American Pie by Don McLean (and have since I can remember).
6. When I was younger I wanted a limo, an RV, or a Honda Del Sol when I grew up. Those three were always present on my MASH game.
7. I studied psychology because I knew I was the next Clarice Starling.
8. I usually count stairs as I climb them but not when I descend.
9. I had every intention of joining the Peace Corps when I was 21--it ended up not working out.
10. I hate asparagus.
11. I obsessively watched the Kids Inc. movie as a child and was able to sing all of the words to "Gloria" and "I Need a Hero". I wanted to be Stacy so bad.
12. I look to my sister to keep me up to date on the latest in fashion and accessories. I rely her hand-me-downs to stay hip and with it.
13. I have lived in Citrus Heights, California, Utah (Pleasant View, Ogden, Salt Lake), and Bentonville, Arkansas (technically) and have dwelled in twelve different homes/apartments.
14. Most of my time between jr. high and college was spent purchasing and memorizing every broadway show I could get my hands on.
15. I love roller coasters but hate the feeling of falling.
16. It's a life goal to hold every type of wild baby animal.
17. I wish I lived in a place where cars weren't necessary.
18. Andy and I spend most of our alone time sitting on the couch laughing.
19. WALL-E is my favorite movie.
20. I rarely send cards (any type of card). I prefer sending presents instead.
21. I wish I could travel more... like everyone else in the world.
22. I believe that people who have made bad decisions in their past can make good decisions in the present and future. Working at a lock-down juvenile facility taught me that.
23. I claim Styx as my favorite band.
24. I miss my mom's yogurt pie with graham cracker crust more than any other food. I've tried to recreate it but it never turns out as delicious.
25. I love playing the game "Name that time signature" with Andy. Rush makes the game more interesting.
26. Ideally, I would buy a ton of land and adopt every animal that needs a home. There is no excuse for the amount of animals put down every day from neglect, cruelty, and ignorance.

High Five

2011-05-02T09:27:00.006-06:00

My friend, Mandee and I met for lunch in Ogden as she will soon be leaving for London. After eating a delightful lunch, we decided to walk around 25th street and check out some boutiques in that area. Our first stop was a new age-y store that was not our speed. The second store is the awesomeness that inspires this post.

We walked into a sort of shrine to Ed Hardy. Bejeweled jeans as far as the eye could see. Oversized jewelry populated the center of the store. Hiding within the Ed Hardy wear, one could find a cute sundress here and there. These sundresses were the purpose of us being in this store in the first place.

Upon entry, we could see the store was a popular spot. It was crowded and had a line for the dressing rooms. Mandee and I began sorting through the Ed Hardy monstrosities to find any sort of wearable item.

Mandee was victorious and found five cute items to try on. She proceeded to the fitting room. I waited outside of the dressing room with my arms crossed.

The atmosphere changed as a greased up 40 year old (who turned out to be the owner) approached me, placed his hand on my back
and asked how my day was going. #1- a strange man's hand was on me and #2- his person (not to mention his overpowering cologne) was invading my personal space. I could practically tell you what he had for lunch. Gross.

“I don’t mean to be rude but please don’t touch me. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“No worries, no worries! I hope you have a beautiful day!” said aged Jersey Shore man as he moved on to his next victim.

I watched the man approach most of the customers in the same manner. Apparently, this is the way to gain customer rapport in Ogden. What was really disturbing is I watched multiple women carry on animated conversations with his hand resting comfortably on their bra straps. Ugh. I resumed standing with my arms crossed staring and the dressing room.

Not five minutes later, Jersey man was back in front of me. “You never answered my question. How is your day going?”

“It's fine.”

The man looked at me, cocked his head to one side and held up his left hand. “High Five,” he said.

WTF. “Thanks, I’m fine,” I responded coldly.

“What?” asked Jersey man.

“I said 'I’m fine. Thank You'.” I repeated with my arms in their securely crossed position.

He moved away and turned his attention to people who would accept and appreciate it. My friend made her purchases (which Jersey man deemed “excellent purchases” which needed a high five—she awkwardly tapped his palm and looked at me with confusion) and we left the shrine.

We stopped at a few more boutiques but this one was by far the highlight of my shopping experience in Ogden.

Putt-putt

2011-04-27T10:40:00.004-06:00

I am generally a good sport. I am terrible at most sports but can have a grand time when with good company. I love bowling, though I average about 40 points per game. I have developed a love for hiking, though I am winded 15 minutes in and am really slow. I can even enjoy an afternoon at the driving range, though every ball I hit manages to bounce a few times before even leaving the gate. What I can’t handle is a game of putt-putt.

Miniature golfing is stupid. I remember as a kid liking and hating putt-putt at the same time. As an adult, I am finally able to recognize it for what it is: an annoying humiliation.

Andy took me miniature golfing for one of our first dates. I warned him that I was a poor sport and would not be much fun but I promised to give it a try. After getting our stupid little sticks and our stupid little balls, I took my pretty pink ball and threw it right into the stream. I looked at Andy and said, “It will end up there anyway,” with a shrug. He obtained a new ball and the game began.

Andy became increasingly frustrated with me as I met his helpful putting hints with disdain and threats. He tried to teach me good putting form; I preferred either whacking the ball as hard as I could or dragging the ball with my stick directly to the hole. Eventually, he gave up and laughed at my shenanigans.

That was almost 7 years ago. We haven't been since.

I’m not sure what it is about miniature golf (and board games) that makes me such a poor sport. I can’t think it’s because I’m bad at it—I’ve demonstrated above that I’m bad at a lot of things I enjoy. It might be the jolly little courses that mock you as you fail. Who knows.

Happy Gilmore knows what I'm talking about.

Most. Embarrassing. Moment. Ever.

2011-04-26T10:22:00.001-06:00

We chose Lugano as the venue for our 2 year wedding anniversary celebration. Lugano holds many special memories for us and is one of the best meals you can get in Salt Lake City. I made the reservation last week and we anxiously looked forward to what would be an undoubtedly amazing meal.

I picked up a dress at Urban Outfitters last month (80% off!) and have been looking for an occasion to wear it. What better time than for an elegant dinner to celebrate our anniversary?

Monday rolled around and we spent the day relaxing and enjoying each other’s company (minus the one hour it took to renew my driver’s license and the DMV). At 6 PM, we began primping for our dinner date. I put on my new cute dress, my awesome wedding shoes (in honor of the day), and the earrings Andy brought me from Spain. I put on some make up, whipped up my hair, and was content because I looked super hot.

We went to the restaurant and had a great dining experience. We started with wine/beer and salads (Andy- arugula salad, Me-baby spinach salad), moved to our main course (Andy- short ribs, me- risotto of the day), and sadly declined dessert as we thought we would burst.

After arriving back at home, I took off my coat and began unbuckling my shoes. At that moment, I put my hand over my backside and felt skin. I stood up, mortified. I ran my hand along the back of the dress and found that the entire seam from waist band to skirt was non-existent, exposing my bare bottom. With wide eyes I thought through the evening, trying to remember any time I had felt a pop or a tear, anytime I had added extra strain to the seam. Nothing came to mind. I ran to Andy.

“How long has my dress been like this?!?” I screamed with utter horror.

“Hunh. I don’t know,” said Andy. “I didn’t notice it.”

“Oh. My. Goodness. I bet I mooned everyone in the restaurant!”

I removed the dress and inspected the two foot tear. Yep. This wasn’t a tear from too much stress on a seam. This was a stitching error. It looked like it was never stitched in the first place. Then it made sense—the dress was 80% off. I never noticed the gaping hole on the back side.

Happy Anniversary.

Who’s got the pain when they do the mambo?

2011-03-31T15:40:00.002-06:00

I Zumba. A lot. If you are unfamiliar with Zumba, it is a Latin-inspired dance/workout class that is not for the faint of heart. For a lifelong dancer like me, Zumba is a dream come true. Four days every week I put on my dance pants and do my very best Shakira impression for 60 minutes at a time. This post is from a class I take at a nearby rec center. The class is filled mostly with older women who shake it far better than me. It’s a party—no lie. Until this point, I’d experienced one teacher and just loved her enthusiasm and energy. She’s great. This particular day, I experienced a new teacher.

The new teacher showed up late, looked like she had just woken up from a nap, put on her Zumba music and proceeded to lead us in a four minutes song of nothing but squats. I was pissed. This was not Zumba. I stuck it out and finished the squat song. As we moved on to the next song (my thighs yielding an uncomfortable burning sensation), the teacher began to count the music off incorrectly. The music obviously went 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. She yelled out "1-2-3-4-5-1-2-3-4-5". Then she began her very best samba which looked like a cross between the Tin Man and a little kid who needs to go to the bathroom. This lady was obviously a kick boxer (no offense to kick boxers who like to dance). This continued for a full hour. She looked bored most of the time and had the energy of a wet mop.

At first, I was really mad. Why was a lady who couldn’t dance teaching a dance class (of sorts)? When the class was finished, I realized I had still had a great time. If nothing else, it was fun to watch her. Who cares if the teacher can’t dance?

The Worst Soup of My Life

2011-03-25T09:44:00.003-06:00

Once every six months I allow myself a “cheat day”. This is the day I can have any gluten-filled craving my heart desires. I look forward to every March and every September when I can throw caution to the wind and have whatever I want. My past two cheat days have been at Greek Souvlaki where I order the Chicken Souvlaki in a pita (my favorite flatbread in Salt Lake). This March's cheat is special. This cheat is all about the chicken strips at Hoppers. Generally, I don’t like Hoppers. I have been disappointed time and again by their bad menu selection and even worse food preparation. Their chicken strips, however, are the exception. They are delicious.

Yesterday was a particularly stressful day at work. I ran around all day like a chicken with my head cut off and was even pulled aside by one of my superiors to ask if I was ok. I was in meetings all day and rushing to meet some very pressing deadlines. Finally, I caught my breath at 3pm and texted Andy “Do you want to go to Hoppers after Zumba?” I had Zumba at 6:30 but thought that some much needed chicken fingers (my first in over a year) would do my soul good.

I went to my hour of Zumba and left feeling satisfied after my long day. I no longer wanted chicken strips. In fact, the mere thought of something fried made me sick to my stomach. Andy and I decided we’d go to Hoppers anyway since I wasn’t very hungry and Andy had been planning on it.

We went to Hoppers and were greeted by the nauseating sound of their live music where a well-intentioned woman was doing an unplugged version of “Living on a Prayer”. After requesting the farthest table from the live music, the hostess seated us, told us the specials, highly recommended the soup of the day, and left. We were faced with the underwhelming menu that Hoppers has to offer. I grimaced as the singer continued to sing too high for her range and Andy happily fixed his focus on the ever-present basketball games that make March as insufferable as it is.

Our waitress came to our table and we ordered. I decided on the soup: turkey chili (since it came highly recommended) and Andy got his usual: garlic burger. After a little while, our meals came out. Andy’s looked pretty good whereas mine looked like chunks of unrecognizable meat floating in what seemed to be teriyaki sauce. It was DEFINITELY not chili. Andy and I looked at my bowl in disgust.

Andy said, “That looks…”

“Terrible.” I finished. “Will you taste it and let me know if I’ll like it?”

Andy (the trooper) took the spoon and swallowed some of the soup. He stared at the table while smacking his lips a few times.

“Well?” I asked. “How is it?”

Andy contemplated the question. “It’s salty,” he said diplomatically.

I took my spoon and filled it with the brown liquid and put it in my mouth. Salty was about the nicest description it could have been given. Really, I would have described it as “Ass in a bowl”. “Poop flavored salt lick”. Or perhaps just “effing disgusting” (that’s right, effing). Andy and I came up with some other descriptions that are just too graphic for a classy blog such as this.

Anyway, I was not eating this soup. Andy and I wondered aloud if the hostess knew what she was promoting when she “highly recommended” it. I understand that restaurants have their staff push certain menu items, but I believe this is the quickest way to lose a customer. A new customer might think If they are recommending this bowl of excrement, how much worse is everything else on their menu?

The waitress noticed I had pushed the bowl aside and asked “Oh, did you not like it?”

“No,” I replied with a smile. “It’s really terrible.”

I ended up not ordering anything since the brown mystery stew and thoroughly killed any appetite I had. Sick.

On our way out, I mentioned to the hostess that she should probably not push the soup. It was really terrible. Hoppers has topped themselves yet again.

Not only is he not into you; you're a failure.

2011-02-22T15:00:00.005-07:00

Generally, I try to keep this blog light and sarcastic but occasionally I am confronted by a piece of information (or two) that compells me to dust off my trusty soapbox and speak my mind. Here we go.

Author Tracy McMillan wrote an article titled "Why you're not married" for the Huffington Post. The article (if you choose to not read it) is written to educate 30-something single women about why they just can't seem to land a man. The author makes sure to point out "But I won't lie. The problem is not men, it's you. Sure, there are lame men out there, but they're not really standing in your way. Because the fact is -- if whatever you're doing right now was going to get you married, you'd already have a ring on it."

She goes on to list six reasons women fail to get married:
1. You're a bitch
2. You're shallow
3. You're a slut
4. You're a liar
5. You're selfish
6. You're not good enough

If this list sparks your interest and you would like to learn more, by all means, click on the link and read away. If nothing else, it's an entertaining piece that promises to raise your heart rate and inspire blog posts such as this.

I don't want to talk about the article, whether I agree with it or not(I DON'T), or harp on the author. I read the piece as more of an entertainment post rather than lessons of life. My fear, however, is that hundreds or thousands of women have read it as a lesson on life. And that depresses me.

Are women so desperate, so lacking in self-esteem, that they would take this advice from a thrice-divorced, tactless author? She is giving advice on how to get married, not how to have a successful relationship. In fact, she uses sentences such as: "a good wife, even a halfway decent one, does not spend most of her day thinking about herself" and "if what you really want is a baby, go get you one. Your husband will be along shortly" which, in my opinion, is signing up to be someone's slave. What happened to setting goals? What happened to a marriage being a partnership? What happened to compromise, love, and respect? I feel like feminism never happened. Apparently, marriage will destroy your identity, ladies. If that's true, why would you want to get married in the first place? If that's true, these bitchy, selfish, slutty, egocentric women know where it's at.

Actually, I feel that this article is for any woman who is married to give herself a self-righteous pat on the back for obviously not being any of the aforementioned things (God knows that no married woman is capable of being a bitch or selfish or shallow or lies or fill-in-the-blank) since she's married.

This might be my favorite part:
"Because ultimately, marriage is not about getting something -- it's about giving it. Strangely, men understand this more than we do. Probably because for them marriage involves sacrificing their most treasured possession -- a free-agent penis -- and for us, it's the culmination of a princess fantasy so universal, it built Disneyland." I don't think I need to add anything to this. The blatant stereotypes really speak for themselves.

Although Tracy McMillan brings a few sentences of grace toward the end of the article, I was mostly appalled by it. But then, I read the article "Why I'm not married (and it's not because I'm an angry slut)" by Jessica Ravitz on CNN.com and really wanted to put my fist through my computer screen.

I was so excited to see a rebuttal to Tracy McMillan's "Why you're not married" and had high hopes for it! I was expecting to read a strong article by a strong woman that was written to empower, not condemn. I wanted to read about choices and priorities. I would have been happy with the "Everything in its own time" argument or perhaps (dare I say?) the idea that God might be in control or have a purpose or one of those ideas that are usually scoffed at.

What was offered was this woman's life (sob) story about all of the circumstances that surround her singleness. Her early distrust in men, following a guy across the country who was obviously not interested, committing to a man and running away, several failed dates, etc is all narrated in this article. It read like an apology. While she was giving real life instances that counter the six reasons stated by McMillan, never once did she mention anything that would hint at self-esteem.

So here's my soapbox. If you found value or guidance in either of these articles, What are you looking for? Why are you looking to these authors to tell you why you are a "failure"? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe there is nothing wrong with you? You have gotten this far in life without McMillan or Ravitz to tell you what is wrong or who to blame. I'm guessing you are smart enough to get along without them a little while longer.

Women, you are exquisite. You are strong and powerful. You have the ability to climb mountains, succeed in life, and love in many, many ways. Why are we considered failures if we aren't married by 35 (or in Utah, 19)? Why do we allow our self-esteems to be destroyed time and time again by any ignoramus with an opinion? No one wants to be lonely and everyone wants answers. But, really. Are you willing to resign and condemn yourself in this offensive way?

Food for thought.

The reasons I hate(d) Las Vegas

2011-02-22T11:27:00.007-07:00

I went to Las Vegas for 18 hours to take an exam last weekend. Here's what I (already knew but) confirmed on this trip:

1. The flight is inevitably hijacked by a bachelorette or "Dirty 30" party that talks non-stop about how wasted they are going to get. Also, they can't seem to understand the time change thing and feel it necessary to debate it for 40 straight minutes. At the end, they decide they don't really care. As long as they don't miss Jersey Shore.
2. People really think that high fashion in Las Vegas consists of anything that is sequined, two sizes too small, and shows off one's bright pink thong.
3. It's. Too. Damn. Expensive.
4. Dear Mr. Porn hander-outer guy, as I am walking down the strip with my arms full of luggage and other travel items, what makes you think I want to take your smutty, porn fliers?
5. Drunk sloppiness. Everywhere.
6. People who take pictures of the Eiffel Tower or the Arc D'Triumph at the Paris hotel and casino. Hey guy, they aren't real.
7. Ed Hardy on old women (or anyone for that matter). I hate you Ed Hardy.
8. Know-it-alls on the shuttle who feel it necessary to announce to everyone which casino is which. Just in case we couldn't read the numerous, enormous, flashing signs. "See the one in the shape of a pyramid? See that one? That one is called the Luxor! See? it's like an Egyptian theme!" Dude. Cool it.
9. Bachelor parties who really think that the "Hangover" will happen to them and therefore quote the movie over and over again.
10. People who cleverly use the phrase "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas". For the love. Give it a rest. You aren't clever. You're annoying.

My above cynicism might have been due to the fact that I was sick and there to take a test. Or it might be that Las Vegas sucks. Either way--this list is true.

Kickboxing and Me

2011-01-30T07:55:00.004-07:00

I tried my very first kickboxing class not too long ago and found out that Kickboxing and I don't get along.

My first mistake was attending a class at a nearby college. When one chooses to attend a high-energy exercise class with a bunch of college freshman, one can assume he/she will inevitably be the fat kid in class. Thus, my pride was somewhere trodden on the floor by peppy 18 year old cheerleaders doing their collective jump rope very early in the class.

After the grueling ten minute warm-up we moved on to something just as peppy and just as exhausting. I expected kickboxing to be kind of like violent jazzercise. Interestingly enough, it was more of a chaotic Tae-bo class. And just like the Tae-bo class I took in seventh grade, I still can't do bean bag punches without giving myself black eyes.

Let's talk about the instructor. She looked and acted like an ex-Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. She wore a headset (which was silly considering the size of room and number of students). She really enjoyed making the "Woo!" sound and saying "Come On!" as a means of inspiring us to keep going. She was very disappointed that we didn't "Woo!" and "Come On!" with her. Sorry lady, I'm just not that peppy.

After jumping and swinging my arms like a monkey for 45 minutes, I excused myself to grab some water. As I took a sip I thought, you know, I wouldn't be the least bit sad if I left right now (I should point out that I had done an hour of Pilates prior to the "Turbo Kickboxing" class). I mentally chastised myself for being lazy and went back into the class of bouncing children.

Shortly after re-entering, the instructor announced that it was time for the cool down. PRAISE THE LORD!! We went to the floor and immediately began what felt like a million mountain climbers. Anyone who has experienced mountain climbers knows that, by no stretch of the imagination, can they be considered a "Cool Down" exercise. I reminded myself for the 20th time that I would not be returning to this class. We then continued our "cool down" with 100 crunches and 50 bicycles. I now know that the instructor really had no clue what "cool down" meant.

After an hour of bouncing, kicking, hitting myself, cursing my spare tire, climbing mountains, and setting my abs on fire, I limped home (I considered it my "cool down") and swore to never go back again. And I haven't.

I'll stick to Zumba, Pilates, rock climbing, swimming, and running. I think that's good enough for now.

The dreaded 213

2011-01-29T11:09:00.005-07:00

I realized I haven't blogged about Salt Lake City's public transportation in a while. After Andy and I moved to Sugar House, I abandoned TRAX and began riding the bus (which is actually really nice--way better than TRAX). I began riding the 220 which picked me across the street from my house and delivered me to the hospital at which I work. Easy. Wonderful.

UTA decided to revamp the bus schedules mid-December which cause the 220 to no longer go to the hospital! In fact, no busses near me went to the hospital. Boo. I would have to transfer. After studying the new schedule I decided to switch to the 213 simply because it got me closer to the hospital than 220's new route.

So, the 213 picks up one block west of the 220 and let me tell you what a difference one block makes! The 220 uses beautiful, new, clean busses whereas the 213 uses super crappy, dirty, old busses. The people who ride the 220 are all commuters to the hospital. The people who ride the 213 are rude and stinky. Unfortunately, both busses cater to two high schools which isn't ideal for the morning commute.

I rode the 213 for about two weeks before I gave up and returned to the less convenient 220. Here are the reasons I chose the longer commute:

1. The 213 would NEVER arrive on time. It was either 10 minutes early or 10 minutes late (when it decided to show up at all)

2. The drivers are grumpy (The first day I rode I tapped my pass on the scanner and the driver mumbled something to me, "Excuse me?" I said, since he mumbled and I didn't hear what he had said. "USE--THE--ONE--IN--BACK" he yelled in an exaggerated way.)

3. The people who wait at my stop are weird (I struck up a conversation with a nice blind man who told me he really hoped I was LDS because the only nice people in the world were Mormon and he sincerely hoped I was one of the nice people. Then he invited me to a Sarah McLachlan concert for Valentine's Day.)

4. The people who ride the bus are rude (I gave up my seat for an elderly man with back problems and he called me a "bitch" very loudly because he was offended that I moved and didn't sit next to him. He called me a "stuck up bitch" loudly for 10 minutes until I exited the bus.)

5. High School students- though this one goes for 213 AND 220, (I listened to a Junior telling a sophomore about the really old movie that his teacher showed him called "A Beautiful Mind". He talked about how it was made when Russell Crowe was really young and how it was about some guy who was good at math, was "schizophrenia", and tried to kill his son . He thought it might have been based on a true story.)

6. College Freshman ( taking religion 101 talking about how lucky they are to be part of church that doesn't have any negative historical events to cover up unlike the Catholic Church.)

7. General Weirdoes (A guy interrupted me from reading to say, "I notice you are reading with your sunglasses on. Does reading with your sunglasses on give you a different perspective on what you're reading?")

Due to the above instances, I have switched back to the 220. Thank God.

Choose your own adventure: The mystery of the murdered blue man.

2011-01-08T08:21:00.002-07:00

After much success with my previous "choose your own adventure" story, I thought I'd do another one.

Read the story and choose your own adventure!

PART I
Candace and Andy have a wonderful evening planned with friends. The evening includes great company, fantastic food, delicious wine, and much fun to be had all around. For everyone's ease, the hostess brings out rubber wine markers with suction cups to mark whose glass is whose. Candace picks out a silly blue one for Andy and sticks it to his glass.

Dinner is served and the friends gather around the dining room table. The wine is poured, the food is devoured, and the conversation takes form. If Andy remains gripped in conversation continue to part V. If Andy's mind wanders and he begins playing with his wine charm continue to PART II.

PART II
Andy mentally checks out of the conversation and is suddenly hypnotized by the rubber suction cup wine charm. He checks its bounciness by flicking it. He checks its flexibility by twisting it. The idea I wonder if I can twist this little blue guy in a full circle?enters his head and his experimentations begin. Andy twists and twists only to find that the little blue man cannot twist a full 360 degrees. The little blue man is severed from his suction cup and falls into Andy's lap. If Andy announces to the group of the blue man's death, skip to PART VI. If Andy decides to take care of the problem on his own, continue to PART III.

PART III
Andy immediately rises from the table and wanders toward the kitchen. To everyone at the table Andy looks lost and confused. He walks to the kitchen, turns around, takes a few steps back, and spins in an aimless fashion. "Andy, what are you doing?" asks Candace. If Andy informs the group that he is looking for the trash to dispose of the evidence, skip to PART VII. If Andy thinks fast and comes up with the first fib he can muster, continue to PART IV.

PART IV
Andy faces the party group and and pauses. "I...forgot that...the wine in...the kitchen was...empty." Andy immediately walks back to the table and sits down in front of his half-full wine glass and partially full bottle of wine.. To find out the ending, skip to PART VIII.

PART V
Candace and Andy have a very pleasant evening with no topic left untouched. With the wine and food consumed, Candace and Andy bid goodnight to their hosts and go home.

PART VI
"Hey, guys!" says Andy, "Did you realize that these wine charms aren't as flexible as they seem? I just tried to spin one around in a full circle and it broke off! Sorry, Kristen! Can I replace them?" The hostess assures Andy that it's ok. Everyone laughs at the situation and the party commences. After hours of enjoyment, everyone bids goodnight to their hosts and goes home.

PART VII
Andy cooly responds to Candace by saying, "I forgot to spit my gum out! Does anyone know where a garbage is in this place?" Kristen mentions the location of the garbage and Andy is able to dump the evidence without anyone being the wiser. The party continues, fun is had, and the guests bid good night to their hosts and go home. It isn't until weeks later that Kristen thinks I thought we had another wine charm.

PART VIII
Andy turns to the hostess. "Kristen, I broke your wine charm."

Cat Update and Happy New Year.

2011-01-05T11:40:00.010-07:00

So, while everyone is writing inspirational posts about starting over, New years, and all sorts of resolutions, I decided against such a post.

I would rather tell you great news! Remember this post when we adopted little Alice Boo and Morty decided to hide for three weeks? Well, I finally got some pictures of them together. Here's the update:

Alice is no longer afraid of running water. Mort has taught her how to drink from the faucet.

Mort tolerates her existence and plays with her often. They sleep near each other but no sign of snuggling yet UNTIL...

...LAST NIGHT! I guess this can't be considered snuggling but they are sure cute sleeping butt to butt. Morty is a trooper and is so patient with Alice. Alice often jumps on his back and chews on his ears. They are buddies now. YAY!

Also, my New Year's resolution was to floss more. No joke. I'm on day five and going strong. Here's to a great 2011!

Hugging a strange man

2010-12-13T16:04:00.003-07:00

I received a bear hug from a complete stranger last week.

Generally, I am super grumpy at 7:30 AM while riding the elevator to the third floor.

I entered the elevator and joined a very large man also riding. The man seemed fidgety and peculiar. Great, I thought, I get to share an elevator with a weirdo.

As the elevator approached the 2nd floor, the following conversation commenced:

“How is your day going?” asked the large, strange man.

As it was 7:30 AM I tried to figure out the appropriate answer.

“Fine, so far,” I said. “How is yours going?”

The man smiled a huge smile and said, “I have a son.” He was beaming. “Can I give you a hug?”

Many trials, mostly errors

2010-12-01T07:33:00.001-07:00

This blog piggy-backs on THIS ONE written a few months ago. I finally made it to the goodwill and purchased two beaufitul house dresses.

Lovely, are they not? Anyway, my goal was to make a blouse out of the top piece and a dress out of the latter. Due to some mis-measuring by me, they both turned out to be blouses. Whoops. Live and learn, I guess. As Andy so expertly put it, "You have to start somewhere."

So, let's start at the beginnning, shall we?

First item on my list was to shorten both pieces and remove most of the sleeves. Above, I cut it short and removed the super awesome snaps that held the front together. I pinned the front of the now blouse together for stitching.

Below, I removed the length and chopped the sleeves. Please, no making fun of the fact that I cannot cut in a straight line. I really did my best. Please note little Alice Boo was really excited to get in on this project.

Next, I opened up the neck of both pieces and pinned them into a V. The darker piece will have a much deeper V shape. Only one is pictured because I got tired of taking pictures of pinning. Really not that exciting.

Here are the three pockets that I removed from two dresses. Don't get me wrong, I totally dig pockets--just not in the pieces that are being transformed.

Here's the obligatory sewing machine shot. This is to prove that I sew. So, there you have it. I sew.

Isn't Andy the best? For the purple and cream top, I used some left over fabric to make a belt. After I sewed in inside out I started to manually turn it right side out. After working on that for five minutes or so, I got frustrated and handed it to Andy. Without complaint, he set down to work and slowly, slowly, HE DID IT! He's a rockstar.

And here are the final products:

I hope you enjoyed the journey! I look forward to doing better next time!

Special shout out to Marisa and Mandee for supplying my inspiration!

Deck the Halls.

2010-11-29T11:25:00.006-07:00

The Victim:

The Culprits:

The Solution:

Merry Christmas.

Soap

2010-11-23T10:40:00.004-07:00

Andy and Candace sit down to a nice dinner. The wine has been poured, the table set, and the husband and wife say grace over the meal.

The conversation turns to various happenings of the day, banter, and their upcoming trip to Arkansas. Andy remarks that dinner is very good. Candace smiles and says that she’s glad he is enjoying it. The dinner continues thusly until Andy puts his wine glass to his lips and takes a sip. The conversation ceases as he makes a face, looks at his dinner, back to his wine, then up at Candace. He smacks his lips a few times and sniffs this glass. He takes another sip.

“This wine tastes like soap.”

FREEZE. REWIND 30 MINUTES.

Candace is making dinner and multi-tasking as usual. As she cooks, she is unloading the dishwasher, loading it back up, texting Andy to see what time he’ll be home, and preparing pots and glasses for hand washing, and singing whatever song happens to be one their “Bad Ass Road Trip” mix. Kelly Clarkson, no doubt.

Upon Andy’s arrival, she grabs the glasses they used for wine last night and fills them forgetting that she had put soap in them for dish washing preparation.

RESUME ABOVE STORY.

Candace’s face drops in sudden horror.

“What is it?” Andy asks.

“It tastes like soap because I put soap in the glasses to wash them and completely forgot about it. You’re drinking soapy wine.”

Uncharacteristic of Andy, he doesn't just shrug and drink the soap wine. I empty the glasses and fetch new ones. The remainder of the dinner commences soap free.

A typical evening at the Larson household.

Weird, Wacky day

2010-11-23T10:39:00.001-07:00

First days back to work are always strange. Re-focusing, remembering where you left off, time change, etc. Today is my first day back from a five day break. Allow me to recount my weird, wacky day thus far (it’s only 10 AM):

Don my sub-zero winter coat, wool gloves, 180 ear muffs, sweater, scarf, tights, pants, wool socks, and snow boots to brave the 30 degree weather (with the rumor that tomorrow will be 15) after five glorious days of 65+ weather.

Arrive at work to find 4 new projects awaiting me—to be added to my already large to-do list.

Call a heating/plumbing company to get a quote and brief explanation of how to fix a sizeable puddle in our basement and slight sewage back up in our downstairs shower. With an apology, I’m told we need a new water heater and some rooting.

Rumors that the severe storm set to hit this afternoon might turn into a snow day tomorrow.

Break my zipper after using the restroom at 9 AM and must go through the rest of the day with my fly down. Sadly, my shirt isn’t long enough to cover.

So far, that’s it but I think that’s enough in 2 hours. Here’s to a better afternoon and staying warm in the storm!

Little Alice Boo.

2010-11-08T11:21:00.005-07:00

This weekend Andy and I welcomed a new member into our household.

This is Alice Boo.

She is a two month old, long hair, gray tabby.
She is adorable and loves to get into everything. She has already been crushed by our stepstool (twice), face-planted multiple times, and has been knocked on the head by various objects she pulls off of tables. Alice is a trooper. She shakes it off and goes looking for her next adventure.

She is fascinated (though intimidated) by Mort. She wants his food, his water, and his litter box. Mort, of course, wants nothing to do with her. Someday I’ll have pictures of them together. As for now, Mort is cowering behind the washer and dryer.
Alice Boo loves to be held, loves to play, and is scared to death of running water. My two cats could not be any more opposite. I love them both!

Spiders. (Home projects Story 3)

2010-11-03T08:51:00.005-06:00

Our house has kind of a creepy basement. Half of it is finished and the other half is a cold, gloomy room reminiscent of the set of Vincent Price’s The Pit and the Pendulum. Well, not that bad, but it is a little spooky in the dark.

I don’t have a problem with spooky rooms or spending extensive amounts of time in them. After all, I have my iPod and my determination to clean out the basement so one day (soon, hopefully) it will become the comfortable sitting/reading room.

This basement, unfinished and otherwise, is the happy home of many spiders. As the weather is cooling down, a multitude of arachnids have found their way into my basement. Normally, this isn’t an issue as I have a dust buster which sole purpose is sucking up spiders.

I began the five hour process of clearing out my basement. All of the boxes in the finished room had been opened, rummaged through, and left alone for four months. I decided the first step would be to consolidate boxes, break down the empty boxes, and store the full boxes in the unfinished portion of the basement. As I began moving the many boxes around, I kept my dust buster nearby to suck up the eight legged freaks that emerged from the mess.

All was going well until I started putting things into the closet. I had gone down the day before and sucked all of the daddy long legs (8 of them) from the closet. After I put the printer, files, and other computer stuff into the closet, I straightened up and felt a tickling on my neck.

That’s right, folks. A daddy long leg dropped down from a hiding spot in the closet and felt that my neck would be the most comfortable place for it.

I began screaming, dancing, swatting at my face and neck, and finally squashed the culprit. From then on, I just felt like I had something crawling on me. Every few minutes or so something would tickle and I would reenact my spider dance (which is not as cool as the African Anteater ritual dance from Can’t Buy me Love).

Turns out, I had two other spiders crawling on me. Thankfully these ones weren’t large or as creepy as the daddy long legs. But still, I don’t love spiders…especially on me.

Ugh. Thankfully, I lived through it and got the basement cleaned out. Now I’m off to buy some spider traps.

The Problem with Plaster (Home projects story 2)

2010-11-01T09:50:00.003-06:00

The problem with plaster is that it’s really hard to work with. My house (built in 1917) is equipped with plaster walls. The exterior walls are plaster and brick. Undoubtedly, you understand how difficult it might be to hang something as simple as a picture on these walls.

Part of my miniature home makeover was to hang stuff on the walls. Andy hung our 30 lbs mirror in our front room by using his trusty drill with the masonry bit (this was on a wall that had brick 1 ½ inches in. As I don’t relish using power tools, I decided to stick with interior walls (plaster sans the brick) and use an old fashioned hammer and nails.

First was the kitchen. I decided to do several pictures of fun places we’ve visited. Out of the 8 frames I wanted to hang, I went through 22 nails (many bent, few victorious), 12 holes (way less than I was anticipating), and two applications of putty to hide mis-measured holes. All that and 2 hours later, my travel wall was complete!

Then I was on to the bedroom. The beautiful room that was painted in this blog now needed some stuff on the walls. I managed to get one nail in on my first try, another picture could be hung on an already existing nail, and I turned to the north wall to hang two small pictures.

I had forgotten that this was once the exterior wall until the addition was put on.

I grabbed my nail and hammer and went to work.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Thunk.

As I unknowingly tried to drive the nail into the brick beyond the plaster, the plaster cracked and dropped a large chunk onto my bedroom floor. I almost cried. My beautiful, freshly painted wall now had a chunk of plaster missing from it.

What did I do? Nothing. I’ll let Andy hang something over it with his trusty drill this weekend.

10/27/2010

2010-10-27T10:48:00.003-06:00

In honor of Andy’s 29th birthday, I have listed 29 things that make Andy the best.
1. He’s the funniest person I’ve ever known.
2. He’s a fantastic cook.
3. He knows all the lyrics to “Drop it like it’s hot” and will rap it wholeheartedly when it comes on.
4. He also knows all the lyrics to “The wizard and I” and will sing it, too. (Sorry, Andy!)
5. He has an endearing love for Star wars.
6. He has the cutest “white man overbite” you’ll ever find.
7. He rocks every solo I’ve ever heard him sing.
8. He gives the very best hugs.
9. He loves his family.
10. He is serious when he needs to be but is silly when he wants to be.
11. He snuggles Morty.
12. He watches “The Price is Right” on his days off.
13. He plays many instruments well—I’d list them but I’ve lost track.
14. He loves Disneyland about as much as I do.
15. He unknowingly makes noises if the room is quiet for too long.
16. He is gaining an appreciation for classic rock, 80s hair metal, and show tunes.
17. He leads the youth praise band at our church.
18. He can beat most people at ping pong.
19. He sometimes struggles with multi-tasking (such as chewing gum and playing the drums).
20. He is frustratingly good at Trivial Pursuit.
21. He has an unrivaled passion for excellent food.
22. He takes pride in his appearance. Especially his jeans.
23. Has developed a pretty awesome white streak just above his forehead. He might be the male version of Rogue.
24. He really loves Mad Men, True Blood, Dexter, Big Love, and any show that involves food.
25. He tries his hardest to do impressions and funny voices. He usually succeeds.
26. He loves me.
27. He takes on yard work without complaint.
28. He’s too damn smart.
29. He will make a great 30 year old!!

Happy Birthday, Andy!! I love you!!

Blue Wall, White Wall (Home projects story 1)

2010-10-26T12:38:00.002-06:00

In Andy’s absence (he went to Spain for a choral competition, if you’re out of the loop) I decided to keep myself busy with home improvement projects, of which Andy is unaware.

First step: painting my bright blue bedroom a less obnoxious color. Andy and I have spent some time discussing the color we would like our room to be. He wanted light brown, I wanted mint green. Since he left before we could resolve this debate, I decided to give in and paint the bedroom brown (using my beloved mint green as an accent color).

My darling friends, Jamie and Emily, came over to support my extreme fervor for the painting process. We were able to get the first coat on in about 2 hours. They are rock stars. As they were leaving, I realized that I still had a blue wall to cover. We have an extra room off of our bedroom; three of the walls are painted a pleasant tan color while the fourth wall is painted the nauseating BRIGHT BLUE that once plagued my bedroom.

Geez. I thought. If we could do an entire room in two hours, it should be a snap to do one wall! Right?

I should state that the blue wall was once the exterior of the house. It is a very uneven brick wall with many nooks and crannies. As much as I would like to strip the paint and have exposed brick in that room, I didn’t think my 7 days remaining would be adequate time to A) learn how to strip paint down to the brick, and B) actually do it. Rather, I chose to paint the brick wall white since the brown I put in the bedroom did not match (nor did it compliment) the tan in the extra room. Plus, a white wall would certainly brighten up the extra room.

Around 6:30, I began my project. I found a can of paint called “Brilliant White”, grabbed my trusty brush and roller and set to work. I called my sister to keep me company as I painted. The sun was almost gone and the lighting wasn’t great. April and I chatted for several minutes before I said, “This paint doesn’t seem very white.”

That having been said, it was much lighter than the blue wall underneath it. I told April that the light (or lack thereof) was playing tricks on my eyes and that the paint was much lighter and therefore must be white.

I painted and painted the brick wall, making sure to include all crevices and indentations. A sizable blister formed and popped on my right ring finger from the tenacity with which I was painting. I yelled at my cat a few times for stepping directly into the wet paint on the door frame, and meticulously smoothed out the paint thus eliminating the dreaded footie prints.

After another hour and a half of careful painting, my first coat in both rooms was finished! I washed the brushes, took a shower (scrubbing very hard to get all of the paint off), and settled into bed with season 12 of South Park to keep me company. I was so proud of myself for all that I had accomplished!

In the morning I went into the bedroom to admire the mostly dried round 1 outcome. The bedroom was lovely. There were a few bleed-throughs but it was very even and looked great! One more coat and the bedroom would be done!

I stepped into the extra room and found…

…AN EFFING BRIGHT BLUE WALL!

Yes, friends. I worked so hard to paint the wall the exact same color I was trying to get rid of. The can must have been from another paint because the color on the wall was definitely annoying, ugly, bright, sky blue. I cursed the heavens knowing that I’d have to start again with coat 1 later that night.

Today, the first coat is finished. I made sure to start early enough yesterday evening to see that the color I was applying to the wall was indeed white. Tonight will be the 2nd and hopefully last coat of white paint. On the bright side, the ugly blue cannot be found on any of my walls!!

Through the shredder (for real, this time)

2010-10-01T10:21:00.005-06:00

I was introduced to Jillian Michaels' 30-day shred a year and a half ago by my once workout buddy and all around great gal, Hilary. Please take a look at my attitude when I first attempted the Shred. The month of September 2010 became “Shredded September.”

I decided that action needed to be taken when I was lethargic all the time and was winded by a few flights of stairs. I grabbed my trusty Jillian Michaels DVD and figured it would be a good jumpstart to reviving my old habit of going to the gym. I wasn’t naïve enough to expect to shed the 20 lbs that was boasted on the cover of the dvd, I was just looking for something to get me going.

Here’s my experience in a nutshell:

Fiction: Lose up to 20 lbs in 30 days. Fact: I ended up gaining in the end; however, it was all muscle. I have rediscovered my shoulder blades and have some pretty awesome upper body muscles going on.

Fact: The first 21 days were the easiest—the last week was super hard. I got really bored with the video and was ready to move on to something else. I even mixed up the levels just to break routine.

Fact: I will never be able to do 30 squat thrusts. They hurt my knees and make me very cranky.

Fact: Plank position really is the best way to build shoulder and back muscles. I will stop complaining about all of the exercises in plank position.

Fiction: half push-ups or “girl” push-ups are just as effective as full push-ups. Personally, I disagree with this statement. That’s a copout that I used a lot. Finally, I bit the bullet and just struggled through the full push-ups and I found that I was strong enough to do them. They’re just hard.

Fact: I was AMAZED at how easy level 1 was after doing 20 straight days of levels 2 and 3.

Fact: squats and lunges never get easier. That’s why they’re good.

So, that’s what I learned in the last 30 days. Now I’m off to 30 days of running followed by another 30 days of shred. I have a wedding to go to in January and I will look hot for it.

I would recommend the 30-day shred for anyone who isn't a diehard gym goer.I don't think this should be used as a weight loss program, but to discover how strong you really are.

Inspirartion!!

2010-09-15T08:46:00.006-06:00

I have stumbled upon some inspiration. When I say stumble, what I mean is I saw my friend do something and now I am jealous and want to do the same thing. My friend Mandee took a shapeless piece of clothing and made it super cute. She got her idea from this fabulous lady (who I now follow religiously).

“Hey!” I thought. “I like to sew. I like to rip things apart. Why not me?” After all, we all remember the 80s monster bridal gown that had to be torn apart and re-vamped.

With plans to meet my gal-pal Heidi at the neighborhood DI (Desert Industries for
all of you non-Utahans – A “goodwill” of sorts) at 7 pm. I put $10 in my pocket and set off to find my soon-to-be masterpiece! I began thinking of all the possibilities depending on the article of clothing I chose to demolish.

I arrived at the DI before Heidi and, mind still full of dizzying possibilities, walked through the front doors. My dreams came to a screeching halt when all of the employees turned and stared at me as I entered. I stopped thinking I must have done something wrong but could not for the life of me figure out what I did.

One of the employees grabbed the store microphone without looking away from me and made the following announcement:

“DI customers- it is now 7 o’clock. This store is now closed”

He continued to stare at me with a smirk as he put the microphone back.

At this announcement, the lights in the store dimmed and my excitement and inspiration were crushed by the rude employee. I dejectedly turned around and walked out the doors.

Heidi found me outside of the store with my hopes for the night broken on the concrete.

“Screw it.” I said. “Let’s go get some ice cream.”

Next time I’ll choose to support Savers, Salvation Army, Thrift Town, or any other thrift store that doesn’t have cranky, tactless nincompoops as employees.

Writer's Block

2010-09-10T15:53:00.002-06:00

I find that every few months I have severe writer’s block. Several times during the day something will happen that makes me think “Ooh! That would be a great blog!” I go so far as to write ideas down in a trusty notebook Andy gave me for Christmas. However, when it comes to actually writing it in story form, I can never make it as funny as what I witnessed.

Since my notebook is filling up, I feel like I need to put a few down in non-story form to make sure that these instances get out somehow.

The items on following list are happenings from the past few months that I deemed ‘blog worthy’ but have been unable to put them into any sort of amusing, anecdotal, or worthwhile story.

• A group of fat, old men taking a lesson on how to ride their newly acquired segways. No joke, there were about 15 old dudes with helmets on their segways outside of Huntsman Cancer Institute taking direction from a policeman.

• A worker at a nail salon chewing out some poor, young customer for putting glitter nail polish over her acrylic nails. I’m not gonna lie…I laughed at the poor customer while it was happening.

• During my last trip to New York, April and I witness several (several= upwards of 50) people, men and women, in black suits, wearing sunglasses, carrying black duffle bags in his/her right hand. All of these observed weirdoes were sighted within 5 blocks. MIB convention, maybe? I was super creeped out.

• How many times in one day I reference South Park. I haven’t given up on this post as its own entry. I’ve had a draft for several months now and it will be completed someday. Allow me to say, I reference South Park an obscene amount of times in one day. I guess that goes for most TV shows and movies as well.

• Random people feeling that it's not only acceptable, but necessary, to touch my hair when I braid it. Seriously. Respect the friggin' bubble, people!

• The re-release of Avatar into theaters. WTF? Is the movie industry so bad that they have to bring a really sub-par movie back into theaters?

These are my favorites from a large list. Some form or other all of the above stories are stored as “drafts” on my blog list. I just haven’t been able to make them anything worth reading.

So, dear readers, you must use your imagination and make each scenario the most amusing you can. Lord knows, I’ve tried and I’ve failed.

I hope to be inspired soon. Don't give up on me!

Judgment

2010-08-30T08:57:00.006-06:00

I witnessed a car accident this morning. A woman in a Jeep cut off a man in a Ford truck. Rather than hitting the brakes, as you usually do when someone cuts you off, the truck sped up and plowed right into the Jeep. Whether the woman didn’t see the truck or was purposely cutting him off, I don’t know. Perhaps the man panicked when she cut him off and accelerated instead of braking. Whatever the case, the part that really struck me as horrible was the confrontation of both drivers.

They both pulled off to the side of the road (across the street from my bus stop). The man jumped out of his truck screaming “You stupid son of a b****, what the f*** were you thinking?” so on and so forth in this manner. He approached the Jeep and began banging on the windows. At this point, the woman swung her door open (hitting him in the face; to be fair, he shouldn’t have been banging on the windows) and began screaming just as aggressively as the man from the truck.

I kept my phone in my hand, ready to call 911 should this “conversation” come to blows. I watched with horror and disgust as these two people dressed in business attire screamed at each other on 1300 East at 7:00 AM.

First, I have been in two accidents and never realized how fortunate I was to be treated with such respect and sympathy. Both times, the driver of the other vehicle asked if I was ok. The conversation was civil both times and voices were never once raised. There was no blaming, no accusations. The situation was always treated as “Man, that sucks but let’s see if we can figure it out.”

Second, I was saddened by the state of the world if such a display of conflict management has become normal. To see this anger, hostility, and disrespect from two adults made me sick.

I watched as the police approached the scene and listened with perfect dignity as these two people were screaming at him and each other. He took notes and spoke calmly to both of them. At that point my bus pulled up.

I boarded my bus and watched the scene as we pulled away. My disgust soared to a new level when the woman opened the door to her back seat and pulled out two small, crying children.

Shame on those people for choosing to not think before they spoke and acted. Shame on them for forgetting that everyone makes mistakes and refusing to work together to solve the problem. Shame on them for not using self restraint in the presence of others.

But then again, how often do I have the same reaction in different situations? How often have I been guilty of the judgment I've just placed on them?

Lesson observed and internalized.

12 Days: a sad tale with a happy ending.

2010-08-10T08:40:00.010-06:00

12 days ago- I opened the window of our bedroom (as I always do) to let Mort get some fresh air before bed. I finished my nighttime rituals, shut the window, and went to sleep. It was like any other night.

11 days ago- I woke up and realized Mort was not at my feet, not crying for me to turn on the faucet, and not asleep under the bed. I woke Andy up and we did a sweep of the house. I ended up coming home early from work to continue searching. Many tears shed. I was mortified when I realized he had jumped out of the window before I shut it the evening before. He had spent the whole night outside.

10 days ago- Andy and I did a full neighborhood sweep. We went down every alleyway and side street we could find. We (I) went so far as to ask another cat if he knew where Mort was hiding. More tears shed. Humane Society knew me by name at this point.

9 days ago- Another neighborhood sweep. I put out food in case Mort was hiding in the bushes around our house. Consequently, I became the neighbor’s cat’s best friend. Hysterical tears shed. Depression started.

8 days ago- I came home from work and walked around the neighborhood. In my depression, I didn’t clean, I didn’t cook; I just stared out the window and waited for Mort to come home.

7 days ago- I began to get really angry with people who tried their hardest to be upbeat and supportive. Every time I heard “I’m sure he’ll come home when he’s ready” I wanted to scream and throw things.

6 days ago- I painfully came to the realization that Mort was not going to magically reappear. Either someone had to find him or he was lost forever. Andy was very patient with me when I came to this understanding.

5 days ago – Andy and I talked about what more we could be doing. We decided that our cat, a Houdini of sorts, was not going to be found unless he wanted to be found. Therefore, posters were superfluous.

4 days ago- I caught a glimpse of a white cat that wasn’t my neighbor’s cat. I was convinced it was Mort and began laughing and crying and calling to him. Once I shined the light on the cat, I found out it wasn’t Mort. It was just another neighborhood cat. I went straight to bed.

3 days ago- Andy went to the Humane Society to see if someone had dropped Mort off and he was mistakenly not scanned (for his chip). Andy proceeded to come home and tell me how heartbreaking the cat situation was at the shelter (GO ADOPT A CAT and SPAY AND NEUTER ALL OF YOUR ANIMALS) which inspired more tears, sadness, and depression.

2 days ago- Andy and I began the conversation of how long we wait before we replace Mort. More tears and depression.

1 day ago- I received a phone call. An angel found Morty hiding in her basement and contacted the humane society with his tag numbers (who then contacted me). I was able to pick him up at 5 pm at which point Morty did not let me leave his sight. He was constantly head-butting me and telling me all about his adventures in the scary outdoors.

Today- I am so thankful to have my Morty back. I intend to help him gain the weight he has lost (he’s so skinny). I intend to never open the bedroom window again. I intend to snuggle him until he can’t stand it. The snuggling will commence after his bath, of course.

This picture was taken this morning. The pictures above were taken at an earlier date. He's very skinny and very dirty but I think he'll pull through. He's so happy to be home.

In defense of "My generation"

2010-08-04T11:26:00.004-06:00

I work with a woman who drives me crazy. She is an angry child of the 60s who doesn't seem to like anyone. She calls me naïve and often puts me down. She refers to me as "Your Generation."

According to her, My generation:

- Doesn't know how to travel. She was appalled when I told her I'd rather fly than road trip. My argument: "six hours in a plane will get you to a much cooler place than six hours in a car." Her argument: "Your Generation is just too lazy to drive without destination. There's nothing like cruising the open road with a beer in your hand." Fair enough.

- Eats nothing but sugar. This statement came from me offering her a gummy worm. Interestingly enough, she refers to 2pm as "Chocolate time" when she chokes down a pound of chocolate covered pretzels every day. But I guess my generation is the "sugar generation".

- Stole music from a superior generation. As I listened to my 'Glee' channel on Pandora, the song "Let it be" came on. This woman began raving about how my generation can't make quality music of their own so we have to steal from her generation. "When I was a twenty-something I wouldn't have been caught dead listening to my parent's music." I guess this is true. I prefer the The Who over Backstreet Boys any day. Guilty.

- is a generation of posers. This piggy-backs on the last one. My generation can be considered a 'poser' generation because we bring back fashions "they" wore, listen to "their" music, and use slang that "they" invented. Also, she like to remind me that she was a vegan before it got trendy. Would we call practicing veganism trendy?

In the defense of my generation: we are a product of your generation. All of your complaints are your own doing. Leave generation Y alone, hippie.

My husband, the Rockstar

2010-08-01T14:00:00.004-06:00

This morning we decided to ditch church and go to breakfast at a delightful restaurant called Finn's. We found our friend, Jamie, there and ordered our drinks, iced tea, hot tea, and diet coke.

As we were perusing the menu and deliberating about whether we should order breakfast or lunch, Andy jumped out of his seat and vacated the table. Before Jamie and I could figure out what was going on, Andy was at the front of the restaurant, assisting an elderly gentleman who had fallen. The man was on his back and very disoriented. Andy was asking questions and gathering information.

Jamie and I looked at each other and exchanged remarks about what a good guy Andy was.

I glanced back at Andy's progress and was slightly startled to see him on top of the man, doing chest compressions. The entire restaurant went into an awkward stupor and watched.

"Breathe," Andy kept shouting to the man who had dropped out of consciousness.

Considering how many people were around Andy asking if they could help, I decided to stay in my seat and simply gape at the spectacle, feeling terribly insulted when the head chef asked the table behind us if they were going to "stay for the end of the show?"

The CPR continued for what seemed like forever. Andy continued his compressions and just being overall fabulous. When the EMTs arrived, Andy turned his attention to the poor man's wife, asked her for her husband's medical history, and explained to her (in layman's terms) what was going on with her husband.

Andy stood by, watched over the EMTs, and stayed with the man until he was loaded into the ambulance.

So, here's to Andy: the serious stud muffin who reacts beautifully in dire situations. You are an inspiration and a lifesaver. I am so very proud.

To Andy!!

Love will hold us together

2010-07-21T11:28:00.003-06:00

Nothing makes me happier than being able to share my most embarrassing moments with my faithful readers (of whom there are a few). Allow me to share my latest and greatest:

Acting purely on impulse, last night I dragged Andy to the nearest Barnes and Noble to go on my semi-annual literary shopping spree. After a large meal we decided that we needed the walk anyway. With our new house (pictures will come, I promise) we are within easy walking distance to the book store. During the last few hours at work, the bus ride home, and the making and devouring of the meal, I had this song stuck in my head (yay Christian music). The song persistently stayed with me through the walk. Usually I use my “Asia” trick, but not with songs that I like. I allow them to be stuck in my head…because I’m sick.

Upon entering B&N, I headed directly to restroom (several glasses of water…you get the idea). I opened the door to the deserted bathroom and began singing the song out loud. On some level, I knew I was singing in a public place and I probably shouldn’t, but I continued to sing to the empty stalls.

About halfway through the song I heard:

“Ahem. You should probably know that someone else is in here.”

Yikes. I immediately flush, wash my hands, and leave.

Guess what, the song was no longer stuck in my head.

I guess I'm bored

2010-07-14T15:21:00.010-06:00

Things I love:
Paul McCartney in concert—wow.
Russian literature…who knew?
Purchasing plane tickets to visit April in New York for Pioneer Day!
Massages
A sleepy kitty with a warm belly passed out on my lap
Rain
Stories told by an elder generation
Successfully cooking something
Pixar—all of pixar
Feeling productive
Friends…and wine
The miniature Wall-E that sits next to my computer in case I need some cheering up during the day (thanks, Andy)
Climbing under the covers, any time of the day
Dancing

Things I don’t love:
Grumpy people
Doors that won’t open (my car’s passenger door, patio door, etc)
Working on Saturdays
Dexter and Big Love (get over it)
NPR
Family losses
Spiders
Missing the bus
4:08—too late to get anything done but too early to leave

The Temp

2010-07-07T08:35:00.004-06:00

Like most people, the dentist evokes feelings of dread and fear in me. I go to my appointment with the expectation that the dentist will discover at least 15 cavities. This is an irrational expectation, but one that I come to terms with every six months.

At my latest appointment, the hygienist pulls me into a room, introduces herself as ‘Tammy’ and tells me that I will need to be patient with her because she is a temp. One of the many reasons I go to my current dental office is because a cleaning is about 15 minutes long which provides me ample time to get to work. So, from the start, I know that this will not be an ordinary cleaning.

Tammy spends a solid five minutes searching for gloves and a mask. She rummages through every drawer, ever cupboard, and every cubby, twice. Finally, she takes her leave from me to go “in search of a hygienist who normally works at this place.” She comes back fully gloved and masked and dives right into my chompers. She introduces a new tool of torture that measures the gum depth (used to detect gingivitis). She begins dragging this metal rope across my gums and makes disapproving noises.

“Wow,” sighs Tammy. “You have quite a bit of gingivitis! This is a problem!” Automatically, I start panicking.
How is it possible that I have developed “quite a bit of gingivitis” when just six months ago I had a clean bill of health? She pulls the tool of torture away and leaves my gums a bleeding mess. “Ah,” continues Tammy regarding my meaty gums. “I see you also don’t use the correct method of flossing.”

The cleaning continues in this manner. During the course of the 55 minute cleaning, Tammy was good enough to observe that not only was I lousy with gingivitis, I have receding gums that will need to be fixed soon, at least five cavities (or teeth that “bothered” her), and that I needed to relearn all of my known and practiced dental hygiene.

At this point, I didn’t want the dentist to come in. I dreaded hearing him reiterate all that was acutely wrong in my mouth. I feared the hours of dental work that would result from my horrible, horrible teeth. I could practically feel the Novocain and hear the squeal of the drill. Tammy patted me on the shoulder and told me she was going to grab the doctor.

I thought about my options. I look to my left where the door stood friendly and inviting. I could make a break for it. I look to my right and realized that this is exactly why I was here. I might as well wait it out and take it like a man.
The doctor walks in. He gently looks around, shakes my hand, and tells me that he’ll see me in six months. “Do you have any questions?” asks the savior of a dentist.

“Yeah. What about my receding gums, five bothersome teeth, and my “quite a bit of gingivitis”?”

The dentist looks directly at me and shrugs his shoulders. “Meh. She’s a temp.”

All fun and games until someone loses a zipper

2010-06-08T15:24:00.006-06:00

Among the desirable objects one may find on any given shopping excursion, I firmly believe that the dressing room experience is not complete without also finding the most hideous thing to try on.

There are certain rules to the monstrosity which one might add to the ‘try-on’ pile:

1. The more sequins the better.
2. Any catsuit is an automatic must.
3. If the article of clothing would seem appropriate in your run of the mill Fresh Prince and Jazzy Jeff music video, it’s a winner.
4. Any thing that makes you laugh.

The last time I was at Nordstrom rack I came across a denim romper which
automatically qualifies under rule #2. It was a strapless, shorts masterpiece with a low riding belt. Beauty. I confirmed the necessity of trying it on with my shopping partner and she agreed whole-heartedly. She found a breathtaking sequined mini skirt to compliment my denim catsuit.

After rounding The Rack we took our finds into the dressing room. I awkwardly climbed into my denim jumpsuit and heard my friend giggle as she slid into her mini skirt. We opened our doors and had fun laughing at each others ridiculousness, twirling, and enjoying our ugly outfits.

The time came to return to my normal clothes and purchase what I had found (excluding my ugly catsuit). I reached up to the side zipper nestled snuggly in my armpit and tugged it downward.

The zipper refused to budge.

I tugged again.

Nothing.

I began to panic. The idea of being stuck in this abomination made my head spin. I was nauseous. Bordering hysteria, I pulled and pulled at the zipper.

Nothing.

I put my arm down, sore from pulling so hard. I leaned forward to take a breath, gathering my strength for the next fit of tugging.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP.

Alarmed, I stood up and felt for the zipper. It was still there, obstinate and cruel. My fingers follwed the zipper down to my waist...I felt skin. The zipper had split down the middle.

I stared at myself in the mirror and tried to come up with a plan. I hated this catsuit, jumpsuit, romper, or whatever the hell it was. It was a stupid ritual to trying something this ugly on.

I had no other choice. It would just have to come off. I slowly began easing the suit down when...

POP!!!

The top of the zipper flew off it's resting place, ricocheted off the mirror, and flew somewhere on the other side of the dressing room. I quickly stepped out of the romper and back into my normal clothes. I hung the suit up, gathered the rest of the clothes and took them out of the dressing room.

"How did everything work out for you?" Asked the employee.

"Not too great." I replied. "I think there's something wrong with the zipper on that one." I motioned toward the catsuit and threw my pile of clothes at her before she could examine it too closely.

Red faced and full of shame, I left The Rack empty handed. I didn't want to buy anything anyway.

The grass so green, Skies so blue. Spectre is really great!

2010-06-01T13:17:00.004-06:00

I am starting to get a little weirded out by the volume of random shoes dangling from various power lines. I don’t know if anyone else in the Salt Lake Valley has noticed, but the number of ownerless shoes strewn haphazardly on the power lines (or telephone cables) of Salt Lake City is on the rise. I guess I never recognized the cult ritual of ‘shoe slinging’ until Edward Bloom experienced the town Spectre in the movie Big Fish.

As quaint a tradition as it seemed in the movie, I can’t help being slightly annoyed by how ugly it is to see a pair of old sneakers hanging from power lines. Every street we drove on yesterday had at least one pair of shoes flying high from cables.

As I began writing this I did a small search online about shoe slinging and came across some very interesting articles, none offering a definitive explanation for such a spectacle. I quickly found out that I am unbelievably naïve. Apparently, popular beliefs attribute shoe slinging to gang activity, the announcement of the latest drug dealer, or a teen boy’s proclamation of becoming a man. Snopes.com suggests differently. Here I was, innocently thinking that people were dumb and liked abandoning their used shoes for all to see instead of donating them. My common reaction was to ‘tut, tut’ the former owners of the shoes for being wasteful individuals. Little did I know that the general public firmly believed that shoes from power lines were a beacon warning trouble for the neighborhood. Silly me.

Wikipedia tells us about “Shoefiti” which is prevalent all over the world with much of the same information Snopes.com has to offer. However, Wikipedia goes a step further to explain how a “Shoe Tree” is different from the act of shoe slinging—but fails to actually tell us explanations. Annoying.

Perhaps the most helpful site I found was straightdope.com which posted the question to the web and had readers answer the question.

So, this is what I have discovered today. I am more informed, less naïve, and still without a reason why people find it necessary to sling their dirty shoes up on the power lines. Thoughts?

For more information on 'Shoefiti' and how it might affect you, please follow this link: Shoefiti

A little bit country but also a little bit rock and roll

2010-05-27T14:35:00.004-06:00

I have had my fair share of testing in my 25 years of living. The testing isn’t always bad but it is ALWAYS interesting. I like to go against the grain and prove that I’m way cooler than what I appear to be. Through the course of my many medical journeys, here are some things that I’ve learned from testing:

Family history
It is a known fact that my ancestors hail from Sweden, Germany, and Italy.

Blood tests
Blood tests determined that I am Italian (and apparently Jewish according to my GI doctor).
I have lots of red blood cells but they are all misshapen from my Italian (and/or Jewish) heritage.
My white blood cells sometimes get confused and forget what they’re doing also from my Italian (and/or Jewish) heritage.

Diagnostic Scans
Through an ultrasound I have found that I have no appendix. This must be a miracle since I’ve never had it removed.

Genetic Testing
The most recent finding is that I carry an allele found in Asians and Pacific Islanders. Go figure. I’m not sure how that one’s even possible.

I have had other tests that dealt more with actual medical issues, but these were the ones that I find most amusing.

To sum up I am an appendix-less Italian, German, Swedish, Asian, Pacific Islander, Jewish woman.

The home stretch

2010-05-18T10:46:00.009-06:00

I sure hope this isn't bad luck! So, Andy and I are under contract for this house. It is beautiful and we are so excited to finish the purchasing process and move in. I have been dreaming about planting flowers and getting all domestic.

We are probably most excited about this porch. Is it not beautiful? Truth be told, it is probably larger than any room inside the house. We look forward to many summer evenings here.

Ok. The kitchen is just adorable. The vintage stove/oven is in working condition. The cabinets are metal, and the floor is black and white tile. I am ready to don my pearls and apron and do my best Donna Reed/Betty Draper impression. I must apologize for not including more pictures of the interior. The person who lives there currently still has all of his furniture in the other pictures and I thought it would be disrespectful to parade his belongings for all to see. Interior pictures to come!

The backyard is our second favorite thing about this house. There is room for bbq parties and dogs! It has a vegetable garden, which Andy has nobly offered to take on, mature trees, and tall fences!

We just love this house. We are scheduled to close June 23rd. Fingers crossed that all goes well!

Ugh. That song is stuck in my head again.

2010-05-11T13:03:00.005-06:00

So, I have always struggled with getting THE MOST annoying songs stuck in my head. When I say annoying, the songs range from ‘Here comes santa clause’ to ‘Pharaoh Pharaoh’ (for all of you church kids out there) to various horrible Broadway classics (“Shipoopi”, “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair”, and ANYTHING from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat). For years I would wander around in the black hole known as ‘irritating song migraine’ and wish that there was a cure. Like hiccups, when an insufferable song is stuck in your head, there is no cure.

Or is there?

Two years ago during the painful Christmas season (when a certain radio station plays non-stop Christmas tunes starting October 31st), I shared an office with a woman who would hum ‘here comes Santa clause’ over and over again. When she grew tired of humming it, she would whistle it. When she didn’t want to whistle anymore, she would resume humming it. I didn’t know if I was going to kill her or myself.

After days upon days of trying to will the tune of ‘here comes santa clause’ out of my head I heard a song that will forever be my savior of ‘irritating song migraine’. I heard the song ‘Heat of the Moment’ by Asia and, while this song successfully killed the pernicious ‘Santa Clause’, it did not lodge itself into my brain.

Therefore, my solution for dislodging painful songs from one’s brain is to simply sing the first line of ‘Heat of the Moment’.

I never meant to be so bad to you…

If you need help remembering the song, please follow this link.

I apologize if you now have the song ‘Heat of the Moment’ stuck in your head.

A Tough Read

2010-04-23T10:25:00.003-06:00

I love reading. I am fairly certain I have made that quite clear within the life of this blog. I enjoy reading difficult, flowery, and timeless books. Then again, I also love Twilight, Harry Potter, and various contemporary, mindless, and/or enjoyable reads.

Occasionally I will pick up a book that for one reason or another, challenges me. Sometimes the book is too smart for me, sometimes the plot is so irritating I have to keep putting it down, and sometimes a book makes me feel a certain way that makes it difficult to finish.

Disclaimer: Some of the books on this list I loved and some I hated. I apologize if I offend anyone in any way. I feel it necessary to state that this is my blog containing my opinions.

These are the most difficult books I’ve read so far: (in no particular order)

1. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand): This book made me want to throw heavy objects at the wall and extreme conservatives. I read this book because SO many people have told me how life changing it was. I read and read and waited for these horrible characters to find redemption. They never did. I found it beautifully written, incredibly self-righteous, and overall frustrating. I felt that every character in the book should have died. Because I wanted them to. All of them. I firmly believe that the little utopia they made should go up in flames. I found that this book wasn’t life changing for me…it was a waste of two months. The Fountainhead is so much better, in my humble opinion. At least she uses subtlety in that book. Again, I’m really glad if you loved Atlas Shrugged. I still rank it as one of my least favorite books.
2. Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy): This book is slow and dry and wonderful. I’m so glad I was able to stick with it; the fact that I have read the book has come in extremely handy from time to time. The characters were complex and it has beautiful metaphors. However, there are many pages of description that you must plough through (pardon the pun—if you’ve read the book) to get to the story. I find that this is the reason people don’t care for classic literature, which I totally understand. It’s not always easy, which is why Anna Karenina has made it onto this list.
3. Native Son (Richard Wright): Native Son made me feel like a really bad person. I was constantly jumping to stereotypes and getting very angry with the characters. I kept reminding myself of when the book was written. I researched the time period, the geographical setting within the time period, and then read African American history of that time period in that geographical setting. I worked so hard to understand this book and try to imagine the impact it had on society pre-civil rights but I had nothing to relate to. This book may very well be the most difficult book I’ve read so far. I certainly tried the hardest with Native Son. To this day, I have no clue if I actually liked the book. In the end, I believe that the protagonist should have SOME redeeming quality and I get really frustrated when I don’t care whether the protagonist lives or dies. Even Ignatius O’Reilly had some redeeming qualities.
4. Sophie’s World (Jostein Gaarder): I don’t know about you, but I didn’t necessarily excel in philosophy in college. For those of you who are on the same page, I highly recommend this book with one caution: it is a difficult read. Sophie’s World is philosophy 101 on crack. It challenges the reader to learn about a different philosopher with every other chapter, be able to keep them and their theories straight, and understand the theories in a practical sense within the story. I found myself constantly flipping back in the book to remind myself of which philosopher was who. Very difficult, very fantastic. Sophie’s World is probably in my top 10 favorites.
5. Stone Fox (John Reynolds Gardiner): Stone Fox, for me, is lumped into a large category which I like to refer to as ‘Horrible Children’s novels’. Sharing the category is Island of the Blue Dolphins, Old Yeller, and (who can forget) Where the Red Fern Grows. I HATE all books like this. However, some good came of it. I now know to NEVER read books or watch movies where an animal is one of the main characters. It will inevitably leave me curled up on the floor, blubbering like a two year old. The reason this book made the list is because I read it for a Children’s lit class and ended up sobbing in the middle of class one day. Terrible. Just terrible.
6. The Sound and the Fury (William Faulkner): This book is ridiculous. First of all, there is no way anyone who is reading this book outside of an educational setting will derive any sort of plot. The book is rather short but unbearably incomprehensible. I got halfway through the second (out for 4) part and told Andy, “I am not smart enough to read this book.” I was even reading analyses of the book while I was reading it. Even then, I had no clue how the authors of the analyses were able to arrive at any conclusion. I neither liked nor disliked this book because I could never decipher a plot. I know that stream of consciousness writing is difficult to read and comprehend but this is not my first rodeo. So, kudos to those who are feeling really proud of yourself because you not only read The Sound and the Fury but were able to understand parts of it. You are much smarter than I. I gave up and have no intention of picking it up again.
7. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb): I don’t even know what to say about this one. It was recommended to me and I just couldn’t get into it. I read 908 pages out of the 912 page book and put it down. There is no way the book could improve enough in the last four pages. I put it down four years ago and never found out the ending…which doesn’t bother me at all. The book isn’t poorly written, I just didn’t enjoy it. I struggled through it hoping that it would have some twist to make it more interesting, but it never did. As a result, I have never felt compelled to pick up any of his other novels. My sister has graciously loaned me She’s Come Undone which I hear is a good book, but I haven’t found the motivation to start it.
8. The Scarlet Pimpernel (Baroness Emmuska Orczy): I’m not gonna lie. Sparknotes told me all I needed to know about this book. I read the first few chapters in high school, got bored, and relied solely on sparknotes.com for the rest of the quizzes. Granted, I was 15 and the book was mandatory. I think I should give it another try at some point. It might be a great book…I have no idea.  So perhaps this book shouldn’t be on this list since I really didn’t give it much of a chance. Does laziness count as making a book ‘difficult’? Here is my defense for including this book on this list: in that same class I was able to finish Les Miserables without HALF of the heartache I had with the “Scar Pimp”.
9. Great Expectations (Charles Dickens): Slow and dull. Much like the Scarlet Pimpernel, I tried to read this book when I was probably too young and should therefore give it another go. However, this was the first classic that I tried to tackle and, though I was able to finish it, I was bored out of my mind and probably missed half of it. Charles Dickens is one author in particular that I have never felt the need to read. I believe Great Expectations had a lot to do with it.
10. Ulysses (James Joyce): This is an anticipated #10 because I am only 250 pages into it. Much like Sound and the Fury I am utilizing sparknotes.com and other analyses to assist me in understanding this stream of consciousness. Also, many of the analyses for this book offer how Ulysses parallels the Odyssey. Sadly, I’ve not read the Odyssey (which will go on my list of things to read in the near future) so the analysis is helping immensely in that area. The difference between Ulysses and Sound and the Fury is that Ulysses has a discernable plot. That makes all the difference in the world and will allow me to actually get through the book. 

I’d love to know which books you find challenging…

Shh. Be vewy, vewy qwiet. I’m hunting fow waskawy houses…

2010-04-16T12:25:00.003-06:00

The home hunt has begun. Andy and I got serious about saving a down payment and buying a house. Part of this decision was my radical love for animals and the fact that Mort needs a buddy; part of the decision was the fact that we (more or less) hate our tiny apartment; part of the decision was the multiple house guests we get and the extreme awkwardness that occurs for our guests walking through the bedroom to get to our bathroom; part of the decision was realizing that ‘it’s just time.’

Long story longer, we got serious with our savings account and are now looking at homes.

That's really all I have to say on the issue. We have a great realtor and we are viewing houses tomorrow. Some are awesome, some are not, but I will keep you posted on the outcome!

Celiac Sprue: Friend or Foe?

2010-04-07T10:47:00.005-06:00

I chalk my latest and greatest disease up as a friend. So far, the pros far outweigh the cons. I praise the Lord that I am not craving gluten filled products (except for chicken nuggets, yum) as much as I had anticipated. The diet thus far has been incredibly manageable and simple (as long as we aren’t going to restaurants…that can get tricky unless it’s Mazaa or Noodles and co.). I have found new inspiration to cook and am having a great time trying to hone in on my non-existent inner chef skills.

OK. Here are the cons:

• Obviously, saying good-bye to most fried foods, all fast food, soy sauce (the GF version just isn’t the same), ravioli, flour tortillas, (soft, warm) cookies, ready-made pie crusts, monkey bread, Hawaiian sweet rolls, cookie dough, Chinese noodles, PB&Js, Zatarain’s, Crown burger, flat bread, naan, barley, so on and so forth.

• Needing Andy to baby-sit my foolish cooking ways. I am learning and trying really hard, but I still do stupid things like chop up the stalk of fennel instead of the root (whoops) or purchase the 16 oz can of diced tomatoes instead of the 28 oz can. I am thankful to have Andy here to fix my mistakes, but it’s so frustrating!! Also, I am a terror when it comes to other people offering guidance. I get stubborn and oppositional defiant…imagine a 25 year old child grabbing the knife and shouting, “NO!! I CAN DO IT!!” Disgustingly enough, that is me, the cook, in a nutshell.

• Reading labels. I am not good at this yet so I try to steer clear of mixes and spice packs. I mean, I know when a product says ‘wheat’ ‘barley’ or ‘rye’ it is usually out but it’s trickier than that. Thankfully, I have a friend who has offered me a crash course on label reading. What average person really knows what Triticum monoccum, L-cysteine, and rennet are? I hope to in the near future.

In-betweens (neither pro nor con…just me thinking on paper):

• Many GF substitutions are friggin’ nasty. I would rather stick with foods that are naturally devoid of gluten than start eating millet bread. Also, I tried my hand with some brown rice rotini…never again. I hear that rice tortillas are pretty good, but I am content with corn. I don’t see the necessity for substitutions. I can’t have bread anymore…ok. That doesn’t mean I need fake bread! I know, I just haven’t developed a taste for it, but still-- that fake pasta was super gross.

• Andy is a super good sport. He is the ultimate guinea pig and trusts me to not poison him inadvertently. He eats all of my concoctions (even if they suck) and tells me how good it is and how well I did. He has been a fantastic cheerleader. Also, when we eat at home, he’s gone mostly GF with me. We keep a loaf of bread in the fridge, but we’ve been on the same loaf for 4 weeks now. He was good enough to finish off my wheat thins for me (so I wouldn’t be tempted) and sticks to his gross triscuits (by which I am NOT tempted).

Pros:

• Three weeks in and 8 lbs down. Completely unexpected and not too shabby! It’s amazing what happens when you become really picky about what you eat. I have been devouring fruit and almonds like they are going out of style. Since I’m down 8, I’m going to go ahead and hope for 15 more. :)

• I feel better! I guess this probably should have gone at the top of my list but frankly, I am more excited about losing weight. :) Who wouldn’t be? It will take a little longer for my intestine to heal but so far, so good!

• New recipes!!! I am compiling my own book of recipes that I know I can cook. If a recipe doesn’t work, I throw it away (or in one case, Andy makes it work). I have absolutely fallen in love with cooking lentils and quinoa. I have entered the wild world of cumin, coriander, and fresh garlic! I now use strange vegetables called bell peppers! I have never gone through so many onions in my life! So far, I have successfully made (among many other things) a Thai soup, Risotto, Mazaa’s spinach and lentil soup (not their recipe but it tastes exactly the same!), a zesty Mexican chicken and rice dish, and I anticipate my first roast this weekend. For now, I have no desire to bake. I don’t like baking; I have never liked baking. I always preferred to buy the pre-made dough and eat it raw. Mmm. This disease will make a cook out of me yet.

• Cheaper food bill per month. Andy and I were notorious for saying things like ‘we really need to stop eating out so much,’ stick with that cute idea for a week or so, and then continue our 4 or 5 meals out per week. This lovely little disease has made eating out somewhat difficult. I would rather cook and have to deal with waiters…isn’t that sick? Also, because I am cooking more, there are more leftovers to take for work lunches. Brilliant!

That’s my list so far. Celiac disease isn’t easy, but it’s WAY better than what I was anticipating. I appreciate all of the advice and suggestions given to me by my family and friends. I am doing great and learning a ton! Thanks for your support!

Mr. Bubbles and other stories...

2010-04-03T20:06:00.005-06:00

I went to the Michael Buble concert last Friday. April and I were graciously invited to attend this fantastic concert by Meg (whose blog you might want to read as well) and Lolly. These are two fabulous ladies and we had a great time.

We had a great dinner, lots of Buble music, and the concert was great; however, this is not the focus of this post. I would like to talk about the people who surrounded us. With no offense to Mr. Buble or Naturally 7, the most memorable moments of my evening belong to various nincompoops.

Nincompoop #1: The waiter at the restaurant. I know that I am still really new to this celiac thing, but I found this dude to be incredibly unobservant. After a long discussion about what on the menu was gluten free and me explaining to him that I couldn't have gluten, the waiter brought me a salad covered in croutons. Brilliant. April told me that he probably didn't think about it. Fair enough. I pushed the plate aside and waited for my delicious curry (I would have sent it back, but he had a tendency to avoid our table like the plague). Finally, our dinner arrived. He handed me my curry over rice and quickly left. I looked down and noticed that my gluten-free dinner had four large pieces of flat bread nestled in it. Again, I pushed it aside and waited for him to come back. April was good enough to catch his attention and remind him of my situation and explained to him that the plate needed to be remade...not just pick off the bread. The waiter apologized and returned five minutes later with what I suspect was the same plate with the bread picked off. Whatever. I ate my meal (which really was delicious) and figured this will be the story of the rest of my life with restaurants.

Nincompoop #2: In Megan's Blog you will read about the 'Douche Family". When we found our seats (10th row!!!), we quickly grabbed our cameras and began taking pictures of our proximity to the stage. Megan turned around and asked an awkward pubescent boy to take our picture. He was obviously not educated in the ways of social etiquette (which, judging by the matriarch is not that big of a surprise), awkwardly took the camera with a 'what am I supposed to do with this?' look on his face. He managed to find the big button that takes the picture and also succeeded in handing the camera back without too much difficulty. Success for the pubescent boy; good job dude. We began the concert thinking that they would be ok. They seemed like hip enough people. This was disproven as soon and Michael Buble began his concert. As Megan and April are HUGE fans of Michael Buble (I mean, serious, teenage, screaming, grabbing, etc. fans of him), it was only natural for them to jump to their feet and began screaming for his attention. Without our knowledge, the entire audience had sat down after the initial opening. The matriarch began shouting and Megan and April, "EXCUSE ME!!! EXCUSE ME!!!" during the opening song. Megan and April had just noticed they were the only ones standing (and were beginning to sit) as the matriarch continued to shout at them 'EXCUSE ME!!! EXCUSE ME!!!". She caught Megan's attention and yelled that she and April needed to sit down because her awkward, pubescent offspring couldn't see Michael Buble. Douche family. Even if April and Megan decided to stand, what was it to her? You are at a CONCERT, madame. When one is at a concert it is normal to experience any of the following: screaming, standing, dancing, singing, stripping, throwing articles of clothing, etc. It is NOT normal to remind people of rules that apply at a ballet or symphony...it's also not normal to sit tight lipped with your arms crossed through a concert you paid a lot of money to see. Also, if your awkward teen can't see, perhaps he should stand as well. Douche bag matriarch, take your valium.

Nincompoops #3 and 4: Harry and Alice. Harry and Alice were obese and sat right next to me. When I say right next to me, I really mean halfway on my seat. I am no dainty flower myself, but I am able to sit in a folding chair comfortably. Poor Lolly had me in her lap for the majority of the evening. Anyway, Alice pulled out her husband's nifty iphone do-hickey to take a picture of Michael Buble. She tried and tried to work the phone and finally resorted to screaming questions over the music we were all enjoying. The conversation went like this:
Alice: HARRY! HARRY! I CAN'T GET THE CAMERA TO POP UP!
Harry: WHAT?
Alice: I SAID, "I CAN'T GET THE CAMERA TO POP UP!"
Harry: DID YOU CHOOSE THE LITTLE PICTURE OF THE CAMERA?
Alice: THERE WAS NO PICTURE OF A CAMERA! WHERE IS THAT? I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WORK THIS THING!
Harry: ALICE! CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING?
Harry takes the phone, pushes a few buttons and is able to get the camera function to appear.
Alice: HARRY!! THE PICTURE JUST WENT AWAY! WHERE DID IT GO?
Harry: WELL, GEEZ, ALICE. WHAT DID YOU PUSH?
Alice: I DIDN'T PUSH ANYTHING!! THE PICTURE JUST WENT AWAY!
Harry: ALICE, THE PICTURE DOESN'T JUST 'GO AWAY'. YOU MUST HAVE DONE SOMETHING!
Alice: HARRY, I DIDN'T!! IT JUST WENT BLANK!
The conversation went on in a similar manner for the next 20 minutes. They screamed about the damn camera solidly through five songs. I wasn't sure if I should tell them to shut their yaps or continue listening for blogging purposes. I obviously chose the latter.

So there are the nincompoops of the evening.

The concert was fantastic, I am in love with the bass singer from naturally seven, and I am so grateful to Megan, Lolly, and April for allowing me to participate! Thanks, ladies!!

Those sneaky Acura designers

2010-03-27T18:20:00.004-06:00

The short story is that I need a new half shaft. I've never heard of it before and I don't know what it does. I know that it is somehow involved with the CV boot and the transmission and that I am lucky neither of those are damaged. That is great news and I am very fortunate for that. However, the needed part won't be in until Tuesday and it is crucial that I don't drive my car. Long story short: Loaner.

If you are the proud owner of an Acura, you know that their loaner cars are probably one of their strongest marketing points. I took in my '99 CL and they gave me a 2010 TSX with less than 1500 miles on it. Automatically, I imagine myself with this car (which I think is why Acura gives you a brand new car as a loaner. Clever.)The car is super snazzy and (as with all nice cars) I am a little nervous driving it.

I got into the car, adjusted the seat and the mirrors, took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. The car started 'ding'ing at me and the annoying bright red letters popped up "Very Low Fuel". No big deal. There was a Smith's on my way home; I'll just swing in and fill 'er up.

I pulled up to the gas station, parked the car, and began the search for the fuel door release button. On my car, this button is found on the floor right next to the trunk release. I looked to the floor where I found the trunk release but no fuel tank release. I reached over to the glove compartment. No button and no owner's manuel. I yanked open the center console. There was an AUX input and a USB drive (nice!) but no button. I looked at the door of the fuel tank but there was no way to pull it open. It was flesh with the car. In a panic I called my dad. My mom used to drive a TSX so I figured they would know better than me.

"Dad. Do you know how to open the door to the fuel tank?" I asked, having been sitting at the gas station for a solid 10 minutes looking for the stupid button.
"It should be on the floor."
"Right. That's what I thought too but there's only a trunk release."
While on the phone with my dad, we went place by place through the car to figure out where I hadn't looked. After exhausting ever possible place the release button could be, my dad said, "Well, call the dealership. They'll know."

Still sitting at the gas station, I called Andy to get the number for the dealership. I was becoming increasingly frustrated with my inability to figure out how a stupid door opens. Andy answered and I quickly asked for him to look up the number of the dealership. I explained the problem.
d
"Is the button on the floor like on your car?" Andy asked.
Ugh. "No, that's where it should be but it's not," I snapped now 15 minutes into the process of locating the fuel door release.
Andy, being ever helpful went through different spots where it might be. Finally he offered,"Do you want me to come see if I can find it?"
"Andy, if you think you can do a better job looking, by all means, but I really just want the number to the dealership." As Andy began looking up the number for the dealership, I got out of the car to see if i could pry open the door with my bare fingers. I pushed on the fuel door and...dammit.

It popped right open.

"Nevermind," I told Andy. "The effing thing just pops open."

I began fueling the car when my dad called back.

"I just figured it out," I answered the call.
"Yeah. So did mom," he replied.

I hung up the call, not wanting to spontaneously combust from static electricity. I hung my head in shame. Seriously. One of these days I'll learn to use my brain.

Reasons why I love Oregon (from this trip):

2010-03-25T13:20:00.002-06:00

1. I saw 2 bald eagles, 1 golden eagle, a great-horned owl, lots of antelope, and countless hawks. I always see the best wildlife on the drive from Ontario to Bend.
2. Any given grocery store has a better beer and wine selection than the BEST state liquor store in Utah. Whole foods really was remarkable. Andy was like a little boy in the candy store. He kept running to take a closer look at all of the imported and Oregon brewed beers. It was pretty adorable.
3. The state troopers are super nice. The first question he asked when he pulled us over was if we had a reason for going so fast. I was floored! What a considerate thing to ask. I only wish we had had a legitimate reason for speeding. Sorry, Sarg. We really do appreciate the verbal warning rather than the reckless driving ticket it could have been.
a. Here’s a shout out to the Idaho Highway patrol. I appreciate your professionalism though your reason for pulling us over was completely ridiculous. I can’t believe you pulled us over on the freeway to ask where our front license plate was.
4. Where else can you be accosted by Greenpeace, random Christian zealots, and hippies making/selling hemp hats in one hour? Let’s not forget the teenage addicts who were able to get three quarters for me because he told me his dog needed food. Yes, I know. I fed his addiction. Shame on me.
5. Despite the hippies, it smells better than any other state I’ve ever been.
6. Grandpa Parker was there and he is an absolute delight. He told us stories about growing up in Southern California (way before it was a popular place to live) with his dog Stub stealing watermelons from his neighbor. What a fantastic dude. He skyrocketed into my top five people ever.
7. The produce. Hands down, delightful.
8. Cindy's cooking. She was so kind to think up dishes that I could have (I don't think I announced that I have Celiac disease) and they were always super tasty. Someday I will be gifted in the ways of culinary arts but until then, I will enjoy the cooking of people like my mom and Cindy.
9. Thom’s church. Every time we visit Bend, we have the opportunity of attending Thom’s church. It is always such a wonderful, uplifting experience. I wish we lived closer so we could go every Sunday. Thom, fantastic sermon, as always.
10. The number 10 reason why I love Oregon is because it’s the best state. To all of you from New York and Texas who are hyperventilating right now, I’ve been to your states and they have a lot to offer. But I maintain that Oregon is the best.

On a bright note: being pulled over twice on the freeway has proven that my window is fixed. It successfully went down AND up twice!

Spazzy McGee

2010-03-10T13:47:00.003-07:00

Spazzy McGee is a name I have bestowed upon a male Nurse Practitioner who not only attends every single training class I am in, but feels it necessary to sit next to me at every one.

Spazzy enters the lecture 30 minutes late. He gracefully makes his entrance by creating a loud vortex of stomping feet and rushed movements proving that he was too important to arrive on time. In a state of upheaval, he pulls out his macbook pro, phone, pager, various papers, and writing utensil which inevitably spill into my desk space. Politely (though thoroughly annoyed) I shove them back the three feet to his desk space. After five minutes of disruptive behaviors which vaguely resemble getting prepared for the lecture, he answers his phone (during the class) and loudly stomps back out of the lecture hall. This very scene will happen 3 times over the next hour and a half.

Unfortunately, Spazzy returns. His return is heralded by the loud stomping steps he must take to announce his return. He flops down and loudly sucks his nasal cavity into the back of his throat. He turns to me:
“Where are we?” he asks loudly.

Irritated at his return I whisper in response, “About 45 minutes in.”
“No,” he says at full volume. “Where is the speaker in the power point?”

I would like to smack this guy in the head for sheer lack of manners. “She’s there” I say sarcastically pointing to the projector which obviously had the power point displayed.

Spazzy starts laughing loudly at my response. He then begins a seated dance which ends up lasting for a solid 25 minutes. This dance includes jiggling his legs back and forth (not bouncing his feet, JIGGLING is legs), bobbing his head up and down like a chicken, and loudly tapping out his favorite rhythm on the desk. At this point, everyone in the room dislikes this guy. Even the speaker isshooting him dirty looks.

During Spazzy’s dance, he decides he is bored with the lesson and needs to check his email. His chicken-head-bob stops long enough for him to lean all the way into his computer screen until his nose is touching the screen. He stares and stares. Finally he resumes a ‘normal’ sitting position and continues his chicken dance. He angrily types out an email.

Once the angry email had been typed Spazzy dials his phone and has a fair amount of conversation as he stomps back out of the lecture hall.

The class heaves a sigh of relief. But it doesn’t last long.

Soon, Spazzy returns with three plates of food. One plate holds his very large pretzel, another plate holds a huge serving of cantaloupe, and the third plate is a large mound of cheese. Spazzy grabs five or six chunks of melon in his hand and shovels all of it into his mouth, finishing off this grotesque display with a large slurping sound. Spazzy continues to cow his food, washing each bite down Napoleon Dynamite style by tilting his head all the way back and gulping his beverage.

After Spazzy has satisfied his appetite he, once again, sucks back whatever has crept into his sinuses since the last evacuation. Spazzy puts his hands behind his head and begins leaning back in his chair, rocking so far that in no time at all, his head is resting on the desk behind him. At this point, Spazzy begins talking to himself in response to the speaker. “Ah yes,” he says. “But of course!” he muses.

All of this I could handle. As annoying as he is, I could put up with it for the greater portion of the lecture. What I couldn’t handle was when Spazzy took off his shoes and placed his stocking feet on my chair so his grodie, nasty, stinking feet were touching the outside of my leg. This I could not stomach.

I stood up in the middle of the presentation and loudly whispered to him, “You have GOT to be EFFING KIDDING me!”

I moved across the classroom and was able to catch the last 30 minutes of the 2 hour lecture.

My Sexy Reynolds

2010-03-02T11:30:00.002-07:00

A war has been waged upon my picture of the ‘Sexy Reynolds’ which can be viewed on the right column of this blog just under the ‘random cuties’.

Here is the comment (or shot, if you will) that declared war:

“That's all well and good Candace. But just as soldiers are confused and often misperform as a result of the "fog of war", any reasonable response here, is doubtful due to the "fog of Burt". That picture over there is very disturbing and makes it difficult to take meaning from your writing.
Remove Burt now, and increase your credibility infinitely. Burt sucks and is a big douche.”

First of all, whether Burt sucks or is a big douche is neither here nor there. I don’t believe either of those arguments is accurate but that is not the point. The topic of focus is the picture that I decided to put on my blog when I started it June 2007.

I am grievously sorry that you find the picture of ‘Sexy Reynolds’ just a little too masculine. I understand to some it can be a little intimidating and can cause an unspecified type of envy. My suggestion is that you think long and hard about your person on the inside to be at peace with ‘Sexy Reynolds’ on the outside. If you cannot, might I suggest a counselor?

As this blog has been in existence for roughly three years and this is the first time I have heard anyone even mention ‘Sexy Reynolds’, I feel that you are the minority and are therefore overruled. I am forced to come to the conclusion that people are capable of forming coherent opinions and writing them with the picture present…you seem to the only one with that disability.

Furthermore, I was not aware that this blog awarded me any credibility. Thanks!

Gary, I thought this picture of ‘Sexy Reynolds’ was super hot in 2007, and I think he’s super hot now. ‘Sexy Reynolds’ stays.

My personal Soapbox (part II)

2010-02-23T14:11:00.001-07:00

For part I, please refer to post April 14, 2008

General rules of etiquette (all behaviors and quotes were present at ‘Swan Lake’ presented by Ballet West):

1. There is such a thing as over-clapping. Clapping as the swans emerge from the dry ice, as the children successfully skip in a circle WHILE holding hands, when the bad guy flaps his wings…enough. I can appreciate the difficulty of 32 consecutive fouetté rond de jambe en tournant and a prominently placed lift. Clapping at those instances is deserved and expected. Being over-excited at the ballet is both distracting and weird…especially when it’s an adult man.

2. Sullen teens need to leave their attitudes at the door or not come in the first place. There is nothing so annoying as a whiney teen…except maybe the 2 whiney teens sitting next to me. 1. They are old enough to behave appropriately in public, 2. they should be capable of not texting for an evening, and 3. parents should have the guts to tell their teens to shut off their phones, ipods, and psp instead of trying to come to a compromise. These teens are the inspiration for this post.

3. Don’t resume your conversation during interludes. Just because the stage goes dark doesn’t mean it’s an intermission. When the music swells during a set change, don’t turn to your neighbor and ask if you ‘think the American ice dancing team will be any good this year.’ The ballet is still going, idiots!

4. Clap for performers. I am repeating this rule from my previous post. To my right were two sullen teens who didn’t know that they were expected to shut up let alone applaud. To my left was an obese lady so concerned with her Swedish fish and M&Ms that she couldn’t be bothered to clap AT ALL during the performance. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.

5. Don’t be rude. As simple as this rule might be, I was pretty floored by the sheer audacity that came from several y chromosomes that had to announce how much he didn’t want to be at the ballet. Dude. No one thinks less of you for being there. In fact, most of the other men are in the same boat. In addition, you don’t need to constantly grope your date to prove that you aren’t a homosexual; which leads me to #6:

6. If it isn’t appropriate with the lights on, it’s not appropriate with the lights off. I don’t feel that an explanation is needed for that one.

7. Don’t ask when it will be over 20 minutes into the performance. If you decide to go to a 3 hour ballet, you should probably know that it’s a 3 hour ballet. This rule is brought to you by one of the Negative Nancies sitting next to me. She also had a minor aneurism when an announcement told the audience to please refrain from texting during the show.

8. If you are afflicted with TB, Emphysema, or any other lung disorder which causes you to hack up a lung through act III, have the decency to get up and exit the theater. Your phlegm monster doesn’t really add anything to the dying swan.

9. Dragging little children to a 3+ hour ballet to teach them ‘culture’. Most of the parents trying to hold their toddlers down were having a hard enough time paying attention to the ballet. Maybe next time, try a kid-friendly ballet such as ‘Cinderella’ or ‘The Nutcracker.’ ‘Swan Lake’ was a poor choice on your part.

10. Stay in your seat. Unless you are under the age of 6 or have raging case of hemorrhoids, you can sit through a ballet. Seriously.

Rule of thumb: If you can’t sit through it, neither can your 7 year old.

Quotes of the evening:

‘Just hit me if my head starts nodding, heh, heh.’ Dear douche bag: you are not funny nor are you clever. In fact you just told me that you spent $150 so you and your two insufferable offspring can be miserable for three hours. Brilliant, douche.

“If this thing is going to be longer than an hour and a half, I am so out of here.” As spoken by one of the sullen teens. Her father didn’t feel the need to say anything as he probably agreed.

“It’s a shame my wife dragged me to this. I would rather be at the Elton John/Billy Joel concert!” Wow. Is the fact that you’d rather be at the Elton John/Billy Joel concert really supposed to prove your manhood? Missed the mark there, camper.

Interesting side note:
As I was jotting down the above rules in my trusty notebook, I heard the nodding douche-dad ask his daughters if they thought I worked for the newspaper (which is silly since I went CLOSING WEEKEND). He told his daughters that he bet I was from the Arts and Entertainment section for the Tribune.

An awkward moment passed.

The closest Negative Nancy turned to me and put her arm on my arm rest. “So,” she began with impressive wit, “do you work for a newspaper?”

Without making eye contact, I said “No,” adding in my head, I am complaining about you on paper.

Dude not only looks like a lady, Dude is a lady.

2010-02-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

The transgender used-to-be-man:
"You look nice today," said a gruff deep bass voice.
I slowly looked around the hall...I was the only one one around, other than a rough looking man. Something struck me as strange when I spotted the gentleman but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
I made eye contact with him. "I'm sorry?" I asked.
"I said, you look nice today," repeated the same raspy low voice.
"Thank you. That's very kind." I figured it out! I knew what was weird about this guy. He had huge knockers! The dude must have been sporting at least a DDD. Also, he was wearing a jean skirt with a large slit up the front.
The man caught up with me.
"How is your day so far?" I looked at him to see if it was just a masculine woman but the man had a thick 5 o'clock shadow and a large Adam's apple. If that wasn't enough, the dude was obviously a man. He looked like an aging hair metal fan complete with gross stringy hair, cross and skull earrings, really hairy arms, and a beer belly.
Realizing he had asked me a question I replied, "Not so bad. How is your day?"
"Oh!" replied the man. "My day is great! My doctor finally thinks I'm ready to begin hormone replacements!"
"Wow," I said. "And that REALLY will make all the difference in the world," came out of my mouth before I turned on my filter.
"Honey, you have no idea," the new woman said proudly.

No use crying over spilled yogurt

2010-02-10T09:01:00.002-07:00

I get frustrated with people who go to the grocery store surrounded by their gaggle of offspring. This can be best observed any time of the day or night at your local Wal*Mart. You see the children running in circles who obviously missed a dose of their Ritalin, the children who are tired and therefore feel in necessary to make the entire store aware of the fact that they need a nap, and the children that are just brats and whine their way to obtain whatever they want (these kids are usually super fat). Usually, when one encounters this gaggle, one can’t help but notice the cloud of destruction they become. When this gaggle passes you, you immediately check all limbs and possessions to make sure there have been no casualties.

My shopping experience last night had nothing to do with the gaggle; although, I sincerely wish a gaggle had been present.

I proceeded through the various aisles, grabbing the necessary groceries here and there. I got the butter, milk, and eggs without incident. I grabbed 1, 2, 3, 4 yogurts without effort and then came the dreaded 5th yogurt mishap. As I moved it from the shelf to my cart, it wriggled free from my grasp and fell the 53 inches to the hard floor below. Slowly, I watched the yogurt plunge to its death and explode all over the grocery store floor.

After what seemed like forever, a wave of panic rushed over me. I was not a gaggle! This was expected from a gaggle!! I quickly looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my moment of idiocy. Sure enough, there was one woman who gave these words of comfort before she steered her cart away:

“I didn’t see it. Usually I blame things like this on my kids. I would probably just put it back on the shelf.”

Confirmed!! I did a quick sweep of the neighboring aisles to see if there was an employee I could tell… to no avail. I picked up the dead container of yogurt and placed it in a different corner of the shelf (so a careless shopper would not pick it up thinking it was a full carton of yogurt).

I quickly took my cart to the opposite corner of the store.

“Dad always thought laughter was the best medicine, which I guess is why several of us died of tuberculosis.” Jack Handy

2010-02-02T11:01:00.001-07:00

So, with a new job came a slew of testing (as is normal for all people in any type of Health Care setting). Since I didn’t have my immunization records (who does?) I had to go in for titers to check which antibodies are in my blood, get my tetanus updated, and have not one, but TWO consecutive TB tests.

First of all, the clinic for employees is one of the most incompetent clinics I’ve ever been to but that is another post for another day. Let’s just say, when someone puts a tourniquet on your arm and looks for a vein to administer a PPD, you know you’re in trouble.

This post is focusing on my TB tests.

I have never had a reaction. I have had four prior TB tests and have never had so much as a red spot.

So, my first TB test was administered way too deep by the technician (pretty par for the course at this clinic) which produced a large red rash on my arm. As someone who has never had a reaction (and can be a bit of a hypochondriac) I got very anxious and nervous to have the results read. Thankfully, the results came in at a 2 simply because I had a rash. A few days after I had the test read, my red spot turned into a welt. It became swollen, larger, and raised. I was instructed to meet with our Infectious disease nurse just to make sure it wasn’t an allergic reaction. When I met with the nurse she told me the reaction was a bruise. She told me that if the injection is administered too deep, it can bruise the skin. Fair enough. I bruise easily so, no big deal.

Two weeks later I went in for the second TB test. Since I still had a large bruise on my left arm, I offered the technician my right arm. She administered the test properly and a happy little bubble appeared on my right arm. I knew there wouldn’t be a reaction because this lady knew how to give the test.

Within a few hours I had developed another raised red rash on my arm. Thinking that I was just turning into a wuss, I shrugged it off as another bruise. When I went to have it read the tech asked if we could speak privately. He told me that he was grading the test at a 12 (>10 is positive) and that I should prepare myself to have a chest x-ray but he thought I was just fine.

I went to the nurse again and gave her my results. She began asking me questions about my overall health, where I’ve traveled, where my friends have traveled and scheduled me for a chest x-ray.

I returned to the clinic, took my chest x-ray (which, of course, was negative) and met with two doctors who started their line of questioning, not unlike the nurse. After a ridiculous amount of time they told me they wanted to start me on INH.

So there you have it. Apparently in this day and age, Tuberculosis is still an issue. Although I’m not sick, I am still considered as infected and am being treated as such.

For the next six months, I will have seven blood draws, 180 pills, no alcohol, and no Tylenol. All for the greater good, right?

On the bright side, INH costs $3 for a 90 day supply. Not too shabby.

A letter to the customers of TRAX:

2010-01-19T09:18:00.001-07:00

To the woman who tries to bum a cigarette off me everyday:
I didn’t have a cigarette two weeks ago, last week, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. Why would you assume that I had one today? Just in case I decided to take up smoking since yesterday?

To the angry adolescent who insists on turning his ipod up to share his music with everyone despite the fact that he is wearing ear bud head phones:
You are a douche and you have terrible taste in music.

To the teenage boys who have recently discovered swear words and therefore play the game “Who can insert the most profanity into one sentence?”:
Children, grow up. You look stupid. You sound stupid. Therefore, you must be stupid. Good luck in life.

To the psycho who finds in necessary to scream obscenities, jump from the platform onto the train tracks, and spin around in circles until you fall down:
I just don’t even know.

To the woman who reeks like cigarette smoke and the unwashed college boy with offensive body odor and greasy hair:
Please take into consideration that you will be in very close proximity to people who take pride in their appearance and actually get ready in the morning. They do not wish to stink like a chimney and/or pubescent boy.

To the man who stands on the platform and hocks loogies every 45 seconds:
That is just disgusting. What makes you think it is appropriate behavior to cover the tracks with your sinus content? Also, if you need to spit so often, there is probably something wrong with you. I suggest you see a doctor.

To the dude who solves the Rubix cube over and over during his ride to wherever:
I am super impressed. So is everyone else.

To the inconsiderate miscreants who won’t give up his/her seat for elderly, pregnant women, handicapped people, or families:
Karma. It will come back to you. And it will bite you.

What the hell?

2010-01-18T19:09:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had one of those 'what the hell' moments? I am sure you have. I feel like I have a 'what the hell' moment at least once a day.

So, New Year's Day I met my friend at Barnes and Noble. After we had our fill of wedding talk and tea, we parted ways and I made my way south on 1300 East. I was singing along to whatever Boston song was playing on 103.5 when I looked up and noticed a man walking down the street. The man was dirty looking (possibly partying too hard to ring in the new year), sporting a short sweatshirt and baggy pants. But wait a minute. Usually when a man wears baggy pants, you would see boxers sticking out. The man was missing boxers. Rather, his junk was flapping in the wind.

I drove by and had to check my rearview mirror to make sure I had really seen what I saw. Sure enough, my rearview mirror was filled with a hairy butt.

Now, I don't know if 1. this fellow was on a walk of shame, was 2. so drunk that he didn't realize that he had forgotten his underpants or 3. was a pervert. I just don't know.

Therefore, What the hell?

Klassy.

2010-01-01T10:01:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Because of the strong language used during this story, the 'F' word will be substituted with 'potato chips'. Thanks to Levi for the choice of substitute.

So, on the flight from Denver to Northwest Regional Arkansas, we had the pleasure of flying with the klassiest of people. This debutante was no doubt reared in the bustling metropolis of Pineville, Missouri and had obviously never been on a plane before.

As Denver will sometimes get cold, we had to wait for a little while to de-ice the plane. Any one who has traveled during winter knows the drill. We waited for about an hour to de-ice and get on our way. During this process, the pilot made the following announcement:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be getting on our way as soon as possible. Because of the de-icing process, we will need to shut down the plane's cooling system, but we'll have that up and running as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience."

Not five minutes later, we heard a loud voice scream "AIR.....AIR!!!" from somewhere in the back of the plane. If the general bellow wasn't enough to shock and embarrass everyone on the plane, this peach decided it was necessary to go proceed with an impressive knowledge of the sailor's dictionary. Example:

"Why is there no 'potato chips' air on this 'potato chips' plane? If I don't get some mother 'potato chips' air I am going to have a 'potato chips' fit! What is the 'potato chips' deal? Is it so 'potato chips' hard to get some air on this 'potato chips' plane?

Klassy. Nuff said.

Vicks on your feet.

2009-12-21T12:50:00.001-07:00

So, with my latest cold came many possible ‘remedy’ ideas from various people. Now, I tend to be horribly skeptical about cold remedies as a cold is a virus and there is no way to ‘cure’ it. It must run its course. The possible remedies ranged from Airborne (ugh) to acupuncture. Though all of these things were quasi-tempting (colds are just the worst!) I think my favorite was the remedy of lathering the soles of my feet with Vicks Vaporub and putting socks over it. This came from my mother and was then confirmed by several of my coworkers as well as Snopes.com (http://www.snopes.com/medical/homecure/vaporub.asp).

After listening to all of the stories I decided that I would give it a try. What could it hurt anyway? So I stopped at Smith’s, purchased a large tub of Vicks and headed home. At 8:30 pm, I washed my feet thoroughly, lathered the bottoms with Vicks, put on a pair of thick socks, and climbed into bed for what I hoped would be a cough-free night.

My feet had a very pleasant tingling sensation and I did feel extra warm. It was a cozy feeling of being in a cocoon. Fifteen minutes later I had a coughing attack. I coughed four or five painful, chest-wrenching, phlegm-ful, pit of my stomach coughs. Bummer.

I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. The study quoted on snopes.com was performed on children…perhaps the effects took longer for adults. I decided that it hadn’t been long enough to work properly. Again, I snuggled back into my down comforter and comfy pillow. Not three minutes later, I sat up with another coughing fit. Ugh.

My night continued in this fashion until around 4:30 am, when I drifted into pleasant, coughless sleep.

I came to work the next day to much curiosity as to whether the Vicks really worked. Sleep deprived and awfully grumpy, I announced that Vicks on your feet didn’t work and I was not happy about it! My coworker (who is also suffering from a cold) danced back to my desk and asked if I was so pleased about the remedy! She used it and slept like a baby! Between you and me, I wanted to hit her in the face.

So here is my conclusion: Vicks on your feet works if you think it will work. As I am a skeptical creature, it would not work on me. There you have it. Give it a try. If nothing else, it makes the soles of your feet awfully smooth.

My Super Skirt!

2009-12-01T19:40:00.001-07:00

I finally decided to give in to the skinny jean fad. I called my sister (the ultimate in all things fashion) and asked where I could obtain the cheapest pair of skinny jeans. I had come across a few pair that were upwards of $30 but quickly decided that no one should spend that much on a fad. After a frightening experience at Forever 21, April suggested that I give Target a whirl. With her guidance, I set off for Target in search of a pair of cheap skinny jeans.

Trusty Target has never failed me yet. I walked into the juniors department (ugh) and found many styles, fabrics, and fades. I chose a few different styles and quickly made my decision. However, seeing as how I was in Target and seeing as how I am me, I could not simply walk into Target with a purpose and leave with only that item. No. Target is a place to browse and pick up other items on clearance.

While browsing the colorful racks I happened upon a skirt: The Super Skirt. It is a loose pencil skirt that is blue and white print with large black flowers. It is stretchy, it swings, and has a really thick waist band (toward which women everywhere over the size of 6 are inevitably drawn). I decided against trying it on as I had already been through that circus with the skinny jeans and didn’t want to relive it. I found my size, gathered a few long sleeve t-shirts, my skinny jeans, and checked out.

The next day, I had reason to get dressed up. What better time to debut my cute new skirt? I put on my under things and black turtle neck. I grabbed the skirt and put one leg in. As my right leg entered the skirt I felt a very odd sensation. The lining of the skirt was hugging my right leg. In great panic I looked at the size to make sure I had the correct size. Sure enough, it was a medium. I was just about to be mortified by the circumference of my thighs when I looked down and saw that the creature forming to my leg was not the lining at all. The skirt had a built in pair of spanx.

A new wave of horror struck me. Has my life come to this!?! Am I now the type of woman who has to wear a pair of spanx with my skirts? Grumbling and depressed, I hoisted my left leg into the other side of the biker shorts. I pulled the skirt on and instantly felt the itchy spandex material form me into unnatural shapes. With hesitation, I looked into the mirror. It didn’t look bad at all! I might have felt like a granny, but the skirt was just as cute as I thought it was on the hanger.

So there you have it. I own a skirt with a built in pair of spanx. It is not humiliating; I think of it as my Super Skirt!!

The Cretin

2009-11-19T11:50:00.002-07:00

In the heart of the Cottonwood apartments lurks a creature so foul, he has come to be known as ‘The Cretin.’ The Cretin stalks around the complex frightening women and stray cats with his hairy shape and fetid stench. He grunts maniacally and struts like a body builder…only lacking muscle mass.

The Cretin, as it turns out, dwells primarily in moderately lit places that smell of sweat and metal, such as a gym. The Cottonwood Cretin can be viewed in his natural habitat at the Cottonwood apartment’s fitness center. He tends to be most active around 5:15 am.

While usually harmless, The Cretin will wait until an unsuspecting gym goer enters the Cottonwood apartment’s fitness center; that is when he strikes. He is courteous enough to allow the gym goer to warm up, begin his or her morning run, and get into the overall grove of the work out. 15 minutes into his/her gym experience, The Cretin opens the door with great ferocity and manliness, slams it with the equal amount of testosterone, and heads straight for the TV. He reaches up and turns on the LG TV and proceeds to turn it to the Spike channel (where ultimate fighter is inevitably on). Just to add icing to the cake, he feels it necessary to turn the volume all the way up, no doubt to intimidate his prey who you can find cowering on the treadmill.

After this awe-inspiring spectacle, The Cretin struts his way to the weight lifting machine. Interestingly, this creature doesn’t seem to require stretching, cardio, or anything to loosen up his muscles before lifting. He immediately moves the weight setting as high as he can stand and begins lifting while perspiring like a pig and screaming/grunting like an angry gorilla. After lifting the weights 2-3 times, he drops the weights, causing them to make a huge crashing noise and sighs/pants for a few minutes. After an adequate rest period, he moves on to the next type of weight lifting. He continues in this fashion for 30 minutes or so. He really ends up resting and panting for the majority of the time, to allow the prey ample time to admire the sweat glistening down his hairy back creating a decent sized puddle on the floor.

Eventually, The Cretin will cause his prey to run away, whether in fear or disgust, no one really knows. There are days when he allows those unsuspecting gym goers to exercise in peace; however, not this week. Perhaps it’s due to the new moon. Perhaps it is due to the meteor shower.

Should you choose to use the Cottonwood apartment’s fitness center, beware The Cottonwood Cretin.

Just an update...

2009-11-16T08:41:00.002-07:00

My bumper is fixed.

My window is up.

My Brake light is on.

Go figure.

Don't stop 'til you get enough

2009-11-10T11:05:00.003-07:00

I have been inspired to rejoin the world of healthy living. This includes moving more and eating less. Blah blah blah. Well, after weeks of half-assed attempts, I decided to go extreme. Since I am financially unable to do a boot camp (5 days/week for 30 days of pain and anguish), I settled on doing something similar on my own. I am currently on day 2 of my ‘independent boot camp’ and I wanted to document what I have learned so far.

1. 5 AM comes really early, regardless of what time you go to bed.
2. My legs will not run before the hour of 6. I tried. They just won’t.
3. I have experienced what it feels like to light your stomach muscles on fire.
4. When I exercise regularly, I inevitably crave French fries, chicken strips, hamburgers, and ice cream (often by 9am).
5. It sometimes is easier to work out without a buddy. I am on my own schedule and I have more freedom. That having been said, I miss my workout buddy (Hilary, I miss you!).
6. I don’t crash at 2 in the afternoon like I thought I would. Stamina…who knew?
7. I am inspired to work out in the evenings, too. I find that a little annoying this early in the game.
8. Don’t get ambitious and try extra weight, additional speed, or adjusted time. Just because your attitude tells you you can, doesn’t mean your body should.
9. Don’t doze off while stretching.
10. I am thoroughly grateful for my apartment complex’s workout room. It delivers me from ugly, hairy, sweaty, fat men who grunt and growl as they do their third bench press.

I am committed to my 5 am workouts Monday-Friday until December 18th. There it is. I will update you at that time (or if I learn more in the process).

Unlucky number 4

2009-11-04T16:13:00.001-07:00

Preface: please refer to the September 28th blog: “Well, it saves on air conditioning…” This is the sequel.

I feel that I have the best luck with fourth times around. My wedding dress was finally cleaned after the fourth attempt, so I therefore have a connection to the number four. Whatever.

Adventure: A fourth trip to the mechanic to make my window work. Up to this point I have been waiting for the part to get in, breaking said part, over and over again. Today, I will attempt to best the beast and beat the window into submission. The story unfolds…

Candace pulls into the mechanic parking lot and parks. She gets out of her vehicle and walks into the shop. A very nice mechanic takes her keys and tells her that it will be a few minutes before her car is taken back. “That’s fine,” she says as she finds her usual place on the broken filthy couch in the waiting area. She pulls out A Confederacy of Dunces and continues reading about Ignatius’ zany antics.

After five minutes or so, Candace notices an older gentleman enter the establishment. He approaches the dirty couch and stands there. Candace looks up.

The man clears his voice. “Do you own the little black Acura?”

“Yes,” she replies.

“I just backed into it,” he said with much remorse.

“Oh. Is it ok?” Seriously!?! She thinks.

“Yeah, it’s ok. My trailer hitch just scratched your bumper.”

“Ok. Let’s go look at it.” Candace rises with little grace off of the broken down couch and follows the man out to the parking lot.

On her way to her car, she passes a huge truck, obviously the culprit. As they pass this monster truck, Candace catches a glimpse of the accident. The man and his mammoth truck did not scratch the bumper. The trailer hitch went straight through the bumper, pierced the bumper creating a six inch gap in the middle.

“I guess it’s a little more than a scratch,” observed the man.

The strangers exchanged information and parted ways. Candace wasn’t even upset. She had more or less resigned herself to accept whatever may happen with this vehicle. Between the broken window, multiple flat tires, break-ins, transmission problems, and now accident, she has learned to shrug and say, I guess that’s the way it goes.

Candace finds her place on the dirty couch once more and opens her book. She may have acquired a new problem with her car, but at least she can fix one today. Ten minutes go by. Enter the nice mechanic.

“Man, I don’t even want to talk to you right now. You aren’t very lucky today.”

Long story short, my window is not fixed. My bumper is not fixed. I have appointments for my fifth and first attempts set for next week. How I wish I lived in a place that didn’t require a car.

So, maybe the fifth time will be the charm.

Being cut down (which is rough when you’re only 5’2’’)

2009-10-26T08:29:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago, my ego took quite a beating. As it was both humiliating and awkward, I decided not to blog it. However, a similar situation occurred yesterday. I think that if I make my humiliation public it will stop happening.

OOPS #1:
A few weeks ago, I entered a patient’s room to speak with the family regarding a study. After I introduced myself, the mother got excited and said, “When are you due?”
“What?” I asked, not sure if I had heard her correctly.
“I said when are you due?”
Completely stunned and unable to come up with anything witty or clever I said, “I’m not pregnant.”
The mother considered this.
“Hmm,” she said at last.

OOPS #2:
Yesterday, our youth praise band sang for the congregation (Andy and I are the leaders for this band). The kids performed very well. On my way out of the sanctuary, I was stopped by a woman who praised the band up and down. “Oh! Your kids are simply wonderful!” she said.
“Thank you,” I responded. “They work very hard.”
“Oh, they are fantastic, especially your son! What a talent!”
Thinking of our youngest member of our band (an eleven year old boy) I said, “Oh, he’s not my son.”
“Really? That tall redhead playing guitar isn’t your son?”
Ouch. Only then did it occur to me that she meant Andy. She thought Andy was my son. I informed her that Andy was my husband and four years older than me. I thanked her for her kind words and went to find someplace where I could be alone and cry a little bit.

Do you have a call back number?

2009-10-23T07:45:00.000-06:00

For months, nay years, I have had an overwhelming desire to do something. I am reminded of my desire several times a day and have always restrained myself. Yesterday, I could not help it. I finally caved in to my hearts will and acted completely on impulse.

Almost every single person I speak with from an insurance company asks me the stupidest question ever posed: “Do you have a call back number?” Well, obviously I’m calling from a phone. Obviously, that phone is in working order. It’s just an overall ridiculous question to ask.

I have spent much time pondering a response suitable for such a question. Some are silly, all are sarcastic. I have considered: “No”, “Actually, I don’t have a phone; I am using my thumb and pinky fingers”, “Wow! Does your can have a number? How did you get that?”, “What’s a call-back number?” so on and so forth.

Yesterday was the apex.

Agent: Thank you for calling blah blah insurance company! This is Trish; may I have your name?

Candace: Hi, Trish. This is Candace from Orthopedics. I am calling to check benefits for this patient for outpatient surgery.

Agent: Great! I can certainly help you with that! Do you have a callback number?

Candace: Yes.

Agent: (confused silence). Candace?

Candace: Yes?

Agent: Do you have a callback number?

Candace: Yes.

Agent: Um, may I have it?

Candace: Oh, you’d like it? Oh, ok… (continue with conversation)

After years of toiling with such a temptation, I finally did it. Without giggling, I was a complete smart Alec to one of those who drives me absolutely crazy.

Untitled.

2009-10-20T09:12:00.000-06:00

To Dr. Exceptionally-bad-taste-in-food:

I find your taste in sandwiches appallingly bad. What in the world would possess you to order a sandwich which holds the words ‘liver’ and ‘worst’ in its very title? Granted, the office orders lunch once a week and everyone is free to choose whatever he/she wants, but I find your choice both offensive and disgusting.

Not only are we subjected to watching you chew that vile mass of God knows what, but our nostrils will be raped by the foul odor which a liverwurst sandwich no doubt emits.

So, thank you for violating us in the place of our work. I am concerned that your lack of regard for others will continue and lead to the possibility of you ordering something worse in the future. Possibly tuna fish, God forbid.

Most sincerely,

Your disgruntled worker,

Candace

PS- the buttermilk and raw onion you requested to garnish your liverwurst sandwich will be provided but such actions are not condoned.

Fed up with FedEx

2009-10-14T16:17:00.001-06:00

FedEx is not a service I use on a regular basis. In fact, I am not sure I have ever used it. I usually go to my trusty UPS store and send packages that way. In my 24 years of living I have never sent anything FedEx. That said, you can imagine my severe anxiety when my boss handed me a thick stack of papers and asked me to ‘FedEx’ them.

I took a breath and told myself that it really couldn’t be that hard. People send things through FedEx everyday. First, I had to obtain an envelope and shipping form. This was easy because I know where the stash is hidden in our office. With both items in hand, I sat down to fill it out. Again, no problem. I had the address in front of me. I checked the appropriate boxes and filled it out. I put the hefty document into the envelope, sealed it, and reviewed the shipping form to place it properly on the envelope. It said remove the back and stick firmly to the front of the envelope.

Here was my struggle. On the front of the envelope there are contradicting directions as to where one should place the shipping form. There is writing at the top that says ‘place top of form here.’ There is writing at the bottom that says ‘place bottom of form here.’ Well, the shipping form is not that big. The third option is the little cellophane window on the back of the envelope which says ‘Place airbill here’.

Panicked, I went online. I searched images of FedEx envelops on Google and couldn’t find a single picture that showed an envelope with the shipping form on it. I then searched the FedEx page for some sort of instruction. No go. Apparently, you have to be really stupid to not know how to put the shipping form on the envelope. I immediately emailed Andy. I told him, “I don’t know how to send a FedEx!” His response was, “Neither do I, but it can’t be that hard. Maybe you should look online.”

Full of embarrassment and realizing that I only had 15 minutes before the FedEx pickup, I made a decision and stuck the shipping form on the envelope. As soon as I did stuck the piece of paper on the envelope, a dark cloud covered my desk. I had done it wrong.

Hanging my head in shame I approached my boss (who thought I had sent the package long ago) and said, “Stupid question for you. Which way does the shipping form go on the envelope?” My boss looked at me with the “you-have-got-to-be-kidding” type of look and indicated “This way.” Damn it.

I retrieved a new envelope and shipping form, filled them out again, and put the shipping form on with my boss looking over my shoulder.

I guess the silver lining is that I now know how to FedEx.

Well, it saves on air conditioning...

2009-09-28T15:12:00.001-06:00

In July, my passenger window broke. Well, not the window itself, but the nifty mechanism that makes the window go up and down. For the past three months, my window just doesn’t like to stay up. It seems to be happy hanging out about three inches down, but sometimes it feels like sliding all the way down. When that happens, I manually push it back to its normal ‘happy spot’, three inches from the top.

As we are quickly approaching the cooler season, I realized that this window issue was going to be a problem. I can’t very well drive around in the snow with my window cracked three inches. I began my investigation, calling around to various dealerships. All of the quotes seemed to agree at $400. Quite disgruntled, I decided that I could do better.

My very helpful co-worker offered her mechanic as an option. I called her mechanic and he quoted $250. Perfect. Sold. I made an appointment for that Friday.

I reached the mechanic at 2pm, filled out the necessary paperwork and sat down for some quality reading time. A solid hour passed. The very nice receptionist (who felt the need to peak at me every 10 minutes or so) approached me and told me that they didn’t have the right part. Someone had to run and get the needed part. She jokingly said, “But we close at 5 so it can’t be that much longer!”

After that, I waited and waited. 5:05 rolled around. A nice mechanic opened the door and announced, “Your chariot awaits!” I was so excited; I realized that in three hours I read well over 100 pages and my butt was adequately asleep. I awkwardly rolled off of the leather couch, paid the bill, and got into my car, super excited that the window was in the up position!

As I pulled away, I tried to resist the urge to play with the window. Finally, the child within took over and I rolled down the window. IT WORKED!! With great gusto, I rolled the window back up…but it didn’t respond. The window stayed in its happy three-inch-down place.

Slightly annoyed, I made a U-turn and headed back to the garage. The office was closed and the workers were on their way home.

“Hi! Sorry,” I stammered, “but my window still doesn’t work.” I really didn’t want to detain these fine gentlemen from whatever they were doing, but I did just pay $250 for absolutely nothing. The men discussed, examined, poked and prodded the lazy window. Finally, they brought out the heavy-duty glue and had my door assembled in a mere 20 minutes. They told me not to touch the window for 12 hours (time enough for the glue to dry) and then I should be good to go. Fabulous! I was simply astonished that it could be fixed so easily!

The next two days I was very mindful of not touching the window. I know they said 12 hours, but I decided to give it 36 hours, scared that it would need the extra time.

Sunday afternoon I decided that I had waited long enough. I bravely positioned my finger over the button and pushed. The window glided halfway down. I released the button and took a breath. Now for the hard part. I pushed the button in the reverse direction…and the window went up!!! So happy and hardly able to believe that I could be so lucky, I tried it again. I pushed the button down. The window glided down. Whew. I pushed the button up. The window began jerking back and forth and made a scary grinding noise. All of the sudden, my car smelled of burning. Damn.

I called the mechanic today and made another appointment to have my window fixed. Andy gets to take it this time. :)

The religious problem: SOLVED!

2009-09-09T19:20:00.000-06:00

My drive to work today was painful (for lack of a better word). The commute that usually takes me 15-20 minutes, took me a solid 55 minutes. The intelligent state of Utah decided that the best time to work on one of two roads leading to the University of Utah, is the second week that school is in session. Brilliant.

I thought of this as I sat in gridlock trying to decide if I wanted to scream obscenities or just bang my head against my window. Finally I saw the reason for the back up. The brilliance of the construction was demonstrated by the merging of a three lane road to one.

One by one, everyone began merging, one behind another like a zipper. At the daredevil speed of 3 mph I allowed a Forester take the space in front of me. I nervously acknowledged that I will be late for work in 20 minutes (and I still had to catch the public transportation from my parking space). Trying to distract myself from such an unpleasant thought, I glanced at the construction sign wondering how many weeks I had to wait for my commute to return to normal. Instead of a date the sign read:

"IT'S OFFICIAL. GOD DOES NOT EXIST"

There you have it. The religious problem: SOLVED!
I swear to God, this really happened.

Just Kidding.

2009-08-03T10:48:00.000-06:00

“I would love to sing a solo for church on Sunday,” I answered our Musical Director (Roberta) on Tuesday. I was already leading the 9:30 service with a great group of gals, so why not? I knew the song she wanted me to sing so no big deal.

I went to practice on Thursday, sung through the song a few times and felt very confident.

Sunday morning, I sang my song at the 8 am service. I was nervous, but I made it through without any mistakes. One down, two to go.

The 9:30 service rolled around. The other ladies leading the service showed up and we began running a few other songs that would be featured in the service. We got through our first three songs without a hitch and sat down for the announcements and prayer. During prayer, I began mentally going through my song, as I was next in the program. I concentrated hard and willed myself to recite the lyrics over and over again.

I saw Roberta get up and move to the piano before the prayer was done. I took a deep breath and followed her lead. I adjusted my microphone and relaxed my stance waiting for the prayer to be over.

Just then, I noticed that the four other ladies in the group followed me up to the microphones. I silently tried to signal them to go sit down, not wanting to interrupt the prayer that was still going on. I looked back and Andy had taken his place at the bass guitar. I thought, “Man, these guys are going to feel so stupid when they realize they aren’t supposed to be here!”

The piano started; I listened to the four bars of intro and confidently began singing my song. After about a line and a half I realized that the piano was no longer playing and that all the singers were looking at me.

I looked at Roberta extremely confused. “Candace, it’s not your song yet,” she whispered to me. “You don’t sing until the Offertory,” which was after the sermon, in about 20 minutes. My head began to reel and I wasn’t sure if I was going to cry or throw up. Luckily, since I couldn’t decide, I didn’t do either. Instead I grabbed my microphone and apologized to the congregation for my daftness.

Heh, heh. Just kidding.

Happy 100th post.

Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'

2009-07-30T08:29:00.000-06:00

Andy and I have reentered the wonderful world of rollerblading. I can’t really speak for Andy, but I know that the last time I was on a pair of rollerblades was the summer before I entered seventh grade. That was 13 years ago. Needless to say, I was a little rusty.

I prayed as I left the comfort of the car seat and hoisted myself onto my newly acquired skates. I held my arms out in a feeble attempt to solidify my balance. My ankles wobbled to and fro until they gave up the fight and decided to settle in their equilibrium. Success. I looked and Andy (who had mastered his skates without so much as wobbling) with a look of triumph on my face. He told me I was adorable.

One foot at a time, I tried movement on the skates. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, scared to venture more than four inches per foot. I slowly made my way the eight feet from the car to the sidewalk. I continued this way with my ankles continually fighting the foreign concept of balancing on such a small surface. I argued with my feet and told them that they would just have to get used to it.

I uneventfully made it to the sidewalk and even successfully navigated a small curve. Granted, I was only traveling about .2 mph, but I am not super keen on falling down. As I rounded my first turn, I quickly began gaining speed. I was not moving my feet and yet, the wind was blowing harder and harder around my head. “ANDY!” I shouted in a state of panic. “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO STOP!!!” I remembered that the brake was on the back of the skate, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to use it. Andy told me to just skate into the grass, which I did, and I crashed. That’s to be expected, right? It had been a while since I had last skated.

I brushed myself off, grumbled about the fresh grass stains on my jeans and elbows, and tried again. I slowly reentered the path where Andy was waiting for me. Then, it happened again. I wasn’t moving a muscle and yet I was picking up speed. This time ended just like last time. I rolled into the grass and fell down. I really had to remember how to stop. At this point, Andy just laughed, told me how adorable I was and said that that slight hill was a tough one. What he meant was that it was tough for me. He didn’t appear to struggle with the hill at all. I will henceforth reference the hill as ‘Satan’.

I got up, dusted off the new grass clippings, and vowed that I would do better. We went around a curve and were greeted by the mercy of flat ground. I decided this would be the ideal place to relearn how to stop. Over and over again I experimented with the brake while shifting my weight different ways to figure out the mystery. When I finally thought that I had it, we circled the park to tackle ‘Satan’ again.

With more confidence, I slowly approached ‘Satan’. I felt myself gain speed. With a certain smugness, I jammed my heel down, only for it to nick the ground fly into the air, followed by my left leg and ultimately dumping me on my back. Awesome. Satan won. For awhile, I was content to just lie there to catch my breath and make sure that I did not have a concussion.
After a while, Andy realized that I was no longer behind him.

“Are you ok?” asked Andy obviously trying not to laugh.

“Yeah. I’m just going to lie here for a minute.”

After a few minutes, Andy helped me up. We lapped the park a few more times (during one of these laps, a little boy pointed at Andy’s skates and screamed, “MOM! I want shoes like that!! I want shoes with wheels!!”) and decided to call it a night.

I look forward to getting better. I think that will just come with practice.

Dante's Peak

2009-07-07T08:41:00.001-06:00

For this beautiful Fourth of July weekend, Andy and I decided to take advantage of the sunshine (which has been shockingly few and far between this year) and go on a hike. We chose to take the Lake Blanche hike, mostly because we’ve done the hike across the street from it and were curious. Andy did some research about this hike, just to know what we should be prepared for, and found that it was a moderate hike. I did my own research and read an article stating that this was a very strenuous hike. It advised potential hikers to take plenty of water and stop often. Automatically, I was a little hesitant about this hike. I am not what you might call an ‘advanced’ hiker, so this description was somewhat unsettling. When I brought this to Andy’s attention, he told me that he had also seen the scary website but that he had found several other websites that called the hike ‘moderate’ and he thought we would have no problem.

Come the day of the hike, we ate a hearty breakfast, packed a backpack with lunch, 4 nalgenes, sweatshirts, sun block, etc…which altogether weighed about 25-30 lbs. But that shouldn’t be too hard with a moderate hike, right?

We drove to the trailhead, parked, and began our 6.2 mile trek. It began on a nice paved incline then took a sharp fork to the right. We looked up the steep path which was peppered with large boulders. We took a deep breath and started climbing with the full realization that this was the next three miles and 3.5 hours of our lives.

We climbed and climbed, clambering over boulders and swimming through the overgrown path. I started out strong, quickly taking the lead. I danced between Andy and going farther and farther ahead. I couldn’t figure out why Andy was going so slowly. There was no way that I was in better shape than him. After an hour or so Andy suggested that we trade the load of the backpack. All of the sudden I understood why Andy was so slow. It was difficult to walk under the weight of the pack, let alone climb over things at a steep incline. Now he was the one dancing up the trail then back to me over and over. He patiently waited at the top of a particularly hellish hill as I baby-stepped up the slope, strategically planning my four stops along the way. He assisted me over the very large boulders and kept telling me how much easier the hike was without the back pack. Part of me wanted to slap him. Part of me wanted to ditch the backpack down the cliff directly to my right.

No, I told myself. This hike is nothing. So what if a have the weight of a medium sized child attached to my back? It would be easier to carry it to the top than to deal with a tired, hungry Andy after I told him that I just sent our lunch into the forest. I continued on, as Atlas, carrying the weight of our lunch, drinks, sweatshirts, sun block, camera, what have you, toward our destination.

30 minutes later, I begged Andy to take the backpack back. Being the upstanding fellow he is, he chivalrously shouldered the burden and continued on without so much as making fun of my failure.

We continued our climb and I noticed that, while the hike was more manageable without the backpack, my legs were beginning to give out. My breaks were occurring at, what seemed like, every switchback. I groaned with tormented ferocity as Andy remarked for the 52nd time that the lake must be ‘just over the next ridge’! I began counting my steps in sets of 8, trying to make it match whatever song was in my head. And the climb continued. By and by, we came across a switchback that emptied onto a side of the mountain with boulders instead of a trail. Andy and I were confused. The path didn’t continue. Surely, we weren’t supposed to venture out onto this seemingly dangerous mountain. Andy expertly stepped off the path and began climbing the mountain. “Oh, here’s the rest of the path,” said Andy with grin. As we moved from the loose, boulderous mountain to the friendly hard earth, we happened upon the ever-present German hiker who told us that the end was in sight. He guessed about 30 more minutes.

We huffed and puffed and 45 minutes later, we reached Lake Blanche. We found a nice place near the lake where we gratefully devoured our delicious lunch and rested for 30 minutes. After our rest, we decided that it was time to head back. I was practically falling asleep from exhaustion and wanted to make it back to the car before I passed out. The descent seemed twice as steep as the climb. Every time, I stepped off the ledge of a boulder, I felt the shock burn from my ankles, to my knees, and eventually settling in my hips. Each step made my hips scream out in pain. This was the longest three miles of my life.

I was very grateful to a few hippies we passed on our way down. As we approached them one pointed to a field and said ‘Moose’. I looked out into the field, and there was a male moose eating a tree. It was magnificent! This was my first moose sighting! What a treat. He was adorably ugly and huge! I thanked the nice hippies and we continued on our way. We passed a guy who laughed at ‘how tired’ we looked. No way. We passed a guy who was gracious enough to stop peeing mid-stream to let us pass. We passed a few tired and cranky kids who asked how close they were. I smiled and told them that they still had quite a way to go. We passed two women who were carrying infants strapped to their chest. Most astonishing to me: we passed several (at least 10) men without shirts RUNNING the trail. I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh at them, cry for them, or roll my eyes at their apparent masculinity.

We made it back to the car two hours after we began our descent. We drove home and I promptly fell asleep. When I woke up, I drove directly to Café Rio where I finished an entire Café Rio salad by myself.

I decided that in Utah ‘moderate’ means that you don’t have to use climbing gear. If that’s the case, then yes, this demon of a hike was moderate.

Through it all, it was a great hike. I look forward to trying it again.

I struggled with my temper.

2009-06-12T13:43:00.000-06:00

BCBS of a certain unnamed state has possibly the worst employees ever. I have been on the phone with them (off and on) for five hours (and that is not an exaggeration). My reason for speaking to the nurse reviewer (an honest to God RN) was to authorize a one night stay in the hospital. Here are a few of my favorite quotes:

“Is that a real diagnosis?”

“I’m sorry ma’am but those codes don’t exist. I don’t care how many of this surgery your doctor does; it doesn’t make it these codes more or less real.”

“That diagnosis isn’t reason enough for the inpatient stay because it doesn’t specify if the kid is severely retarded or not.”

“Listen here, Missy. If the kid is a retard, I will happily grant you your one night request.”

After the last quote, I finally asked to speak to the woman’s manager. Here was her response:

“Now really, that isn’t necessary. I’m not trying to fight you. I’ll authorize it.”

The Sight of a Legend

2009-06-09T13:56:00.000-06:00

Trax is often a boring necessity which takes me from the parking structure to work everyday. Today, it served as a wondrous experience. I boarded the train and grabbed the nearest seat, grumpy to be awake and active so early in the morning. My normal routine is to stare out the window and pretend that no one else exists, but something was different today.

From the corner of my right eye, I saw a scruffy red beard. I turned to gaze out the window. Something bothered me about the glimpse of the beard. I snuck another peek to the right. There was thick reddish hair to accompany the red scruffy beard. I turned back to the window and tried to place how I knew this man. I scanned my brain and tried to place this recognizable hair-do. Then it hit me.

I let out a small cry as this man’s appearance registered in my memory. I was sitting next to Chuck Norris.

I was sitting next to Chuck Norris. I kept stealing glances to my right to confirm that this was indeed the bad-ass that was Chuck Norris. The legend that inspired the Chuck Norris facts (www.chucknorrisfacts.com). After my sixth double-take, Chuck Norris looked at me and smiled. Confirmation: this was Chuck Norris, in Salt Lake City, on TRAX. I think I smiled back. It might have been a grimace or something that resembled choking. I can’t be sure.

As we sat there staring at each other, the train pulled into the Ft. Douglas stop. Chuck Norris got up, grabbed his man purse, winked at me, and strode to the door.

I turned in my seat. “Wait!” I heard myself say. “Can I have your autograph?”

Chuck Norris looked at me. “Now, why would you want that?” Chuck Norris gave me a sly smirk and chuckled.

I blushed. How was I supposed to answer that? “Well, because you are Chuck Norris!” I scraped for the reason Chuck Norris was looking for.

Chuck Norris chuckled again. The doors to the train opened. “I’m not Chuck Norris, but thanks.” With that, Chuck Norris exited the train.

Is this story true? Possibly. I will leave you with this Chuck Norris Fact:

“Chuck Norris was the fourth wise man, who gave baby Jesus the gift of beard, which he carried with him until he died. The other three wise men were enraged by the preference that Jesus showed to Chuck's gift, and arranged to have him written out of the bible. All three died soon after of mysterious roundhouse-kick related injuries.”

Things that made me go Hmmm (in the past month or so)

2009-05-29T14:40:00.001-06:00

As the title states, this is a record of things that have confused, astonished, and wowed me in the past month...

Walking into a 7/11 and being greeted by the original cast recording of Chorus Line. (Don’t get me wrong. I loved singing “Went to church praying Santa Maria, send me guidance, send me guidance, on my knees…” while pouring myself some black tea)

Sitting next to a bunch of douchy professorial types and listen to them debate whether Sriracha is from Japan or Santiago (pronounced Sonteeaaaaaaaaaago). Guess what, Douche bags? It is from Thailand.

People making up their own words such as “Simplize,” “furiousating,” and “embarrassly.” Really?

Being approached by a complete stranger (a week before the wedding) who knows my (and Andy's name) who proceeds to ask me, "Oh, Candace! I know you and Andy aren't married yet, but when do you plan on extending your family?" No joke. The lady wasn't even old. She should have known better.

And, there you have it. All of the above occurrences made me go hmm.

Lamentations of a Nighttime Nurse

2009-05-20T10:59:00.000-06:00

Fact: This story may or may not be based on real events which may or may not have been experienced by my husband last night.

6:53 pm- Work called. It looks like I will have to head into the office some time tonight. Whether it is in one hour, or five, I don’t know. Dr. Mahoolahan will call me when it’s time for me to do my part. For now, I will just wait.

10:00 pm- Still no word. I call Dr. Mahoolahan. He tells me that there are no updates as of yet. For now, I just wait by the phone. I decide to hit the hay. I am likely to be in for a long night.

2:00 am- My pager goes off. Figures. Dr. Mahoolahan informs me that it is time to go. I grumble as I roll out of bed. I throw on some scrubs and start on my five minute journey to the office.

2:04 am- Lights in the rear view mirror. Damn. I pull to the side of the road. I quickly review the situation to figure out why I would possibly be pulled over at 2 am. The policeman strolls to my window. “You have a headlight out,” comments the cop. Yeah, that headlight goes off and on depending on its mood. “License, registration, and insurance.” I gather the documents and hand over the information. “Do you have a current insurance card?” Double damn. I tell him that the new cards are sitting on my coffee table. As he studies the rest of the information, he realizes that the address on my driver’s license doesn’t match the address on my registration. Triple damn. The officer smiles and hands me three tickets: one for the headlight, one for the insurance, one for the driver’s license. Bastard.

I call Candace, wake her up, and tell her about the three tickets. She didn’t know that you are supposed to change your address within 10 days of moving either. She also thinks that’s a stupid law. I drive the last minute to work.

4:30 am- I am finally finished with work and in the comfort of my own bed. I can’t sleep. I turn on whatever is in the dvd player…ah. Season 12 of South Park. The noise wakes Candace up. We sit there staring at the tv for the next hour and a half. It’s funny, but not much registers.

6:00 am- I get in the shower. I have to be back to work in one hour.
One hell of a night.

PS-
Andy- Sorry if I got any of the specifics wrong.

Australia

2009-05-13T11:42:00.000-06:00

Our Successes: • Getting through the Melbourne customs during swine flu (this includes filling out additional health information cards and the discarding of my beloved Sudafed) • Our hotel upgraded our room because it was our honeymoon! YAY! (see first video) • We explored the area around our hotel including Federation Square, the Yarra River, and the nearby park • We were able to stay up until 8:30 our first night. A definite success. • We feasted upon an Australian brekky—the biggest breakfast I have ever had. It was magnificent! • The Healesville Sanctuary was a wonderful experience! • I pet a Kangaroo! • Saw several platypus (yes, that is the correct plural) • Watched koalas eat! • Watched Tasmanian Devil pups fight over a freshly slaughtered rodent of some sort • We were greeted by Pelicans and Rock wallabies! • Andy ordered his first coffee: a long black. • Andy successfully completed his first hook turn! (see second video) • We discovered that there are several great cafes down any given alley in Melbourne. In one of these cafes, we discovered Mudhouse wine. Mmmm. • Andy figured out the toll roads! • We experienced the Great Ocean Road and all of the adventures that included • We found a great restaurant in a small coastal town • We experienced waterfalls, eucalypt forests, rain forest, heartbreaking devastation from the bush fires, cool rock formations (twelve apostles) and farm land • We wandered around Fitzroy and found breakfast. Thanks, Mario’s! • We walked St. Kilda pier and saw Wicked (Australians using American accents) • We dined with our dear friends Chris and Nette! • We used public transportations • After stuffing ourselves with Italian food, we managed to pack down a medium gelato as well! • We finally found an Ipod adapter for the car. Interestingly enough, it was sold to us by a very smelly, nerdy American. Go figure. • We saw hundreds of wild kangaroos! • Watched a few people be mauled by cockatoos • I hand fed a bird (I wish I could tell you what kind, but I don’t know) • We hiked McKenzie Falls • Aquarium. It was delightful! We saw stonefish, lionfish, sea dragons, sea turtles, sharks and stuff. • Melbourne City Museum. They were having a special exhibition of Australian political cartoons. Surprise: we didn’t get any of them. • We watched a footy game on TV. Go Cats! • We visited Phillip Island where we saw wallabies, koalas, nifty birds, and little penguins. • We ate lunch at a “healthy burger” café. Andy’s 1/3 lb burger had bacon, fried egg, beet, onion, lettuce, tomato, and pineapple. It was served with a healthy serving of fries covered in “mexi” salt.

What we learned: • Any child may be forgiven if he or she has a cute Australian accent (or speaks German) • Most of the toilets (that I encountered) did not swirl, but when I crossed a toilet that did swirl, I noticed that the water swirls counter clockwise. • The Sydney airport has awesome musac (including the smooth sounds of George Michael, Olivia Newton-John, and Elton John) • EVERYTHING closes by 6 pm on a Sunday night in Melbourne. The local 7-11 was the only thing open that we could find. • Australians have a harder time understanding the American accent. I wonder how they fare with southerners. • No American beer to be found…FINALLY! • Driving outside of the city looks very similar to driving around the bay area. The only differences are the trees (eucalyptus) and the wildlife. • The signals inside the car were all opposite. Ask Andy how many times he turned on the windshield wipers while trying to access the turn signals. • Australians REALLY like breakfast. We sat near a table of four (normal sized) people who went back to the breakfast buffet multiple times (more than four) to fill up their plates with the offered goodies. It was impressive. • American’s can be stupid tourists. We encountered an American guy who thought it necessary to argue with an employee of Healesville sanctuary about the theory of evolution while the employee was telling the audience about Flo, the wombat. • Victoria Bitter isn’t bitter at all. • Our GPS struggled a bit. It couldn’t find us unless we were out of the city and the numbers on the GPS did not always represent the numbers of the actual motorways. Well done, Garmin. • Honey was served in the comb at our hotel • Ipod adapters are rare • Tipping isn’t expected but it is very appreciated • Australia has the best sunsets I have ever seen. • Next time, I must remember to bring hiking shoes, sandals, and a towel • Australia has their fair share of crazies • Australian ‘Little Italy’ is a smaller version of New York ‘Little Italy.’ You are harassed as you walk down the street by waiters who offer you free embellishments if you eat at that particular restaurant. Seriously. • Eggs are $8/dozen and milk is $4.50 for ½ gallon • Most architecture for homes seemed to be directly influenced by the French Quarter • Brewed coffee cannot be found in Australia (not even at starbucks) • Australians love ice cream • Kangaroos really do just jump out in front of your car (we almost hit one!) • The Kabob is unknown. They are advertised in the normal flat bread way, but it is only served over salad. Very disappointing • Americans use the term ‘sandwich’ too loosely. We were corrected that a focaccia is NOT a sandwich. I’m sorry. It’s between two pieces of bread. It’s a sandwich. • Pancakes and cream= Pancakes with a few scoops of ice cream. • The people of Victoria are against horse jumping after five horse deaths. We saw protestors. • If you are a female working in Melbourne, there is a strict dress code: pencil skirt, black tights, and black pumps or knee high boots. I swear. EVERY woman was wearing this. • Cochlear implants were invented by a Melbournian. • Australia has an obscene amount of tourists…even in the off season. • Vegemite is alive and well in Australia. Gross. Amusing Signs: “Wake up! Drowsy drivers die!!” “Arrive on time! Not dead on time!” “Yawning? A microsleep can kill in seconds!” “Only sleep cures fatigue”

Gratitude

2009-04-22T16:03:00.000-06:00

As many of you know, Andy and I will be married in three days. I have been planning this wedding for over a year and dreaming about it even longer. Andy has been so supportive and understanding with my intermittent melt downs. He has sat with me and allowed me to vent my frustrations and feelings of failure and worry. He has held my hand and listened, knowing that optimistic words would only anger me. Andy, you are the best. I love you more than I could ever fully express. I am so honored to become your wife.
My parents have been unbelievably kind and generous by always asking what I want and striving to make our wedding everything I could wish. Andy’s parents have been fantastic, offering ideas and encouragement. April has planned the greatest parties and I am so grateful to her for being fabulous. Levi was a trooper and was prepared to get his measurements taken AGAIN because of our minor mess up with the tuxedo place. My friend Kirsten has been my cheerleader and a truly understanding spirit (as she lived through her own wedding just seven months ago). These are just a few people who have helped me with the largest burden I have ever faced.
Looking back over the year, there are a few things I would change, but not many. I joke that ‘If I had it to do all over again, I would elope,’ but that’s not true. It is so important to me to share this milestone with as many people as possible. There are so many people who have touched my life; it would be tragic if any of them missed it.
I am so excited for my wedding. I am so excited to share the most important day of my life with my family and friends. I am excited to promise my life to Andy. I am excited to dance the night away. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate such an important event than with a beautiful ceremony and a giant party.
To those of you who will be able to celebrate with us, you are invaluable to me. Your presence is an affirmation of your encouragement and agreement. It means so much that you will share your time with us. So many of you are traveling from out of state (some out of the continental US) and I am deeply touched by your gesture. Thank you for understanding the importance of this day for us. You are truly marvelous friends and we are so grateful for your presence in our lives.
To those of you who are celebrating with us from afar, thank you. You are loved and will be dearly missed.
So friends, this is my last blog as Candace Lynne Conyers.
Friends and family, you mean the world to me.

In case you care...

2009-04-14T14:37:00.000-06:00

I picked my wedding gown up on Saturday.

It is unharmed, intact, and clean!

Thank you Hampton Cleaners for being competant and "Breaking the law"!

Dear Mr. Tuxedo Man...

2009-04-13T08:54:00.000-06:00

April 7, 2009

To Whom It May Concern:

I would like to make you aware of the extreme dissatisfaction I have experienced with your business as well as with your employees. I have witnessed very unprofessional behavior and unbelievable mistakes which have not been rectified as of yet. Had these issues not occurred so close to my wedding date, I would joyfully demand a refund of what has already been paid and take my business elsewhere.
Our wedding date is April 25, 2009. We were told that all of our “measurements MUST be in no later than March 14th.” We diligently made sure that all of our groomsmen and fathers understood the necessity of obtaining these measurements prior to the due date. I even called at the beginning of February to ask an employee the best way to submit measurements for out of town groomsmen. I was advised that calling it in was not the most reliable method rather, I should use the website—the link that says ‘enter your measurements here.’
Yesterday (April 6, 2009) I called to confirm everything was correct and that we were set for our wedding. I was told that we were down for 9 tuxedos; I corrected him that we only needed 8, and then I was told that he was still missing measurements for four men. Two of the measurements I had completed the second week of February. I had to call the groomsmen several times to make sure every blank on the form was completed. The second two were the last two entered the second week of March. I received a page that said ‘Thank you for submitting your measurements’ after each person I submitted. That, to me, was a confirmation that they were received.
When I relayed this information to the employee he told me that that wasn’t possible. He told me that I had probably just ‘thought’ I submitted the measurements, but that I hadn’t actually done it. He said with a chuckle that a lot of people make that mistake. He told me that if I shut the page without hitting ‘submit’ that they wouldn’t be sent. He also told me that the order wouldn’t go through unless every field was filled. Perhaps you should tell your employees that making a customer feel like he or she is stupid is not the best way to keep them calm and happy.

Here are my issues:

• The employee I spoke with called me a liar and placed the blame on me.
• Your employee spoke to me as if I was a child.
• Why was I not contacted the day after the measurements were due to check on the status of the missing measurements?
• What is the point of a due date if, two weeks before the wedding, it doesn’t matter if measurements are even in or not?
• The employee I spoke with never even apologized for losing the measurements.
• DO NOT tell people that the online service is the best way to submit measurements if you have no guarantee that you will actually receive and log them.

As a customer, I put a lot of faith in my vendors that everything will go smoothly. I was expecting that a few items wouldn’t be perfect, but that was the extent of my stress about the tuxedos. Now I seriously doubt your ability to order the correct suits let alone the correct sizes. I hope that we have no other issues. As of now, I am unhappy with your service in every respect of the word.

Most sincerely,

Candace Conyers

Tale of the Douche-Man Waiter

2009-04-05T11:42:00.000-06:00

There is an evil that lurks at the Market Street Grill in downtown Salt Lake City. This seemingly innocent place houses a creature that is both offensive and despicable. The name of this creature rhymes with Dallin.
I am sure that 'Dallin' began his day with the thought, "Gosh, I hope I have a bachelorette party at one of my tables so I can behave inappropriately and charge them items that they never ordered. Bachelorette parties usually get drunk and don't pay enough attention anyway. If I charge them for things they don't order, that will boost my automatic 18% tip...it doesn't matter if it is dishonest or deplorable."
Dear Dallin was in luck on Saturday night. My friend Annette decided to spend the first portion of her Bachelorette party at this restaurant. And what luck! Dallin was our server! He began the evening with the finesse of a sleazy swinger. He flirted a little too hard and joked a little too much. Whatever. I enjoy bantering with ambitious servers.
Other than being slightly slow with the water refills, Dallin didn't do poorly as our server. He was knowledgeable about the menu and seemed to get our orders right. Seemed.
I asked our server if I could have my bill (Andy was on his way to pick me up). "Oh," said Dallin. "I didn't realize you were on separate checks." I looked around confused. There were 12 people at the table all under the age of 25. Really? He really didn't think we would be on separate checks? If he had said he 'couldn't' separate the bill, that would have been understandable. Rather, he gave us some story about how their computer system was ancient and it would just take 'so much work to work that out for you, gals' (wink).
Slightly annoyed, but not angry yet, we passed around the check, put our cards in and crossed off our orders. After the check made it around the table someone announced that we were $100 short. With eager curiosity and fear that my retarded arithmetic skills had betrayed me, I looked over the bill. No. Everything was correct. If anything, I overpaid my $10. Everyone seemed to agree. Then we began looking at what wasn't claimed by the people at the table. At last, we found the culprit-- Dallin.
People in our party found that they were overcharged for their meals. One girl was charged for the Ahi Tuna on her salad instead of chicken. Another was charged for a shot that she didn't order. Someone was charged for two crab legs instead of one. "Mistakes" like this were the reason we were $100 less than what the total claimed. And maybe they were just mistakes, but more than five mistakes seems a bit suspicious.
Dallin came back to an angry table of customers. One by one, our table told him what was wrong with the bill that he wouldn't split. One by one, he tried to talk his way out of these errors and justify his upping the price. His disgustingly dapper demeanor vanished as, one by one, he was told that he had to go adjust the total to the correct price.
Forty minutes after asking for the bill, I was able to go meet Andy, who had been waiting for me the whole time.

Left out to Dry: the next installment

2009-03-31T11:46:00.000-06:00

I promised to keep you updated with the happening and 'goings on' regarding my dress. Well, the story continues...
When I last blogged I had just dropped my dress off at a cleaners which assured me that they could help. I found out, less than 24 hours later that that was not the case.
Candace's phone rings at work around 12:30.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Candace. This is Bryan from the dry cleaners.'
"Hi, Bryan."
"Hi. I was calling to tell you that we can't clean your dress."
"What do you mean you can't clean my dress?"
"Well, the care instructions say that it needs to be cleaned with a petroleum solvent which has actually been outlawed in America for 20 or 30 years."
"Really."
"Yeah."
"My dress is a year old."
"It obviously wasn't made in America. Is it really that important for you to preserve your dress?"
"I am not preserving it. I haven't even worn it yet. My wedding isn't until the end of April."
"Oh. I don't know what to tell you."
"So, Bryan, hypothetically speaking, what happens if we send it through the cleaners with the current solvent?"
"Um, discoloration, chemical burns, shrinking. I wouldn't risk it."
"Great. I will be in this afternoon to pick it up."
After work I drove to the Dry Cleaner's. When I walked in, I was greeted by another sixteen year old, wired from ear to ear with braces, and thoroughly eager to help me. Maybe it was her first day. I handed her my ticket and she began going through the men's shirt. "It's a big wedding dress," I called to her, thinking that it might be helpful. The girl walked the length of the entire store two times and she finally came back to the counter with my dress in hand.
"That will be $105.47."
"No, " I said.
"No?"
"No. This hasn't been cleaned."
She looked confused. "Yes it has."
"No, it hasn't. The owner called me at work today to let me know that it couldn't be cleaned here."
"But the total is on it. If the total is on it that means it has been cleaned."
"Sweetheart, believe me. It hasn't been cleaned. Now, I am going to take my dress and I'm going to leave now."
"Ok, well, I am going to have to make a note about this and tell my supervisor!"
"You do that. Good day."
I had already called my friend Juli to ask her advice. Juli (who is a God send and a fantastic woman) located a cleaner in Ogden that could help me. Elated, I left early the next morning and made the hour drive to Ogden. I pulled into the Dry Cleaner's parking lot, pulled out my dress, and prayed that the fourth time will be a charm (since the third obviously was not).
I walked in and was greeted by a very nice older man. "Hi! I am hoping you can help me. I have had one heck of a time finding a place that can clean this wedding dress. I was told that it needs a type of solvent that has been outlawed or something."
"Interesting. What kind of solvent?"
"Petroleum based?"
The man thought a minute. "That is the only solvent we use. It certainly isn't 'outlawed'. Whoever you talked to was an idiot."

So, my dress is now in Ogden. The adventures continue. I am supposed to pick it up on April 11...we'll see what happens next. Stay tuned...

Left out to dry

2009-03-25T10:08:00.000-06:00

So, apparently it is really difficult to get a wedding gown cleaned.

My adventure began on Monday. I called a few places to price the actual cleaning. First of all, everyone was baffled that I wanted the dress cleaned before the wedding. Secondly, the employees had difficulty understanding that I didn't want it preserved, I wanted to wear it. Thirdly, the prices spanned from $90-$130 depending on the dress. Fine. That was what I was expecting.
After doing my homework, I found that every place I checked was around the same price. Because of this fact, I decided to save myself the driving time and take the dress to the cleaners near my apartment. Andy uses this establishment and has never had a problem. I drove up and was met by a very nice girl who really was trying to be helpful.
"May I help you?"
"Yes, I need to get this dress cleaned."
"Is that a wedding dress?"
"Yes."
"Um, I don't know anything about those. You should come back tomorrow around 10 so you can speak to my supervisor."
"I work all day. I can't come in at that time. May I leave the dress here and call your supervisor in the morning?"
"Sure!"
So, I left the dress with the girl and told her that I would call in the morning.

Next morning: First call made to the cleaners, 10:00: "Oh, our boss isn't in yet. She was supposed to be in at 10, but you can try again in a half hour or so."Second call, 10:30: "Yeah, she's still not in yet. No, no one can help you except for her. Try again in an hour or so." Third call, 11:30: "I don't know where she is. She hasn't called or anything." This is the point when I told her that I had no confidence in their business and that I would pick up my dress that afternoon. "That's a good idea," said the employee on the phone.
I picked up the dress around 5:30 (realizing that they had stolen my nice strong hanger and replaced it with their crappy, flimsy hanger) and decided to take it to the dry cleaners up the road that calls themselves 'the wedding gown specialists.' I figured they would at least be able to point me in the right direction. I pulled my gown out of my car and walked it into the cleaners. I was greeted by a nice old woman.
"May I help you?"
"Yes, I need to get this gown cleaned. The last place I took it to had no idea what they were doing and they stole my hanger."
"Oh that's too bad! Of course we can do that for you! The total will be $247.43. If you want it boxed, it will be another $150."
I almost fell over. What the hell?
"May I ask why you charge that much?" My dress is not complicated nor is it adorned with lots of crap.
"Well, our guy is really good at what he does."
"I'm sure he is. That must be one heck of a steamer. Thank you for your time." With that I picked up my dress and walked out of the store of rape. Strike two.
As I drove home I came upon another dry cleaner. I pulled in, left my dress in the car and marched up to the counter. The adorable sixteen year old looked up at me.
"May I help you?"
"Do you clean wedding dresses here?"
"Yes"
"How much do you charge?"
"$95 hung or $120 boxed."
"Great." I walked out to my car, grabbed my dress, and hoisted it onto the counter. "I would like it cleaned and hung. I don't want it boxed and I will be back one week from today to pick it up."
"Sounds good," said the teen.
I will let you know if anything happens when I pick it up. For now, I am a believer that third time really is a charm.

Through the Shredder

2009-03-20T10:17:00.000-06:00

My darling friend Hilary is letting me borrow her Jillian Michael's 30 day shred (known to me as 'The Shredder'). This workout video from hell is 20 minutes long and is guaranteed to kick your ass.
When Hilary first told me about it, I snickered...after all, work out videos are a piece of cake. No. I learned my lesson. The 20 minute video includes a warm up, cool down, and three cycles of 3 minute strength, 2 minute cardio, and one minute abs. The video offers three levels which get progressively harder. Not too bad, right? Wrong. Give me a five mile run anyday.

I experienced the Shredder for the first time last week. I was smug and used my 5lbs hand weights instead of the suggested 2lbs hand weights. I began the video and quickly found that Jillian is a force to be reckoned with. About 1.5 minutes into the strength training...I had to take a rest. Obviously my deltoids aren't where they shoud be. Fair enough. I continue, my body kicking and screaming the entire length of the video. Every time Jillian told me 'You have to want it!' I had to restrain myself from putting my fist through the television. Truth be told, by the time I got to that point, I didn't have the strength to put my fist through the television. After that work out, I showered. I was ashamed and embarrassed that I did not have the ability to raise my hands over my head to wash my hair. Pitiful. I gave up the Shredder.
After a 7 day hiatus from the Shredder, I decided to try again. I jazzed myself up all day at work and decided that it would just be degrading if I was bested by a workout video. Screw the results, I just want to say that I can work out for 20 minutes without turning into a limp, crying mess. I could do it! Especially with the help of my very kind fiance.
Andy's reaction was similar to mine when I told him about the video. He had no idea what he was in for. I didn't hide anything from him. He heard me cry out in pain for four days after I finished the video. He knew but didn't really know. That all changed last night.
About 30 minutes after a delicious dinner at Red Iguana, Andy announced that he was ready to attack the Shredder. Note to self for future reference: DO NOT do this workout with a full stomache.
I gave Andy my hand weights and I grabbed a bottle of Ice 101 and Bicardi Rum. It served a purpose. The video began. It was just as bad as I remembered, though, I was able to make it all the way through without stopping. Andy was a trooper and stuck with it; however, he mentioned that the video was terrible and he never wants to do it again.
I plan to continue with level one tonight...with Andy. :)If you are wondering how I feel today? Shredded.

The World According to Mort

2009-03-13T08:13:00.000-06:00

In honor of Mort Goldman's (assumed) six month birthday, I thought I would write a blog about him.

My quirky little kitty lives his life by a very specific list of rules that may seem more or less retarded to the average passerby.

Rules of Mort:

1. You may not touch me unless you are standing up.
2. It is my unwavering belief that human food tastes like poop.
3. If your toes come within five feet of the bed, they are fair game. I will attack as I see fit.
4.3 AM is the optimal play time for me.
5. I will only become cuddly while one person is in the house.
6. If two or more people are present, I will hide under the bed for two hours then proceed to sit as far away from the humans as possible. Do not attempt to touch me.
7. I maintain the right to sometimes forget who my owners are, thus become unbelievably frightened when a tall redhead enters the apartment.
8. If it rolls, it is fun.
9. I am often not sure of what I want. If this is the case, I will sit in a room of my choice and meow until you guess what it is that I want.
10. Anything round in shape that can be carried in my mouth must die a painful death of drowning in either the toilet or my water dish.

Mort’s law states that, “If it moves or can be considered new, I must encounter and watch it at least fifteen times before I know that it will not kill me.”

The real countdown

2009-03-04T08:05:00.000-07:00

March 1st hit me like a bag of happy hammers. I say happy because it made me dance around, skip, and break into joyous song. March 1st marked the day when I realized 'I'm getting married next month.'
To many brides, this is the time of panic and last minute planning; not for this girl. Luckily, I have had a year to get the hard part out of the way so I can enjoy my last 52 days of being engaged. From here on out it is all about parties and payments.

Up to this point, when people asked me, "Are you excited? It's getting close!" My answer would always be, "Not yet." Not yet because I tend to get debilitatingly excited, so I tried to fend it off as long as possible. Well, friends, it is no longer possible. I have reached my excited state of mind where I have trouble functioning and focusing in a work environment. I have difficulty sitting through church without daydreaming about the wedding that will take place there. I wear my wedding shoes around the house and tell myself that I am not lame...I'm just 'breaking them in.' I practice dancing and clean my ring like a person with OCD. I have my invitation hanging up at my desk and I spend a solid amount of time of my work day looking at it. I obsessively look at my check list to go over and over what has been done and what needs to be done. What can I say? I'm just excited.
I fully understand that I am obnoxious at this point. My apologies.
Geez, I am this excited now. What will I be like when I realize that, not only am I getting married, but I am going to Australia four days later!

Valentine's concert

2009-02-17T07:23:00.000-07:00

For Valentine's Day this year, Andy and I sang for a concert at Westminster college. The video below is the song Andy and I sang as well as a group number of Westminster alumni.

Enjoy!

A howling good time.

2009-02-13T08:13:00.000-07:00

Andy and I have discovered what brings out the worst in us. We found out what reveals the inner bigot and what diminishes the conscience to allow unthinkable remarks to freely fly from our mouths. I am, of course, referring to the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

The Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show provided a very enjoyable and thoroughly inappropriate evening for us last night.

It began innocently enough, with the hound group. We oohed and ahhed over the adorable dogs until something caught Andy’s attention. “I think you have to be an unbearably ugly woman to show hounds.”
How true it is, too! Out of all of the different groups of dogs, the handlers of the hounds were, by far, the most pitiful. We laughed as each outfit shown became more and more atrocious. We questioned the handlers’ sexual orientation and settled on the idea that if the handlers look painfully terrible, their dogs would look better. No excuse. No excuse at all.

From that point on, our participation in the dog show increased ten fold. We began mocking the commentators and picking apart the gaits of the handlers. We decided which dogs shouldn't win and shouted our discontent when they did (damn standard poodles. I hate them).

When all was said and done, our evening turned out to be one which would make Mel Brooks proud. Not a single race was left un-offended. Not a single outfit went without severe ridicule (what with their Dr. Scholl's shoes and ill-fitting, shiney skirt-suits). Not an ugly dog was left unnamed (that’s right…we even attacked the dogs). However, amidst all of our negative comments, we were very happy that the 10 year old sussex spaniel won. Way to go, Stump!

We have decided that when we have a house, we will get a German Wirehaired Pointer named Beard Man and an English bulldog named Awesome Dude.

Sacrifice all of your blood.

2009-02-04T16:06:00.000-07:00

I am notorious for talking in my sleep. Usually, I have harmless conversations with whomever may be present in my dreamland. I have experienced everything completely asleep from discussing foreign policy with former president George W. Bush to quoting random movies like 'Dave' and 'Labyrinth' with my good friend, Tope. I am vaguely aware of these late-night rendezvous but am never able to break my trance. I am aware that I sit up and have complete conversations with people in my dream, but I have never been able to just lie back down and go to sleep.
Last night, I was able to scare the bejesus out of Andy. He was just drifting to sleep when I rolled over and sang "Sacrifice all of your blood!" to the tune of a snappy jingle. Whether I laughed or not, I am not sure. When I imagine the situation, I imagine myself laughing maniacally.After realizing that I was not awake, Andy shook my shoulder.
"Candace," said a panicked Andy.
"Homanommmm," replied a sleepy Candace.
"Do you know what you just said?" inquired Andy.
"Yes," replied Candace. "I was sjkfjsjdhgf for the thing."
Andy laughed and realized I was completely dead to the world.
Just at that moment, my cat decided that 12:30 am was the time that I needed to wake up. With great gusto, Mort Goldman bit my toes.
"Ow, kitty. Stop it."
"Candace, are you awake?"
"Yes"
"Do you realize what you just said?"
I immediately felt the dread of finding out what I had said in my sleep. "No," I replied.
"You just sang 'sacrifice all of your blood'"
"Really." was the only response that came to mind. "I had a dream I was stirring a pot of something."

Hmm. Go figure. Thoughts?

My style of riding off into the sunset

2009-01-16T23:02:00.000-07:00

Well, friends. It's official. Andy and I will be heading to the land down under for our honeymoon!
Tonight we booked our flight and hotel reservations for May 1-10!!! We plan to take in the culture, observe the wildlife, experience fall in May, and swoon over the accent.
As we have never been to Australia (Melbourne, to be exact) any suggestions would be much appreciated! Please, leave me a note if you know of 'must do' activities in the roundabout area.
Cheers!

Who works at David's Bridal? That's right. Idiots.

2009-01-09T08:05:00.000-07:00

I don't like David's Bridal. I think that the majority of their product is poor quality and the staff is unbelievably uneducated. If you found your dream wedding gown or dream brides maid dresses at David's Bridal, I mean no offense. I am pleased to hear that your experience there was better than mine.
Kirsten and I decided that David's Bridal would be the perfect place to go to get a crinoline and a sash for Kirsten's wedding gown. We entered the establishment and were greeted by a friendly and eager 19-year-old. "Welcome to David's bridal! How may I help you?" Instantly, I experienced Deja Vu of Wal-Mart. I could see into the future about 50 years when this perky girl named Jessica would undoubtedly be a Wal Mart greeter. I dismissed my premonition and mentally returned to the matter at hand.
"Hi, Jessica. We are looking for an A-line crinoline," I said, scanning the store to see if I could locate one myself.
Jessica stared at me as if I had just sprouted antlers. Kirsten noticed the uncomfortable pause as well as the blatant confusion.

"A petticoat," she added, thinking that this term would be more common.
The light bulb visibly turned on in Jessica's head as she understood what we wanted. "Oh! A petticoat! Sure, follow me!"
She led us to the front of the store and sifted through various capes. When she had found one that she was sure would work, she presented the cape proudly to us. "Well, this one is white and has fur on it, but it goes all the way to the floor." Jessica was oh so proud of her discovery.
Now it was our turn to stare in confusion and wonderment. After several seconds of awkward silence, I couldn't help myself. I blurted out, "CRINOLINE. You know. The thing that makes a dress puffy." Seriously. This term is not foreign, or at least should not be foreign if you work in a friggin' wedding shop.
Jessica looked offended. She hung up the cape, sniffed and matter-of-factly said, "Well, here at David's bridal, we call them slips." Whatever. By this point I just wanted the stupid petticoat so we could leave. She led us to the back of the store where they kept their 'slips' and handed Kirsten the appropriate size. Jessica did not ask us if we needed anything else. I had obviously wounded her pride and she went back to the front of the store to lick her wounds.
Kirsten and I turned to the sash department and prayed that this experience would be easier than the other.
This is when Mary offered her assistance. "May I help you?"
Here we go again. "Yes," I said. "We are looking for a sash that is about three inches thick in candy apple red."
Mary listened intently and nodded to show that she understood. She led us over to sashes of various sizes and picked up a candy apple red ribbon. The ribbon was the right color but it was obviously a ribbon, not the three inch sash that I had asked for.
"That is the perfect color," Kirsten said, "but do you have it in a thicker fabric?"
"No," Mary said. "This is all we have. But look how versatile it is." Mary began wrapping the ribbon around Kirsten's waist and showing us about how it would be perfect (bear in mind that Mary hadn't seen Kirsten's dress in the first place). I tried to explain to her what the dress looked like and why we needed the thicker sash.
As I was speaking to Mary, Kirsten spotted the perfect size sash that was displayed on a mannequin. "Mary, this is what I am looking for. This exact sash only in candy apple red." Mary takes the ribbon and walks over to the mannequin. She compares the ribbon with the sash and considers them side by side for several seconds. She turns to us. "They're the same thing," she proclaims.
It was quite obvious that the ribbon and the sash were not the same. They weren't even made of the same material. Mary showed us the product numbers to prove that they were the same thing and quickly found out that they were not.
We left the store with the crinoline in hand and the sash ordered. Done. Painful.

By the way, the sash ended up not being candy apple red.

The Great Choir Caper

2008-12-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

Mission: To gain entrance to Andy's sold out choir concert.
Tactic: unknown

Andy and I discussed several possible tactics as we headed toward the concert hall. "You could sneak in with me," he suggested, "then you could climb the ladder and watch the concert from the ceiling." Tempting, though I have never been up there nor am I familiar with the hall's set up. "I think I will see if there are any tickets left unclaimed," I wussed out. We arrived at the concert hall two hours before the concert's start. I sat down to read my book and patiently waited for the box office to open.
Finally, the box office opened and I watched person after person leave in despair without ticket in hand. The rumor was true. There were no more tickets left. I gathered my courage approached the box office. "How may I help you?" asked a voice that was obviously tired of saying the same thing over and over again. "I was wondering how I would go about getting into the concert." "Umm," she stammered, "The concert is sold out." "Right, I'd heard that. I was just wondering if there was an usher I could bribe or something." "Oh," she said apparently taken back by my bluntness, "Well, the box office closes at 8 and at that time we leave the unclaimed tickets out for whoever. Now, I'm not telling you that you should take someone else's ticket, but that's what I would do if I were trying to get into the concert." I thanked her and went back to my hidden reading area to ponder my newly obtained information.
The lady had told me 8pm. Well, that obviously wouldn't work since the concert started at 7:30. I thought. I had to come up with something else. I paced the halls to the west of the concert hall seeing if there were any open doors. Then I tried the hallway to the east of the concert hall. I found the ladder that supposedly led to the ceiling and seriously thought about exploring it. I chickened out and went back to my undiscovered reading spot to regroup.
I was faced with a problem. I needed to get into a room that was guarded by six ushers. All entrances were locked save the ones that had guard dogs. However was I to get in?
I decided to wait it out. I waited until I heard applause from inside the concert hall and ventured out to see the status of the ushers.
With my back to the wall, I investigated the theater's perimeter. It seemed safe. I slowly crept toward the entrance and with a quick look around, I opened the heavy door. Stealthily I stole into the hallway. This was it. I needed only to go through one door to be in the concert hall. I reached for the door...DRAT! I was suddenly face to face with an usher. The following conversation commenced in hushed voices:
"Hello," the usher said. "Are you going in?"
"Yes," I replied. "I am going in."
"Do you have a ticket?"
I thought about that. Lie? "No," I said pointedly.
"So, you don't have a ticket?"
"No"
"Why didn't you buy one?"
"I tried. The concert was sold out. There were no more tickets left to buy."
"Right," he replied growing ever confused. "The concert IS sold out."
I smiled and did my best to look whatever look allows certain women get whatever they want. "Are you telling me there isn't a single vacant seat in there? Not one open seat?"
It must have worked. The man smiled a crooked smile and told me that there were, in fact, four vacant seats directly above us. He held the door for me as I ducked inside to claim one of the vacant seats. I was able to enjoy the entire concert and marveled and Andy's glorious voice (which, of course, I can pick out from the other 300 voices singing with him).
Mission accomplished.