So, shoplifting is ok now?

I was recently in our neighborhood Ann Taylor Loft purchasing some fantastic summer wear. As I was shopping, I noticed a somewhat sketchy looking individual skulking around the store. When the employees greeted her, the woman announced that she was waiting for her friend.

After browsing, I tried on my items and headed to the register. As I was checking out, the shady character left the store, setting off the alarm. All of the employees looked toward the door, sighed, and shook their heads.

“Isn’t anyone going to go after her?” I asked.

“No,” responded the lady at the register. “We aren’t allowed to do that. We could get sued.”

I considered that. “You know, I’ve been stopped at Target for setting off the alarm. I waited at the door until an employee came to search my bag.”

The woman snorted. “Well, I would tell you to sue Target.”

So, I’m confused. What is the point of an alarm if there is no consequence for stealing? I thought it was common knowledge that you will be stopped or pursued if you set off the alarm.

Summer Magic

For years now Andy has been telling me about a horrible Disney movie called “Summer Magic”. This movie came one year before Mary Poppins and I am SO glad Disney learned their lesson. I suppose I would call “Summer Magic” moderately entertaining because it provided excellent mocking material.

The talent: Whoever decided that Hayley Mills should sing should be horsewhipped. It was also shocking how yellow the mother’s teeth were. I understand the movie was made in a time when cigarettes were the height of sophistication but seriously folks. Those chompers were urine yellow. Burl Ives made the movie bearable because he has that “jovial fat man” look which seems to inspire a feeling of happiness. And then some greying man comes in at the very end of the movie and makes a pass at 15-year-old Hayley Mills. Gross. I obviously do not grasp the differences of socially acceptable behavior in 1963 vs. now. And no Disney movie would be complete without the whiney kid who constantly squints his eyes and vomits the one liners that I guess are supposed to be endearing.

The plot (or lack thereof): The movie is reportedly based off of a book and I am tempted to visit the library to prove it. If it is based off a book, it must be a picture book. Andy put it succinctly when he stated, “Summer Magic is a vehicle for reject Mary Poppins’s tunes and stock footage from Disney’s Classic Nature Documentaries.” Somehow, songs get thrown into Summer Magic that have nothing to do with the plot and are so unbearably boring that I got up and made dinner just so I didn’t have to watch it. Some of these gems include, "Beautiful Beulah", the title song "Summer Magic", "The Pink of Perfection", and Ugly Bug Ball. All of this is forgivable until you reach the song “Femininity”. This song deserves its own section.

Femininity. Let’s take a look at the lyrics, shall we?

You must walk feminine
Talk feminine
Smile and beguile feminine
Utilize your femininity
That's what every girl should know,
if she wants to catch a beau

Dance feminine
Glance feminine
Act shy and sigh feminine
Compliment his masculinity
That's what every girl should know,
if she wants to catch a beau

Let him do the talking
Men adore good listeners
Laugh, but not too loudly (Haha)
If he should choose to tell a joke
Be radiant, but delicate
Memorize the rules of etiquette
Be demure, sweet and pure
Hide the real you

You must look feminine
Dress feminine
You're at your best feminine
Emphasize your femininity
That's what every girl should know
Femininity, femininity
That's the way to catch a beau

I have nothing to add to this. It makes me laugh and cry at the same time. My personal favorite is the last line of the verse: “Hide the real you.” What a great message for young girls. Here is the link to the song if you really must watch it. Be warned, it is performed by Hayley Mills. Ugh.

Well done, Disney. Well done. I look forward to finding a worse movie than this. I have a sneaking suspicion I'll find one. Perhaps "The One and Only, Genuine, Original Family Band"?

Douche Capes.

I do a lot wrong. My best way of coping with my many, many mistakes is to own it—take it in stride, really. I enjoy self-deprecating humor and believe that if you can’t laugh at yourself then you are kind of a sad person. I occasionally read through the posts I wrote years ago and enjoy reading about my wacky antics and silly slip-ups.

This post will be no different.

I was chatting with a group of coworkers about silly, inconsequential things (as we often do). Somehow the term “douche cape” entered the conversation and I found myself trying to explain what a douche cape was. After a few moments I said, “You know what? I’ll just send you some pictures. That will be easier than trying to explain it.”

I went back to my computer and searched for the optimal images to accurately depict the “Douche cape” (or a cape/shirt worn by a douche). Here are a few of those images:



I copied the images to my email titled “Douche Capes”, typed in the email addresses and confidently hit the “send” button. I continued with work with the full expectation that I would receive emails back from the recipients. The only response I got said:

“Who is Scott Smith?”

The world began spinning as I realized that name was not that of the intended recipient. I stared at the name and tried to flip through the rolodex in my head and remember who that was. Was it a work associate? Was it a doctor? Was it a committee member? Then I realized it.

It was the parent of one of the kids I know at church.

Holy crap. I sent the “Douche cape” email to a person from church.

Moral of the story: ALWAYS check the recipient line before you send an email. I am sure I won’t learn from this experience (since this was not the first time this has happened and definitely won’t be the last). But you might. You might learn from my mistakes.

Big stall v. Little stall

This post is random, so bear with me.

The ladies restroom in my place of employment has two stalls, a large one and a small one. After four months of working here, I realized that I never use the big stall if the small one is open. As I think about any public restroom, I don’t believe I ever use the big stall if a small one is available. I can attribute my actions to two possible reasons:

1. I’m lazy and don’t want to walk the extra three steps to the big stall—this very well could be. I have nothing else to say about this reason.

2. I am somehow guilted into using the small one in the off-chance that a handicapped person will need the bigger stall. This is incredibly irrational but true nonetheless. It’s irrational because our building never gets patients or visitors, and we have no handicapped employees currently. But what if a handicapped person happened upon our tiny building and needed to use the restroom? What then? I wouldn’t want to be the heartless person occupying the big stall so they would have to wait.

After thinking long and hard about the psychology involved with choosing a stall, I asked my office mate her opinion. “I always use the big stall,” she responded. “Not only does it give you more room, it has the seat covers.”

So. Now I’m neurotic.

I took this situation to a few other coworkers. Interestingly enough, they habitually chose the large stall over the small. I don't believe any of them are heartless...I believe I am just special.

Not like this matters at all, but I found it interesting.

Remembering Grandpa Parker

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?

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

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.

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

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.

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...

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

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

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

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?

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?

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

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.

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

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

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.