Oh the shame!

I know we've been busy lately, but I was mortified yesterday when I called my grandmother and aunt and realized that I'd completely forgotten to call on my own grandmother's birthday! Talk about the worst grandchild ever (although I guess Hilter's grandmother would disagree, but still). I apologized profusely, and she told me that it was okay, but I still can't shake the mental image of her huddled beside the phone, wrapped in a crocheted shawl, feeling the cold, cold wind blow in through the slats in the floor anxiously awaiting a call that never came--okay, in reality it was probably more like sitting in her recliner with a book and a Diet Coke, but the first image makes me feel worse. When you read this, B, know that I really am sorry and I promise I'll call on all the major holidays to make up for it--even Martin Luther King, Jr. Day AND Secretary's Administrative Assistant's Day.

Wanted: Social Secretary

Oy! This week has been crazy already, and it's not even the weekend yet! We flew back from California on Monday--and since we had to fly coach, my back is still aching from the posture-perfect seating that allows you to recline a half an inch. That shot the whole day, as only travel can. Then on Tuesday, we went to some friends' house for dinner and see their ultrasound. You'd be surprised how excited the father was to show us the pictures of the baby's scrotum! Last night Margaret had a planning meeting for the baby shower for the aforementioned friend and since the host of that meeting was making red beans and rice (she's from Louisiana, so you know they're good), I tagged along. I'm pretty sure I contributed nothing to the shower planning, and my suggestions were quickly dismissed, but I gotta tell you--the red beans and rice were GREAT! Anyway, tomorrow we have an evening engagement, Saturday we have an open house for the friends who we helped move last month, and Sunday Margaret has to shuffle three appointments and she still had to opt out of a potential fourth! I swear, we're going to be looking forward to this coming Monday! Since we don't have anything scheduled for this evening, I wonder what Margaret would say if I told her I'd planned a party at our house tonight and invited a couple dozen people?

Speaking of which, I remember one time when Margaret and I had just gotten home from shopping or something and there was a knock on the door. I answered it and it was someone from a board that I'm on. She said, "I'm here for the board meeting." Wha? Sure enough, behind her was several other board members who had just pulled up. It had completely slipped my mind and Margaret scrambled to fix something for all our guests. It turned out okay, but Margaret has yet to let me live that down. And I think that she secretly thinks that I'd do that again--which I wouldn't--I was just thankful that we'd gone somewhere before or we might not have even been dressed when they came!

Zombie Breath

This weekend, we took a taxi to the airport. We thought we were going to be late because he was 20 minutes late getting to our house and we hadn't allowed for much time anyway, being that the flight was at 6:20 am! I hate that, too, because when I have to leave that early, I never get adequate sleep because I'm always waking myself up to look at the clock, worried that the alarm might not be set right. Anyway, when the taxi finally arrived, it was an old Russian guy who was nice enough, but when we got in the car, it smelled like a rotting corpse! Margaret quickly rolled her window down, which didn't help a lot, so we just had to endure it. After a bit, the smell went away--and not because our noses were desensitized to the stench, but because it really was gone. Then, the cab driver started making small talk, and as soon as he started talking the smell came back--yes, his breath was so bad that the smell filled the entire car! Margaret and I were trying not not laugh but also not breathe, all while trying not to engage him in any conversation. We should have pretended we were deaf like on that Seinfeld episode. We finally got to the airport, where we were able to rinse out our lungs with the sweet, sweet fragrance of jet fuel fumes. Ahhh.

From the diaper wipes of children...

Well, the goatee didn't last long. This weekend, we were down near Monterey, California with Margaret's family. It was a lot of fun--and the Monterey Aquarium is everything it's cracked up to be. Anyway, back to the goatee, on Sunday night--after carefully growing out that thing for 10 long days, thinking I'm looking coolly mysterious and slightly dangerous--my niece comes up to me while we're sitting around watching a movie and wipes something wet on my mouth. At first I think it was a used Kleenex, then I realize it was a wet wipe and that she's using it to clean the dirt off my face--only the dirt was the goatee! She would wipe and get a puzzled look on her face then try my chin, look even more puzzled. After she saw that it wasn't coming off, she finally gave up. It was hilarious, and Margaret thanked her for confirming that I looked better with a clean face. I shaved it off the next morning.

Don't provoke the pigeons

Looks to me like SOMEONE has been buying generic birdseed again. When will people learn that 9 out of 10 filthy germ-ridden pigeons prefer Crazy Homeless Lady's Tuppence© brand organic bird seed? Also, looking at this picture, you just know that when that kid grows up and can drive, he's going to try and hit every single pigeon he can.

I remember one time my little brother got pooped on by a bird. Let me preface this story with two things: 1) I'm only writing it because he is hundreds of miles away so he won't be able to kill me easily, and 2) Growing up, my little brother reacted to surprises (like getting pooped on by a bird or being told that his pants don't match his shirt) with astonishingly virulent all-consuming RAGE! He was a holy terror that would rival any viking berserker when he got embarassed or mad. Well, one time on a fishing trip--and we had JUST arrived--as we were getting out of the car, my little brother felt something drop on his head. Thinking it was rain, he reached up and discovered his hand covered with white--BIRD POO! Oh my gosh, he flew into a rage that probably scared the salmon back downstream. I don't even know how mom calmed him down--she probably offered to buy him a BB gun so he could kill each and every bird that he saw fly in his air space. Fortunately he's chanelled the pure rage energy into an equally destructive, but less violent, form: soul-crushing sarcasm, and flesh-flaying mockery. Being on the receiving end of both of those, I sometimes wish for the berserker attacks!

Schadenfreude

Schadenfreude is "a malicious satisfaction obtained from the misfortunes of others." and while I appreciate it in myself, I can't stand it in others when I'm the recipient of the misfortune. The world isn't supposed to work that way. The reason I brought it up was this morning, when I came around the corner of the block, I saw a train pull up and I thought, "Wow, kismet--right as I get to the terminal, the train arrives... I'll be it's going to be a great day. Later on, I'll have to buy a lottery ticket because I'm sure to win!" As I hurried up--jogging right in front of the train driver--to get to the door, they CLOSED right in front of me! I pushed the button to open the door, to no avail. The train pulled away, leaving me dejectedly following it with my weepy eyes. I swear I could hear that depressing Charlie Brown music in the background...you know, the one where he stumbles along looking at his feet with his hands in pockets feeling the crushing weight of a cruel, cruel world on his shoulders--THAT'S how I felt! And to think of that train driver surely enjoying watching my face change from "happy-go-lucky" mode to "I'm-the-last-picked-for-dodgeball" mode in a fraction of a second. I know that if I'd have seen that change on someone's face, I'd be laughing my butt off. Ah cruel fates, coming back to bite me!

I remember when I was in the Missionary Training Center and the missionaries in my group were talking about appropriate humor and I bragged confessed that I often made fun of the misfortune of others. Later in the day, I was talking with a church leader, and after his tough love technique wherein he'd made me feel like I wasn't worthy to clean the toilets in the temple, I told him that I thought I might be too jovial and laughed too much. His response was, "Levity is fine, as long as you don't make fun of the misfortune of others." Akk! He'd even used the same phrase that I had talking amongst the missionaries. Now, fifteen years later...in fact as I wrote that last sentence...I realize that one of the more boring righteous missionaries ratted me out. Plus, they obviously didn't know me too well, because there were MUCH worse things they could have told the bishop about me! If he would have found the secret compartment in my scriptures where I kept a flask of Diet Pepsi, I'd have been screwed.

Stretching the limits of credibility

I HATE going to meetings that don't show a clear method of resolution. I just want to pack up and storm out of the room in the hopes that my dramatic exit will cause the attendees to pull their heads out of their butts. Alas, I don't think I could drum up enough drama to snap people out of their delusion that they're being productive or intelligent--I can usually only muster enough drama that when I get up and think I'm storming out of the room, the other attendees think I'm just going to the bathroom.

Yesterday I had to attend one such meeting. It was called because someone, whom I'll call Mamma Cass, not because that's her name--in fact I don't know WHO Mamma Cass was, but I've heard the name before and this person seems to fit my mental image. Anyway, Mamma Cass sent out a completely unintelligible email on March 17 at 10:30pm (I'm including the date and time because it becomes important later on, so bear with me). Long story short, the email whipped both groups into a frenzy and, compliments of the dangerous and too-powerful "Reply All" feature of email, it was aired to a broad swath of the community. A meeting was called, which gets us back to the above mention of hating meetings that address issues that really can't be resolved. Mamma Cass opened the meeting saying that she didn't send the email, despite the fact that the message came from her email address. Then Mamma Cass' supervisor demanded that the director of our group APOLOGIZE for thinking that Mamma Cass had written it. Pardon us for thinking that an email from that person that references the topic at hand actually WAS from that person. I was fuming toward the end, but in the spirit of diplomacy, had to keep that to myself--luckily I'm dead inside, so it wasn't too hard. Anyway, Mamma Cass' assertion that she didn't write the email struck me as VERY suspect. I'm going to write out both scenarios for you, the Internets, and you tell me which you think is the more probable or likely truth.

Mamma Cass' version: She left herself logged into a public computer, after which some random person loaded her email, read it enough to get the gist of the controversy, decided to mess with her, and draft a letter that was completely incoherent but contained enough information that it was obvious they knew the situation. And despite the obvious breach of her personal security, she wants to just forget about it and doesn't want campus computer services to investigate who the perpetrator was.

Jeremy-Seer of the Truth's verson: Remember how I said that the date and time became important later on? Well, my theory is that, being that it was St. Patrick's Day night AND on a Friday, Mamma Cass was completely shite-faced and, I'm assuming she's a mean drunk, was fed up with the controversy between our groups and, in a drunken huff, decides to write us an email. From the incomprehisibility of the message, it certainly sounded more like a drunk person (or the product of a North Carolina public school) than a random lurker who happened upon a computer that Mamma Cass had been using earlier in the day.

There you go, Internets. Weigh in--which version do YOU believe is more likely?

Latest styles off the blogger runway

What do you think of the new look, Internets? The other one was too 2005 for my taste.

Emotional connections to inanimate objects

This morning's paper had an article about emotional branding--which is a product that makes you feel warm and fuzzy. Things like Radio Flyer wagons and Campfire brand marshmallows. The author interviewed some of her friends and one of them was this gem:

Mickey McGee, who lives in Northeast Portland, likes his deodorant. "I'm serious. Superman has the yellow sun, Popeye has spinach, Underdog has a secret compartment of his ring which he fills with a super energy pill...and I have Speed Stick Cool Scent/Cool Fusion Antiperspirant/Deodorant. This is no ordinary underarm protection! It has been the single source of all my confidence for 20 years."

There's a guy who REALLY connects with his health and beauty products. The article got me thinking about my own emotional branding:

1) By far the strongest connection to brands I have is Apple Computers. I've come to the conclusion that if I were ever offered a job, no matter how lucrative and ideal, if I couldn't use an Apple, I wouldn't accept the job. I've had more success converting people to the truth of Apple Computers than I did converting people to Mormonism while I was in Norway! (I have to admit, it's a much easier sell!)

2) Given any choice whatsoever, if peanut M&M's are available, I'll take them every time. In Norway, they had a candy-coated chocolate covered peanut candy that I tried ONCE. It just wasn't the same.

3) Volkswagens. I don't know if it's because my first new car was a Volkswagen, but I LOVE this brand. Something about its German engineering marketing and youthful memories gets me every time. I have so many memories of cruising around Provo in my little red Jetta that I always makes me feel carefree and like I'm on my way to be up to something. Also, that Jetta saved our lives in our car crash, and we of course replaced it with another red Jetta as soon as we got our insurance settlement. I'm sure the last car I'll own will be a red 2054 HoverJetta with black leather interior and a Mr. Fusion drive.

4) Diet Pepsi. Anyone who knows me knows that I can inhale 96 oz. of this nectar without even thinking about it. I've learned to tolerate Diet Coke, but that's only out of necessity. I've been places that don't serve Pepsi products and I've ordered WATER there instead of a Diet Pepsi alternative. I had to get less picky because a couple of restaurants we frequent only had Coke products and I needed the caffeine infusion. Any I can hardly stomach generic cola--it tastes like metal!

Well, there's four emotional brands for me. I'm sure I have more--I'm a slave to pop culture and cool advertising, so I can be swayed to connect with pretty much anything. What can I say, I'm a product of the tv generation.

To have or not to have facial hair

This weekend, on a whim, I kept a goatee. Margaret is extremely indifferent about it, I think to walk the fine line of not letting me know that it secretly repells her but wanting to keep from hurting my feelings. When it grows out for a couple of days, I'll put a picture up and get feedback from the Internets. Until then, I'll have to just go it alone.

Actually, I'm lucky to be able to grow any facial hair. That's one thing I inherited from my European genes and not my Indian genes. My dad can get away with not shaving for a week and he just looks a little scruffy--I'm halfway to Grizzly Adams in the same amount of time. After we got in the car accident, I couldn't shave for a couple of weeks because of some burns on my face. When the burns finally healed, I shaved myself a handlebar moustache and completely freaked Margaret out. She wouldn't even look at me until I'd shaved it off. Talk about the veto power!