Last night when I got home from work I soon realized I had lost my cell phone and it wasn't in any of the usual places I set it.
My first thought was "I'll just call it."
My second thought was "Oh wait, I can't because that's the only phone in the apartment."
My third thought was "I'll just text someone and have them call it."
My fourth thought was "Oh wait ... again with the whole 'only phone in the household' thing."
My fifth thought was that I wished my mom was here to look for it, because only moms think to look in all the spots lost things hide, like in the middle of the floor or sitting on the bookshelf right where you left it.
There is nothing like having your own place to make you appreciate your mother. College was bad enough. I had to do my own laundry and sure, I cooked plenty when I was still living at home but it's not the same when it's a prerequisite for eating dinner every night instead of a hobby. But still, college involved roommates. At least occasionally you would come home from a long day and find chocolate chip cookies waiting or that someone had taken pity on you (or just gotten fed up) and done the dishes already even though it was your day.
When you have your own place, coming home to all the dishes done would be cause for concern that you were the victim of a burglar who assuaged their guilty conscience about stealing your laptop by doing some chores to make up for it.
Also, when you're home sick in college your mommy might not be there to make chicken noodle soup for you and take your temperature, but at least your roommates can spare a few pitying looks, check occasionally to make sure you're not dead, and if you have a really good one even offer to bring you a drink of water. This week when I was home sick from work I woke up to the realization that I could not fulfill my deep desire to not move from my bed all day while also fulfilling my desire not to die of dehydration. Somehow I survived.
Of course, the flip side of living alone is that even though there is no one around to worry about you, there is also no one around for you to worry about. No one to considerately leave hot water for on Sunday mornings, to try to find your pajamas in the dark so you don't wake them up. You don't have to worry that listening to music without headphones will disturb someone, or if you leave a pile of laundry on the living room floor when you go to bed that someone will trip on it during the night. No fighting over the temperature of the apartment or making small talk when you really just want to eat in contemplative silence. No one to judge you when you really just feel like listening to NSYNC one night.
The danger of this lifestyle is if you don't get enough human interaction outside the apartment you'll basically just turn into a Neanderthal who can't remember what table manners are or whether it's socially acceptable to talk to yourself in public. Maybe that's why people become crazy old cat ladies. Were the cats an attempt at having someone around to make them feel self-conscious? That would explain why it would have to be cats, then. Nobody could be fooled into thinking a dog was judging them.
If I get a cat someday, don't judge me. I needed someone around to make me feel ashamed for wanting to listen to nineties music.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
It's not that difficult
Recently I had a conversation with a group of friends that went something like this:
"Guys are so confusing."
"No way, girls are way more confusing."
"No I'm pretty sure guys are."
"How can you even say that with a straight face?"
I'm pretty sure both genders are equally confusing to each other. I can't do anything about women being confused by men, but I shall herewith attempt to clear up a few things about my own gender that seem to mystify men:
1) If you're into a woman and she's not interested, chances are excellent that you didn't do anything wrong. And that there is nothing wrong with you. Or her. You're probably smart and attractive and a total gentleman. And she's probably not a manipulative, cold-hearted shrew. The truth is that sometimes the attraction just isn't there. It's that simple.
2) If her rejection of you does seem to go beyond the just-not-attracted-to-you thing, the thing you did wrong is probably something you did to one of her friends and not to her directly. Women talk to each other, but guys forget that when they're dealing with a woman who either rejected them or didn't attain a level of hotness that made them think "I care about what she thinks about me." If she heard that her friend asked you on a date and you said yes but then spent the whole time texting other women and flirting with the waitress, she's not going to be impressed by that.
3) If she's not following what you consider proper date etiquette, she might not know it's a date. It's really, really hard to tell sometimes. And we're always second-guessing ourselves. I've lost count of the number of conversations I've had with groups of female friends debating whether something one person in the group did counted as a date. Usually it comes down to something like "Well, I guess he was wearing a slightly nicer shirt than usual..."
4) If she likes you, she'll want to spend time with you. She try to subtly work it out so she sits next to you at parties, rides with you during carpools and ends up working in the same group or team as you. She'll unnecessarily prolong conversations and change her mind about skipping an activity when she hears you'll be there. On the other hand, if you're always the one approaching her for conversation and then she chats for a moment before wandering away to talk to someone else, she's probably not into you.
5) If you can't figure out why a nice girl like that would ever be flirting with a jerk like him, there are two possible explanations. One is that she doesn't believe she can do any better, because she's been on one date in the last five years and figures any guy who's acting interested in her might be her only shot at having been kissed by the time she's 40. If that's not the case, then instead of blaming the bad boy you should blame the supposedly "nice" guy who broke her heart. The moment she walked in on him cuddling with another girl is the moment she decided all guys are the same and it will hurt less if she's dating a known player and can therefore see it coming. She doesn't want to trust anyone again, and she doesn't want to hurt anyone else by leading them on, but she also doesn't want to live like a nun. Non-committal flirting with a bad boy is the perfect solution in her eyes. Also, confidence is sexy. Sometimes it's a refreshing change to deal with someone who's not so timid he's still afraid to try to hold your hand by date number six.
6) If you're busy complaining that nice guys finish last, you might need to re-evaluate how nice you really are. I read a blog post once that explained that there's a difference between a "nice guy" and a "good guy." The distinction was a brilliant one I really wish I had understood when I first jumped into the dating pool. Good guys are nice to everyone, even people they're not romantically interested in, because that's just who they are. Nice guys are nice out of a combination of wimpy-ness and a realization that the being-nice strategy works better for them when it comes to getting what they want. Women swoon for them because they open doors and give compliments and lend their jackets to girls who are cold. But eventually those same women realize the "nice guy" is only nice as long as it serves him well. If it gets him out of a confrontation or gets him attention from the opposite sex, he's nice. But if the nice thing to do makes him step out of his comfort zone or is inconvenient or means he can't keep his options open with several women at once, well then it's a different story. And eventually women get tired of that.
7) If a woman is mad at you and you don't know why, ask yourself: Did I do or say something that made it clear I was only pretending to listen to what she was saying the other day? Did I slight one of her friends or family members? Did I not return a text or make her feel neglected in some other way (i.e. forget an anniversary, suddenly ignore her for an unusually long period of time, forget plans you made together, etc.)? Chances are good it's one of those things. Even if you don't know exactly which one it was, it all boils down to her feeling like she (or by extension her feelings or opinions or the people she cares about) isn't important to you. Make it up to her by doing something that sends a message that she is indeed important to you. Sometimes it's as simple as putting down the video game controller for once while she's talking.
There, men. That wasn't so confusing, was it?
"Guys are so confusing."
"No way, girls are way more confusing."
"No I'm pretty sure guys are."
"How can you even say that with a straight face?"
I'm pretty sure both genders are equally confusing to each other. I can't do anything about women being confused by men, but I shall herewith attempt to clear up a few things about my own gender that seem to mystify men:
1) If you're into a woman and she's not interested, chances are excellent that you didn't do anything wrong. And that there is nothing wrong with you. Or her. You're probably smart and attractive and a total gentleman. And she's probably not a manipulative, cold-hearted shrew. The truth is that sometimes the attraction just isn't there. It's that simple.
2) If her rejection of you does seem to go beyond the just-not-attracted-to-you thing, the thing you did wrong is probably something you did to one of her friends and not to her directly. Women talk to each other, but guys forget that when they're dealing with a woman who either rejected them or didn't attain a level of hotness that made them think "I care about what she thinks about me." If she heard that her friend asked you on a date and you said yes but then spent the whole time texting other women and flirting with the waitress, she's not going to be impressed by that.
3) If she's not following what you consider proper date etiquette, she might not know it's a date. It's really, really hard to tell sometimes. And we're always second-guessing ourselves. I've lost count of the number of conversations I've had with groups of female friends debating whether something one person in the group did counted as a date. Usually it comes down to something like "Well, I guess he was wearing a slightly nicer shirt than usual..."
4) If she likes you, she'll want to spend time with you. She try to subtly work it out so she sits next to you at parties, rides with you during carpools and ends up working in the same group or team as you. She'll unnecessarily prolong conversations and change her mind about skipping an activity when she hears you'll be there. On the other hand, if you're always the one approaching her for conversation and then she chats for a moment before wandering away to talk to someone else, she's probably not into you.
5) If you can't figure out why a nice girl like that would ever be flirting with a jerk like him, there are two possible explanations. One is that she doesn't believe she can do any better, because she's been on one date in the last five years and figures any guy who's acting interested in her might be her only shot at having been kissed by the time she's 40. If that's not the case, then instead of blaming the bad boy you should blame the supposedly "nice" guy who broke her heart. The moment she walked in on him cuddling with another girl is the moment she decided all guys are the same and it will hurt less if she's dating a known player and can therefore see it coming. She doesn't want to trust anyone again, and she doesn't want to hurt anyone else by leading them on, but she also doesn't want to live like a nun. Non-committal flirting with a bad boy is the perfect solution in her eyes. Also, confidence is sexy. Sometimes it's a refreshing change to deal with someone who's not so timid he's still afraid to try to hold your hand by date number six.
6) If you're busy complaining that nice guys finish last, you might need to re-evaluate how nice you really are. I read a blog post once that explained that there's a difference between a "nice guy" and a "good guy." The distinction was a brilliant one I really wish I had understood when I first jumped into the dating pool. Good guys are nice to everyone, even people they're not romantically interested in, because that's just who they are. Nice guys are nice out of a combination of wimpy-ness and a realization that the being-nice strategy works better for them when it comes to getting what they want. Women swoon for them because they open doors and give compliments and lend their jackets to girls who are cold. But eventually those same women realize the "nice guy" is only nice as long as it serves him well. If it gets him out of a confrontation or gets him attention from the opposite sex, he's nice. But if the nice thing to do makes him step out of his comfort zone or is inconvenient or means he can't keep his options open with several women at once, well then it's a different story. And eventually women get tired of that.
7) If a woman is mad at you and you don't know why, ask yourself: Did I do or say something that made it clear I was only pretending to listen to what she was saying the other day? Did I slight one of her friends or family members? Did I not return a text or make her feel neglected in some other way (i.e. forget an anniversary, suddenly ignore her for an unusually long period of time, forget plans you made together, etc.)? Chances are good it's one of those things. Even if you don't know exactly which one it was, it all boils down to her feeling like she (or by extension her feelings or opinions or the people she cares about) isn't important to you. Make it up to her by doing something that sends a message that she is indeed important to you. Sometimes it's as simple as putting down the video game controller for once while she's talking.
There, men. That wasn't so confusing, was it?
Saturday, December 28, 2013
The evil cardboard box
Well, another Christmas has come and gone. This one was a little different than last year (see last year's post) in which we had the entire family together and it felt like when we were growing up again. This time we had Lance's new wife Jasinda instead of Logan, who is on a mission in Mexico City. Unfortunately for her that meant we expected her to fill in for Logan in all of our holiday traditions, from decorating his gingerbread house to putting up his Christmas ornaments, but she handled it like a champ. She even slept on the floor (well, okay, an air mattress) with the rest of the siblings on Christmas Eve night.
One of the gifts I was most looking forward to giving on Christmas morning was the new stereo Cole and I bought for Lance and Jasinda's 1987 Toyota Camry. Not only did we pretty much double the value of their car, but we also solved the problem of One Republic not releasing their new album on cassette tape.
Actually, I can't make fun of their car too much because, as Lance pointed out this week, my car ends up in the repair shop more often than theirs does even though I paid about ten times as much for it. Last week I was backing into the alley behind where I work and my car started making a horrible noise. I stopped the car and popped the hood and stared at everything for a minute. I don't actually know enough about cars to tell if anything in the mess of hoses and wires and metal thingies under there are broken, but this seems like the type of thing people do when their car starts making a funny noise so I thought I would try it.
Next I looked under the car and immediately breathed a sigh of relief when I realized there was a cardboard box caught up underneath and that's what was probably causing the noise. I took back that sigh of relief a second later when I realized there was a very long, important-looking pipe dragging on the ground. Even I could tell that wasn't what it was supposed to be doing. Fortunately with the help of a couple of friends I was able to get home, get to work the next morning and get my car to the shop, where I had to explain to the mechanic that it was a cardboard box that ripped off my exhaust pipe. No, I wasn't on the Interstate when I hit it. No, the box wasn't full of bricks. No, I didn't run over something else at the same time. No, I don't know why it happened. You're the expert here.
The mechanic was nice about it though. Car people are always nice to me. They were even nice to me the time I went to get my oil changed and the guy asked me to check my mileage and I wasn't paying attention and turned my car all the way on when another guy had already taken off the oil filter. If you were ever curious about what would happen if you do this, I can tell you: Oil shoots everywhere. Like a geyser. All over the floor. And the walls. And the car. And the guy changing the oil. Don't do it.
So, as we look ahead to the next holiday, I can tell you this: One of my New Year's resolutions is going to be to know slightly more about cars by the end of next year than I do now. It shouldn't be too hard.
One of the gifts I was most looking forward to giving on Christmas morning was the new stereo Cole and I bought for Lance and Jasinda's 1987 Toyota Camry. Not only did we pretty much double the value of their car, but we also solved the problem of One Republic not releasing their new album on cassette tape.
Actually, I can't make fun of their car too much because, as Lance pointed out this week, my car ends up in the repair shop more often than theirs does even though I paid about ten times as much for it. Last week I was backing into the alley behind where I work and my car started making a horrible noise. I stopped the car and popped the hood and stared at everything for a minute. I don't actually know enough about cars to tell if anything in the mess of hoses and wires and metal thingies under there are broken, but this seems like the type of thing people do when their car starts making a funny noise so I thought I would try it.
Next I looked under the car and immediately breathed a sigh of relief when I realized there was a cardboard box caught up underneath and that's what was probably causing the noise. I took back that sigh of relief a second later when I realized there was a very long, important-looking pipe dragging on the ground. Even I could tell that wasn't what it was supposed to be doing. Fortunately with the help of a couple of friends I was able to get home, get to work the next morning and get my car to the shop, where I had to explain to the mechanic that it was a cardboard box that ripped off my exhaust pipe. No, I wasn't on the Interstate when I hit it. No, the box wasn't full of bricks. No, I didn't run over something else at the same time. No, I don't know why it happened. You're the expert here.
The mechanic was nice about it though. Car people are always nice to me. They were even nice to me the time I went to get my oil changed and the guy asked me to check my mileage and I wasn't paying attention and turned my car all the way on when another guy had already taken off the oil filter. If you were ever curious about what would happen if you do this, I can tell you: Oil shoots everywhere. Like a geyser. All over the floor. And the walls. And the car. And the guy changing the oil. Don't do it.
So, as we look ahead to the next holiday, I can tell you this: One of my New Year's resolutions is going to be to know slightly more about cars by the end of next year than I do now. It shouldn't be too hard.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Thanks for the potato peeler
This year my family came to my place for Thanksgiving weekend, on account of my having to work on Thanksgiving Day.
Since I've gotten pretty used to having my own place, this required some adjustments on my part. Being fully clothed during breakfast, for example. But I'm pretty sure my family had to adjust to more than I did. My poor mother had to cook her biggest meal of the year in my apartment kitchen, which is lacking in a lot of Thanksgiving-related paraphernalia, like pie plates and a turkey baster. She brought most of what she needed with her, but she did have to make an emergency potato peeler purchase partway through the day. Apparently I don't eat enough mashed potatoes, because I hadn't even noticed I didn't have one.
I actually got several free items besides a potato peeler out of the visit, although some of them are more useful than others. I now own manly-smelling shampoo and soap because Dad and Cole were tired of smelling like flowers every time they came for a visit. I also got a nice set of drinking glasses out of the visit when Dad realized that his only options for Thanksgiving dinner were drinking out of plastic or not having all the glasses match. The horror. It was too much.
Thanksgiving dinner was a little crowded since I don't have any leaves to add to my table, but we made it work by putting all the food on a card table and telling the guest the event was BYOC -- bring your own chair. It may not have been the classiest Thanksgiving we've ever had, but we had a good time. And nothing got broken when we played games afterward. Even though Dad and Cole did have a bit of a wrestling match over a card.
We missed Logan and Lance (although we did get to see Lance and Jasinda up in Selah with Jasinda's family the next day). We all felt a little sorry for Logan missing his first Thanksgiving serving a mission in Mexico City. Then we remembered Logan hates pretty much all of the food that's served for Thanksgiving, and we felt a little less sorry for him. He'd rather have tacos anyways. He hasn't liked turkey ever since his early elementary school days. Mom was picking out a turkey from the store and he said "Mom, these turkeys have the same name as the turkeys that are birds that we learned about at school!" I'll never forget the look of horror on his face when she explained they were actually the same thing. It was a completely different look than the one on Cole's face when he was about the same age and asked Uncle Norman and Aunt Kim where the pigs he'd loved playing with during his last visit were and they explained that they were in the sandwich he was eating. He looked down, shrugged, and said "I guess I like them dead and alive." I'll bet you can guess which one is a music major and which one plans to be an engineer.
On Friday we went up to the Tri-Citites on the way to Selah in order to do some Black Friday shopping. There was really no point, since all the good sales happened on Thanksgiving when the only thing my mom bought was a potato peeler. But Black Friday is Black Friday. So Mom and I spent about three hours shopping. Dad and Cole lasted for literally one store before asking to be dropped off at Barnes and Noble until we were done.
On Saturday we helped clean the church, played our annual game of Monopoly that we missed when I was working on Thanksgiving, and I helped proofread Cole's college application essays. An on Sunday my family attended the singles branch with me, thereby doubling our branch's church attendance for the week. (OK, that was a slight exaggeration. But not by much). After monitoring their behavior I decided to admit to being related to them before they headed off to The Dalles.
I've definitely had worse Thanksgivings. After all, this one came with a free potato peeler.
Since I've gotten pretty used to having my own place, this required some adjustments on my part. Being fully clothed during breakfast, for example. But I'm pretty sure my family had to adjust to more than I did. My poor mother had to cook her biggest meal of the year in my apartment kitchen, which is lacking in a lot of Thanksgiving-related paraphernalia, like pie plates and a turkey baster. She brought most of what she needed with her, but she did have to make an emergency potato peeler purchase partway through the day. Apparently I don't eat enough mashed potatoes, because I hadn't even noticed I didn't have one.
I actually got several free items besides a potato peeler out of the visit, although some of them are more useful than others. I now own manly-smelling shampoo and soap because Dad and Cole were tired of smelling like flowers every time they came for a visit. I also got a nice set of drinking glasses out of the visit when Dad realized that his only options for Thanksgiving dinner were drinking out of plastic or not having all the glasses match. The horror. It was too much.
Thanksgiving dinner was a little crowded since I don't have any leaves to add to my table, but we made it work by putting all the food on a card table and telling the guest the event was BYOC -- bring your own chair. It may not have been the classiest Thanksgiving we've ever had, but we had a good time. And nothing got broken when we played games afterward. Even though Dad and Cole did have a bit of a wrestling match over a card.
We missed Logan and Lance (although we did get to see Lance and Jasinda up in Selah with Jasinda's family the next day). We all felt a little sorry for Logan missing his first Thanksgiving serving a mission in Mexico City. Then we remembered Logan hates pretty much all of the food that's served for Thanksgiving, and we felt a little less sorry for him. He'd rather have tacos anyways. He hasn't liked turkey ever since his early elementary school days. Mom was picking out a turkey from the store and he said "Mom, these turkeys have the same name as the turkeys that are birds that we learned about at school!" I'll never forget the look of horror on his face when she explained they were actually the same thing. It was a completely different look than the one on Cole's face when he was about the same age and asked Uncle Norman and Aunt Kim where the pigs he'd loved playing with during his last visit were and they explained that they were in the sandwich he was eating. He looked down, shrugged, and said "I guess I like them dead and alive." I'll bet you can guess which one is a music major and which one plans to be an engineer.
On Friday we went up to the Tri-Citites on the way to Selah in order to do some Black Friday shopping. There was really no point, since all the good sales happened on Thanksgiving when the only thing my mom bought was a potato peeler. But Black Friday is Black Friday. So Mom and I spent about three hours shopping. Dad and Cole lasted for literally one store before asking to be dropped off at Barnes and Noble until we were done.
On Saturday we helped clean the church, played our annual game of Monopoly that we missed when I was working on Thanksgiving, and I helped proofread Cole's college application essays. An on Sunday my family attended the singles branch with me, thereby doubling our branch's church attendance for the week. (OK, that was a slight exaggeration. But not by much). After monitoring their behavior I decided to admit to being related to them before they headed off to The Dalles.
I've definitely had worse Thanksgivings. After all, this one came with a free potato peeler.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
This isn't the laundry shack
I'm writing this post from the Laundromat. The awesome thing about this particular one is it is right next to a gym, which means free WiFi. It's also clean and heated and has places to sit. Which explains why I am here instead of the laundry shed (shack?) behind where I live.
It also removes the temptation to leave my laundry unattended. If anyone is looking to steal some designer duds, they're going to be disappointed if they check out my laundry, so I'm not too worried about that. But there is always that nagging worry that while I was gone some creep was going through my underwear. When I did laundry in my apartment complex in college half the time I would go to put my clothes in the dryer and realize that they were all full, but some guy's clothes had been sitting in the dryer for an hour. Then I always had the dilemma of needlessly waiting for a dryer to become available, or moving the other person's clothes onto a nearby table and risk looking like a perv when the guy walks in and I'm holding his underwear.
Co-ed laundry rooms can be awkward. Like the time I had to use two washers on opposite sides of the room, so I was throwing all my light-colored clothes into the washer across the room so I didn't have to walk back and forth. Of course the moment a guy I knew walked in I totally missed the washer and threw my bra at his feet. However awkward you are imagining that being, it was worse.
I don't even like doing laundry. And paying to do laundry is even worse. It's like paying to do your own dishes. It makes it tempting to do laundry in the style of a certain brother of mine, whose idea of laundry is picking the least dirty thing off the floor and spraying it with another layer of Axe. For most people the moment they start doing their own laundry is the moment the criteria for what needs washed goes from "Did I put it on for five minutes and then change my mind about what I was going to wear today?" to "Can you notice the smell from more than three feet away?"
Unfortunately I will be here at the Laundromat longer than I thought, owing to the fact that I opened one of the washers I was using and found it still completely full of soapy water owing to the fact the machine stopped working halfway through. Seriously? This was supposed to be a step up from the laundry shack.
I guess there's still the free WiFi. And it's definitely a step up from the third world countries where they beat their clothes on a rock in the river. My clothes would have to get pretty bad before dunking them in the Columbia would actually improve their cleanliness level. Then again, you don't have to throw quarters in the river to make it run.
It also removes the temptation to leave my laundry unattended. If anyone is looking to steal some designer duds, they're going to be disappointed if they check out my laundry, so I'm not too worried about that. But there is always that nagging worry that while I was gone some creep was going through my underwear. When I did laundry in my apartment complex in college half the time I would go to put my clothes in the dryer and realize that they were all full, but some guy's clothes had been sitting in the dryer for an hour. Then I always had the dilemma of needlessly waiting for a dryer to become available, or moving the other person's clothes onto a nearby table and risk looking like a perv when the guy walks in and I'm holding his underwear.
Co-ed laundry rooms can be awkward. Like the time I had to use two washers on opposite sides of the room, so I was throwing all my light-colored clothes into the washer across the room so I didn't have to walk back and forth. Of course the moment a guy I knew walked in I totally missed the washer and threw my bra at his feet. However awkward you are imagining that being, it was worse.
I don't even like doing laundry. And paying to do laundry is even worse. It's like paying to do your own dishes. It makes it tempting to do laundry in the style of a certain brother of mine, whose idea of laundry is picking the least dirty thing off the floor and spraying it with another layer of Axe. For most people the moment they start doing their own laundry is the moment the criteria for what needs washed goes from "Did I put it on for five minutes and then change my mind about what I was going to wear today?" to "Can you notice the smell from more than three feet away?"
Unfortunately I will be here at the Laundromat longer than I thought, owing to the fact that I opened one of the washers I was using and found it still completely full of soapy water owing to the fact the machine stopped working halfway through. Seriously? This was supposed to be a step up from the laundry shack.
I guess there's still the free WiFi. And it's definitely a step up from the third world countries where they beat their clothes on a rock in the river. My clothes would have to get pretty bad before dunking them in the Columbia would actually improve their cleanliness level. Then again, you don't have to throw quarters in the river to make it run.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Can I get your number?
Since moving to Hermiston, I've met a lot of new people. Fortunately, I'm already pretty comfortable jumping in and introducing myself in situations where I don't know anyone. When you're a journalist, it comes with the territory.
Unfortunately there are certain tactics I use when I'm being a reporter that don't really work in real life. For example, when someone tells me their name, about 70 percent of the time I immediately forget it. When I've got my reporter hat on that's an easy fix: "Oh and before you go, let me make sure I get the correct spelling of your name..." This is harder to pass off if the person's name is something like Mary Jones, but generally anyone under 25 goes "Oh yeah my parents actually spell it Kaytee instead of Katie so it's a good thing you asked." Thank you parents for realizing that giving your child a name that they won't have to explain for the rest of their life is so five decades ago.
But when I'm someplace like church I haven't found a good reason yet to ask people how they spell their name. I also have to come up with legitimate topics of conversation instead of just asking a bunch of questions. Asking someone you just met how they manage to live on minimum wage or how they felt when their granddaughter was murdered becomes less socially acceptable when you don't have a notebook in hand. Fortunately it usually comes up right away that I moved to Hermiston to be a reporter and then that provides plenty of fodder for conversations ranging from "That sounds awesome. What's it like?" to "Let me tell you everything wrong with modern journalism today..." I never know when I tell someone what I do for a living if it's going to make them think I'm a lot cooler than I look or I'm a menace to society.
Of course, everyone back home wants to know if I'm meeting people in Hermiston. And by "people" they mean guys. Young, single, smart, attractive guys to be exact. Which, hey, I want as much as the next person, but I don't consider the day to be an utter waste if I also make a few female friends along the way (Remember, I covered this last year). Last week I went to a regional church dance in Pendleton and immediately hit it off with a girl from Walla Walla. At the end of the night we exchanged numbers so we could meet up at future activities, but more importantly so we could tell our parents we'd gotten someone's number at the dance when they inevitably asked. When you're a single Mormon twentysomething you learn these things.
But I am meeting people in Hermiston. Normal people and the wink wink nudge nudge kind. I play volleyball Tuesday nights with a great group of young single Mormons that includes plenty of players of the male persuasion. When I told my parents about volleyball they seemed to think this was a good opportunity for me to impress some guys. I'm not sure where they got the impression anything about my volleyball skills falls under the category of "impressive," but you've got to love parents and their undying belief that their children are good at things, all evidence to the contrary.
If I ever do manage to impress a guy with my volleyball skills, I'll make sure to get his number. After all, I'll need an excuse to ask him how to spell his name.
Unfortunately there are certain tactics I use when I'm being a reporter that don't really work in real life. For example, when someone tells me their name, about 70 percent of the time I immediately forget it. When I've got my reporter hat on that's an easy fix: "Oh and before you go, let me make sure I get the correct spelling of your name..." This is harder to pass off if the person's name is something like Mary Jones, but generally anyone under 25 goes "Oh yeah my parents actually spell it Kaytee instead of Katie so it's a good thing you asked." Thank you parents for realizing that giving your child a name that they won't have to explain for the rest of their life is so five decades ago.
But when I'm someplace like church I haven't found a good reason yet to ask people how they spell their name. I also have to come up with legitimate topics of conversation instead of just asking a bunch of questions. Asking someone you just met how they manage to live on minimum wage or how they felt when their granddaughter was murdered becomes less socially acceptable when you don't have a notebook in hand. Fortunately it usually comes up right away that I moved to Hermiston to be a reporter and then that provides plenty of fodder for conversations ranging from "That sounds awesome. What's it like?" to "Let me tell you everything wrong with modern journalism today..." I never know when I tell someone what I do for a living if it's going to make them think I'm a lot cooler than I look or I'm a menace to society.
Of course, everyone back home wants to know if I'm meeting people in Hermiston. And by "people" they mean guys. Young, single, smart, attractive guys to be exact. Which, hey, I want as much as the next person, but I don't consider the day to be an utter waste if I also make a few female friends along the way (Remember, I covered this last year). Last week I went to a regional church dance in Pendleton and immediately hit it off with a girl from Walla Walla. At the end of the night we exchanged numbers so we could meet up at future activities, but more importantly so we could tell our parents we'd gotten someone's number at the dance when they inevitably asked. When you're a single Mormon twentysomething you learn these things.
But I am meeting people in Hermiston. Normal people and the wink wink nudge nudge kind. I play volleyball Tuesday nights with a great group of young single Mormons that includes plenty of players of the male persuasion. When I told my parents about volleyball they seemed to think this was a good opportunity for me to impress some guys. I'm not sure where they got the impression anything about my volleyball skills falls under the category of "impressive," but you've got to love parents and their undying belief that their children are good at things, all evidence to the contrary.
If I ever do manage to impress a guy with my volleyball skills, I'll make sure to get his number. After all, I'll need an excuse to ask him how to spell his name.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Welcome to Hermiston
Well, I guess it's been a long times since I've written a blog post. I was kind of busy this summer, in case no one noticed. And then I decided to switch jobs and move to Hermiston in the midst of it all. Fortunately the move didn't take me outside of Oregon, so I didn't have to start paying sales tax or learn how to pump my own gas or any of those other weird things people in the rest of the country do. Still, moving anywhere is an adjustment, and since I've moved I've made the following observations:
1) I don't know what the people who laid out Hermiston were thinking, but it wasn't "Let's design a town where the streets actually make sense." I was 20 minutes late to church the first Sunday because when the directions said go up Highland and take a right on Ninth Street it never occurred to me that there would be more than one Ninth Street in town. I didn't want SW Ninth St., I wanted SE Ninth St. which runs parallel to SW Ninth on the other side of town. Also not to be confused with SE Ninth Drive, which later becomes NE Ninth Street. And streets with names like Ridgeway and Gladys have a habit of ending every couple of blocks and then picking up in a different place farther down and sometimes changing their name altogether from one block to the next. Needless to say, I now own a GPS.
2) I seem to be the only white person living in my neighborhood. I saw one the other day but she was holding a slip of paper and looking with confusion between two buildings so I don't think she lives around here. I don't mind, and my neighbors are nice, but it is weird getting all of my junk mail in Spanish.
3) Everywhere I've lived, people complain about the exact same things. Does anyone anywhere not think there is "nothing to do around here?" It's funny because as a reporter I talk to a lot of people about the town they live in, and when I was in The Dalles and I started telling sources I was moving to Hermiston they would say "Oh they're really thriving. I wish our downtown was growing like theirs." And then I moved to Hermiston and told people I was from The Dalles and they were like "Oh The Dalles has such a nice downtown. I wish ours was like that."
4) After spending time in several Hermiston schools I now understand why their sports teams look so horrified at the facilities in The Dalles. Not only do they have really nice classrooms, they also have amenities like a cafeteria and a parking lot.
5) My hair doesn't like Hermiston. I didn't think it could get any frizzier, but alas, I was wrong.
6) Living by yourself has a lot of benefits. You never have to worry about someone else using up all the hot water, or not disturbing anyone when you come in late, or whether there will be enough room in the freezer if you buy a second flavor of ice cream.
7) Living in the same town as a Wal-Mart is awesome.
8) Moving away from my family and all of the people I grew up with and the masses of people who say things like "I need to find someone to be in charge of that. You know what? Jade would do a good job," so far means I have a lot more free time now that I'm settled in. So that should mean more time for blogging.
1) I don't know what the people who laid out Hermiston were thinking, but it wasn't "Let's design a town where the streets actually make sense." I was 20 minutes late to church the first Sunday because when the directions said go up Highland and take a right on Ninth Street it never occurred to me that there would be more than one Ninth Street in town. I didn't want SW Ninth St., I wanted SE Ninth St. which runs parallel to SW Ninth on the other side of town. Also not to be confused with SE Ninth Drive, which later becomes NE Ninth Street. And streets with names like Ridgeway and Gladys have a habit of ending every couple of blocks and then picking up in a different place farther down and sometimes changing their name altogether from one block to the next. Needless to say, I now own a GPS.
2) I seem to be the only white person living in my neighborhood. I saw one the other day but she was holding a slip of paper and looking with confusion between two buildings so I don't think she lives around here. I don't mind, and my neighbors are nice, but it is weird getting all of my junk mail in Spanish.
3) Everywhere I've lived, people complain about the exact same things. Does anyone anywhere not think there is "nothing to do around here?" It's funny because as a reporter I talk to a lot of people about the town they live in, and when I was in The Dalles and I started telling sources I was moving to Hermiston they would say "Oh they're really thriving. I wish our downtown was growing like theirs." And then I moved to Hermiston and told people I was from The Dalles and they were like "Oh The Dalles has such a nice downtown. I wish ours was like that."
4) After spending time in several Hermiston schools I now understand why their sports teams look so horrified at the facilities in The Dalles. Not only do they have really nice classrooms, they also have amenities like a cafeteria and a parking lot.
5) My hair doesn't like Hermiston. I didn't think it could get any frizzier, but alas, I was wrong.
6) Living by yourself has a lot of benefits. You never have to worry about someone else using up all the hot water, or not disturbing anyone when you come in late, or whether there will be enough room in the freezer if you buy a second flavor of ice cream.
7) Living in the same town as a Wal-Mart is awesome.
8) Moving away from my family and all of the people I grew up with and the masses of people who say things like "I need to find someone to be in charge of that. You know what? Jade would do a good job," so far means I have a lot more free time now that I'm settled in. So that should mean more time for blogging.
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