One of the things I love about being a reporter is you never really can predict what you'll be doing from day to day. The moment you think you've got your week nicely planned out, bam! Fire! Earthquake! Murder! There goes that feature you were going to write.
Case in point, I showed up to work this morning worried about how light on story ideas I was. Then the natural gas plant across the river exploded. Instant story. Instead of spending the day in the office making phone calls to bureaucrats I spent the day running between the newsroom and evacuee camp, checking in on the family whose journey I was documenting and getting updates from the public information officer.
Of course, I wasn't the only reporter there. Every news station around was there, plus radio and newspapers and the AP. Jostling for position during press conferences always reminds me of my internship in New York, where just about everything I covered involved a scrum of reporters shouting questions over the click of cameras. You know how in the movies the lawyer comes out of the courthouse or the disgraced CEO rushes from the building to his limo and there are a million reporters shoving cameras and microphones in his face? Yeah, it really is exactly like that if you have the misfortune of getting your 15 minutes of infamy in the media capital of the world. And now you know that's called a scrum.
I haven't seen that many cameras since I spent a week covering the heck out of the wildfire outside The Dalles this summer. Of course, the gas plant evacuee camp was a little more convenient to cover than the wildfire. It didn't involve having to borrow ugly yellow fireproof clothing from the command center that only comes in large man size (in all fairness, I was the only female journalist there out of about 20 anchors/photogs/cameramen/reporters. But still. I can't be the only woman to have ever shown up to cover a wildfire). They never let us get close enough to the fire to need fireproofing, but the color sure did attract the swarms of wasps that had been displaced by the fire. It's hard to concentrate on taking photos when you've got yellow jackets crawling all over you.
When I was at the evacuee camp today I eavesdropped on an adorable conversation between several of the little kids in the camp. It went something like this:
"I've been on two different TV stations today."
"Oh yeah, well I've been on the TV and the radio!"
"Three reporters interviewed me!"
And then the older ones shared tips with the younger ones about making sure they knew how to spell their name for the reporter and to tell him or her how old they are. One of the kids told me it was the best spring break he's ever had. I love how excited little kids get over being interviewed, or even just seeing a reporter walking by with a camera and notebook. I've had a child shout "Look, a paparazzi!" and point at me more than once when doing a story at an elementary school. Sorry kid, but unless Honey Boo Boo transfers your school you're not going to run into a real paparazzo any time soon.
I think the closest I ever came to being a legitimate paparazzo was during my turn at the New York Daily News. Most of my fellow interns had much more exciting celebrity encounters than I did, but they did send me to Spike Lee's house, where I spoke to his wife and gave her a note for him to call my editor, which he did. I spoke to Chita Rivera and Dionne Warwick at Lena Horne's funeral. And if politicians count as celebrities, I ambushed Mayor Bloomberg at Coney Island, Charlie Rangel at and elementary school and Raymond Kelly at a park dedication. Also, one time I arrived at a stakeout only to be informed by the photographer that Hugh Jackman had walked by just five minutes before. New York was, to say the least, a whole lot of life experience crammed into two months.
Small-town reporting is usually a little less exciting. Until the next crisis hits.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
What would Freud say?
I don't usually sleepwalk (I think?) but the other night I discovered sleep running. I dreamed that I was in my bedroom when what I can only describe as a creepy ghost boy came through the wall at me. In my dream, I ran away from him. In real life, I woke up as I bounced off the frame of the door I was trying to run through with my eyes closed. I hope this doesn't become a thing.
It was creepier but less weird than a few nights before that, when I had a dream about helping a secret agent for the FBI clone a pig. It was really important to national security, apparently.
I don't know what that dream says about me. Dr. Freud would probably have some ideas. But if I was going to see a shrink I would see the "I think you're feeling sad because you just got divorced" type instead of the "You saw a dog in the inkblot test so let's talk about how the time you were three and your mom wouldn't let you have a puppy messed up the rest of your life" type. Technically, I've never seen a therapist. But when your father's one, it's basically free therapy for life. I didn't need to pay by the hour to know who moved my cheese and what color my parachute is.
The free therapy is the upside. The downside to having a dad as a therapist is that he tends to use real-life examples when he's talking to his clients. And I have a strong suspicion (and sometimes proof) that quite a bit of his source material comes from inside the family. Dad always assures my brothers that he says "one of my sons" to protect their identity, but considering some of his clients know I'm his only daughter, I don't think not using my name in the story really helps much. When I was a kid my classmates would usually tell me when my dad was their therapist, but now that I'm older that doesn't happen much and so I'm left wondering who in town knows about the time I ... well, never mind about that.
If a client comes in wondering how to deal with their children fighting or misbehaving, or if a teenager needs help dealing with sibling rivalry issues, my father is definitely not lacking in anecdotes. The other day I heard sibling defined as "your best friend and worst enemy rolled into one" and I've got to say that's pretty accurate. Lance, Logan, Cole and I are all pretty tight now but when we were growing up we definitely had our moments. A lot of them.
There was the time Logan got mad at Lance and I while we were babysitting the younger ones and yelled "Help! Call child protective services!" out the window in retaliation. That could have been bad.
There was the time I watched with unadulterated glee as Lance pushed one too many of mom's buttons on the way to school. She pulled the van to the side of the road, pointed at the door and commanded him to get out, then threw his backpack out after him, sending papers and books flying everywhere, and drove off as he stared at the receding minivan in utter shock.
There was the time when I was really unhappy about not being the only child anymore, and so I expressed my displeasure by writing all over the carpet with lipstick while Mom was feeding the baby.
There was all the times we were fighting and my parents made us sit on the couch and hold hands. It was a pretty effective method of punishment, because you can only try as hard as you possibly can to crush each others' hands for so long before you give up and start laughing instead.
And yet through all the tears and yelling and slamming doors and occasional punches thrown, we all turned out alright in the end. We made have made Mom cry a few times, wondering if various pairings of siblings would hate each other forever, but now we stay in close contact despite living in four different cities. Logan and Cole bonded over being on the tennis team together in high school. Lance had Logan over for pancake nights when they were both at BYU. And Lance and I may have had some pretty epic fights growing up, but I was the one who he took when he went engagement ring shopping and I was the first person in the family he called when he found out the gender of his baby.
Freud would probably say that's pretty messed up. I say that's family for you.
It was creepier but less weird than a few nights before that, when I had a dream about helping a secret agent for the FBI clone a pig. It was really important to national security, apparently.
I don't know what that dream says about me. Dr. Freud would probably have some ideas. But if I was going to see a shrink I would see the "I think you're feeling sad because you just got divorced" type instead of the "You saw a dog in the inkblot test so let's talk about how the time you were three and your mom wouldn't let you have a puppy messed up the rest of your life" type. Technically, I've never seen a therapist. But when your father's one, it's basically free therapy for life. I didn't need to pay by the hour to know who moved my cheese and what color my parachute is.
The free therapy is the upside. The downside to having a dad as a therapist is that he tends to use real-life examples when he's talking to his clients. And I have a strong suspicion (and sometimes proof) that quite a bit of his source material comes from inside the family. Dad always assures my brothers that he says "one of my sons" to protect their identity, but considering some of his clients know I'm his only daughter, I don't think not using my name in the story really helps much. When I was a kid my classmates would usually tell me when my dad was their therapist, but now that I'm older that doesn't happen much and so I'm left wondering who in town knows about the time I ... well, never mind about that.
If a client comes in wondering how to deal with their children fighting or misbehaving, or if a teenager needs help dealing with sibling rivalry issues, my father is definitely not lacking in anecdotes. The other day I heard sibling defined as "your best friend and worst enemy rolled into one" and I've got to say that's pretty accurate. Lance, Logan, Cole and I are all pretty tight now but when we were growing up we definitely had our moments. A lot of them.
There was the time Logan got mad at Lance and I while we were babysitting the younger ones and yelled "Help! Call child protective services!" out the window in retaliation. That could have been bad.
There was the time I watched with unadulterated glee as Lance pushed one too many of mom's buttons on the way to school. She pulled the van to the side of the road, pointed at the door and commanded him to get out, then threw his backpack out after him, sending papers and books flying everywhere, and drove off as he stared at the receding minivan in utter shock.
There was the time when I was really unhappy about not being the only child anymore, and so I expressed my displeasure by writing all over the carpet with lipstick while Mom was feeding the baby.
There was all the times we were fighting and my parents made us sit on the couch and hold hands. It was a pretty effective method of punishment, because you can only try as hard as you possibly can to crush each others' hands for so long before you give up and start laughing instead.
And yet through all the tears and yelling and slamming doors and occasional punches thrown, we all turned out alright in the end. We made have made Mom cry a few times, wondering if various pairings of siblings would hate each other forever, but now we stay in close contact despite living in four different cities. Logan and Cole bonded over being on the tennis team together in high school. Lance had Logan over for pancake nights when they were both at BYU. And Lance and I may have had some pretty epic fights growing up, but I was the one who he took when he went engagement ring shopping and I was the first person in the family he called when he found out the gender of his baby.
Freud would probably say that's pretty messed up. I say that's family for you.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Crazy old cat lady
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.
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.
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.
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