One Day Past Crazy

Do you have 4-wheel drive?

2011-01-23T21:03:00.003-06:00

During my college days, when we went to the dancehall we all piled into one of my guy friends' quad-cab pick-ups. It worked well because we could all fit relatively comfortably; and it also worked well because occasionally when we pulled in the parking lot we were asked "do you have 4-wheel drive?" When we replied that we did (because of course all of the guys had 4-wheel drive) we were directed to the back parking lot--the mud lot. Had we been in my 4-cylinder 2-wheel drive car, we would never have been directed to the mud lot.

See, once I moved out of the small town and into the city I switched from a pick-up to a car. Generally it works out ok. However, when I hang out with my other country friends and drive to country places I sometimes wish I had a truck again.

At one of my closest friend's rehearsal dinner we were all hanging out at the barn when I overheard someone say "does anyone know who drives a black Honda?" Crap. That's never a good question. I interrupted the conversation to let them know that I was the driver and see what the problem was. It had been raining that night, and when I pulled into the mud lot (the only available lot) I had a sinking suspicion that getting out might be a little more difficult that I originally anticipated. So as it turns out, the person parked next to me was stuck in the mud and when they tried to back out their truck was sliding toward my car. "Can you move your car?" they asked me. Sure--except that I was stuck too. So some of my dear friends waded out to where I was parked, one got inside and steered, and the others pushed the car out of the mud (while I, clad in heels and a dress, stood by and watched).

Fast forward a year and the friend who was getting married has a baby. I'm the Godmother. The days before and of the baptism are a little rainy, and the church only has, you guessed it, a dirt parking lot. It looks ok though, and I'm running a bit late, so I pull my little car into the lot and run into the church. After Mass I come out and back up--no problem. Only when I try to go forward to I realize that I'm digging ruts. So I back up a little more and try to go forward again. No such luck. Stuck. Some of the same poor guys in their same Sunday best got out of their cars and pushed me out of the mud.

Let's just say that at this kid's first communion, I'm bringing 4-wheel drive.

An Alarming Incident

2011-01-02T20:08:00.004-06:00

A few weeks after beginning my new job I went to "alarm system training" for the building where one of my programs is housed. I got my personal alarm code to our section of the building, took the cheat sheet about what to do in the event that it gets set off, and went my merry way.

Shortly thereafter, I hosted an event in our section of the building on a Saturday. I arrived early, unlocked the door, punched in my code ("beep beep beep beep") and was in ("disarmed, ready to arm"). No problem. The next time I saw the building manager she congratulated me on a successful entry, but admitted her surprise at my success. Really? How hard is it? Punch in the code, turn on the alarm. Punch in the code and set it to away, exit the building. In the few weeks that followed I became quite competent in using the alarm, successfully letting myself in and out of the building as needed (minus the one time I locked my keys inside).

The alarm for the rest of the building is just like the one for our program office, except it requires a different code. Based on my success using our alarm, I didn't bat an eye when I was asked to host a meeting in the board room on a Saturday. I got the necessary code and arrived early to the building to allow time to disarm the entire alarm and prepare our meeting space.

I first opened the door to our office, punched in the code ("beep beep beep beep") and was in ("disarmed, ready to arm"). With a bit of a nervous feeling I used my outside door key to the rest of the building and punched in my code. Silence. Uh oh. No recognition of my code, no announcement that the alarm was disarmed, but a definite recognition of me in the building meaning that I had exactly 1 minute to disarm before it would notify the alarm company and they would send out a police officer. I punched in my code...silence. I remembered that if the alarm was tripped, the security company would call the main phone line to see if an employee answered who could give an assurance (a code) that the alarm was false before dispatching the cops. Unfortunately, the telephone that would ring was in another section of the building in another security zone. For me to get there would require setting off another alarm.

I remembered that another option was to call the security company within the allotted time and tell them what happened. Luckily I got through, assured them that I was supposed to have access to the building, and the operator overwrote the alarm for the door I had entered. Having bought some time, she said that if I would walk back around to the keypad she would walk me through. When I walked outside from my office to the other entrance, I saw the group of women I was hosting waiting outside the gate. However, my priority was definitely to get the building disarmed so that we could use the boardroom for the meeting. I expected to quickly resolve the alarm issue so that I could get let them in. However, nothing worked. I tried various codes and various ways of entering them. Nothing. The system operator asked if I wanted her to disarm the door for the day, but that would be no help since the board room is in another alarm zone so I told her to go ahead and arm it. I finally thanked the woman for her time, hung up, and went to meet the group. As I opened the gate and they walked through my cell phone rang. It was my boss calling to see if I was at the building because one of the ladies I was meeting called her when the gate wasn't open. I'm pretty sure they were early.

I explained to them the whole situation and it was decided that we would meet in our much smaller office space since that was the part of the building that I had disarmed. It was a tight fit but it worked.

Mid meeting there was a knock at the inside door. It was another staff member (young, cute single guy) letting me know he was in the building too. I stupidly told him that I set off the alarm. Bimbo points for me.

After the meeting I decided that I would let him know that I was leaving and that way I could be sure that he would arm the alarm (since he had successfully entered the building). I wasn't sure what part of the building he was in and I didn't want to take a chance wandering around into an armed section of the building so I tried calling his extension. I thought the phones there were the same as in my regular office, but not quite. The phone didn't ring on the other end, and sometimes the front desk will just page us through the phone so I decided to try that route. I hung up and pressed "page" and the other 2 phones in the office started beeping. I realized that I was paging the entire building, so I hung up. After hanging up on him twice I pressed page, announced that I was leaving and hoped that he would call me back so that we could figure out the alarm. Recognizing that I was a dunce at the phone system in addition to the alarm, he came and knocked on the door and assured me he would take care of it. Whew!

A few days later I saw the building manager who had been surprised at my initial success. First words from her mouth? "Do you want to tell me about it?" I retold the sequence of events, and she told me that there's a special way to clear off the alarm panel once someone sets it off, and I didn't do that so the group that was meeting later that night was not able to arm the system that night. And they got locked in the gate. Way to go, me.

Miss Allison, how many chil'ens do you have?

2010-11-11T21:11:00.002-06:00

I was asked this question one summer when I worked at a camp. My response was that I wasn't old enough to have any "chil'ens," even though I realized that I was only a year or two years younger than the parents of the seven-year-olds.

Recently, I've begun to receive similar question all the more frequently. Perhaps it that every Wednesday morning I can be seen leaving Wal-Mart with one or maybe 2 carts full of diapers, wipes, bouncers, bassinets, playpens, strollers, you name it. On my 2-cart days I especially draw a lot of looks. "How many kids do you have?" people will ask. "Are you stocking up for a year?" "Do you have twins?" "Triplets?"

It really would be the perfect opportunity to respond with some snarky comment, but instead I use it as a time to talk up the ministry I work with, the Gabriel Project Life Center.

A priest that I used to work with, however, took advantage of a similar opportunity to have some fun. He retold this story at lunch one day to 4 nuns and me:

"When I was the president of the high school, we always kept extra uniform parts on hand in case the kids arrived to school for any reason without their uniforms. One day Shoe Carnival was having a great sale, so I went and bought about 30 pair of shoes to keep on hand at the school. As I was loading them into my car, there was this teenage boy watching. Now, I was dressed as I am now, wearing my collar, black shirt, black pants--certainly identifiable as a priest. The boy watched for a bit until he finally asked 'who are all those shoes for?'

'They're for my kids,' I said.

He chewed on this for a minute...'How many kids do you have?' he asked.

'I have 136' (the number of kids at the school).

...he thought for a minute...and finally asked 'Are you a pimp?'

At this point in the lunch, I exploded into laughter, while 3 of the 4 nuns tentatively smiled, and the 4th, who had yet to crack a smile, said "I do not know what that word means," to which I laughed even harder. The priest, caught off guard, didn't have a particularly great explanation to offer to the nun, completedly dodged the bullet and finally offered "Allison can probably explain it better than I can."

Now, I'm not sure what sort of image I had given to this priest or these nuns to make them think that I would be any sort of expert on the subject, and I really had no intention of diving into an explanation. After some hesitation on my part, the nun conceded with "I can use my imagination." Whew!

Hard to Say Goodbye

2010-08-15T21:03:00.001-05:00

Because the loss of a dear friend is still too fresh to reflect upon without a tearful breakdown, I'd like to recount a memory of this friend that I've often laughed at in recent years, although at the time I surely must have been humiliated:

I must have been about 15. At least I hope that I was 15 because although this memory seems more recent than that, I would have been dating my high school boyfriend at ages 16 or 17, and this entire thing would be completely inappropriate. Think of me what you will...

One evening in my religious ed class, as teenagers were apt to do, we started talking about "who liked who." I have no idea what I said or if I even took part in the conversation. I do, however, distinctly remember one of my friends saying "I know who Matthew likes!" and then looking at me and saying "Hi Allison." Then, as luck would not have it, we broke up into 2 smaller groups and my group went into another building to hold class. I never had the opportunity to see his reaction to this revelation, and I never found out if it was true. I wasn't sure how I felt so I thought it best just to pretend that the whole situation never happened (although you can bet I replayed it in my mind, reflected on any hints that he might have given beforehand, yadda yadda being a girl).

Fast forward a week or two: I had reflected on the idea that this boy might actually like me and decided he was someone who I could like in return. Being a silly high school girl, of course I didn't put my feelings into words; I decided to flirt and gauge his reponse. My flirting method of choice? Steal his cap and wear it the rest of the night (along with, I'm sure, general teenage girl silliness). We must have also broken up into the 2 small groups that night and I must have been in his group, because when he and I and some others walked back into the classroom at the end of the evening, I noticed him sitting beside a new girl. You can imagine my shock when she was introduced as his girlfriend! Oh I was sooo embarrassed, gave the cap back, and never thought about acting on that situation again (ok, well so maybe I thought about it...)! Fortunately this story had a happy ending in that he and (surprisingly) the girlfriend didn't seem upset by the situation at all and I remained friends with them both.

May your soul spend its eternity in Heaven, dear friend.

Just say no to...hugs?

2010-07-24T22:35:00.004-05:00

I think it's safe to say that physical affection is NOT my love language. Growing up, I remember thinking that my school teacher mom was a bit odd because she openly stated that she didn't particularly enjoy receiving hugs from her students. "Who doesn't like hugs?" I thought.

Fast forward a few years and I understand where she was coming from.

I see hugging as an activity reserved for specific circumstances or individuals:

Individuals:

Immediate family members

Significant others

Circumstances:

I have not seen the person for an extended period of time preceding the hug.

I will not see the person for and extended period of time following the hugs.

The person or I have done something admirable and am being congratulated/thanked.

Someone has died.

We are extending the sign of peace at Mass (reserved for individuals in my speed dial).

Unfortunately for me, I tend to find myself in situations of excessive hugging. My boss, for example, must think that hugging is one of my favorite things to do (right up there with singing children's camp songs). I am greeted each morning with a hug, hugged during the sign of peace at daily Mass (boss is not in my speed dial), and hugged at the end of the day before going home (15 hours does not fall under my definition of "an extended period of time"). That's 3 hugs per day. About 2.873 hugs over my daily quota. That's on a good day.

We recently finished hosting a 2 1/2 week volunteer training. 14 volunteers+2 aspirants+2 nuns=18 people not including me. We began the morning with Mass, and let me just say, this was a very huggy group. I'd say I definitely ended up hugging the people sitting on either side of me, then maybe averaged 2 more either in the row in front of or behind me.That's 4 hugs, but still only 1 more than I have learned to tolerate. But it didn't stop there. Every evening we ended with a sign of peace. Which meant that I was forced to hug EACH other person. Count them, 18 MORE hugs, bringing our grand total to 22 hugs each day. I always hoped that our little goodnight hugging ritual would somehow be overlooked, and a couple of times we came so close! Until someone would exclaim "we forgot the sign of peace!" and hugs would begin all around. One night the ritual began when we were all going inside for the night and I hoped to be able to sneak inside before anyone realized that they only had 17 instead of 18 goodnight hugs. Wouldn't you know that I was locked outside until the whole thing was finished (and I was forced to take part)?

Recently I've been working on subtle ways to avoid some of my daily hugs, and occasionally I even succeed. Moral of the story: Just say no to hugs!

I drive a hearse!

2010-07-14T21:42:00.007-05:00

There was a guy in my old apartment complex who drove a hearse. This is no joke about PT Cruisers or other similarly hideous automobiles--he literally drove a hearse complete with curtains and a skull dangling in the back window. Creepy, right? Little did I know...

I recently had my first rental car experience. I was rear-ended, and while my beautiful car was getting repaired, the insurance company paid for my rental car. Unfortunately, they booked my car at the Enterprise down the street instead of the one next to the body shop, so I had to take whatever they had in stock. Fortunatly for most people, insurance is supposed to cover a "comparable" vehicle.

I usually drive this:

Unfortunately, since it's a sportier version of a family car, I qualified for the "standard" size car. This is what I got:

Comparable? I think not. Besides looking like a funeral director, it was hard to see out of and my coffee cup didn't even fit in the cup holder. Granted, I did not have a skull hanging in the back window, but still my friends got a good laugh seeing me driving around in the thing--even people I don't know too well thought it was a riot. And wouldn't you know, I had to parallel park the thing in a narrow, muddy alley with a couple of guys watching. That's hot. Luckily, the body shop got me fixed up in just a couple of days.

Soon thereafter, I made my first independent business trip and again had a rental car. Fortunately, this one turned out much better:

Ironically, I had the Beetle when I was making a mission appeal. The deacon of the church already gave me a hard time because the other mission speakers in the area were priests or religious from foreign missions, and they got me: a 25-year old Texas girl. And instead of looking like a missionary, I pulled up in my little red Beetle wearing giant sunglasses and high heels. Ok, so I didn't actually wear the heels for this very reason, but it paints a better picture to imagine them. I enjoyed this car very much despite the Louisiana roads that live up to their reputation--much better than driving a hearse!

Who needs a dentist, anyway?

2010-03-03T19:26:00.006-06:00

Most of you who would be reading my blog know that I have a false tooth (if you've known me long, you may remember when the tooth was affixed to my retainer and I could pop it out. I loved the people who would worriedly tell me that my tooth came out--as if I wouldn't have noticed). Around 12 years ago I got a bridge that was supposed to last around 8 years. However, as the saying goes, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." 4 years past the "expiration date," I could tell that the bridge was getting looser and looser and that I would need to do something soon. I scheduled a dentist appointment for just a few weeks in the future--and since the bridge just took a turn for the worse, I've been counting down the days that it would have to last.

I should probably mention that I'm writing this blog entry from New Jersey. I'm staying here while I'm at the United Nations Commission on the Status of Women in New York City. When I say that I was counting down the days that the bridge had to last, I was really counting down the days until my UN conference is over--because losing my bridge before that would be the worst timing ever (and seriously...it's lasted 12 years. What are the odds?)

I arrived to NJ on Saturday afternoon, and sure enough, while I was brushing my teeth Saturday night I noticed that it was no longer attached, and it came out in my hand. I ran to one of the Sisters (I'm staying in a convent) nearly in tears and poor thing I don't think she knew what to do with me. She said that you couldn't even see it, but it's right on the front and I knew that I just looked like a hillbilly (which is not entirely inappropriate for a girl from the sticks who somehow found her way to the United Nations). I also called my parents almost hysterical, even though I knew that there wasn't much they could do for me either.

I was much calmer the next morning. My dad first suggested that I call a family friend who is a dentist. Unfortunately, I left my phone in Jersey when we went sight-seeing in Manhattan so I didn't have a chance immediately. In the meantime, my dad talked to another friend who is a dental tech who specifically works on bridges. He mentioned that possibly I could super-glue it. I had actually thought about using super glue, but worried about using something toxic in my mouth. I called the family friend dentist who said that he wouldn't use super glue exactly, but recommended emergency dental adhesive. So Monday while we were waiting in line to register at the UN, my companion here held my place and I went to CVS and bought a denture repair kit (because I am obviously 90 years old). It looked like exactly what I would need, so I bought 2 to make sure I had enough to last the entire 2 weeks. When I got back to the UN I went to the restroom to try to do a little dental repair.

When I opened the box I found that there were powder and liquid adhesive that needed to be mixed together. So there I am in the UN bathroom with a white powdery substance and some adhesive that smelled like a nail salon (and for all of you ladies who have set foot in a nail salon, you recognize that that's hardly something that should be used in one's mouth--probably worse than super glue). I know that I looked quite suspicious--especially when I pulled the baggie out of my purse that held my tooth. Seriously, a baggie and white powder that could have been cocaine, anthrax (wasn't that the stuff?), anything! (And to make matters worse, I dropped the tooth in my purse so I had to dig around for it.) I knew that the nail-salon smelling adhesive couldn't be good for me (when I opened the box I realized that you're supposed to use it in a well ventilated area and NOT in your mouth), but I tried anyway. Fail. I put the tooth back in the baggie and continued the day toothless. (I should also mention that I had to get my official UN photo ID made directly after that. I obviously went for the closed-mouth smile, which makes my eyes look abnormally large and the camera was much higher than my face, making my chin look pointy so that I resemble an alien in the photo.)

So after we had lunch, we had a bit of time to kill but didn't have enough time to go to any more meetings. I went back to CVS and returned the 2nd dental repair kit and bought something called Dentemp for caps and fillings, as well as some good-ole' Fixodent. That night I re-opened my dental shop in my room and glued my tooth back using the Dentemp. Then for good measure I squirted a bunch of Fixodent to affix the tooth to my gums as well as the bridge. So far it's holding up, but we'll see. I plan to re-apply the Fixodent daily for good measure, which I've found that as a bonus glues my upper lip right to my gums.

Epic Fail

2010-02-14T19:15:00.002-06:00

When I decided to create a blog, I envisioned it being a great outlet where I would routinely share the stories of my life. So far I'm failing miserably. Either nothing has happened worth writing about, or the things that have happened are so juicy that they cannot be shared publicly...take your pick.

I have been asked to give an update on the shower situation. So far we have not installed showers of any type. We considered a shower trailer, but that would not be viewed favorably by the neighbors...or the City. We did, however, get the go-ahead to install real showers in the girls' bathroom...although still in the bathroom stalls. That has not happened yet, and the temporary solution was for the girls to shower in the convent during meals--1 at breakfast, 2 at lunch, and 2 at dinner. It was a bit unfortunate when we were away for a meal because the person who was supposed to shower at that time had to skip a day. Still, I'd say the temporary solution was much better than the alternatives previously mentioned.

Work is going pretty well for the most part. On most days I love my job, although there is the occasional day where I'm ready to quit on the spot. Fortunately, those days are becoming less frequent.

A little while ago I took a personality test for work. It is meant to be a tool for prospective volunteers, and we were trying it out to learn about it. I never actually had time to sit down and answer the questions, but instead I answered a few every now and then until the entire thing was complete. When we got our results back, I tried to be respectful of everyone else as they looked over their individual personality profiles. My boss, however, had no shame in looking over my shoulder to see what mine said. She was surprised to see that I scored high in the "anger/hostility" category. Now I don't see myself as an angry or hostile person, and I hope that those who know me wouldn't use either of those words to describe me either. Perhaps I responded to the questions in moments of anger/hostility/frustration. What the test was really saying though, is that when I feel those feelings, I feel them strongly. Just like it said that I feel every other feeling strongly. Despite my flight response to others' sharing of feelings to me, I scored the highest on "feelings" and "fantasy." Basically, I have my head in the clouds. Not that that's much better. Good thing I didn't take the test before I was hired!

More ridiculous situations are beginning to make their way into my life, so I have some things in mind to write about to redeem myself as a blogger. Stay tuned.

Things that should never be said out loud v.2

2010-01-31T19:35:00.002-06:00

More ridiculous things that have come up in everyday conversation:

You can see my uterus in this dress.
In this picture he's spiking a ball and his nipples look normal-sized.
I'm dating this guy that I think would be really great for you.

Happy birthday to my car

2009-12-07T21:07:00.002-06:00

I had a request to tell the saga of my "new car," and decided that its 1st anniversary of belonging to me would be a good time to celebrate all that the poor dear has survived during this first year.

Thanksgiving weekend, 2008: My grandfather bought my car as a graduate school graduation present.

January, 2009: I walked out of my apartment on the second morning of my internship, on the phone for the umpteenth time with AT&T trying to get my internet turned on. I got in my car and around the same time finally got connected to a live human being on the other end of the phone. I put my car in reverse and heard a little scrape as as I back up, but assumed I was dragging a branch. I was too busy yelling at the AT&T rep to let a little branch slow me down. By the Grace of God, one of the maintenance workers at my apartment complex (I'll call him Henry) saw me backing out and flagged me down to stop before I put the car in drive. I hung up on my human and got out of the car. My "branch" turned out to be a concrete parking stop. A giant bolt was sticking out of the top and had hung under the front bumper of my new car. I drug the entire parking stop out of the parking space, and had I put the car in drive, I would have certainly ruined some of the under-parts of my car. Unfortunately, the bolt was too tall for Henry to simply scoot the parking stop out from under my car. It hung on the front bumper (still haven't figured out how I got it stuck under there in the first place). I suggested using the jack to raise the car. At this point another apartment resident pulled into the parking lot and got out to help. He and Henry jacked up the car, but it would not go high enough to get the parking stop out. Finally, Henry had to retrieve a giant saw and saw the bolt off so that the whole thing could finally get dragged out.

March, 2009: I drove from Houston to Austin for a career fair. On the way back I drove through a construction zone that had recently opened for thru-traffic. At the edge of Austin, I began to feel my car shaking and making a "ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk" sound. I pulled over to see if I had a flat, but all of my tires appeared to be properly inflated. As I slowly pulled back onto the main road, the shaking seemed to subside, however, as I gained speed it began full force. My steering wheel was even visibly moving. I called a good friend from Bastrop that works in Austin, hoping that he might be near me and able to help. He suggested that maybe a weight had flown off one of my tires and directed me to the nearest tire store where he promised to meet me. I hobbled down the road in the slow lane, afraid to drive too fast for fear of really hurting my tires, wheels or car in general. When I got to the tire store, I told the person working what my car's symptoms were, and followed him out to have a look. In one quick glance he said, "I can tell you exactly what's wrong. You've got about 3 extra pounds of tar on your tires." He said that it wouldn't hurt to drive it like that and the tar should wear off, but it would be annoying for awhile. He directed me to a high-pressure car wash, where my friend ended up meeting me. If anyone is wondering, high pressure hoses do not take tar off off tires. We ended up using our fingernails and screwdrivers to peel off as much as possible, but barely made a dent in the tar. It did eventually wear off on my way to Houston. And I got stuck in a storm halfway home.

April, 2009: My friends came to visit for my birthday. We all went downtown in my car to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe. I was at a stoplight, which might or might not have been green, and felt a tap from behind. "Did that guy just hit you?" one of my friends asked. Um...yes. I got out of the car to assess the situation and talk to the guy in the car behind me. Fortunately, there were no scars and we went our separate ways.

June, 2009: I was in a hurry on the way to a friend's house to meet the IKEA delivery man. I was driving around 65 mph in the center lane of a 3 lane highway. I saw brake lights ahead, but but traffic started moving normally so I didn't decrease my speed. All of a sudden, I saw a large object in the middle of the road that turned out to be a ladder. Going 65 mph, there was no physical way to stop short of it (not to mention I would most certainly be rear-ended if I tried). With cars in the lanes on either side of me, changing lanes was also not an option, so I gritted my teeth and tried to straddle it (in my low-rider car), knowing that I would surely strip the oil pan. I heard a quick "SCRAPE!!" and looked for my oil light (or any others) to come on and expected my car to begin shaking or pulling. I intended to pull over to assess the damage, but when nothing unusual happened immediately, I decided to try to make it the rest of the way to my friend's house. I called him pretty shaken up (poor guy was also the one sitting next to me during the rear-ending incident), and he promised to look the car over when I arrived. He didn't see anything unusual, but we decided it was still a good idea to drive it to the shop and have it officially checked out. I called the Honda house and told them what happened and they said to bring it in. I mapped out a route that did not require me to get on the highway just in case I needed to pull over quickly. I got there and a mechanic immediately greeted me. I explained to him why I was there, and he said "well let's put it on the lift and you and I can look at it together." He grabbed a flashlight and we walked under the car and saw nothing! Well, almost nothing. He pointed out a small spot that was scraped and said "that's all I see, and it may not even be from the ladder." I saw the spot to which he was referring and said, "no, I'm pretty sure I know what that's from." Give the ridiculous ladder scenario about which I had just told him, I decided it best not to tell him that the scrape in question was mostly likely due to the time I got the parking stop stuck under the car. (He also asked me at one point whether it was a wooden or fiberglass ladder. Seriously?? If I had had time to analyze the ladder I would have had time to stop!)

Fortunately (knock-on-wood), I haven't had anymore incidents like these since then. The car, somehow, still looks almost new. I'm pretty sure it could withstand a hurricane.

Things that should never be said out loud v.1

2009-11-24T20:51:00.002-06:00

For awhile now I've been wanting to keep a running list of "things that should never be said out loud." The thing is, you only realize that things shouldn't be said out loud until they have, in fact, been voiced. The first few that came to mind are posted here, but rest assured that there are more installments to come.

It is bad to drink meat flavored coffee on Fridays of Lent?
I found a dirty sock in my purse.
I've never actually brushed my armpits with my toothbrush.

Word of the day: Fork

2009-11-07T21:03:00.003-06:00

Due to popular demand, I am devoting an entire blog entry to a household object that does not receive nearly enough credit for its brilliance. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the fork. I honestly do not have any particular fondness for forks, although I recognize that they generally help me to "keep it classy" while eating. I do, however, enjoy ridiculous scenarios, and the fork is a common theme to the 2 ridiculous scenarios that follow:

The Flaming Fork (From an e-mail that I wrote in January. Republished with permission from myself.)
Who catches a fork on fire? Apparently I do. I didn't even know forks were flammable. I went home for a casual, uneventful lunch. I heated up some turkey in a cast iron skillet for my wrap. Then I went about my business eating my wrap and grapes. I thought I smelled something burning, and went to make sure that I had turned the stove off. The red glowing skillet was my cue that maybe I had forgotten that minor detail. And I had also forgotten to take my fork with the blue plastic handle out of it. It goes without saying that the plastic handle was in the midst of a meltdown when I arrived on the scene, and part of it immediately decided to flop over the side of the skillet, onto the burner, and burst into flames. My mind flashed back to the fire extinguisher clause in my lease that said I owed $12.50 if I had to use it. I remember laughing and thinking that the money would be the least of my worries if I was using a fire extinguisher, but thinking to myself that obviously I would never have to cross that bridge. Luckily, I was able to blow out the fire, and a few more minor ones that arose from pools of melted fork material. Then my smoke detector went off, and I was trying wildly to shut it off and take control of the situation. I moved the skillet from the hot burner (which was off by this point) took out as much of the fork as I could (the metal eating part at least), turned on the vent hood over the stove, and opened all of my windows. When I came back to work, I had to close the place back up, so I'm bound to come home to a nice smokey residence. I just hope the smoke detector doesn't decide to start singing while I'm gone.

Dating skills (Shared with permission from the one who doesn't know how to use a fork.)
Last night a friend of mine came over to hang out and be girly. We hit up the usual places (Barnes and Noble and Target), then came back to my place for some girl-talk and the Office. Out of the blue, my girlfriend asks "How do you hold your fork when you cut your food?" Did I mention that this friend is 24 years old? I'm pretty sure I looked at her like she was crazy.

"Which hand to you cut with?" she asked.

"My right" I said (I'm right handed).

"And do you hold your fork like this in the left?" she asked. I looked to see her hand formed as to hold what I can only hope she meant to be an imaginary ice pick...because civilized people certainly don't eat that way (in public anyway).

"No," I told her, "like this," and I showed her the way that we humans do it.

It's really quite hard to cut pretend meat with pretend utensils. I wanted to make sure she had it down, I went to the kitchen and brought back a knife and a fork for each of us to practice. By the end of the ordeal, I'm pretty sure we got her to become a master food-cutter-and-eater.

While I am quite amused that my 24-year old friend only learned to properly hold her fork yesterday, her motivation for doing so is even more impressive: She is preparing for a first date next week (her first first date in awhile). I applaud her efforts to become more refined in the name of love, but the upcoming date is a coffee date. I bet her date will be very impressed if she can gracefully cut and eat her coffee.

Nun Habits

2009-11-01T19:41:00.003-06:00

My struggle to be on consistently good behavior is still going full force, but I think perhaps it's getting easier to be joyful and patient on a semi-regular basis. I have some great work-related travel opportunities ahead, and maybe it's just that I want to be sure that I still get to go. However, I'd like to think that I'm becoming a more virtuous person in general.

This week I noticed myself doing something that I could have only picked up from the nuns. When anything in the office goes the slightest bit wrong (computer trouble, you name it), my supervisor mumbles an intercession to a saint. I happen to be a bit of a wuss when it comes to traffic (specifically heavy traffic, fast traffic, roads with more than 2 lanes, anyone switching lanes or merging, large trucks, trucks with stuff in the back, low-riders, I-35 or any highway in Houston, and brake lights). You can imagine that I was quite a basketcase to be riding shotgun with a friend who was speeding down I-35 and frequently changing lanes due to cars merging onto the highway or braking. I'm pretty sure that I invoked the intercession of just about every saint I could think of during that ride...and held on for dear life.

Not quite Utopia

2009-10-26T14:21:00.001-05:00

A few weekends ago a friend and I went to the Austin City Limits music festival (ACL). Tickets to the event are fairly expensive and must be purchased months in advance. We had been looking forward to the experience for awhile, and we were determined to have $xxx.xx of fun.

The festival is held outdoors in Austin's Zilker Park, and because it would be impossible to re-schedule that many bands for another weekend, the festival is held rain or shine. In the past ACL has been in September, and historically it falls on one of the hottest weekends of the summer. This year we were excited that it was pushed back to October. My friend and I are big fans of Fall (note the capital 'F.' That's how much we love it.), so we envisioned cool breezes in the lush (new) grass of Zilker...which would have been nice.

We began checking the forecast for the weekend as soon as we were within 10 days, and with each passing day the chance of rain increased. By the time the big day arrived, I decided that I should invest in a poncho. Unfortunately, there were none to be had in any of the nearby stores. I finally wound up in a hardware store that was sold out of ponchos, but had yellow rain suits complete with a jacket, an attachable hood, and pants. I had a winner (although wearing the contraption I'm sure I looked like a loser. For the record, I didn't wear the pants.).

The rains definitely came. Fortunately, it only rained during 1 of the 4 concerts we saw on the first day. Unfortunately, it rained between all of them. During Flogging Molly, the rainy concert, we were standing in front of a group of guys with umbrellas. I'm not sure if we wound up under their umbrellas because they were being nice, or because we were in such close quarters. But wind up under their umbrellas we did...sort of. We were really half-shielded from the rain by the umbrellas, which meant that all of the umbrella run-off wound up on the other half of our bodies. By the end of the day though, it didn't really matter. Everyone was soaked, and the place was a mess. So much for the new grass.

By day 2 I had decided to forgo wearing shoes. They were more of a hazard than a protection, as my shoes were inclined to stay in the mud rather than on my feet while walking. Unfortunately, on day 2 I realized that I had also forgotten something very important--deodorant. And day 2 was hot.

A little history of my love for deodorant: When I was in 8th grade, my US History teacher assigned a "Utopia project." Each group had to come up with a limited number of rules that must be followed in a Utopian society. Somehow, I convinced the rest of my group (or manipulated, but who's really keeping track?) that one of the absolute necessities for a Utopian society was for all members to wear deodorant, and it became a law. I have also had a fetish for men's deodorant for quite sometime. One of my college friends used to give me his old deodorant bottles so that I could smell them...but that's probably too much information.

Still, by the time I realized that I had not put on deodorant before leaving for the music festival, it was too late. We had already parked downtown and had walked most of the way to the park. Neither of us had any in our bags. Luckily, I'm not much of a sweater, and Austin is a pretty forgiving city (I was going natural). Nonetheless, when I did my laundry a few days later and came across the shirt from that day, my love affair with deodorant was renewed.

We did have $xxx.xx of fun. The music was fantastic, and we realized, as B would say, that "Dave Matthews is one sexy beast!" Who knew?

The one with the really bad food

2009-10-19T12:28:00.000-05:00

I do not consider myself a particularly picky eater. Certainly there are foods that I do not prefer, and I would never cook them at home nor would I order them off a menu. However, I must admit that there is one food that I despise more than any other on this planet: papaya.

My first encounter with papaya occurred when I was staying with the sisters in San Antonio. Until that point, I had never disliked a fruit, so I put a large helping on my plate. It only took one bite to realize that the fruit had the unmistakable aftertaste of vomit. I ate the other things on my plate, waiting for someone else to recognize that the papaya was obviously spoiled. As it turned out, one of the sisters exclaimed that the papaya was exceptionally good, and everyone else nodded in agreement. I vowed never to touch the stuff again in my life. I have actually walked through the produce section of the grocery store and felt my stomach church, only to realize that I have gotten too near the papaya display.

Fast forward to breakfast this morning with the Sisters. A bowl of papaya on the table. I had turned down the opportunity to engage in such a delight a few weeks ago because it was on the table in front of me (holding my breath...) but no one specifically asked me to take any and I filled my plate with other things. Today, however, I was passed the papaya with nobody else to pass it onto, thought it would be rude to turn it down. I took two small pieces and swallowed as quickly as possible. My stomach actually did a bit of a sick somersault as I was helping with clean up. The cutting board must certainly have been used in cutting up the dreadful fruit, and still held the smell of vomit.

On another note, I realized that I never provided a tiramisu update. You can probably guess that all did not go as planned or I would not be including it in this particular blog entry.

I used to believe that I was a relatively good cook. Taking into consideration the episodes with the hot pink cinnamon cake, the caving in fruity birthday cake, and the "healthy" brownies with pieces of grass and sticks, I have come to the realization that while I enjoy cooking, I am not really all that good at it. Still, I had recently made my first tiramisu which turned out well, so I had confidence that #2 would be no big deal. Perhaps this confidence is what led to my careless mistake that is the likely cause for this epic fail (ok, it wasn't quite an epic fail, but definitely not a winner either). I whipped my egg yolks for the specified amount of time, until they were thick and light yellow, then I mixed in the rest of the ingredients to make the creamy layers. The mixture was way too soupy, partially because I had decided that the mascarpone would be easier to blend if I let it soften while I whipped the egg yolks (a reasonable assumption), but mostly because I had left out the sugar, which was to be whipped with the egg yolks for a thicker consistency. I whipped some sugar into the mixture, but it really had no hope of survival. I poured (not spread) the mixture over the first layer of ladyfingers, and it just pooled at the bottom. I had the idea of whipping it more, and I also tried cooling it in the refrigerator to make it thick, but nothing would help.

Tiramisu is expensive to make, and combined with the late hour of this project, I looked for the next best fix to starting anew. I knew that the tiramisu would taste good, but it looked anything but appetizing. If I had made it for my friends, I would have told them the story, we would have had a good laugh, and everyone would eat it anyway. But this one was being served to my boss, the rest of the Sisters, the church staff, and the priest. When I told my boss what had happened, she suggested putting it in the freezer. She had not seen it yet. I told her that wouldn't work, because the underlying problems went way beyond temperature. Upon seeing my concoction, she agreed.

Luckily, I am a chocolate pudding fiend. My friends laugh about the massive amounts of chocolate pudding and cool whip that I consume on a daily basis, but I always secretly knew that my habit would have benefits. Because of this addiction, I buy cool whip in bulk, so I happened to have a brand new container in my freezer. I brought it to work, spread it over the tiramisu-like blob, sprinkled that with cocoa, and aside from the startlingly white color, no one could tell that they were eating a cooking disaster. I was even asked for the recipe.

A Shower of Ideas

2009-10-18T16:58:00.000-05:00

Sorry that it's taken me this long to post another update. My computer was on the fritz for a bit, to the point where I could quickly check my e-mail and respond to anything urgent before my computer froze up for good. All I had wanted to do last Friday evening after a long week on the road was snuggle up and watch Grey's Anatomy, which unfortunately my computer would not permit. Luckily, my parents were here last weekend and my dad got me fixed up.

The job is going well for the most part. The drawback to working for a nun is that I must be on my best behavior at all times. We share an office, so I must literally be good all day. The way I see it, being on my best behavior at work all day has 2 potential outcomes: 1) I get used to always being cheerful, helpful and holy and that becomes my permanent disposition; or 2) I get sick of being on my best behavior all day and switch to being a bit of a pessimist/jerk the rest of the time. So far, the trend has been in favor of option #2. Anyone reading this knows (hopefully) that I'm not really a jerk, but that I am independent and sometimes opinionated, and I have a hard time being entirely subservient to my boss. I'm using this time as a lesson in the virtues of patience and humility.

One thing that can be said is that, for better or worse, there is never a dull moment at work. Last week on the way home from a service fair in San Marcos, we stopped at Cabela's. Not really the place that you expect to see a nun in a habit. No, Sister is not preparing for a hunting or camping trip, but we are getting ready to host a group of volunteers at the end of the year. Our new place has great office space and some classrooms that we can use for our training sessions, but we are severely lacking in living space for our volunteers when they stay with us for almost 3 weeks. Although we can easily convert a classroom into sleeping quarters, the most significant problem is that there are currently no showers in the building. Sister had the idea that we could transform the handicap stall in the girls' bathroom into a shower (not by actually remodeling, but by temporarily hooking up a portable shower or hose). Portable showers are sometimes used during camping, hence we went to Cabela's to check them out.

The idea raised several red flags in my mind. First of all, I asked if there was a drain in the bathroom. I envisioned the flood that would occur as volunteers unleash a shower of water directly onto the bathroom floor. She assured me that there is indeed a drain, although as it turns out the drain is not positioned in our potential shower area. I still foresee a bit of a flood, not to mention a lot of really wet toilet paper. Secondly, portable showers need to be connected to a water source, and stringing a hose across the bathroom doesn't seem like such a fantastic idea to me. For one thing, a standard hose for a portable shower seems to be 4' long--not long enough to stretch from the faucet all the way to the stall. And we still need some way to fasten it or else the volunteer will be forced to hold it the entire time. If dropped, such a short hose is likely to fall on the outside of the stall (toward the sink where it's connected), forcing a naked volunteer to retrieve it. Strike two. Because we will have at least 4 volunteers, Sister came up with the idea that we could connect showers to both sinks. One volunteer could shower in the stall and another outside the stall...in the MIDDLE OF THE BATHROOM! Oh, but wearing a bathing suit. Personally, I don't actually bathe in my bathing suit. Somehow I feel like crucial areas may be neglected with that approach.

2 other ideas have been thrown around regarding potential locations for showers (the girls' bathroom actually being my preferred location of the 3). The 2nd location is the boys' bathroom (for the girls to shower). The idea was that again, one volunteer could shower in the stall, but the boys' bathroom has the advantage of having more open floor space for another volunteer to shower outside of the stall and next to the urinals!!! GROSS! I just cannot imagine feeling clean when the same water that is supposed to be making me clean is ricocheting off of a urinal and back onto me. However, I still think that option 2 may be better than the latest idea. One day this week we were coming back from lunch, and Sister excitedly asked me to follow her because she had something to show me downstairs. She opens a door that proves to be the janitor's closet. In her mind this space is ideal because it already has a floor drain and some raised sides so that water does not escape when the janitor washes out his mop. The entire closet is no larger than an ordinary shower stall, but reeks of chemicals. In this scenario, the volunteer would be trapped inside the very small but steamy and potent closet, which opens directly into the main hallway. I would imagine that a bathing suit would be necessary here as well, because I'm not sure who would be comfortable showering naked in a janitor's closet that opens up in to the main hallway of the CCD building. Perhaps it wouldn't the that big of a deal, because I'm not sure that there is even a light in the closet.

As it turns out, we did not purchase anything from Cabela's. Operation Shower is still in the works. I'll provide an update when a decision has been made.

The daily grind

2009-09-27T20:02:00.000-05:00

I've been in my new job for 3 weeks now, although I've barely begun to perform any of the tasks in my job description. Just when I am relieved to have unpacked what appears to be the last box, my supervisor the nun asks if I can please drive pick her up at the convent on my way back from lunch so that we can bring more boxes. I have learned that we still have approximately 15 boxes in her garage. Happily, we have unpacked most of the uber-important office-things and we finally have internet, so we are getting ready to jump into some sort of routine.

Last week I went to an Italian potluck at a friend's house and tried my hand at making tiramisu, one of my all time favorite desserts (hard liquor, coffee, and cookies...really, how can you go wrong?). I told Sister that I was going to try to make it, and she had the idea that we could have tiramisu at our open house--and I could make it. In all of the business of unpacking and settling in, I hadn't heard much about the tiramisu and hoped that perhaps she had forgotten...that is until one of the other Sisters expressed her excitement about the tiramisu that I would be making for them.

Speaking of things that are not in my job description, I was volunteered to teach computers 2 days a week. In college I was the resident techie of my household of 4 girls. The only reason that I was credited with having any computer knowledge was that the internet modem and router stayed in my bedroom, and my dad (who actually knows what he's doing) was only a phone call away. Needless to say, I don't actually know much about computers, although I am able to perform most of the tasks that 5th graders would probably need to be doing. However, I am not sure the objective of this "class," nor do I know what age the kids will be (I was told that I can have whatever ages I want). Additionally, instead of operating Windows, these computers run Linux, which I have very little knowledge of--and half of them are set to Spanish. I was supposed to have already begun my classes, but fortunately they were postponed when the person in charge realized that the computers do not have any programs installed. Safe for another week!

A Series of Unfortunate Events

2009-09-10T11:53:00.000-05:00

In response to the demands of my fan base, I have decided to create a blog to chronicle the ridiculous scenarios that inevitably make their way into my day-to-day life (as well as other thoughts and happenings). It's also a great opportunity to do some non-academic writing, which I haven't done in a very, very long time.

The first week of my new job was mostly spent unpacking and getting our office set up, with the exception of a more eventful Friday that included the worst Office Depot trip ever, and getting lost taking my boss to the bus station, thanks to napkin directions that were like a bad game of telephone (the exit for FM 2222 changed into "exit 222" and "Shepler's" turned into "Staples"). Additionally, I was late on the first day thanks to a horrific traffic jam on Mopac, I almost got into a wreck with my new boss in the car, and then took her on an accidental tour of southeast Austin when I tried to take an "alternate route" from the bank back to our office.

This week will be devoted to convincing her that I am, in fact, a competent human being.