Life Lessons or My Ongoing Career as a Shoulder Devil

On the fourth of July, I woke up at three in the morning, and proceeded to spend the entire day traveling from California to Windham, Maine. Yep, I sure know how to enjoy a good holiday. I'm here to help my Grandpa pack up his house, since he's planning to move in a few months. My Grandma, who can be lovingly referred to as a pack rat of alarming proportions, died a few years ago, leaving him with a large house filled to the brim with stuff. It's a two-story, four bedroom house with many closets, an enormous craft room, four rooms worth of garage in the basement, and an additional large shed with an attic on top of that.

At this point, you may be thinking, "Wow that would be a lot of stuff, how could he have gone this long without going through at least some of it?" And you would be absolutely right. He did. Along with many assorted relatives, he has gone through and gotten rid of a bunch of stuff. And then they did it again. And possibly again after that; I'm a little fuzzy on the details. So there couldn't be that much stuff left, right? Wrong.

This is where the life lesson comes in. I definitely have a bit of the pack-rat gene in me. I like to have all my stuff with me, packing frequently bring me to the brink of a nervous breakdown. My belongings are currently spread out across three states, and that's kind of stressing me out. BUT, today may mark a turning point in my attitude towards stuff. Despite my best intentions, I've already accumulated a few things to squeeze into my small suitcase. And you may be thinking "Oh, that's not so bad, surely you want some things to remember your Grandma by." And I have those things. Lots of them. And so does everyone else in the family, because we've already gone through it several times. And yet, new "treasures" continue to be found. Things that have been offered to me today include: many handkerchiefs, (side note: Why would anybody want a hankie? Gross.) many pairs of fancy gloves, a relief society manual, enormously large hair clips, a long braid made out of real hair, a vase I may or may not have given to my grandmother many years ago, really old stickers, and some 12+ year old gum. (Okay, that last one may have been a joke.) And that's just the beginning.

The big winner, however, isn't even for me, it's for my parents. It's a quilt, which means that yes, I will be toting a large blanket through airport security and multiple flights in addition to everything else I brought. Not only that, but it's possibly the most depressing quilt I can imagine. Years ago, when my Grandma was sick, my ward got together and made a quilt for her with a bunch of people signing squares. Most of them say "Get well soon." Who wouldn't want that back, right?

The shoulder devil in me came out today when, well into the garage sale, we discovered even more boxes in the garage to go through. Keep in mind that these boxes had not been opened at all since my grandparents moved out here in 2000. Now surely, anything you've gone without for twelve years can't be terribly important, right? You could almost certainly toss it all and never look back, right? Ahahahaha. Wrong. We went through all of the boxes, and there were lots of them, and lots of them were big. Contents ranged from old bowling trophies to a whole box of hankies to a faceless mannequin head. The best, however, were the boxes filled with papers, which naturally had to be gone through individually. Sitting out in the baking sun (I'm really not cut out for humidity) I watched and advocated the trash pile as my aunt went through page after page of (really dusty and sometimes spider-ey) junk, searching for family history treasures. And apparently she found some.

The attitude was summarized best later in the day when a different aunt came across an old plate commemorating my Grandma's first marriage. "More dishes?", she said. "Oh, well I have to keep this." (she also arrived by airplane) Really? You have to? Now, it's not like I don't understand the appreciation of family history, or even that objects can hold sentimental value (although I think most of those were picked through long ago). But there's gotta be a point where it becomes to much. I agree that some heirlooms are cool, and have already been in the family for ages. But does that mean that we keep them forever? And that the next generation keeps all of them, plus everything that was important to us? It gets ridiculous pretty quickly (and it was already pretty ridiculous.)

Anyway the moral of the story is that the computer age is a beautiful thing, stuff is overrated, and hopefully I learned to let go a little today. I'll let you know how it works out.

P.S. They sold the only lamps in the room where I'm staying. This doesn't really work into the story, but it's pretty depressing anyways.

Drunken Escapades, Pt. 1

But don't worry, they're not my drunken escapades.

One night on my way home from work I decided to take a detour through the sketchy part of Pocatello (aren't they all?), when I passed a car pulled over to the side of the road.  After much internal debate, I turned around and went back to see if I could help them with anything (despite the fact that the only useful thing I might be able to provide is a cell phone with internet capabilities- my car knowledge is seriously limited).

The car had stalled, and the two girls who were driving it needed some gas.  I offered to drive them down the road to the gas station about half a mile away to fill a can with gas.  This is where things started to go downhill.  One of the girls asked me to push her car to the gas station... with my car.  Well that was definitely a solid negatory.  I talked them into riding in my car to and from the gas station, after which, I would take off.

I have had very little experience with alcohol, so I didn't realize exactly what I had gotten myself into until we were on the way to the gas station, and I started paying attention to what was going on.  One of the girls was moderately sober, but the other was very intoxicated.

Much thanks to my daddy, I had an empty gas can in my trunk for emergencies.  We filled up and then filled their car.  I waited to make sure their car would start and I could go home with a clear conscience.  If only things were that easy.  The car didn't start.  I pulled up next to them to see what was going on, and patiently waited at their side while they got into a drunken argument about what to do.  They decided to push the car out of the road and walk home.  So they started pulling valuables out of the car.

That was the point at which a cop pulled up from the other direction. DrunkenPants (hereby known as DP)  panicked and immediately got into my car while the more able minded girl tried to explain the situation.  The police officer asked us to get out of the road and moved on.

In her panic, DP dropped her phone on the pavement.  But wasn't able to comprehend what I was saying and insisted I call her phone while she drunkenly searched my car.  Meanwhile, Girl 2 started checking their car for her phone, which she was unable to find.  Then, DP confided to me that she had Girl 2's phone and insisted we weren't going anywhere until Girl 2 returned her phone and made me promise not to tell G2.

I found the phone on the pavement, where I knew it was going to be, and returned it to DP, who then returned G2's phone.  At this point, DP begged me to walk them home.  Even though their house was across the street.  So I accompanied them across the street.  And by "accompanied," I mean I navigated DP up and down the curbs and stairs with several "step up here" and "step down here" whilst half dragging her.

The best part was how they thanked me once we were finally inside- with shots.  They insisted I join them in taking shots, and when I politely declined, they asked if I wanted to watch them take shots.  Surprisingly, I passed on the second offer as well.

Such lovely folks in Pocatello.  I really think I bonded with those girls that night.  They also invited me to their garage sale the next morning.  I should probably look them up on Facebook or something, I sense a lasting relationship in the works.

Dance shoes off the Black Market

Yes.  So sketch.

So, here are my new character shoes for folk dance:

**Disclaimer: These are not actually my legs.  I found them on the internet.  I love the internet.... I claim no right to these legs.  No copyright infringement was intended.  The right to these legs remains with the owner, whoever she (or I guess it could be a really strange 'he') may be**

I finally got them today after procrastinating and somehow getting away with not having them last year.... but I finally did have to get them.  $56.  Guys, I have a somewhat expensive hobby.  But that's not even the worst part.  The worst part was going to get them.

So, folk dance is pretty political, in that you can't even try out for the higher level teams unless you have the right shoes.  Not just character shoes, the right character shoes.  But no one is allowed to tell you where to get them.  If they were to tell you a certain store that sold the right character shoes, then other places could sue BYU and say that they are favoring that store.  So, legally, they aren't allowed to tell you who sells them.  The politically correct answer when faced with the question is, "oh, you know, you just get them around..."  You have to know who to ask--who is exempt from the law, and can give you this secret information. 

I ended up finding out where they were sold through a friend who had been on one of the top teams.  You'll never guess where you go to get them.  A tuxedo shop.  Of course, right?  It's a small shop--and I mean really small.  The shop is tucked in the corner of a shared business complex with a tiny sign.  It's owned by the head of the folk dance department's husband.  But technically he's not allowed to sell them, so he keeps them in the back room.  And when you buy them, you have to use cash or check--no credit card.  Too many legal issues. 

So here's how it went down.  I kept my ears open for mentions of people who might have access to valuable information.  I would track those people down and hope for a more specific answer than the usual "oh, you just find them around..."  Eventually I was able to get the name "Perfectly Suited by Garth."  Then the trouble was finding it.  I went down University Avenue until I was around the right place, and went into an old salon/tattoo shop.  Some one noticed me and said, "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"  I answered, "Yes, but I always carry an umbrella."  Apparently those were the secret words, because then they told me to go down the hall to the back of the store and enter the second door on my right after knocking four times in quick succession.  I did so, and an old man let me in.  "I'm assuming you're not here to buy a tux," he said.  I then told him I was there to buy dance shoes, and he took me into the back room of his already "back room" shop.  I tried on the shoes, found some that fit, and then paid for them in cash.  As I left, I had the strange sensation that I had better keep a look out for cops, but without looking too guilty.  I was smuggling drugs guys.  Or something like that.  Dance shoes off of the Black Market.  Sketch.

Ornithophobia.

My sister works at a fast food restaurant in town.  It's a little drive in with the best fries in town.  It's also a little drive in with the most annoying pigeon infestation in town.  Pigeons get into the roof and nest.  You would never know unless you go into the bathroom, where it's quieter.  If it's the right time of year, you'll hear the incessant little chirps of a million baby pigeons.

One of her coworkers decided to take the matter into his own hands a few weeks ago.  He got one of the baby pigeons out of the roof and put it in a box outside the restaurant.  He claimed he was going to take it home and kill it.  My sister, animal whisperer, protested and decided to bring the bird home until she could find someone else to take care of it.

We kept it in the garage at first.  Just for a few days, until the pigeon grew out feathers and could fly on its own, at which time, she would release it into the "wild."

A few days turned into a few weeks, as pigeons don't actually grow that fast.  In that time, my dad secretly started bonding with the pigeon... he's a gentle soul.  He took the pigeon out of the cage we kept it in and started petting it and cuddling with it sometimes.  Needless to say, by the time the pigeon actually was old enough to leave, he was attached to us.  My brother even named him.

By the time Archibald T. Chirps had enough feathers to smerf the coop, he was part of the family.  One of my siblings even made him a Facebook page (does it get much more official than that?).  That was about the time we learned that pigeons are not dynamic animals.  They settle in where they are raised and won't be moved.  Our multiple attempts to forcibly relocate him were unsuccessful- someone would drop him off away from our house, and about half an hour later he would be back.

What's worse though, is that Mr. Chirps decided he is the kind of family pet that should live inside.  On multiple occasions, he has made his way INSIDE our house, much to my horror.  My sister quickly shooed him out while trying to calm my frantic screams.  Turns out I'm terrified of birds (add it to the list).  But really, the thought of a pigeon breaking into your home and making itself comfortable is frightening. It's enough to give anyone the heebie-jeebies.

Wish us luck, hopefully the bad weather will drive Mr. Chirps away.  Until then, avoid the deck.  It's his territory now.

Mmm Digestives.

I have the largest room in my house.  Bigger than my parents.  This makes it a sort of dumping grounds.  No room in the store room?  Put it in Katie's room.  No room in the other store room?  Put it under Katie's bed.  No room in the under stairs storage closet thing?  Put it in Katie's closet.  I try to be a good sport about it (minus one very angry incident that I would not like to rehash.  Jessie and Sara can tell you all about how mad and bratty I was though.), because I have a room big enough to house a small African village.

For nearly two years now, I've had a package of caramel "Digestives" sitting on my chest of drawers.  My sister, Anna, left them there one Christmas, and I always assumed they were some weird baking ingredient or something, and presumed she would eventually reclaim them.  I should know better, I've had a ten pound block of melting chocolate in my closet for two and a half years now.  So these "digestives" have just been sitting.  Untouched.  For years.

Flash back to my self discoveries post in which I went on a reading binge.  One of those books was a British book in which she ate "digestives".  Context led me to realize "digestives" are also known in the US as... cookies!!  I still didn't put it together until this morning, when I was lying in bed really hungry and too tired to go all the way upstairs for food.  Those strange "digestives" on my dresser are potentially delicious, albeit very old, cookies!

They're all gone now.  I ripped the strange packaging open in seconds and smerfed those bad boys in like ten minutes because I was so hungry and they were so weird- but the kind of weird that has you eating more to see if they're still weird.  I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I clearly have not changed at all since last school year.  No patience, no sense of restraint.  It's cool, it generally gets me into some wonderfully strange predicaments.  Now I'm off to clean all the "digestive" crumbs off my bed.  And by clean, I mean I'll eat the big ones and brush the rest off to the carpet.

P.S.  I'm not sure why I keep quoting "digestives," except that I'm so baffled that anyone would call a cookie a "digestive."

P.P.S. To Anna- I'm not sorry.  I would do it again.

Francesca.

GREAT NEWS, EVERYONE- WALMART HAS A SALE ON RAZORS.

BETTER... THEY'RE SELLING PINK RAZORS!

For only $30, we could buy Jorge a girlfriend!!!!!

Marina and I decided she would be named Francesca.  She and Jorge would be best friends/soul mates for ever and always.  They would smerf together all day, every day.  All in favor, mail us $1.  Then I'll bum $30 off my parents, and we'll be good to go!

Many things have happened since I've last blogged. Good and bad, but mainly just embarrassing. For example: 

• I managed to blow $1,000 in one week. Still hurts me when I think about it. At least it was on important things. Deposit & last month's rent on my apartment, sign up for a class, and buy some nice work clothes.
• Well I drove from Provo, UT to San Diego, CA in 2 hours less than usual. My average speed was... well let's just say I really wanted to get home and not be driving, and I may have exceeded the 80 mph speed limit...by a lot
• We created a new game where we dropped ice cream from the 3rd story in our apartment complex and caught it in our mouths at the ground floor 
• I found a younger version of my dad and went on a date with him. It was only a little awkward when I already knew everything about him -because i'm convinced that my dad built a time machine and did this to me as a joke- and kept accidentally calling him dad. It's fine though. I later realized that I left him with a six digit number.
• Met a guy named Mike Byrd, but somehow got it into my mind that his last name was Hawk and kept referring to him as Mike Hawk.
• Yesterday, I was at my BJJ class flirting it up with my instructor because he's funny and quite aesthetically pleasing. Left class feeling good about myself, right? Well that was before I full on ran into the door frame in front of some woman on the phone and then fell down the stairs. Yeah two different accidents in 2 minutes. I felt it was only appropriate to tweet this: #justfelldownthestairs; #hotstuffrightthurr. All I have to say is, "thug life". 
• Oh! I got someone to tap out by smothering them with my thighs! I was sparring with a friend, got her head between my thighs and choked her until she tapped. Needless to say, I now go by "thunder thighs".
• I found out that I indeed have somewhat of a phobia against dead birds. We found this out the hard way when I shuttered and then swerved out of the way just to avoid a dead bird. Any other animal is fine. I don't care, but birds. Biiirrrrdddsss *said with the utmost disgust.
• I went to the gym last night and saw a girl who looked like one of my friends that I haven't seen for a while, and awkwardly made eye contact 4 times. Turns out it wasn't her. She left the sauna pretty fast, but joke was on her, I followed her out. hahahaha
• I picked up my younger brother from boy scout camp and purposely addressed him by the wrong name, tricking him into thinking that I forgot his real name. hahah

Oh so many things have happened. Many more embarrassing things, but I won't blog about them. They'll just stay in my head forever, slowly killing me a little inside every time I think of them. Life is so amazing though! More to come!

Deuces 

The Bathroom.

Now of course it wasn't anything like this.
The monster was yellow.

Sometime this week, I realized that in the last nine weeks I've been working at this call center, every time I use the bathroom on the main level, I always go to the exact same stall.  Don't ask me why, I can't explain it.

When I noticed the tendency for the middle stall, I decided to smerf things up.  I went a different stall... and found some sketchy toilet paper on the handle.  So I went back to the safe, standard stall.

The next day, I tried to break routine again by going to a third stall.  Nothing was wrong with the toilet, but it felt all wrong. I actually felt claustrophobic, and became convinced that the stall was smaller than the usual stall.  Then I counted the number of tiles across the front of both stalls and compared- exactly the same.

That was when I realized I was standing in a public bathroom, staring at the floor in front of the stalls, silently counting the tiles with my feet.  And looking like a nutter.  Business like usual.

Self Discoveries.

This summer, I've taken up employment at a local call center.  During my long days of training, I came to several conclusions while I was supposed to be learning how to engage, be empathetic, and listen.  Yes, I recognize the irony in not listening to a lesson about listening.  But if I'm being honest, I feel like I have a pretty good grasp on customer management- pretend to be interested and above all else, don't ever tell the customer he/she is an idiot.  Even if he/she is potentially the dumbest person I've ever smerfed with in my life.

But I digress.

The following are very important life lessons I will remember always.

1. Long nails give me the heeby jeebies.  Maybe it's because I played piano for a very long time, and the importance of having consistently short nails was ingrained to me in third grade when my piano teacher would not allow me to continue playing until I cut my nails, washed my hands, and was thoroughly lectured on the negative effects long nails have on performance.  One of my coworkers has freakishly long nails, and every time I see them, I shudder and all I can think of is the disturbing picture I saw in a Guinness world records book once of the longest nails in the world.  Am I alone here?  Long nails are the worst.  
2. I have very little patience.  We played twenty questions as a bonding experience one of my first days, and I was interested for the first three questions or so.  Then I lost all hope and spent the rest of the game calculating how much money I was being paid per minute to listen to my coworkers try to identify a taco in twenty questions or less, completely tuned out.  Which brings me to my next point.
3. I have a breaking point when it comes to learning new material, after which I am decidedly done.  I am unable to continue paying attention, and I zone out.  I quickly realized if I sat at the back of the room and leaned in to my cubicle, it looked like I was just following the lecture on my computer, and my instructor was not able to see anything I was doing.  That is how I read upwards of a dozen books in three weeks of training.
4. According to my instructor, adding "mundo" to the end of any word basically makes it Spanish.  True storymundo.

As a bonus, I found this on my second day.  What a great indicator of my time as an inbound phone technical specialist.  Smurf this, indeed.

Awwww, Yeah!

I'm back.  It's been a long month of non-posting, but I have about seven inspirational stories that might make for very rambly, very confusing blog posts.  One of them might make some actual sense.  Don't quote me on that.

Since it's bothering me that the text I've written doesn't extend to the bottom of the picture, I'm going to include my latest favorite joke to fill up room.

What do you call a fake noodle?
Impasta!

Cheers, y'all.  See you later this week!