First of all, I should preface my “mini-series” with this statement: I LOVE MY HUSBAND.
We were having a conversation the other day about our individual eccentricities and how we love them in each other. For example, he commented on my drama; according to him, I often flop myself over the arm of the couch, throw my hand over my face, bewailing my life and moan, “I don’t want to do it anymore!” (“It” can mean anything and everything all at the same time). Apparently, he thinks this is entertaining. I will refrain from affirming whether his perspective of my actions is accurate or not.
One of the oddities of Jacob that I love (besides his obsessive accumulation of junk drawers—ok so maybe “tolerate” is a better word than “love” in that example) is what I like to call his “Hero Complex.” In other words, whether consciously or subconsciously, Jacob always seems to be pulled with a need to play the “good guy,” save the “damsel in distress,” destroy the “evil forces” and in all other ways save the universe. Carl Jung would delve deeply into Jacob’s brain, analyzing his familial situation, his dreams, and the society he was surrounded by to discover why Jacob developed this obsession. I simply say that it came from watching too many Indiana Jones flicks and then setting up Harrison Ford’s character as his ideal. (As a side note, Jacob even developed a strong aversion to snakes).
I can think of no better way to describe this complex than giving examples (true examples, mind you). A friend needs money—lots of it. Without hesitating, Jacob “loans” them the sum. Undoubtedly, the money is not returned but he shrugs it off. Then the situation repeats itself with a different friend and he does the same thing. After all, they are in distress. Someone repeatedly asks to borrow his jeep for various important situations (wooing a girl, going off-roading, getting around town when their vehicle is out of commission, etc). Each time the jeep is returned, it comes with a new problem to be fixed. You know, typical things like a new hole in the body, a leak in the radiator, a burnt out battery or a blown up transmission. Jacob repairs it only to turn around and lend it out again. Whenever I get hurt or sick, I know that I will need to console Jacob—he just gets so angry at himself for not protecting me from stubbing my toe or getting the flu. Who else besides someone with a hero complex actually VOLUNTEERS for a deployment? And then wants to go back for more? What an astoundingly superior man.
The point I was eventually aiming to hit with all of this verbosity is this: Because of his hero complex, Jacob has found himself in a plethora of interesting situations. In fact, between a mission, two deployments, working at the jail and his exciting, selfless life in general, he has mounds of stories—funny, exciting and disgusting. However, Jacob doesn’t generally tell his stories and I feel that they need to be told. Quite obviously, I am happy to write, and write, and write. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself in the next couple of weeks to write some of Jacob’s better accounts—with the vow to keep them as accurate and unexaggerated as possible. :) Keep your eyes open for the “mini-series” of Jacob’s stories!
21 September 2010
08 September 2010
A Few Confessions
*i am a nose picker. There are some boogers that you just can’t get out any other way.
*i love cool bookmarks so much that when i get a new one, it makes me want to read just so i can start using it. (Sometimes it takes me just as much time to pick the bookmark i'm going to use as it does to pick the book i'm going to read).
*i really don't like it when people call me "jenn"
*i like flipping through magazines almost as much for the feel of the glossy pages as for the actual content.
*When my nail polish chips, i paint over it in a darker color rather than taking the time to remove it.
*i love when my dirty laundry basket is empty (i mean, it makes me so happy that sometimes i actually giggle).
*i wish i could live in an apartment complex like in “Rear Window” so that i could make up stories about my neighbors lives. (Yes i am aware that this is a creeper quality).
*i don’t think farting jokes are funny.
*i still sleep with a teddy bear some nights when Jacob isn’t with me.
*i wish someday someone will read my journals, care about what I wrote, know who i really was and get a glimpse into my soul…even long after I am gone.
*When i walk into my house, the first thing i notice is whether the floor needs to be swept or not.
*i think Eminem is hot.
*i love cool bookmarks so much that when i get a new one, it makes me want to read just so i can start using it. (Sometimes it takes me just as much time to pick the bookmark i'm going to use as it does to pick the book i'm going to read).
*i really don't like it when people call me "jenn"
*i like flipping through magazines almost as much for the feel of the glossy pages as for the actual content.
*When my nail polish chips, i paint over it in a darker color rather than taking the time to remove it.
*i love when my dirty laundry basket is empty (i mean, it makes me so happy that sometimes i actually giggle).
*i wish i could live in an apartment complex like in “Rear Window” so that i could make up stories about my neighbors lives. (Yes i am aware that this is a creeper quality).
*i don’t think farting jokes are funny.
*i still sleep with a teddy bear some nights when Jacob isn’t with me.
*i wish someday someone will read my journals, care about what I wrote, know who i really was and get a glimpse into my soul…even long after I am gone.
*When i walk into my house, the first thing i notice is whether the floor needs to be swept or not.
*i think Eminem is hot.
04 September 2010
Enetophobia
Needles. Oh how I despise them. Such pointy, skinny, little nasties.
I was seven years old. My mother was going to have a baby. She took us three girls to the hospital to see where the baby would be born. She showed us the wing where all the mom’s-to-be go. She showed us the nursery where the new babies were wrapped in the blankets of pink or blue. We looked through the window into the room with all of the premature babies. They were so tiny, lying there in their little beds. A nurse approached the baby closest to where I had my forehead pressed against the glass. Then, she did the unimaginable—pulled out a syringe and (right there in front of me!) she stuck the baby's foot and drew blood. At the first sight of red, I felt my head begin to spin, my arms begin to shake and spots floated in front of my eyeballs. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a gurney with people surrounding me. I felt like I had been asleep for hours. My family informed me that I had completely passed out, fallen straight backwards and hit the tile floor.
I was seventeen years old. The blood bank parked a trailer in the high school parking lot. Juniors and seniors were encouraged to be selfless, head out during their lunch break and donate some of their precious blood. All of my friends were excited—no one had ever done this before and they felt like they were helping a good cause (which, of course, they were). Several of my friends were jealous of my type O blood. “Oh!” they exclaimed, “You can bless so many more people since anyone with a positive blood type can use your blood!” Peer pressure. And I really did want to help too. So I geared myself up and entered the trailer, prepared to not think about what I was doing and save someone’s life. The nurse led me into a small room of the trailer to ask me questions about my health and to prick my finger to make sure I wasn’t anemic. She informed me that she only needed a drop of blood to test my iron levels. Feeling a little queasy (I think I’ll blame it on the small space and heat) I held out my finger. One prick, that’s it. And I woke up, sprawled on the floor out in the main part of the trailer with my friends (bags of their life giving blood attached to their arms) looking down on me. Needless to say, they would NOT let me give blood, even though I tried to convince them that I surely wouldn’t black out twice.
I was twenty-one years old. The First Presidency of my church had called me to serve as a missionary in Santiago, Chile. Even though I had already accepted my assignment, I almost didn’t go on a mission. Do you KNOW how many shots you have to get?! Especially when you are headed to South America. I took my mom with me to the health district, to the doctor, to the airport—everywhere I needed to go to get stuck. They looked at me funny. So what? I needed the support. I asked to lay down every time. Did you know that you can’t pass out when you are laying down? The elementary kids there to get their school shots looked at me funny. I’m sure they were thinking “She’s a grown-up! Why is she so white and shaky?” I didn’t pass out. But I would have if I had been sitting up.
I was twenty-three, coming home from my mission. They said that I needed to get a TB test done when I got back to the States. HA! No way was I going to voluntarily get pricked. Then I found out that BYU freaking Idaho wouldn’t let me register for my classes until I proved that I didn’t have TB. Apparently this is standard procedure for all missionaries returning from foreign missions. Damn. My mom went with me again. They made her sit in the waiting room. All they had to do was put 0.1mL of Tuberculin right under my skin. That’s it. There was only a chair in the room; I had no place to lie down. I was convinced I could handle this. I was an adult who had visited a plethora of countries by herself, almost graduated from college and gosh dangit I could handle this. It was only supposed to take two minutes. When I emerged from the room (pale and shaking—and with a juice box) fifteen minutes later, my mom said, “So, you passed out, huh?” ::sigh:: So much for handling it.
Last week I was booking it through Walmart. The greyhound passengers would be arriving any moment at the depot and I had been told that they were out of paper towels there. On the clock and in a rush, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around me—just enough to steer the cart around the shuffling Grandmas and children screaming on their mothers’ legs. In the aisle in front of me, someone had set up a table all draped in white paper and there were several people clustered around. Without registering what they were doing, I started to swerve my paper towel loaded cart out of the way. The next thing I knew, I realized that a man in white gloves has just jabbed a needle into the arm of a teenage girl. There they were, in the middle of a crowded Walmart isle, giving flu shots. Who honestly does that to unsuspecting shoppers?! They ought to warn people or something. I felt the tale-tell symptoms begin to sweep over me; I started to perspire, breath shallowly, and feel dizzy. So I did the only thing I could think of. I sat down. Right there. In the isle. Busy shoppers be damned. They all looked at me funny. The screaming kids stopped yelling. I wasn’t the one who got the shot. What was my problem? And I couldn’t even think of anything to say.
I think that until flu season is over, I will be avoiding Walmart. I hate needles.
I was seven years old. My mother was going to have a baby. She took us three girls to the hospital to see where the baby would be born. She showed us the wing where all the mom’s-to-be go. She showed us the nursery where the new babies were wrapped in the blankets of pink or blue. We looked through the window into the room with all of the premature babies. They were so tiny, lying there in their little beds. A nurse approached the baby closest to where I had my forehead pressed against the glass. Then, she did the unimaginable—pulled out a syringe and (right there in front of me!) she stuck the baby's foot and drew blood. At the first sight of red, I felt my head begin to spin, my arms begin to shake and spots floated in front of my eyeballs. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a gurney with people surrounding me. I felt like I had been asleep for hours. My family informed me that I had completely passed out, fallen straight backwards and hit the tile floor.
I was seventeen years old. The blood bank parked a trailer in the high school parking lot. Juniors and seniors were encouraged to be selfless, head out during their lunch break and donate some of their precious blood. All of my friends were excited—no one had ever done this before and they felt like they were helping a good cause (which, of course, they were). Several of my friends were jealous of my type O blood. “Oh!” they exclaimed, “You can bless so many more people since anyone with a positive blood type can use your blood!” Peer pressure. And I really did want to help too. So I geared myself up and entered the trailer, prepared to not think about what I was doing and save someone’s life. The nurse led me into a small room of the trailer to ask me questions about my health and to prick my finger to make sure I wasn’t anemic. She informed me that she only needed a drop of blood to test my iron levels. Feeling a little queasy (I think I’ll blame it on the small space and heat) I held out my finger. One prick, that’s it. And I woke up, sprawled on the floor out in the main part of the trailer with my friends (bags of their life giving blood attached to their arms) looking down on me. Needless to say, they would NOT let me give blood, even though I tried to convince them that I surely wouldn’t black out twice.
I was twenty-one years old. The First Presidency of my church had called me to serve as a missionary in Santiago, Chile. Even though I had already accepted my assignment, I almost didn’t go on a mission. Do you KNOW how many shots you have to get?! Especially when you are headed to South America. I took my mom with me to the health district, to the doctor, to the airport—everywhere I needed to go to get stuck. They looked at me funny. So what? I needed the support. I asked to lay down every time. Did you know that you can’t pass out when you are laying down? The elementary kids there to get their school shots looked at me funny. I’m sure they were thinking “She’s a grown-up! Why is she so white and shaky?” I didn’t pass out. But I would have if I had been sitting up.
I was twenty-three, coming home from my mission. They said that I needed to get a TB test done when I got back to the States. HA! No way was I going to voluntarily get pricked. Then I found out that BYU freaking Idaho wouldn’t let me register for my classes until I proved that I didn’t have TB. Apparently this is standard procedure for all missionaries returning from foreign missions. Damn. My mom went with me again. They made her sit in the waiting room. All they had to do was put 0.1mL of Tuberculin right under my skin. That’s it. There was only a chair in the room; I had no place to lie down. I was convinced I could handle this. I was an adult who had visited a plethora of countries by herself, almost graduated from college and gosh dangit I could handle this. It was only supposed to take two minutes. When I emerged from the room (pale and shaking—and with a juice box) fifteen minutes later, my mom said, “So, you passed out, huh?” ::sigh:: So much for handling it.
Last week I was booking it through Walmart. The greyhound passengers would be arriving any moment at the depot and I had been told that they were out of paper towels there. On the clock and in a rush, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around me—just enough to steer the cart around the shuffling Grandmas and children screaming on their mothers’ legs. In the aisle in front of me, someone had set up a table all draped in white paper and there were several people clustered around. Without registering what they were doing, I started to swerve my paper towel loaded cart out of the way. The next thing I knew, I realized that a man in white gloves has just jabbed a needle into the arm of a teenage girl. There they were, in the middle of a crowded Walmart isle, giving flu shots. Who honestly does that to unsuspecting shoppers?! They ought to warn people or something. I felt the tale-tell symptoms begin to sweep over me; I started to perspire, breath shallowly, and feel dizzy. So I did the only thing I could think of. I sat down. Right there. In the isle. Busy shoppers be damned. They all looked at me funny. The screaming kids stopped yelling. I wasn’t the one who got the shot. What was my problem? And I couldn’t even think of anything to say.
I think that until flu season is over, I will be avoiding Walmart. I hate needles.
01 September 2010
One day I'd like to...
* Live on a street named “Wildflower Avenue”
* Wear something truly and obviously expensive and then (when i get the inevitable compliment) say, “This old thing? Why, i only wear it when i don’t care how i look!”
* Watch all the movies in my “501 Must See Movies” book (except maybe the really scary ones)
* Lie on a blanket in a meadow for a picnic or to read a book and have no one else around for miles
* Dance in front of a wall of lights (if you don't know what i mean, look up "Speed of Sound" by Coldplay or "Riding Solo" by Jason Derulo. And please note that the Jason Derulo song is mentioned not for its musical quality, but rather for the wall in front of which he dances during the music video)
* Be mistaken for a celebrity
* Have something i’ve written published
* Attend a ball
* Win something on a radio show
* Find (or invent if needed) a candle that smells just like Barnes and Nobles—-new books and coffee
* Get my name changed so that it's legally in all lower-case letters
"jennifer olson"
* Wear something truly and obviously expensive and then (when i get the inevitable compliment) say, “This old thing? Why, i only wear it when i don’t care how i look!”
* Watch all the movies in my “501 Must See Movies” book (except maybe the really scary ones)
* Lie on a blanket in a meadow for a picnic or to read a book and have no one else around for miles
* Dance in front of a wall of lights (if you don't know what i mean, look up "Speed of Sound" by Coldplay or "Riding Solo" by Jason Derulo. And please note that the Jason Derulo song is mentioned not for its musical quality, but rather for the wall in front of which he dances during the music video)
* Be mistaken for a celebrity
* Have something i’ve written published
* Attend a ball
* Win something on a radio show
* Find (or invent if needed) a candle that smells just like Barnes and Nobles—-new books and coffee
* Get my name changed so that it's legally in all lower-case letters
"jennifer olson"
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