At work there is a back room where all the drivers check in and out. Located in that room is our lost and found. On Friday, my husband rode the shuttle and left a very nice book on the van. i immediately called the driver who confirmed that he had the book. He wasn't scheduled to arrive back at the office until 8pm...a few hours after i check out of work. i asked him to leave the book in this back room in the lost and found so that i could pick it up the next day. Jacob and i stopped by the next day to recover his lost novel. Upon arriving, the book was nowhere in the room. i called the driver and confirmed that, indeed, he HAD left Sherlock Holmes in the driver's room. How disheartening. This is the note that i now have posted in their room. i hope that i see positive results ::sigh::
Dear Current Possessor of my Sherlock Holmes Book,
I am aware that my Sherlock Holmes book was in the back driver’s room all by itself. If you decided to adopt it into your own library, please note that it was NOT orphaned, merely momentarily abandoned. I would like to bring it home again. Please return it.
Thank you,
jo
P.S. At least return the bookmark inside—it has sentimental value.
26 October 2010
20 October 2010
As for me and my house
i know i promised Jacob's stories, and i AM working on them. Until then, here is a short story (that i received straight from the babysitter's mouth) that i simply had to share. Although the story is true, the names are changed by request of the somewhat embarrassed parents. Hope you get a laugh!
...After a couple of hours in the house with 6 & 7 year old Laurie and John, the babysitter decided that perhaps they would behave better if he let the kids run around outside for a bit. John was quickly ready to go, but Laurie dilly-dallied and wouldn't put her shoes on. Even with much beseeching from the babysitter, she was uncooperative and hiding in odd corners rather than getting her shoes on. John, anxious to get outside and play, finally lost patience with his sister and yelled, "Laurie, just put your damn shoes on!"
The shocked babysitter quickly pulled John aside and explained, "John! We don't say that word in this house!" The little boy looked up at the babysitter with an expression that conveyed both confusion and frustration and said, "Yes we do!" Now how do you respond to that?
...After a couple of hours in the house with 6 & 7 year old Laurie and John, the babysitter decided that perhaps they would behave better if he let the kids run around outside for a bit. John was quickly ready to go, but Laurie dilly-dallied and wouldn't put her shoes on. Even with much beseeching from the babysitter, she was uncooperative and hiding in odd corners rather than getting her shoes on. John, anxious to get outside and play, finally lost patience with his sister and yelled, "Laurie, just put your damn shoes on!"
The shocked babysitter quickly pulled John aside and explained, "John! We don't say that word in this house!" The little boy looked up at the babysitter with an expression that conveyed both confusion and frustration and said, "Yes we do!" Now how do you respond to that?
12 October 2010
Gratitude
Here are some things for which i am grateful this week:
*For words like xu, zit and qat which enable me to spectacularly win at Scrabble.
*That this talented girl is not only my sister, but one of my best friends.
*That the extremely fit girl on the treadmill in front of me at the gym finished her workout just as i started mine. Therefore, i didn't have to watch her skinny butt the whole time i sweated away.
*For a mom who gets just as excited about my Halloween costume as i do.
*For classic literature. And the fact that in reading it this time around, i can enjoy the novels on my own agenda instead of a teacher's.
*That pregnancy is not contagious.
*For zucchinis that are large enough to make four loaves of bread.
*For secret forts built in the living room so that Jacob and i can escape from "the world" for an evening.
*For puffs super soft, super plus tissues with lotion.
*For words like xu, zit and qat which enable me to spectacularly win at Scrabble.
*That this talented girl is not only my sister, but one of my best friends.
*That the extremely fit girl on the treadmill in front of me at the gym finished her workout just as i started mine. Therefore, i didn't have to watch her skinny butt the whole time i sweated away.
*For a mom who gets just as excited about my Halloween costume as i do.
*For classic literature. And the fact that in reading it this time around, i can enjoy the novels on my own agenda instead of a teacher's.
*That pregnancy is not contagious.
*For zucchinis that are large enough to make four loaves of bread.
*For secret forts built in the living room so that Jacob and i can escape from "the world" for an evening.
*For puffs super soft, super plus tissues with lotion.
01 October 2010
Cleaning Up My Act
Every fall, the leadership of my church gives us an incredible opportunity to receive instructions and revelations meant specifically for the women of the church. In this internationally broadcasted meeting, the President of the Church, President Monson, spoke about focusing on charity and being non-judgmental. He began his talk with an anecdote to show how often, when people judge, they do so unjustly--not knowing the whole story or seeing the other person through “tainted” eyes.
As I sat there in the meeting, President Monson’s words flooded over me, and this particular wave of a story almost knocked me over. With a quick assessment of the past months, I KNEW that something in my life needed to change. Contemplating the words spoken, I made a decision on how I needed to alter certain aspects of my daily living.
And so I went home and immediately implemented this change. I washed my windows. If I’m going to judge my neighbor, I sure as hell am going to do it through sparkling windows.
A young couple, Lisa and John, moved into a new neighborhood. One morning while they were eating breakfast, Lisa looked out the window and watched her next-door neighbor hanging out her wash.
“That laundry’s not clean!” Lisa exclaimed. “Our neighbor doesn’t know how to get clothes clean!”
John looked on but remained silent. Every time her neighbor would hang her wash to dry, Lisa would make the same comments.
A few weeks later Lisa was surprised to glance out her window and see a nice, clean wash hanging in her neighbor’s yard. She said to her husband, “Look, John—she’s finally learned how to wash correctly! I wonder how she did it.”
John replied, “Well, dear, I have the answer for you. You’ll be interested to know that I got up early this morning and washed our windows!”
-President Monson
As I sat there in the meeting, President Monson’s words flooded over me, and this particular wave of a story almost knocked me over. With a quick assessment of the past months, I KNEW that something in my life needed to change. Contemplating the words spoken, I made a decision on how I needed to alter certain aspects of my daily living.
And so I went home and immediately implemented this change. I washed my windows. If I’m going to judge my neighbor, I sure as hell am going to do it through sparkling windows.
21 September 2010
Jacob’s Stories: Hero Complex
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!
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!
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.
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