The Investigation: Part II

My alarm went off at 5:50am. I had purposely set it ten minutes early so that I could hit snooze exactly two times before I had to roll out of bed. I hit snooze four times. After finally puling myself out of the warmth of my blankets, I cringed, seeing that it was still dark outside -- I was on vacation, dangit. Nevertheless, I crawled to the shower and threw myself in, forcing myself to face the fact that I was, in fact, awake. Fifteen minutes later, after having decided to forgo the hair washing and merely throw on a hat, I raced down the hill through the early morning fog and made it to the hospital in record time. Upon initial arrival, I was unsure of where to go. I could either go into the Surgery Center, or go in right next to the Emergency Room. I decided to start left and go right. I walked into the Surgery Center and asked the lady at the front desk, "This is probably not the right place, but do you do ultra sounds here?" The lady looked at me with a sweet -- too sweet -- look on her face and said, "No, sweetie. It's next door." I knew from the look on her face that she assumed I was pregnant. I realize I've put on a couple of pounds eating that canister of almond roca, but I would have hoped I didn't look pregnant. I thought about clearing up what was clearly a misunderstanding, but instead, I merely smiled and said, "Happy Holidays," and walked out. 

This is what I saw. It might as well be a baby blob, right?!

Next door I was found to be on the list of patients and was shown to a much too chipper woman (notice how everyone is just a little too happy for me at 7 in the morning?) When I told her my dad's birthday, she threw down her pen, took off her glasses, and exclaimed in a sigh of despair, "Lord, Almighty, I'm old enough to be your mother." I had no response, and merely shrugged and agreed. What do you respond? "Oh nooooooo," I could have replied. "You barely look 25!" But at the butt crack of dawn, why even try. She was jovial, however, and the process went quickly...relitively speaking. I heard how her and her husband met, how they spent their honeymoon in Nevada in a cabin, how she got sick and he had to drive an entire hour just to buy her Nyquil. ("Yeah...he's a keeper," is all I could mumble). Oh, and she has to get her driver's license renewed, but she can't find her two marriage certificates OR her birth certificate. Oh my. Finally I was led to a back room where the lady with big glasses gave me a gown and told me she'd be back. I had never had an ultrasound. I'll admit, I've never been pregnant. I know, newsflash, right? But the actual test wasn't too imposing or dangerous...just lots of warm (surprisingly so, since my entire body was bracing for the cold strike) gel smeared on my belly and the ultra sound equipment snapping pictures of my innards. On the screen I could see my pancreas, my kidney, my liver and my gallbladder. Ok, let's be honest. If she wouldn't have been typing the names of the organs on each screen shot, it might as well have been snapping pictures of a fetus. I was thankful for the first time in my life (because why would I otherwise EVER be thankful for this) for the literary of ultra sound technicians. So informative. Anyways...the procedure lasted a short 10 minutes, at which point I returned the gown, wiped off the goo, and headed out, waving to the woman old enough to be my mom.


It was still dark out when I emerged from the hospital, but the sky up over the mountains was starting to develop into a pink and purple sunrise. I stopped to admire the beautiful site for just a couple of seconds before my mouth filled with bile at the thought of my next stop -- lab tests. I hopped in my car and skipped across the road to the lab, where I was greeted by a little, dark-haired perky woman in a white lab coat, who was batting her eyes at something behind me as I walked in. "Oh," she giggled. "That's just my boyfriend." I turned to see a guy in a flannel shirt drive by in a dirty truck with big wheels. I think a gun rack was hanging on the back window. "Great!" I said, sarcasm oozing off my tongue, at this point not even trying to hide my lack of enthusiasm. Fox News was on the plasma on the wall and they were talking about a bomb that went off in Greece and in Argentina at the same time. I sat engrossed as I heard prancing and squeals from the back room (ok, so maybe she wasn't prancing and squealing, but if you saw her, it's what you would have expected). After a few minutes or so she called my name, looking into the waiting room, as though she was searching through a sea of people awaiting her expert phlebotomist skills. I was the only one there, but I humored her nevertheless. "Oh, right here!" I called to her, waving, trying to see over the fake heads and screaming children in front of me. "Come on back," she replied with a wide smile. I flopped into her seat and she brought out the different blood tubes - 6 in total - and immediately began asking questions. "So..." she began, "he's running a lot of tests on you! Are they looking for something serious?" The last part of her sentence had dropped an octave lower as she tried to pull out her most serious, concerned tone of voice, low enough that the other people in the waiting room wouldn't hear should my reply reveal a tropical fungus I had acquired in New Guinea. I paused, formulating my response, realizing I was already short tempered that morning. Finally I responded, "It's gas." There was a thick silence. Suddenly the silence broke when she realized the awkwardness. "Oh my!" she answered. "Now that just isn't any fun, now, is it?" The blood drawing was relatively painless -- much less so than the conversation -- and I was finally allowed to leave the chair. With another "Happy Holidays" trailing behind me, and with gauze taped to my arm, already pulling at my arm hair, I left the lab and got into my car and began the trip home, the sunrise chasing me in the rearview mirror.


What did I learn through the second phase of my investigation? Well, besides the fact that some people are just way too happy at 7 in the freaking morning, and the fact that your pancreas is located at the top of your abdomen (assuming she knew what she was doing, that is), as well as the testimony of a happily married woman (with a husband great enough to drive an hour to get away from her on her honeymoon -- I mean get her medicine --) that Reno is a fabulous place to get married, I learned nothing. The results should be in by the middle of next week. Until then, I am to keep eating things that I know won't upset my stomach. I think I have 15 gardenbrugers still in my freezer. I might need to buy some more Miracle Whip.

The Investigation: Part I

As many of you may recall, I have had stomach issues from the dawn of time. Well, I can at least remember as far back as my freshman year in the dorms (remember the ulcer the size of a melon that killed me that one time??) Well, I have never been to the doctor for it. I know, I know. Some call it ridiculous. I just thought I had a sensitive stomach! But after years of Gas-X and too many gardenburgers and bowls of cereal(two of the only things that don't set my stomach rolling), I finally went to the doctor today. He was a very nice man. He asked me some questions, poked and prodded, and then gave me the rundown of the possible scenarios. His main concern was my gallbladder, in which case I'd have to have it removed (totally putting a crimp in my style). And then he had a list of other possibilities, including a gluten intolerance, ulcer-causing bile, etc. etc. etc. He ordered a laundry list of lab tests and an ultrasound. I never thought I'd have an ultra sound before I got pregnant, but I guess if it's an ulcer, I'll want to know if I should name it Jane or John. Tomorrow at 7am I go in for the ultrasound. I will stumble in half asleep, of course, considering the fact that I've been sleeping 11-12 hours every day this week (I blame that on my gallbladder, too, naturally), but I'm hoping that with all of these tests, something will show up. Because the next step, should everything come back negative, is anything but pleasant...

Here's hoping for an ulcer??

Stay tuned for The Investigation: Part II

Let it Snow! (and other dangerous tales)

So, remember the long and winded letter I wrote to Richard the Oregon rain god? Well, it worked! --just not in the way I hoped, but that's okay! Because it SNOWED! Correction, it's SNOWING.

This morning I went for a walk up our hill in the snow, my snow hat on, my hoodie over my hat, and my coat hood tied tightly around my head, making me look like a peanut. But that didn't matter, because the snow was so beautiful. As I got higher and higher up the mountain, and the trees got thicker and thicker, I found myself alone, the big snowflakes muting the sounds of the busy freeway below, and making me feel more isolated than a fat man on a nude beach. As I was turning a corner, my breath suddenly caught, and I stopped cold in my tracks. WOLVES. Two large animals appeared through the haze of snow, coming towards me, and all I could think of was that I was alone and about to eaten alive by two large-fanged, wild dogs. The lack of breath smoke coming out of my mouth told me I still wasn't breathing. When I blinked a flake of snow off my eyelash and strained me eyes to see through the blizzard conditions, I realized, much my relief, that they were not, in fact, wolves, but only giant deer. But then stories of wild deer attacks began running through my head, and I wasn't any more comforted than when I thought they were wolves. I stared at the biggest deer. It stared back at me. I crept closer. It took a step back. I wanted a picture. And he/she wasn't about to let me. As soon as I whipped out the camera on my phone, it took off for the hills, leaving dirty hooveprints in the snow. But NOT before I snapped it's portrait. If you look closely, you will notice the dark mass in the back. Note: That is a deer, not a wolf.

I'm not gonna lie. That was a close encounter with an untamed beast. But I survived to tell about it. I also survived the near death fall on my butt as the snow turned the asphalt into a impromptu skating rink. And I survived the near two-car pileup, almost caused by yours truly who's butt was apparently so big that two cars could not pass me at the same time. But whatever. I'm working on it, OKAY? And much to my chagrin, the 80 year old man was nowhere to be seen. I am assuming he was sitting by the fire in his old, beat up slippers, taking his coat off because it "was getting too hot."

So Richard, thanks for letting up on us. I know you can't control Bob, the snow god. But you at least did your part. If the snow doesn't let up by Sunday, when I have to fly back to school, he will be getting a letter, as well. Until then, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

Dear Richard: Please Stop the Rain

It has been raining nonstop for the last 24 hours. And as a true Oregonian, I don't use the word "rain" lightly. It is not the light misty drizzle some might experience along the California coastline. It is not the occasional sideways rainfall seen along the Wasatch Front. No. We are talking torrential downpour. The raindrops are so big and so fierce that your entire body is soaked in just your 5 second walk from your car to the entrance of the Jersey Lilly. Not even a raincoat (which, might I add, is for sissies) can protect the faces of Oregonians from the ruthless Oregon rain god. As I was working on a paper today at the computer, I glanced out the window and stared in amazement at the steady stream of water coming out of the sky. My brother was sitting on the couch playing video games. "Man, that's sure coming down!" I told him, still watching the sky pour out buckets. "Yeah," he replied, in his deep, disinterested voice. "That's all it does around here." And, well, I would agree. Now, I know a good number of Oregonians who worship the rain god. Oregon transplants in Kansas, Southern California, and Utah have voiced their longing for the short, grey and dark days of Oregon winter. And I'll admit. When I moved to Utah, I, too, missed the rain, and at the first smell of oncoming rain on a heavy-aired summer afternoon, my heart would ache a little at the familiarity of it all. But since I am home on vacation, and the rain god has failed to provide me any respite in these last 24 hours from his merciless wrath, I am writing him a letter, hoping that in doing so, the sun will come out...tomorrow.

Ahem...


Dear Oregon Almighty Rain God (can I call you Richard?):
Man, you've really rained on my parade. My hair is frizzy. My feet are cold. My nose is runny. Our yard is flooding. My transexual cat looks like a mop. There's mud splattered up to my butt. My new boots are dirty. You've put a damper on my long, short-sleeved walks, on my quick runs through the neighborhood, and on my winter star gazing. You've put out of the question any hope of building a fire on the deck. You've endangered my life on the freeway. You've threatened to wash away our roads. And you've precariously positioned mud on the mountains, waiting to pile down on top of any living creature below it. I know you're up there with your popcorn and TIVO remote, enjoying your twisted form of entertainment as innocent little ant-like people suffer sopping wet livelihoods down below. You're probably even instant-replaying the time I slipped today on the wet concrete and fell flat on my face. You are just one sick puppy. (My puppies are drenched, by the way). I realize that some will argue that the rain is good for the crops. But you are starting to saturate them. Some will argue that it's good for the plants in the front yard. They're washed down the driveway. Some will even argue that it's beautiful -- until they crash their car in it and are forced to experience the beauty of a white, sterile emergency room. Come on, Dick. Just put a cork in it, and we'll all be happy. If you have Dish Network, you  can go to Channel 342 for the movie Twister in High Definition. You will love it. Trust me. Otherwise, read a good book. It's good for the brain.
If you decide to continue the torrential downpour, refusing to comply with any of my heart-felt requests, I will be forced to use an umbrella. Now you know that that would potentially put my Oregon residential status in jeopardy. Everyone knows true Oregonians don't use umbrellas in Oregon rain. But this just may have to be. And then how would you feel? You'd be losing the little girl who gleefully went out on some of your better days and jumped in puddles for hours. You'd be losing the high school lacrosse player who ruthlessly played in your murky, muddy fields, mud plastered from her feet, up her lacrosse skirt, and up to her face, leaving raccoon eyes around her eye protection. You'd be losing the college student who has carried Oregon in her heart ever since she went away to school. Please, Dick. Do it for me. And for Pete's Sake do it  for my little brother, who despite the fact that it's 35 degrees outside and practically hailing, insists on going golfing wearing nothing but a short sleeved polo shirt. He knows not what he does.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Jessica

Guest Blogger: My sister from my point of view

She's crazy!I know that because she is like addicted to the computer I mean gosh.If you have a sister you know what I mean.Right?I'm sorry if you have one.She could at least have a little fun!50% of the time I ever see her doing she is doing this ''bla bla bla''on her phone or on the computer on this domb blog. I tell her ''you don't have to blog every day ''but she keeps on doing it.Okay to the positives she got me a good Christmas gift and works.Okay Mom I said something good about her.Sshhhhhhhhhhhh it was hard. Joking. More stuff or good stuff are out there but for 9 year old kids it's hard to find them.

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Reasons Why I Love My Little Brother (because I have to remind myself in times like these...)

 Because he reminds me of a pumpkin so often.

 Because he wears those sound proof earphones ALL THE TIME.

 Because he eats cake with his face...

 and picks his nose at the same time...

 Because he is a ruthless food fighter.

 Because when we went to the MTC, the MTC president announced at the end of a short program, "While, that time to say goodbye has finally arrived, so we invite ---" but was loudly interrupted by a little boy standing up and yelling, "Well, SEE YA!" and start walking down the aisle. My mom swears he missed me.

 Because he loves our transexual cat like no one else can.

 Because he looks this THIS when he uses gardening tools.

 Because he's such a smartie pants and loves to learn and share things with us. Just today, in fact, he told me, "Ketchup is a moisturizer." 

Because our computer is filled with millions of his self-portraits.

 Because he slightly resembles a snowman (and fits into my clothes --> see snow coat). 

 Because he is an all-star little leaguer who wore #12 (my number in little league!) 

 Because he is a cub scout (I won't mention that he HATES it) and keeps "Scout's Honor"

 Because he chose to get baptized and let his cousins sing at it.

 Because he gives me away to strangers.

 Because he stole the show as an Oompa Loompa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

 Because he is the leader of the pack.

 Because this is how he looks EVERY Fourth of July.

 Because he loves his tie dye ALMOST as much as I do.

 Because we're backseat buddies (there are millions of photos like this on this same trip if you ever want to see more...)

Because he gives Jeff Gordan a run for his money.

This blog post will serve as a reminder to me every time he tells me "You could use some of that" when referring to an acne medication commercial, when he tells me that I'll never get a boyfriend, when he calls me poop, when he refuses to hug me, when he pinches me until I bleed, etc. etc. etc.

But fortunately none of it will outshadow the times when he's an angel...

like when he's asleep.

I love my little brother.

"Keep the change, ya filthy animal."

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Another holiday has arrived...Christmas Eve. It seems like Thanksgiving was just upon us yesterday, force-feeding us globs of mashed potatoes and chunks of oven-baked turkey. It seems like just this afternoon that I was sprawled out on the couch, the button of my pants about ready to pop off and missile fire at some unsuspecting victim (and I would be too comatose to even care). Yes, didn't we just do the holiday thing? But alas, here we are again, ready for Round 2. And this time I'll have my stretchy pants.

Thinking back on Thanksgiving, however, brings to memory one particular Turkey Day that, to this day, never fails to bring a wicked smile to my face.

We had just built our house, and the extended family was gathered inside preparing our first feast under our new roof. The house was so new that the light fixtures in the kitchen had yet to have the caulking placed around them, leaving large rings of space around each canister of light. Underneath the brilliance of the new fixtures, the women of the house hustled and bustled around, stirring this, whipping that, and chopping who knows what. A bowl of perfectly crafted stuffing sat done and steaming on the kitchen counter, ready for salivating mouths to devour it. The gravy and the mashed potatoes were nearing their completion, as well. While this all went on, however,  something else was happening upstairs...

There are still disputes about who it was. Some claim it was me. I claim it was my brother. Either way, the fact is that it was done. Someone used the upstairs bathroom directly above the kitchen. And, like what happens every now and then in a living, breathing household, the person using the toilet clogged it. In his/her attempt to unplug it, it began to overflow, brown poopy water pouring out over the sides. And unfortunately, the construction guys hadn't gotten around to caulking around the toilets either...

As the food began to stack up on the kitchen counter, waiting for someone to take it all the festively decorated dining room table, I sat at the bar, taking it all in, my mouth already watering for what was about to come. Suddenly I felt a drip. And a drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. I looked up and noticed a steady stream of water dripping from the ceiling, landing squarely on the bowl of well-seasoned stuffing. I looked closer. The water was dirty. In a sudden realization of horror, I looked one more time at the ceiling and dashed upstairs to the bathroom. When I opened the door, I saw the catastrophe - a flood the size of the Pakistan disaster graced the blue and white tiled floor. Chunks floated throughout it. I gagged, closed the door, and then fell to the ground in an unontrollabe fit of laughter. Finally, after about 15 minutes of body convulsions with little sound coming out, I made my way downstairs. By this time, others had noticed the dripping and were frantically moving the food off the counter and sopping up the puddles. "It's POOOOOOOOOP!" I yelled, squealing, and again breaking into a fit of giglgles. If repulsion had a face, it would have been smacked across every single person in that kitchen. And then the chorus of laughter began, until it reverberated throughout the entire house.

It could probably go unsaid that we did not end up eating the stuffing that year. Many were even reluctant to touch the rest of the food out fear of cholera. That week the bathroom got caulked, and the light fixtures in the kitchen were finished. And a holiday has never passed since that I haven't remembered the secret ingredient to a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Happy Holidays! (Here's your spray)

Bucket is home for the holidays. She arrived this afternoon at the Portland International Airport in all her glory. She was sporting a new puffy coat and her Chucks (naturally). Upon arriving at my house, she was finally able to witness in the flesh what my mom had been raving about for weeks -- Glade spray. Its label claims that it eliminates odors and freshens the air. The last time Bucket was at my house, she was appalled to find that my family did not have any in our possession. After all, we don't stink. Consequently, when it was decided that Bucket would be gracing us with her lovely presence for Christmas, my mother hurried out to Fred Meyer and bought a can of Apple Cinnamon. That was two weeks ago. And ever since that purchase, she has been texting Bucket, reminding her almost every day that she bought it, at one point even apologizing that she couldn't find the pine scent. So it was to be expected that when Bucket got the off the plane, the first thing out of her mouth was, "Where's the spray?!" Ok, so maybe those weren't her first words. But when she got to my house, the spray did quickly become the center of attention among all those in its immediate vicinity. When someone (who shall remain nameless) caused a stink on the couch, the spray was passed through many willing (and anxious) hands until it reached the pile of blankets, at which point it was quickly sprayed overhead, a futile attempt to smother out the already spreading stench, a stench which led my brother to ask, "Mom...did you put something stinky in the garbage?" Later, another anonymous perpetrator took off her shoes, letting them slide to the ground, leaving her bare feet exposed to the whims of the holiday breeze blowing through the room. Creating the warm, cozy atmosphere of a men's locker room following a heated game of high school basketball, those around her were anything but pleased. Some might have even been gagging. Once again, Glade was passed through the throngs until it was intensely sprayed directly onto the source of the odor. With soaking feet, the smell was suppressed - at least for a couple of minutes while everyone took deep breaths of fresh air. Still, later, another spurious eruption took place, this time from a little nameless criminal, who took it upon  himself to take care of the problem, soaking his backside until no smell would ever come out, again. (And we're talking in his whole life). So, you see, this new addition to the household has really made all the difference. In a world plagued by war and famine and sadness, Glade has brought a ray of sunshine under our roof, just in time for the Holiday season.

Thank you Glade, for being who you are. And thank you Bucket for introducing its potential to a family who was otherwise so blind and ignorant. We are now enlightened and will never be the same. 'Tis the season to be jolly, people. Happy Holidays.

When I'm 80...

This morning the sun broke through the clouds for a rare celebration, and blue sky was visible for the first time since I got home to Oregon. And you know what that meant! I had to put on my tennis shoes and get outside. I threw on my coat, hitched up the iPod and headed out the door, a little extra bounce in my step. I was loving every second of it -- and it didn't even matter that I was about to walk down a mountain ------ and then back up it again. Going down was pleasant enough. I only almost got ran over three times (well, four if you count the motorcycle), and Lady Gaga came on five times on the iPod. "....oh caught in a bad romance..."Halfway to the bottom of the mountain, I passed an 80 year old fellow traveler. He was wearing a San Francisco 49'er sweatshirt and a big smile. "Good morning!" he said, a little too loudly -- and without even a hint of being out of breath, might I add. When I got to the bottom, a bead of sweat was forming on my forehead, a sign that my body was beginning to warm up. At that point I knew it was time to turn around if I had any hope of getting back up the mountain alive. And so I began my ascent. As I was reaching the midway point (about where I saw the 80 year old man the first time) we met again. This time he had his coat swung over his shoulder, but the same big grin. "I had to take my coat off at the top!" he said, laughing. I laughed, too. It was a somewhat nervous laugh, as I took a deep, long look at my life ahead of me and wondered if I would be walking this hill when I was 80 years old. If I keep eating the amounts of Christmas fudge I am right now, my chances are slim. Nevertheless, I tipped my hat and carried on up the mountainous road.

When I'm 80, I hope to be skydiving. Go 49'ers.

A Promise Kept

It's almost that time again...yet another shopping trip in our beloved little town. We've hit three stores already and I think we pretty much exhausted the "city." Did I mention our 7am stocking stuffer adventure at Wal-Mart this morning? I never thought I'd see the day when I'd join the seven other eager people outside our local Wal-Mart, waiting anxiously for the front doors to open. I've always wanted to rush the doors, thrusting my elbows out in front of me to thwart off anyone who may be be trying to beat me to that tube of toothpaste that I've had my eye on for oh so long. Alas, with only a mere seven of us, I was forced to knock over the old woman in the rocker. Ok, not really. And the other lady wasn't wearing a bra -- typical -- and I wasn't even going there. I tell this all to you because as I put back on my boots and pop in a piece of gum, ready to do Round 2 of the day, it leaves me little time to blog. Normally this would not matter, as I have gone years without blogging, but during these two weeks, I have sworn with my own blood that I would write every day for my roommate Dark Horse. I think I even put my hand on a gardenburger. It's that serious.

And with that said, I have a 9 year old freckled face red head with glasses looking over my shoulder saying that it's time to "head into town!" So I must humor him. Happy Holidays to all.

Guest Blogger: "If I Were Jessica..."

If I were Jessica, the legendary Oregonian, I would have to admit that I would have a LOT going for me. I would hate the effects of humidity on my curls and the hazards of whip cream on my straightened brunette hair. I would hug trees, stand up for global warming and say weird words like 'melk' and 'pellow'. If you knew me well, you would know that I dump this leftover melk from my cereal into the sink instead of drinking it. I'm pretty sure I would drool on my pellow too.

If I were Jessica, my favorite color would be green. Super (sketchy) South Provo would be my favorite jogging spot and I would have some pretty weird friends, well actually...I can't think of any that are weird. I would be super intelligent and all my Sociology professors would love me. I would be an SPSS expert and sometimes I might get a case of the hives, but I would be ok with that because it would give me character...right?

If I were Jessica, I would love anything Argentine and could speak Castellano like a native. Sometimes I'd get an ulcer and I would most likely name mine after an old boyfriend since they both can cause equal amounts of pain. But let's forget about painful things. Sometimes I'd run red lights while driving my car, Linus. Other times, I might hold his steering wheel so tight that my knuckles become abnormally white. Sometimes I might even wear tapered pants...and secretly love them (see below).

If I were Jessica, I would be nice to the dirty hippies at BYU and I would be Mikaela's number 2 on speed dial (number 1 would be her dad, naturally). I would have awesome shorts that I could wear while dusting the lightbulb outside my apartment that would guarantee me a date with the next guy that walked by. (I still don't know just how they have such charm...but they do). I would also like penguins.

If I were Jessica, I would be an Oregon fan (I'd really like the colors). I would hate smoked oysters (which would be such a crappy way to live!) and I would despise anything seafood (which would just be SO sad!). I would eat Gardenburgers almost everyday until my stomach could no longer process it as a food and I would shop at Costco to make sure that I could have trail mix for a lonnnng trip.

If I were Jessica, I would be a Rex. Like the dinosaur--rawr! My nickname would be Bill, not because I'm masculine but because Bill is really quite endearing--and it would differentiate me from the million other Jessica's in this world who had parents who liked the "Man From Snowy River" in the 80's, too. If I were her, I'd actually have seen that movie.

If I were Jessica, I would listen to chill music--like The Weepies, The Ditty-Bops, Ron Pope, Joshua Radin and other such musicians. I would maintain great hidden talents (kind of like breathing without making noise)...but I would keep them hidden. I would also have 3 awesome roommates--one that was dark, one that loved Jesus, and one that was pretty much Finnish.

If I were Jessica, not only would I be incredibly cool but I would also possess insurmountable amounts of trust--like letting someone have access to my blog to post things to cyberspace without me approving beforehand.

So as you can see, if I were Jessica...I'd be top notch, dang it.

Care for some potato salad?

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Solutions

On Saturday night I had a date. Yes, a date. No, not that little space on the calendar, not that "not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket" day. I'm talking a real, live, bonafied date. And I'll admit, since it had been awhile, I was excited. As 5:00pm crept closer, I began to get ready for the outing: flinging clothes out of my drawers, ripping shirts off their hangers, everything onto my body, look in the mirror, everything off of my body and onto the floor. New shirt. New pants. Too tight. Too saggy. Makes my shoulders too broad. Does this make my butt look big?


In exasperation (and due to lack of any more time to devote to vanity) I finally settled on a pair of skinny jeans and a sweater. Okay, I thought to myself, as the clock ticked on, I'm ready. I went to go get my shoes, and stopped myself as I faced one last obstacle. I saw my brown boots -- the ones my mom refers to as "bad stripper boots." If you ask her why she calls them that, it's definitely not for any of the reasons you're thinking. But I will say that when I wear them, I sound like a horse. It's probably best not to wear those on a first date. That basically left one option: My brown flats that are falling apart and smell to high heaven. My feet don't even have to sweat in them in order to elicit a stench so rank that it could easily give a teenage boy's room after a male sleepover a run a for its money. GROSS. So there I stood, facing a moral dilemma. Do I wear them, making my outfit complete, but risking the life of my date since he just may drive off the side of the road, asphyxiated by deadly fungal gas? Or do I take pity on an innocent soul (and my unforgiving reputation and dating life) and wear a less than ideal pair of shoes that don't stink? I counseled with my nearby roommate, who has much dating wisdom, and asked her what I should do. She related a dating tale to me, about a time when she wore her favorite black flats that smelled worse than an old pile of dung, and when her date turned on the heater in his car, the smell of her shoe was circulated through the vehicle. Yes, I thought. That's disturbing. But we both sat there, still at odds about what to do. Finally, a lightbulb turned on above my roommate's head, and her face lit up as she began to articulate a solution: "Can I put band-aids in your shoe?" she asked, way too excited for her own good. "Ummmmmm, sure??" I replied, not quite sure where she was going with it. I had to hurry and get my out of control fro tamed before the doorbell rang, so I left my flats in the hands of the Stink Master. When I came back out of my room, I noticed that the inside of my shoe had become completely white. That's some band-aid, I thought. And then I realized what it was. I am not lying. It was a maxi pad. A MAXI PAD. My roommate had found a maxi pad in the drawer, and it was somehow the exact length of my foot, and fit perfectly inside my shoe, in such a way that it prevented any smell from escaping its moldy inner skeleton. "Nooooooooo," I told her, laughing uncontrollably. "Are you serious??" "Wear it! Wear it! Wear it!" she squealed, as her whole body convulsed in giggles. With only 60 seconds to go until my date arrived, I made a rash decision and said, "Okay." I would wear the maxi pad. I slipped on my flat (because the maxi pad was only in one shoe) and just as I did, the doorbell rang. And I walked out into the living room, a little bounce in my step as I enjoyed all the comfort and arch support that a pad has to offer.


Later on in the date, we were sitting in the auditorium waiting for the concert to start. I had my legs crossed, and my foot dangling near my date. Out of habit, I slipped my heal out of my shoe and let it dangle from my foot as I bounced my leg. When I did so, I caught a flash of white out of the corner of my eye and gasped as I remembered the maxi pad lining the bottom of my flat. And then I started laughing. I think my date thought his joke was funny. Little did he know...LITTLE did he know. 

Nostalgia

The other morning I was walking to campus as the sun was rising, and saw something like this (please note that this picture was taken downtown Provo...near the Hookah shop).

The sun was hitting Timp in such a way that it stopped me in my tracks, and as I breathed the cold, frigid air into my lungs, I couldn't help but be amazed. As I was standing there (teeth chattering, and lips quickly turning blue), I was all of the sudden hit with a sense of nostalgia. Here I was, two day before going home, and I was homesick! The pit sunk deep into my stomach as I continued to shiver, staring up at the summit of Timp. I didn't understand. And then in my mind, I saw this image:

I took this picture my first day in Ushuaia, Argentina, at the bottom of the world. With my mouth gaping open, I contued to pull the camera trigger, not being able to get over where I really was...

It felt liked someone else's dream, a reality I never EVER saw myself in. But after 8 months of entering its warm homes, laughing and crying with its people, and breathing in its cool arctic air every morning, it became home.

When people ask me about my mission, my mind can't help but drift to this small, Argentine island town, surrounded by white majestic Andean mountains and crystal clear blue arctic water. That pit comes into my stomach just writing about it. Tony Bennett sings:

The loveliness of Paris
Seems somehow sadly gay
The glory that was Rome
Is of another day
I've been terribly alone
And forgotten in Manhattan
I'm going home to my city by the bay.

I left my heart in Ushuaia.

 

My Apologies

Tonight I overheard two of my roommates apologizing to one another, and then each offered their forgiveness. Naturally, I wanted in on the action, and asked each of them to apologize to me for something. I mean, I personally had nothing to apologize to anyone about. They both said they were sorry for every injustice and every cruel and unusual punishment ever inflicted upon me. I think one even apologized for having wanted to punch me earlier this evening (although I can't imagine why...) After each had kneeled at my feet, begging me for forgiveness, offering to do anything to wash away their dark and dreadful sins, I held out my hand and let them kiss my ring - an outward token of my humility. Later, as I lay on the couch in the living room, I was suddenly made aware that I was, indeed, born with a conscious (it may be equivalent to that of a puppy's after it pees on the floor -- not TRULY sorry, but certainly weary of the imminent punishment--- but whatever). With that said, I attempt to clear my "guilty" conscience so that I may sleep in peace. (But don't expect me to kiss your ring. I don't know where that thing's been). Ahem....

I am sorry for writing about pee and poop and gas so often on this blog. I imagine that if everyone really blogged about their most frequent activities throughout their days, they, too, would write about it. Apparently I'm just the most honest person in the world. And am I supposed to apologize for being truthful? I know where liers go. 

Bethany: I am sorry that I ate some of your crackers yesterday and didn't feel bad about it. I still don't feel any remorse about it, come to think of it, but that's not the point of my apology. I have forgiven you countless times for eating my grapes or my gum, so the least you can do is humble yourself and forgive me for that one saltine I snuck while you were teaching the gospel to hungry young souls in the MTC. I'm also sorry that you don't ever read my blog. Oikeastaan en ole pahoillani mitään, mutta voimme antaa kaikkien mielestä olen. aion pieru teitä joka päivä.

Katie: I'm sorry that I turn on my light in the mornings and it blinds you to the point where you can't study during the day, but are forced to only play Soduku in the library by your lover boy who awkwardly pokes you. I'm sorry that you can't be as cool as me and be the actual poker (and by poker, I mean grabber...you know what I mean). I'm sorry that Harry Potter would totally date me if he was real. I mean, who wouldn't? (Don't answer that).


Ashley: I'm sorry for that one time. Yeah, you know...I'm sorry that I speak Spanish to you and expect you to understand everything I say. I'm sorry that my suitcase is under your bed. I fully expect Katie to contort her body to fit inside of it one day. I'm sorry that I cannot bend -- at all. 


Jess (Bucket): I'm sorry that you have to burn your bra. If it makes you feel better, you could burn just one bra cup and still have the same size as my entire bra. I'm sorry you don't know how to cook chicken...someday you will cook as well as I do (aka pour cereal, poor milk, eat). I'm sorry you're going to Boston. It's a hideous city. I'm sorry you can't speak proper English -- but don't wohry. I can smother you with a pellow next time your roots show.


Kendal: I'm sorry you mistook my original diagnosis our freshman year as bloating and ultimately let me die from my melon-sized ulcer. I'm sorry people want to volunteer on Thanksgiving and Christmas .I'm sorry I totally outperformed you when we did our N*Sync video in the bathroom of DT. I've got skills, what can I say? I'm sorry I make us eat LOTS (fat for fat -- misery loves company). I'm sorry that you're going to have to watch a documentary/foreign film with me every week. Sometimes I fart.


Jamie: I'm sorry you have to sit through international health every week. I realize this would normally thrill you if we didn't talk about vasectomy festivals in Thailand. I'm sorry I didn't recycle a can yesterday. I'm sorry I went to Oregon and didn't take you with me. I'm sorry my hair is not as red as yours. I'm sorry I stole your family when our mothers switched us at birth. I'm sorry I asked you "What about the paper bag?"


Family: I'm sorry that I exhibit so many of your genes.


The World: I'm sorry you haven't found peace yet. I'll keep trying.


God: I'm sorry I swore today. I swear I'll never do it again.


Gahndi once said, "The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong." Don't be a wuss. Say you're sorry and I'll forgive you. Oh wait, I was asking YOU for forgiveness? Well, whatever. I forgive you.

Unfinished Business

Some of you might be aware that my stomach has, should we say, issues. I have been forced to face the dismal fact that I can only eat about 7 foods in the entire world that don't irritate it. I've tried not eating anything at all, but that has the same effect as eating a can of baked beans (if you know what I mean). I go through a pack of medicine a week, trying to keep things under control. Some days are better than others. The "others" are anything but pleasant, however. Lately I feel like my problem has gotten worse. Maybe it's aging. Maybe it's polio. Maybe its the moldy cheese in the fridge. I really can't say. I just bend over.

Today I was going through my old blog posts trying to see what blog entries I had started but never published. And, ladies and gentlemen, I found a gem reminding me that this problem of mine has been an issue for a number of years of now -- longer than I remember. Observe:

December 11, 2005
Girl Dies of Giant Ulcer

"I just thought it was bloating." Brigham Young University freshman Kendal Blust had never been more wrong. On Dec. 11, 2005 freshman Jessica Thompson was taken to Provo General Hospital where an ulcer the size of a melon was discovered in the lining of her stomach. Thompson died from complications later that night.

It's funny that I thought I had an ulcer in '05. Just last month my apartment brainstormed names for my current one. Maybe I should go to the doctor? Or maybe I should just accept the fact that by this time next month I will be eating only baby food on small rubber spoons with Gas-X dissolved among the sweet potato mush from a jar. Life is great when you've got gas.

BLT's and Blushing

 "Man is the only animal that blushes -- or needs to."

Mark Twain

The other day I was standing in line, waiting to order a Subway sandwich. The line was long, and I was lost in deep thought, probably solving world poverty or developing a cure for AIDS. Ok, ok. So I was deciding what to wear the next day. But HE didn't know that. Yes, someone of the opposite sex actually talked to me. It's become somewhat of a foreign concept these days, since I spend my time either farting with my roommates or in the library glued to my homework. So this day was, indeed, a day for my journal. Unfortunately, the short exchange did not end in a marriage proposal like I was hoping. It did not even end in a "Hey, I lost my number...can I have yours?" (Yes, I was asked that once at the skating rink. It was epic.) In fact, not only did none of that come to pass, but I wish none of it had even happened. Allow me to elaborate:

For those who see me in my good AND bad moments, they know I get red like a juicy, juicy tomato too easily. If it's really bad, I may even decide to break out into hives. I love it. So today was merely just a manifestation of what I have come to define as a disorder -- blushing. As I mentioned, I was lost deep in thought waiting for my sandwich. Suddenly the guy in front of me turns around and asks, "How's your Thursday going?" Still thinking about how I could pair my brown boots with my gray pair of jeans (is that even okay??), I didn't immediately register that Friendly Guy was talking to ME. When I realized that he was staring straight at me like he was waiting for something, I shoved my thoughts of stripper boots to the burner and managed to open my mouth. "Not bad," I replied, smiling, trying to pull off at least some shred of evidence that I really was at least somewhat normal. I feared that in my lack of realizing he was speaking to me, my trademark dumb look was showing (mouth hanging open, drool dripping down, eyes unresponsive). At this point I could feel my face starting to flush. I hoped with all the stars in the sky that he would suddenly get really interested in what he wanted to eat (I hear the grilled chicken is real good!) and turn around so I wouldn't be forced to face him with my rapidly ripening tomato plant called my cheeks. But no. This kid was relentless. "Oh yeah?" he asked. What kind of answer was he expecting to that? Do I say "Yeah" in response? The cold cut trio is ravishing --- TURN AROUND! "Yeah," I finally replied, and deciding to add a little more depth to the conversation than an exchange that mere ostriches could have with each other, I added, "I have a class tonight...just fueling up!" He claimed to have a night class, too, probably thinking that this fact alone would bring us together in holy matrimony. Despite the fact that I was definitely NOT attracted to Friendly Guy, I could still feel my cheeks burning. I couldn't pull it together. "What class do you have?" he asked. My face was on fire. Do you know how it is to blush, and then to realize that the person in front of you notices that you are blushing, which only makes you blush even more out of embarrassment for blushing? I didn't want him to think I was blushing because a BOY was talking to ME (seriously...I just wanted my veggie delight!). With all of this going through my head, I drew a blank as to what class I had, which only caused me to flare up even more. Naturally, I thought that if bent down to escape his intrusive stare for just 2 seconds, I could pull myself together and drain the natural color back into cheeks. "Hold on," I told him, still having not answered his question. I reached down to fix my pant leg, which obviously needed no fixing, and then stood back up. First of all, who pauses mid answer to fix a pant leg? And second, last time I did a headstand against a wall, all the the blood rushed to my head and turned my face scarlet red. WHAT WAS I THINKING bending my head down to fix the problem? Instead it only fueled the fire. Straightening up, going on purple now, I finally choked out, "International Health." He just stood there looking at me. "Are you alright?" he asked. Oh for Pete's sake, call the mountains upon me and bury me alive. Or just go order your stupid sandwich! Meatball is a great choice, too! "Yeah," I replied, "just a little warm is all." He nodded and turned his back to me, finally remembering his original purpose of being at Subway. He ordered a BLT -- no tomato. When he paid for his sandwich, he looked back at me as I was deep in thought once again over which cookie to add to my value meal. I could see my still bright red reflection in the clear cookie display case. I didn't look at him. Finally he walked off to enjoy his dinner, probably meeting up with someone who could manage to say a few more words than "yeah" and "hold on."  I left Subway and walked to a table by myself, my face still burning in embarrassment.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm single. Moments like the other day, however, leave very little room for any doubt.

Maybe I should try Taco Bell on Tuesday, instead.

An Unfortunate Toilet Tale

It was 5:00am and the world outside the small-town, deserted motel was silenced by the blanket of snow quickly covering its roads and mailboxes. Even the front desk man in his Boise State sweatshirt was nowhere to be found. Everyone and everything was sound asleep -- except for one person's busy bowels.

                                  *-----------------------------------------*

We had just driven for 7 hours through knuckle gripping snow and ice, eating nuts, raisins, and M&M's the entire way (probably 4,359 calories worth, give or take a calorie). When we finally saw the neon "Vacancy" light flashing below the rusty, soiled window pane, we both breathed a sigh of relief, knowing rest was finally awaiting us. After a much longer than necessary conversation with Boise State Man about football (seriously? at 4:30 in the morning?) we trudged our snow-covered suitcases to our room, eager to close our tired drivin' eyes and rest our weary war-torn bodies. By the time we had settled in, it was approaching the buttcrack of dawn, or rather, 5am, and I could see the end in sight. Suddenly, however, my co-pilot (who shall remain anonymous for reasons clearly apparent in just a second), announced that she was leaving the hotel room in search of a toothbrush. She had pawned hers off halfway between Twin Falls and Nampa to pay for the rest of our gas. While her sacrifice was much appreciated, the fact that she insisted on risking her life by going into the blizzard (and walking by Boise State Man again) was just a little on the clinically psychotic side, and I wondered if I should encourage her to start taking her medicine again (I now know, however, that she had pawned that off, too). When she grabbed me by the throat and threatened physical - and permanent - damage if I did not let her leave, I gave in, and climbed into bed, worrying the whole time that she would get picked up by a car full of less than wholesome individuals smoking a little somethin' something'. Despite her great potential for completely fitting in with that crowd, I prayed that she would resist any fruitful opportunities and return back to the motel.

Before leaving, she made a fleeting comment about needing to use the bathroom. Since I had already brushed my teeth (with my non-pawned toothbrush) and washed my face, I didn't care. I was already in bed, trying not to touch the soiled pillowcase and blanket. I must have dozed off, because it seemed like an eternity by the time she finally came out of the bathroom and left the hotel room. In my dream-like state, it seemed like it was a full 30 minutes before she actually headed out into the storm. And a dream I though it to be until a horrific smell and the presence of someone strange woke me in a sweaty, heart-thudding panic.

My first reaction was to glance at the clock -- 5:40am. My second reaction was to take a swing at the person standing over my bed. When I realized it was my anonymous co-pilot, I stopped flailing my arms and sat up, my nose wrinkling in disgust. "What is that SMELL?!" I asked her, trying to keep the nuts, raisins, and M&M's from spewing all over the already-soiled motel blankets. "What?" she replied innocently, a slight twitch in her left eye. It was only then that I heard a rush of chunky water coming from the bathroom, where I could see the light filtering out from beneath the closed door. With the sudden realization of who had last used the bathroom, with the thought of her history, and remembering what she had just spent the last seven hours eating, I leapt out of bed and rushed down the little hallway. I stopped dead cold, however, when my feet suddenly stepped on something mushy and wet. The sewage was seeping out of the cracks under the door and soaking into the carpet. "$@%%!&!" I exclaimed, holding my breath and trying not to think about what I had just put my foot in. Meanwhile, my co-pilot was shimmering into her warm pajamas and pulling back the covers to get into bed, her new toothbrush clutched lovingly (and crazily) to her chest. What the heck was she doing? We had an EMERGENCY on our hands. Taking one last deep breath without breathing in through my nose, I rolled up pant legs, said a word or two...and pushed open the door. Have you ever been to Niagara Falls? Well, I haven't, but after that night, I don't think I ever need to. We had a great water wonder of the world in our very own hotel room, as dirty, chunky water gushed out of the toilet bowl like Old Faithful. The smell was overwhelming. The sight was beyond description. The work of cleaning it up paralyzed me from moving. Where does one even start in a situation such as that? What do I use to do it with? The three white towels on the shower rack?? I couldn't do it. There was no way in Haites I could do it. Backing up, still not breathing, I turned off the light and closed the door, water sloshing onto the carpet and up around my ankles. I went back to the bedroom, clearly suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. I rolled my pant legs back down, wiped my feet off on the blanket, and climbed into bed. My anonymous co-pilot was already loudly snoring. I glared at her so fiercely that I'm sure she felt it burning into the back of her blonde, side-ponytailed head. Soon, however, I felt myself slipping away into dreamland, the smell of poopy water and the sound of the raging river drifting away, out through the rusty window and into the cold, snowy night.

At 10am, the sun peaking through the curtains and the birds chirping melodiously out the window, a knock came at our door. "HOUSEKEEPING!" the woman yelled with a slight indistinguishable accent. Crap. The events of earlier that morning came rushing back me and I leaped out of bed, trying to reach the door before she found herself knee-deep in brown murk. "No, gracias! Esta bien!" I yelled through the door, hoping that the indistinguishable accent was Spanish. She left without saying anything. I stood by the door in silence, assessing the monumental mess before my eyes. "WHAT'S THAT SMELL??" I heard my anonymous co-pilot groan from the warm covers of her bed. I trudged into the bedroom and looked at her, incredulity plastered across my face. "Seriously?" I asked "What is that SMELL?" "Yeah," she replied. "It smells like death." Her toothbrush was still clutched to her chest. "You are so full of it," I said to her in disgust. "Full of what?" she asked, with an innocent smile. "Full of WHAT?" I exclaimed, my voice raising to a higher pitch than Michael Jackson's early years. "I got my toothbrush," she replied, showing me the new Oral B, completely ignoring my sarcastic response of disbelief. "Come on," I sighed in surrender. "We need to get going." After changing our clothes and packing up our suitcases, we headed back out to the car. Nothing more was said about the bathroom. Nothing more was said about the geyser STILL erupting from the toilet, or the smell STILL asphyxiating every single person on that floor. We merely tipped our hats at the Boise State man and got into the car. On our way out we passed a dumpster and I made a point to throw away the nuts, raisins, and M&M's. Next stop was my house. And I did NOT need a clogged toilet at home.

Yes to Pee, No to Zzzzz!

Today I voice the opinion of many BYU students who find it rather unsettling that people, upon their own free will, choose to sleep in the bathrooms around campus. I realize that sleeping and peeing are two natural life occurrences, but that doesn't mean that we force them together like two very awkward individuals on a blind date. They're just better off living alone.

Yesterday I went in the bathroom on the fourth floor of the library, which houses the Asian material. Naturally, the bathroom is occupied by five or six Asian students sprawled out on the couches, eating their lunches, talking on their phones, or doing their makeup. I walk in with my bladder filled to the brim, and knowing I would be peeing for a lengthy amount of time, I was rather perturbed. No one wants others to have the tools and information necessary to gauge the size and weight of your internal organs. But alas, when one has to go, there is little choice. So I go in and self-consciously hover over the toilet, keenly aware of every drop that hits the toilet water. The only comfort I am able to muster up is that even though I may not speak their common language, we still allllll pee. I was reassured, at least for a moment.

Now, I only went pee. While I would never go #2 in a public restroom unless nature forced it upon me with unmerciful vengeance, some feel much more open about dropping off their kids at the swimming pool in such frequently visited places. And that's okay. Each to her own. But I'm not concerned about the doers. I'm concerned about the second hand stench and its effects on obviously uneducated victims. I'm quite convinced that it is not unlike second hand smoke. I can only imagine the fumes that one gets from her own bodily excrement when it exits the body. Are these people not aware of the risks? Should BYU not make it more of a public health concern on campus? I hate to be the bad guy here, but someone eventually had to pipe in and tell America that smoking is not healthy. And while I cannot stop pooping all together (no matter how much I would like to), the least I can do is warn others of its devastating effects.

Now let's keep in mind that this is not merely an Asian phenomenon on the fourth floor of the library. Sleeping and lounging about in the bathrooms unfortunately occurs in all areas of campus. Take the Clyde Building for example. Just the other day I went to use the bathroom there, did my business thinking no one else was joining me, when suddenly I heard a cough and noticed feet hanging off the end of a sofa tucked behind a wall by the sinks. The DANGERS people! Ignorance is BLIND!

But not only is it dangerous to sleep in the bacteria infested, toxic smelling, poopy toilet spray covered tiled bathroom, it's just downright disgusting -- and quite possibly could be evidence of mild brain damage (results from the latest study are still pending). Who in their right mind would CHOOSE to sleep in there? Sleep in the hallway by the trashcan! Sleep under the stairwell where the dust moths can eat at your clothes! Sleep at a table where thousands of people have farted and drooled! But for heavens sake, do not CHOOSE to sleep in an oversized outhouse!!! Apparently, however, despite the fact that many of these people are probably acing many of their college-level classes, they are unable to make such an intelligent use of their moral agency. That is why Big Brother must step in, and for their own sake, make it for them.

Dear BYU:

Please take the couches out of the bathrooms. They are a health hazard to all.

Sincerely,

Jessica

If we wash our hands with the sanitizer dispensers at every corner, let us not be content to allow bacterial spray to plaster our faces and enter our bodies as we sleep in the moist warm air of the restrooms. It's a little harder to wash with soap.

Please join with me in supporting this newly founded campaign:

Yes to Pee, No to Zzzzz!

(Donations can be made to Account #25468)