Ode to a 5'5" Giant of a Man

Recently, dinner conversations have become more regular at the kitchen table.

I don't remember what led to it, but someone mentioned the long black socks I'd worn with my skirt to church today. I nonchalantly replied that I hadn't had time to shave my legs this morning, and my mom and little sister nodded their understanding. I got up to put my dishes away and thought the conversation was over, but little did we know that my dad had been listening and was now deep in thought.

A few minutes later, the silence was broken.
"Do you really have to do it that often?" he asked.

The three of us stared at him. Our female minds had long since wandered to other engaging subjects, like what to wear tomorrow, dessert, and whose turn it was to take the dog out.
"Do what, Poppy?"
"Shave," he answered innocently.

Here we all stared at him in disbelief. He's been living with 6 women for HOW long and he has to ask us this??? Oh my poor dad. It just goes to prove that there are certain things that men will never understand about women, no matter how many daughters he has.

It made me recall a distant memory, when mom was away and we were still 5 little girls. He had served us a dinner of soup (probably from a can) and we were all slurping away at it around the kitchen table, our long hair falling across our faces and into our vittles. He saw the problem and tried to fix it by grabbing a handful of rubber bands (the kind that come wrapped around the morning paper) and attempting to tie all of our hair up into ponytails. I think it was probably the first and last time he has ever done girls' hair. The result was probably a comedic sight that would have given 80's hair bands a run for their money. Well, the "guy"ness of my dad is one of his most endearing qualities.

The years have gone by and we have all done our best to live peacefully together, our dad occasionally driving us to the drugstore to buy tampons and putting up with our monstrous tantrums, while we try to keep him looking respectable in public by informing him when his outfit doesn't match or when he needs to cut his hair.

When people ask my dad how many children he has and he tells them he has five daughters, they always say, "oh, I'm so sorry." To which he always replies, "why?"

We love our Poppy.

A Map, A Quest, and A Seldom Seen Road

I think I've figured out how Mapquest.com got its name. They generate the map, and you go on a quest to try and decipher it.

Today found me on one of many such quests. My task was to obtain a Nintendo 64 for a group activity from the other side of town. I looked up the directions, did a quick read-through, decided it looked easy enough, and set out confidently down familiar roads.

It seemed this time I was going to come off conqueror, as the first 10 minutes sailed by fairly smoothly. The trouble started on Riverside Dr., a familiar road, except this time I had to turn right instead of left, not familiar. Still I drove sanguinely, trusting that Mapquest would steer me right. (Not right as in the direction, because my next turn was left.)

I was supposed to turn left in 2.8 miles, but I had gone about 8.2 miles before I suspected that I had passed it. I did, however, find out why the road is called "Riverside." A roaring river runs alongside the left side of the road and stretches on for miles. This was one hint to me that I was perhaps not in the right (again, by right I mean correct) place anymore, as it is difficult to turn left when all that's on the left of you is a massive body of water.

Now this is where I have a bone to pick with Mapquest. Sure they tell you which roads to take, but sometimes that's not enough. In this case, it should also have read, by the way, the road you're looking for doesn't have a street sign, so you'll probably miss it. Then I would at least know to turn at a signless street, right?

During that 8.2 miles, however, I did see one street sign of note. There was a side road clearly labeled, "Seldom Seen Rd." Upon seeing it I let out a "hmph!" of contempt. Sure they label the road seldom seen clearly, but the only road I wasn't seeing was the one I wanted to turn right on (this time I mean right as in the direction, because by then I had turned around and was coming back from the other way.)

I finally turned onto an unlabeled street that I guessed was the right one (luckily, it was) and proceeded to try and find the next road. I ended up passing this one as well and blame Mapquest once again. The directions should have included the following caution: The people who designed the street you are on have decided, for aesthetic reasons, to use wooden posts with hard-to-read engravings as their street signs instead of the green, reflectant, legible signs used everywhere else in the city. These are impossible to see when the sun is glaring in your eyes. Also, they put some of these on the other side of the road, where you wouldn't think of looking, as a practical joke.

Those pranksters.

By the time I had safely gotten the game console into the front seat and to the activity, I had been driving around my once "familiar" home city for over an hour. The activity included a Mario Kart tournament, but I wasn't really in the mood to do any more driving.

Bigger is Better

I have a lovely young friend from Japan who is studying English at BYU. It's great every once in a while to catch up with her on the goings-on of this far eastern land and see what amazing things they are kicking our butts in these days. To start off my probing, I had a question ready at hand: "So, how small are those cell phones getting these days? Pretty soon the standard phone package will come with a magnifying glass, huh?" I was trying to be clever, but she didn't even crack a smile. "Well actually, they're getting bigger," she replied, looking at me as if I was nuts (not without reason). Bigger? Could it be true that the Japanese had finally reached a limit they couldn't supercede? Had they resigned to reverting to past trends like the Americans do when we're too lazy to be innovative?

Of course not. What I didn't know then was that what we think of as the function of a cell phone is actually becoming obsolete. We're no longer to be considered high-tech gurus for walking around with chunks of plastic that merely allow us to talk to other people who also own similar chunks of plastic. (Here, a group of Japanese teenagers starts snickering behind me. OK, so it's a fictitious group of teenagers. Nevertheless, I try to defend myself: "But my cell phone can take pictures!" Now the snickers turn into guffaws.) I had to see it with my own two eyes to believe it. Today I had a privileged opportunity to glimpse this nearly unfathomable phenomenon.

My dad came home from work today sporting... are you sitting down?... a BlackBerry (thanks to "big four" accounting firm Ernst & Young). Its sleek frame, impossibly large screen, and keyboard-style touchpad are truly a sight to behold. One look and my PC ran and hid under the sink in shame. Probably because it realized that junior was going to one-up him in emailing capabilities, graphic clarity, and ability to fit into a purse, and throw in some "yo' mama" jokes on top of all that. So I don't actually know how to use this baby yet, but I'm guessing that it has games to disgrace pong (I didn't think it could ever happen!), decodes secret messages in the Pentagon, and makes delicious homemade gnocchi. Whoa.

The BlackBerry may seem at its ripest to us, but to the Japanese it's already rotting away, reeking the putrid stink of yesterday's technology. So try not to fawn too much over the "new" RAZRs in their presence-- you may just take a serious blow to your (and America's) pride.

Doctor, It's Cold Outside

About 4 weeks ago, I sprained my foot. At least, that's the diagnosis I personally came up with, and as there were no professional opinions involved, there's a slight possibility that I'm wrong. However, for the sake of keeping this blog entry short and sweet, we'll just call it a sprain.

Injuries like this happen occasionally to us athletic types. On that fateful day 4 weeks ago, I was employed in the physical activity of napping on the couch. Since I am a trained athlete in the sport, I have incredible endurance and can keep at it longer than most-- even with my legs twisted in a way that cuts off blood circulation. Beginners, do not try this at home. Anyway, even after such a lengthy session, I decided that I still had enough stamina to walk over to the computer, a full 3 and a half feet away. Well, this is why it isn't good to strain yourself more than you are physically able: as soon as I set my fallen-asleep-foot down on the ground and stood up, there was a huge CRACK! and I was down. The pain was excruciating, but of course, athletes are able to withstand greater physical pain than most. I sat on the ground, cradling my foot and blubbering like a baby.

Obviously, the next step in attending to an injury is deciding what to do. For this, I needed my dad's opinion, as he is the most left-brained member of our family: He's an accountant. I know that accountants aren't necessarily capable of giving medical advice, but they are able to do very difficult things like math and playing minesweeper, which is good enough for me. Immediately he started asking me questions, with his "very serious" face that makes him even more credible:

"So you heard a 'crack'?"

"Yes."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"Yes."

After this initial examination, he had to do some more thinking, during which time I tried to keep my whimpering down to a minimum. After several "hmm"s and narrowing of eyes, he started again:

"Is the bone sticking out?"

"No."

"But you heard a crack?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Well, if the bone's not sticking out, it's probably not broken."

I stared through tearing eyes at the lump the size of a golf ball throbbing on the side of my foot.

"It's probably a sprain."

The thing about being in a family that isn't medically inclined is that nobody really knows what a sprain is, but it always sounds like a pretty good answer, so no one contests it. As far as I can tell, it's when something hurts really bad, but it's not broken. Anyway, the verdict was to not take me to the doctor, with the most heavily weighing arguments being that 1) it was really late, 2) it was really cold outside, and 3) I was already in my pajamas. So with enlightened mind and throbbing foot, I decided that the pain would probably be gone after a good night's rest.

Well, it's a month later and the pain is still there, but it has gotten better: I hardly feel a thing unless I run, jump, lean, go on tiptoe, wear my black shoes, or have Kelly Clarkson lyrics stuck in my head. Maybe this isn't a good thing, but I think it's too late to see a doctor. Besides, it's really cold outside.

Lachrymose Over Hose

I am currently in the process of modifying my entire wardrobe to accommodate the guidelines of an LDS Mission. (I'm a Mormon, for those of you who are already confused.) It's not that I'm a skank. As far as coverage goes, I've done an admirable job in my wardrobe selection. I think the reason why guidelines must be instated for the mission is that when fashion sense goes unsupervised for years, the results are often embarrassing, unbeknownst to the wearer. So this is the Church General Presidency's gentle way of saying, "we don't want people to think we've got a bunch of weirdos representing our church." OK, I admit that's a stretch. We are a bunch of weirdos, but we're trying hard not to look like it. And not everyone's fashion sense is that bad. I happen to own a Joan Jett and the Blackhearts T-shirt that is very chic.

The bane of my new wardrobe, no competition, is pantyhose. My mission checklist recommends having 24 pairs of pantyhose for a year and a half. That's not a typo... it really says 24. To give it a chance, I wore a pair of Leggs Tan Size B to church yesterday. I have never really understood what purpose they serve, or the logic behind them... everyone knows they are about as destructible as wet tissue paper. I hear they're supposed to make your legs look better, but I'm really skeptical about that. First of all, they make your legs look like they are covered with a thin layer of shimmery substance, like they are radioactive or something. Second, they make your legs a different color from the rest of you, no matter how hard you try to find a matching shade. (Personally, I don't think women need an excuse to artificially change their appearance any more than they already do.) Thirdly, after you wear them a few times, they always get stretched out, and then you look like you have wrinkly ankles and knees. Call me crazy, but having radioactive, fake, wrinkly legs has never been a very attractive idea to me, unless you're trying to disguise yourself as a log floating in the waste-water of a nearby power plant, or Joan Rivers.

I used to look smugly at other women wearing pantyhose, being proud of baring my own uncovered legs. I'd see runs running up the back of their legs and think, ha! Good thing I don't have to worry about that! However, it looks like my days of smugness are over, temporarily. Soon I too will fall prey to itchiness, inconvenient bathroom-going, and stuck-together toes. Well, pantyhose-inventor, you failed to achieve complete misery for womenfolk: At least now I only have to shave my legs half as often.

Waitress in Distress

Those who know me know that I worked as a waitress (or server for all you p.c. people) for about two years. Not that I made it a very prominent fact-- I only complained about it every other minute of every hour of every day. Let's just say that I have enough to say about this particular area of the food service industry to fill a hundred blogs. Today, just to give you a "taste" of what I mean, I'd like to offer you some insights on: Garlic Bread.

For some reason, garlic bread is like elixir to people-- they HAVE to have it, and they have to have it IMMEDIATELY. This poses a few problems to the server, problems caused by the same ignorance that creates the exasperating situation in which customers argue menu prices with the poor kids. Once and for all, I'd like to make clear that servers are quite low on the hierarchy of restaurant business, which looks something like this:

Owner -> General Manager -> Dining Room Manager -> Supervisor -> The Special of the Day -> Servers

Therefore, servers have absolutely no authority to change anything for you. They can't change company policy. They can't turn water into wine. And they absolutely, under any circumstances, cannot turn your chicken parmigiana into a non-fat, no-carb, low-sodium miracle. So arguing prices with a server will not get you anywhere, unless you want to make one of them cry, in which case carrying on with it for about 6 minutes should do the trick.

Anyway, back to garlic bread. It is amazing what an effect it can have on somebody's order. To give you a better idea, here is a conversation that I had to have many times:

Customer: "I'd like the Santa Fe Chicken Salad."
Me: "Alright, and would you like to add some garlic bread to your order for a dollar?"
Customer: "WHAT!? It doesn't already come with garlic bread? Olive Garden gives you free breadsticks! What is this place?"
Me: "Well, we're considerably less expensive here..."
Customer: "Forget it! Then I want the BBQ Chicken Pizza Dinner."
Customer's Wife: "But honey, you don't like BBQ chicken. And you're lactose-intolerant."
Customer: "I don't care! It comes with free garlic bread!" (Usually a conversation like this gets the customer so upset that there is a tip decline of 5%.)

The other problem is, people think that hot, crispy garlic bread can be whipped up instantaneously, as if there is a secret recipe for toast that can sit in a mountainous pile all day long and not get stale or soggy. I remember countless occasions in which I would finish taking a table's order, take one step away, and... "Hey! Can I have my garlic bread NOW?" When I tell them that it will be about 5 minutes, they stare at me as if I have the IQ of a charcoal briquette. Sometimes they try even harder. "But we're hungry RIGHT NOW. Can't you do anything?" And that's if they're nice. At this point I'd like to list the process for you to illustrate exactly why it takes 5 minutes to get hot garlic bread to your table:

1. The server walks to the computer. He or she inputs the order. Depending on how long the order is, this may take anywhere from 20 seconds to 3 minutes.
2. The computer processes the information (approximately 15 seconds).
3. The order prints up in a little printer in the kitchen.
4. Someone in the kitchen has to notice that a little piece of paper has printed up in a little printer, which may take a few minutes if they are playing fling-the-pizza-dough-at-the-new-guy.
5. We wait for the next lunar eclipse, or Halley's comet, whichever comes first.

6. Finally, somone in the kitchen puts some bread through the bread oven. (Kitchen people don't really care about getting food to you promptly because they don't get tips.)
7. 3 minutes later, the bread comes out of the bread oven.
8. Someone in the kitchen has to stop flinging pizza dough long enough to notice that bread is ready. He or she puts the bread in a cute little basket and puts it in the window.

9. An expediter sees the bread and takes it to the table, hopefully the correct one. (Ta-da!)
So here we see that by 5 minutes, we mean if you're lucky. So please stop harassing your servers. They are only trying to work their way through school so that someday they can have a job where people don't treat them like low-lifes.

Anyway, that's my "tip" to you for today. And no, it doesn't come with free garlic bread.

You Have a Friend Request Awaiting Confirmation

All of you college-goers out there have heard of something called Facebook by now. For a while, it was a topic of disinterest to me and I never thought twice about it. However, a few weeks ago, with the help of some good friends, all of that changed. I found myself helplessly taking the plunge into the world of Facebook.

So I guess some smart kids at Harvard started this little network to keep in touch with old friends, then it spread to Berkeley and Stanford, and now even mediocre students like me can be a part of it. Basically, along with being a convenient way to see pictures of your drunk high school comrades, it is an ingenious excuse for thousands of college students to waste... oops I mean spend even more of their invaluable time. What features are so irresistable to all of these scholars, you ask? The Checking Addiction. The same concept applies with cell phones. Why are people always looking at their cell phones? Do that many people really call them? Most likely the answer is no, and this is proof that evolution has certainly taken another leap in this day and age: young people of today now have a slight modification in their DNA structure that necessitates knowing at every moment whether anything with a pulse is trying to contact them, because heaven forbid if they miss the important message that Strongbad has posted a new email. Thus the features of Facebook are a perfect place to channel this energy. Students need to check if anyone has written on their "wall". They need to check if anyone has updated their profile. They need to see if they have been "tagged" in anyone's photo album. And most importantly, they need to know if anyone wants to be their friend. Yes, in this age of technology, we need a computer to keep track of who we are friends with for us. As with cell phones, most of the time when students sign on to check their Facebook status, there are no changes. Yup, it's still exactly the same as the last time they checked it (an hour ago.) But hey, at least it's something to do.

If you are one of the smart kids who started Facebook, please do not think this is an attack on your idea. Everything I've written is really meant to praise. And remember, I'm only a mediocre college student compared to you. It took me an hour to figure out enough HTML to turn my blog background red. Now excuse me... I have to see if anyone has written on my wall.

Rebels on the Boeing 737-800

Having been blessed with travel-necessitating life circumstances like going to school out of state and having relatives in another country, I have come to consider myself to be somewhat of an expert when it comes to airports and commercial flying. Yes, I know about the $25 fee for having too-heavy baggage, the extra metal detector swipes you have to get if your license is expired, and the exact wording of the P.A. announcement made every five minutes: "Please DO NOT leave your baggage unattended. Unattended baggage will be confiscated." Ahh, and how can I forget about the people who just sit and stare at me, unblinkingly, while I wait at my gate to be boarded, minding my own business, and wishing they would just mind theirs. Such is airport life.

Now I want to talk about another breed of traveler, and anyone who has ever flown will know what I'm talking about. I call them the Too-Macho-for-Airplane-Rules Men. On every flight there are at least 3 or 4 of them. Here are some characteristics that may give them away:

1. When the flight attendant informs everyone that "the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign," you immediately hear the distinct clicks of their buckles unbuckling.
2. When the flight attendant tells everyone to "return seats to the upright position," they keep their seats reclined until an attendant comes around and repeats the command to them in person, at which they groan and roll their eyes before complying.
3. When the flight attendant asks everyone to "please remain seated until the plane has come to a complete stop," they immediately stand up and open their overhead compartment to get their bags, just to stand there looking foolish for the next 15 minutes in which nobody can leave the plane anyway.

I realize that a lot of people have an innate need to prove they aren't tied down by common rules, and if these small acts of rebellion fulfill that need for these guys, then good for them. I'm not one to stop them from keeping their chauvinistic rituals... I just wish that one of the standard flight attendant commands could be to "please stare creepily at other passengers who are just minding their own business." If my reverse-psychology hypothesis is correct, then maybe I would finally be able to have some privacy.