Can I interest you?

Paul’s school schedule is predominately in the evening . . . which I hate because it means I spend a majority of my afternoons home alone. Upfront, I didn’t think it would be an issue. Being home alone has great advantages. I can turn on my silly girl music, dance around in my underwear, sing at escalating volumes, and there are no witnesses. However, after doing that for five afternoons in a row I was ready to move on to a different hobby. Unable to find one quite so entertaining I’ve trained myself to clean, cook, and nap, which as you can imagine took far less time to get old then my afternoon interpretive dance sessions. But no matter what I fill my afternoons with, mostly I just feel lonely and miss that man I love. When Paul is home I have someone to talk to and a partner in crime on my dessert making adventures when Monday night FHE permits.

Tuesday was one if these lonely afternoons were I cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed the carpet, worked on my cookbook project, and prepared some rather soupy homemade macaroni and cheese. I put a in a movie to play in the background, and when I had a free moment I could stop and watch. It was during one of these slow moments when a knock came to the door. I answered. It was door-to-door salesmen. Smart door-to-door salesmen.

And when I say smart I don’t mean it in the sense that they were knowledgeable about their product, or highly educated. What I meant was crafty. I have a no soliciting sign on my door. It is not faded like the house numbers or smudged or handwritten. It is an official laminated plaque with bolded words, and for the illiterate there is a picture of a little man with a briefcase circled and crossed out. Yet I’ve had three sales representatives come to my door in the four months I lived here, and they all try the same trick.

[knock knock] I open the door. The sales people smile. “I’m so sorry,” they say. “I didn’t see your sign.” Thinking of dear Bill Engvall I resist saying, “That makes two of us.” Instead I give them some nonchalant words to excuse their grievous error but before I can finish my sentence a flyer is shoved into my hands. “But you can take this if you want and, I mean, if you don’t want it you can give it to a friend. Hey what kind of cable service do you got?” I open my mouth to reply but—“because we’re here on behalf of DirectTV and we’d love to hook you up with a greater deal than whatever your paying.” I tell him we are paying nothing, that we don’t have television, and if he can give us a better deal than free, like a monthly check to take his services, I’d sign up. They look a little nervous, I bid them good day, and I shut the door.

No kidding, I think they are teaching this method in annoying sales people schools, which apparently Comcast and DirectTV and all-purpose cleaner companies require all their employees to attend. The teacher stands in front of a class, re-slicks his comb-over, and leans forward. “Class,” he hollers. “I’m going to give you the trick to successfully working your way around a ‘no soliciting sign’.” The students lean in, anticipation dripping from their open mouths. The instructor hitches up his pants “The key is to walk up to a door and ring the doorbell as fast as humanly possible, then look around to see if there’s a sign. If there is one you can’t leave because you already rang the doorbell and doorbell ditching is rude. So wait till they answer the door. Apologize for not seeing the sign, and before they have time say goodbye you throw out a pitch faster than Billy Mays.”

Now, I’ve fallen for this three times and I think I know what my problem is. I have two actually. The first is I keep answering the door. In my defense, I’m new in the ward, I still don’t know a lot of people, and unless these men have matching shirts and logos plastered to ball caps, which none of them have, looking out my window I can’t tell salesmen from home teachers. So I just keep answering the door.

The second problem I have is I’m a girl and an English enthusiast which means in the simplest terms: I can’t say anything in just two words. If my husband answered the door and the salesmen apologize for not seeing the sign he would say, “Okay, bye.” And he’d shut the door. But I don’t do that! They apologize and it’s like I have this need to put their guilt to ease or it is transferred to me somehow. So I say something like this: “Oh, guys! It’s okay. I know how that feels because this one time I was trying to raise money for the school band and I went to this house to ask if they wanted to pledge for a carwash and they had a sign and I didn’t realize and I just started shaking because I didn’t know what to do. . .” And I my mouth just won’t stop. This gives them plenty of time for flyer shoving and an interruption followed by the beginnings of a pitch.

I’m caught in this vicious cycle that will never end because I can’t just stop being a girl, and I can’t change my prose-like mindset. I suppose I should just make peace with the idea that I will argue with door-to-door salesmen for the rest of my life.

Setting the record straight

There is a rumor about me. I suppose it’s been circulating ever since I’ve existed. From the moment I opened my little mouth to say my first word there has been this rumor that I am dramatic. I’d like to lay this rumor to rest once and for all. I am absolutely, without a doubt, one billion percent sure that I am most certainly not, under any circumstance, even amidst the trials of this torturesome and at times pleasant earthly life, dramatic. I am detail oriented. That’s all.

Let me expound on this. If I were to tell you about a certain customer I assisted in my checkout line today it might go something like this:

It was 1:48 in the afternoon. I remember the time because I looked at the clock on my register and acknowledged that slight annoyance I feel that it is two minutes behind my watch. A day goes by so much slower when I look at my watch and two minutes later glance at my computer screen only to see the same time blaring back at me. I also recall the time because four added to eight equals twelve for which one is the first number. Hence 1:48. And it was at this 1:48 that SHE came through my line. I know this customer by name for she is a regular and I would add the name to the story because it suits her quite well except it makes me shutter to even type it, and I can’t have my poor husband thinking I have turrets syndrome due to the multiple times I would have to type it. So, for the sake of the story I’ll call her Miss T.

Miss T strolled up to my register and gave her usually half smile half grimace. I inhaled deeply anticipating a transaction requiring much patience. She slipped in behind her shopping cart and began loading the belt.

“Hi! How are you today?” I said in my best ‘fake-happy’ tone. She looked at me and with her nasally voice told me she was good, holding the ‘oo’ out far longer than any person usually would. “Do you have a Preferred Customer Card with you today?” I added as I began to swipe the first items.

“I doooo. “ She replied and handed me the object in question. I scanned it and smoothly handed it back to her. I looked down at the belt and all appeared normal, and I felt confident that the transaction would be over without any mishaps. It was when I was ringing in her lemon that I realized she was reaching into her cart for something else. Here we go. Bring it on. Miss T laid a fist full of wrappers on the belt. “I need to pay for theeese tooooo.” I picked up the first—an empty yogurt cup and spoon—and scanned it. The second wrapper, which had once been home to a protein bar, was quite wadded up, and as I tried to restore it to its original state so I could find the bar code crumbs began falling out of it. The third wrapper was wet from what I can only assume to be yogurt, and the forth was a can of empty soda, dark red lipstick framing the hole from which Miss T drank. Ew. One by one, I placed them over my scanner and then threw them away below me.

I gave her another fake smile. “Is this everything for you today?” She hesitated and stared longingly at her cart that still carried items not yet purchased. Then came the onslaught I had been waiting for.

“Weeell, I don’t think I can get this caaan, but I want this cat fooood. Wait, just one cat fooood, I don’t want the otheeeer. Aaaand I don’t want thiiiis one but can you just tell me the price on thiiiis one? Okay, yeah. . . I don’t want that one either. And maybe I want one of theeeeese but not the other threeee. What’s my totaaal?”

Panting I tell her the number.

“Okaaaay. Then I don’t think I want this baaaar, but I do want this rice. Actually, could we pour this rice in another baaaag? I don’t thing I want aaaaall of it. Then I have this yogurt but I don’t think I’m going to geeeet it. And actually, I think I wiiiill take that bar after aaaaall. And then I don’t think I’ll get the rest of theeese.” She proceeds to empty her shopping cart with the reminder of the items she couldn’t afford. I started getting creative finding places to stuff the rejected things because my cubby designated for “go-backs” was full. A line was forming behind her and she pulled out her checkbook. Oi. “What’s the daaate?”

When Miss. T was finally completely checked out and the line had been taken care of, I unloaded four days worth of groceries off my register into a handheld basket (brimming full) to be redistributed around the store.

A less detail-oriented person might tell this same story like this: “I had this lady come in today who bothered me and couldn’t buy everything in her cart. I hated it.” Which is fine. And even if they pronounced each word imitating Jim Carrey, that simple tale wouldn’t be deemed dramatic. And my story laced with rich descriptions included purely for the recipients benefit, allowing them to relate almost as if they were there, would be called dramatic (even if it was read by a monotone man named Barry). I don’t think including details is dramatic. (i.e. side-effects of medicines. Not dramatic. Meticulous facts that are important to know.) That's all I'm doing. Therefore, I am not dramatic. I am perceptive, and the fact that I can recall so much should speak volumes for my memory.

Shoes, sandwiches, and a leftover dish

I’ve lived with boys before; I have two brothers, and from this I have learned that if they take a leftover dish anywhere you will never see it again. This has been an undisputable fact at my parent’s house ever since the eldest son got his first job. Knowing that men have this pattern I have accepted it without much thought. Naturally, when Paul went off to do temp work this last week I sent him off with some chili and waved goodbye forever to the plastic container in his hand. But when I arrived home from work I was startled by the sight of that dish with its blue lid rinsed off and sitting in the sink. This is not normal man behavior. I shrugged it off as a fluke, and when the next day arrived I once again filled a plastic dish I knew I’d never see again with chili and kissed that man I love on his way out the door.

I get off work at 3:30 and took my time on the walk home. The weather was good and I was enjoying listening to Taylor Swift on my ipod. I’ve been on a bit of a country kick this week. I walked up the stairs to the apartment and unlocked the dead bolt. The door swung open and the first thing I notice is that same dish by the sink. Two days in a row. I felt slightly haunted and impressed at the same time. This was going against everything I had been taught since I was fourteen years old! Third time’s a charm, I thought and waited to see if tomorrow would bring about the same results. I was not to be disappointed because day number three, after five hours of work and seven hours of class, he still remembered. I’m starting to come to the conclusion that either there is something wrong with my husband’s ability to function like a normal man, or that all guys cannot be judged by ‘brother standards’. Although, I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.

On a more serious note: this week was a week of many blessings. For a long time I have not had a good pair of tennis shoes. I walk a lot more now and the holes that already graced every surface of my existing sneakers have only gotten worse. Every day when I get home I examine the dirty spots on my socks that are being exposed to the elements. But at least the shoes still have soles (that’s what I’ve been telling myself every time I drive by the Payless or Famous Footwear). But fall is coming, and after fall is winter and imaging the walk to work with soggy feet wet from snow is not very pleasant. Today I received a call from the Relief Society President in my ward that happens to be the same shoe size as me, with slightly wide feet like mine, and coincidently has a pair of sneakers that she no longer needs. How did she know that I needed them? I’m not sure, possibly a lady I visit teach told. But I’m just grateful. They fit nicely and there are no holes. It’s nice to know that I’m being looked after.

Monday night I made a large pot of chili because I thought, “we could save on groceries and eat something with chili on it every night.” We had chili and cornbread, chili-topped baked potatoes, Navajo tacos, and chili on rice. But after eating chili for two meals every day, I started to tire of the bean concoction. Friday night I had an old friend visit and when I invited her to stay and have dinner with us she insisted on taking us out to eat. Perhaps it was her fear of my cooking or maybe it was divine inspiration— I couldn’t eat another bite of that soup that day—or whatever it was, I am filled with gratitude for Angela and Arby’s roast beef sandwiches.

These were two little things, shoes and sandwiches, but I was very touched by these women and how in tune they are with the spirit. But I had another thought. These were both things that I was too embarrassed to ask Father for when I prayed. I figured that it would somehow be ungrateful of me to ask for shoes when mine still had laces or to ask for a night out to eat with a gallon of chili still in the fridge. But the Lord knew what I desired and needed and sent angels to watch over me. This reminds me of the First Vision when Heavenly Father and Jesus appeared to the boy Joseph and called him by name. I wish I had language eloquent enough to describe what joy it brings me that my Creator knows my name. He knows my personality, my quirks, my weaknesses, and he loves me still . . . and he blesses me still.

Honey-dew what?

Being out in this big world on my own gives me the privilege of having these moments where I realize I'm turning in to my mother. Don't take that wrong. My mom is a great woman-- in fact, maybe even super woman. But I remember as a child in her home she sometimes came up with, what I thought to be very lame Family Home Evening treats. The worst was when we had melons. I'm a big girl. I can admit that I'm not a melon lover. Melons are watery, hard to cut up and often flavorless. When Monday night rolled around I always looked forward to some sweet treat that was chocolaty or carmely or sugary enough to give me a buzz. However, there were those times when my little mouth, anticipating sticky, gooey wonderfulness, would ask, "What are we having for the treat, Mother-dearest?" And I'd get shot down with, "Watermelon." REALLY?

Yesterday afternoon I was doing the grocery shopping. I had gathered most of my nonperishable items when I remembered that we needed a treat for FHE. I walked over to the dessert aisle in Macey's to see if anything caught my fancy. Pudding, cakes, brownies, frostings, strudels, cinnamon buns! So many tasty things, so little time. I began to pick up box after box to read the ingredients. Enriched bleached no-nutrition-left-in-it flour, high fructose corn syrup, regular corn syrup, sugar, fully hydrogenated vegetable oil, partially hydrogenated vegetable oil, maltidextrihydrophoripleixic-what? A knot started to form in my stomach. I couldn’t feed that man I love this garbage after forcing him to eat a cake for a week. I decided to look in produce for something more nutritional.

Macey's had strawberries on sale for a good price. This was perfect. I could get strawberries and mix them with some mandarin oranges I had at home and make a little fruit salad. However, upon further examination of the strawberries, I found most of them to be rather moldy. Maybe we didn't need a treat every Monday. Maybe we could split a piece of toast with jam on it and call it good. I retreated to the check out. What display of really cheap and perfectly ripe fruit was destined to be right in front of my register? Melons. I sighed. They looked good. I sighed again. Paul likes them. I sighed once more. It would make a good treat. . . I added a small cantaloupe to the belt.

All these years of complaining when melons were served for Family Night and there I was, buying a cantaloupe on a Monday. I bet my mom has felt this same way-- buying something seemingly lame but healthy because you love your family and know, despite what they think they want, all that junk won't do them any good. Buying something grown straight from the dirt so your family could taste the subtle flavor and gently sweetness of nature. Thanks, Mom, for making me eat watermelons, and cantaloupes, and honeydews so I could appreciate a treat cut up lovingly by your hands and made the way God intended.

Cake Decorating 101

Once upon a time there was a young woman with a single desire. To make a Lego cake. At first she felt silly making a treat the had the appearance of a child's toy, and she longed for an event that would require such a thing. Desperation's power had sway on her, however, and she could not wait years for the birthday of a child of her own and decided that Family Home Evening was reason enough to create a masterpiece. She had most of the ingredients but lacked small cookies, food coloring, and bread pans. Her and her handsome prince rode off the the market in there white. . . horse-draw carriage. Much to their dismay, food coloring required much gold and the young couple only had a few shillings. The Lego cake dimmed from their vision as they headed back to their home in a cloud of despair.

Determined not to ruin FHE, the woman insisted on still making a cake. It would have to be round and the frosting would be white. She mixed up the batter and opened the drawer beneath the oven to pull out her two round cake pans. She peered in and soon peering turned to staring and staring to frantic digging. She had been mistaken. Where she thought two round pans had been was one round pan and one square. It would have to make due. She poured the batter in both pans and tossed it in the oven to cook.

Needless to say it didn't rise so evenly, and the couple knew that much work would have to be done to make something beautiful out of their awkward cakes. The dome top of the square was removed and a layer of strawberry creamcheese filling was placed in its stead. The round cake was gently lowered on top. Frosting was carefully prepared as the handsome prince (ever so skilled with a mixer) mixed while the woman added powered sugar. And once the sugar was all over the kitchen they knew the concoction was complete.

They took turns frosting the cake:

When all was said and done, the "lego cake" resembled a snow fort, but the couple was happy still because they got to spend time together and lick lots of bowls.

The End

Unprayed for Lasagna

This morning I opened my fridge to see what I could make for breakfast and was saddened by the sight of a pickle jar, applesauce, some old sour cream and two heals of bread. Thankfully for the box of farina in the pantry we were able to have some applesauce cream of wheat with extra cinnamon. Lunch was looking pretty bleak though. I managed to find the last slice of cheese, slap it between the bread heals, burn it in my iron skillet, and cut in half for Paul and I to share. It would have to do until dinner. A few small potatoes were sitting in a purple basket under the table waiting to become a side dish to some chicken I'd been saving all week for Sunday dinner. Once those two foods were devoured we'd have to make due with cream of wheat until my shopping trip Monday afternoon. I was feeling very heavy wishing I could make something more for Paul.

But there was only so much time I had to wallow in my situation. 12:45 rolled around and it was time to leave for church. With my four inch heals I stepped out of our apartment and carefully took the stairs one at a time. Paul escorted me to the car and opened my door as I attempted to fall into my seat as gracefully as one can in a knee length skirt. He then proceeded to walk around to the drivers side when a man from the ward pulled up and invited us to dinner. Paul accepted and jumped in the car.

When we got home from church I laid down on the bed to rest. I was starting to feel a bit nauseous. With Paul unemployed and trying to squeeze by on my income I deemed the lack of food to be a sign of my poor providing skills. I began to cry silently-- pity party for one. I knew tomorrow was the day I would go defer my semester of school, and with no foreseeable return I couldn't picture ever being able to more adequately aid Paul in getting through his educational pursuits without suffering from malnutrition. My sweet husband came in to check on me and when he saw the pitiful sobbing heap I was he looked worried. Laying down beside me he talked to me till I was a bit calmer. I didn't want to look like I had been crying at dinner with the neighbors.

The Pierre's had lasagna for dinner. Two enormous pans of it-- and Brother Pierre wouldn't let us leave till we had each three plates full. My stomach was stretched to maximun capacity, and I wondered when the last time I had felt like that had been. I looked over at Paul who had also put away an impressive amount of food. I felt like the Pierre's were an answer to a prayer for food I hadn't even offered yet.

The small apartment was full of loud laughs and cheerful smiles as Haitian humor was thrown back and forth. Everyone was so carefree and laid back that I wondered if my life would ever be like that. But it was when an entire box of unpopped popcorn was spilled on the floor (and event that would put me into grumpy cleaning fit) laughter once again erupted and a few adults teamed up to gather the evasive kernels. I realized at that moment that it was not a lack of trials that made that household as happy as they were. I have no doubts that family has born much heavier crosses than that of spilled popcorn. But I'm sure the attitude they exibited last night-- that wonderful carefreeness-- has been a blessing when the heavyness of life has been upon them.

Much of the sorrow I've been feeling, as much as I hate to amdit it, has largely been a choice. I don't have to dwell on the aspects of my life that are challenging me. I can choose to just laugh, smile, and be happy because, all in all, I have a great life. Thank you Pierre's for a tremendous night!

Speed bump therapist

While reading a blog of one of my Facebook friends I was struck by a question she asked and decided to reply. Julie, that brave unbalance woman, asked, "What makes you happy?" This is my reply from my seven-hour shift of yesterday's labors at the Good Earth.

I walked along a speed bump yesterday. There has always been something therapeutic about that for me and as my boss seemed to be breathing down my neck in disdain, making a hard day harder, I ask to step outside to gather shopping carts. If asking to do something that is not your initial intention is lying, then I lied and I’m not proud of that. But I needed to breathe the stale air outside and pace on the raised pavement painted yellow just to feel it’s roundness through the soles of my brown flip flops. I can’t say that it made the day any better. It didn’t make my boss love me, or solve my school dilemma, or provide money needed for the $88.00 electric bill, or anything else weighing on my mind. But for a small moment, just seven inches off the ground I felt a little bit happy. . . Happy to just walk along a speed bump.