Who doesn't love a Fat Boy?

Hey there.  Miss me?  I got distracted for about a year. Sorry.  Anyway, here's a pretty good story...

I have a new coworker named Nikki. She's from Jamaica and really nice.  When I found out it was her birthday, I invited her over for dinner because spending your birthday alone in a new place is no fun.
At some point between lasagna and birthday cake, the conversation turned to the topic of ice cream and how many ice cream places there are in town.  As my roommates listed them off, I reminded them that there is also a Casper's factory a few miles away, where you can purchase large boxes of factory seconds (i.e. malformed ice cream sandwiches deemed unfit for commercial sale) at a discounted price.   But before I had fully explained the concept or the fact that Casper's signature product is the "Fat Boy" ice cream sandwich, I turned to my roommate and casually suggested, "Hey...we should go for a drive this weekend and pick up some reject fat boys."

Nikki looked perplexed and a bit worried.  A roommate quickly chimed in with, "Oh, yeah, they're really cheap." Then a second roommate, "I used to do that all the time."  Then a third roommate, "Mmmm. Sounds good."

Now Nikki looked horrified.  Suddenly, it clicked that she had no context for this conversation.  I replayed the recent series of statements in my head and burst out laughing.  Her expression went back to confusion.  "Oh, no...Nikki..." I gasped between waves of giggles.  My roommates had caught on and were laughing too.  "It's...a...a... Fat Boy is an ice cream sandwich...not...ahahahahahahahaha."  I ran for the freezer where we happened to have an actual Fat Boy to show her.  Nikki's disgust and confusion melted into relief and amusement. "Oh!  I see.  That other thing didn't sound like you."  

So, let that be a lesson to you.  Context is crucial...and Fat Boys are awesome.

Are You Serious?!?

Have you noticed the specific formula for almost every infomercial ever made?  First, there's the faceless, deep-voiced announcer who brings to your attention several problems in your life that you didn't know you had ("Tired of waiting 15 whole minutes for pasta to boil on the stove? ")  .  Then there's the expert who knows everything about the product and demonstrates how said product will solve your newly discovered problems ("Now you've got perfect  pasta in 8 seconds!") But the third important factor is the totally amazed person who JUST. CANNOT. BELIEVE IT!!! They start off quite incredulous but gradually, their skepticism melts into total amazement ("Wow! It's so easy, even I can do it!")  But first, they must repeat everything the expert says in the form of a question.

Tonight at a BBQ, I was seated next to a fellow who seemed to have wandered off the set of an infomercial and couldn't seem to break character.  Few people at the table were well antiquated, so there were plenty of getting-to-know-you questions flying back and forth.  But this guy reacted to each answer with an infomercial-like disbelief.  It went something like this:

Question Guy: "Where you from?"
Regular Guy: "St. George."
QG:"No way! You're from St. George?!"
RG:"Yeah.  Are you?"
QG: "No."
<awkward silence>

QG:"So, what do you do?"
Girl:"I'm a teacher."
QG:"Are you serious? You're a teacher?"
Girl:"Yeah. I teach 4th grade."
QG:"Whoa! You do?"
Girl:"Yeah." 
QG: "Really?"
<awkward silence>



Almost every interaction he attempted ended the same...with the conversation partner wondering why anybody would find their life so unbelievable.  For a moment I imagined--but didn't actually carry out because that would be rude--making up  stuff like....

QG:"What's your name?"
Me: "Faloola"
QG: "Really?"
Me: "Yep.  After my mother."
QG:"No way!"
Me: "Way!"
QG:"Are you serious?"
Me: "We come from a small island you've never heard of."
QG:"You do?"
Me: "And my uncle is the king and our entire economy is based on sea shells"
QG: "It is?"
Me: "Nope.  I'm from Brigham City."
<awkward silence>
QG:"You're from Brigham City?!?"
Me: *sigh*

These Are Not My Parents

The things I say and do are never as funny or appropriate as they were in my head. For example, when I saw this picture on awkwardfamilyphotos.com I had a hearty laugh.



Then I thought, "Wouldn't it be hilarious to carry this picture around in your wallet and tell people they were your parents?" I sent it to a few friends via facebook and they concurred with my hysterical hypothesis. I even printed it off and told a co-worker of my planned prank. However, I got busy and left the picture in the materials room for a few days.

This afternoon, while I was upstairs in my office, my boss saw the photo and was a bit alarmed (who wouldn't be?).
"Who is this?" she asked in a concerned tone.
"Jeanette's parents," responded my co-worker.
"Oh dear." replied my boss, as she probably reevaluated her choice to hire me.

My co-worker laughed and tried to explain the photo's true origin, but my boss didn't quite understand.
After I heard about it and everyone in the materials room had a good chuckle, I stopped by her office to clarify. She seemed relieved that I am not the child of rifle and parrot enthusiasts, but still probably wonders why I thought it would be funny to claim such. I'm wondering that too.

Deaf Kids Say the Darndest Things....

My friends frequently tell me, "I just love the stuff you post on facebook about the little kids at work ! Post more of that." So, here's a collection of recent work related facebook status updates. When I stop and think about it, the fact that my job is teaching deaf kids to talk is quite miraculous. Just a few decades ago, the technology that allows many of them to access sound and learn spoken language wasn't available. So keep that in mind as you chuckle at what they say. :)

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One tired and cranky little boy was trying to get out of testing this afternoon by pushing the materials away and yelling, "AMEN!" Sorry, buddy. That doesn't end therapy time. :)

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Kid Quote of the Day:

The Avon Lady Returns

Note: The following post makes much more sense if you read the one from November

http://aprettygoodstory.blogspot.com/2011/11/avon-lady.html

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I struggle with Saturdays. Especially when I'm stressed or have deadlines looming in the near future. During the week I tell myself, "Stay calm, keep up the pace, you can always catch up on Saturday." Most of the time this works because--in the moment--I truly believe that I CAN and WILL follow through with this plan. But, with the first hint of sunlight on Saturday morning, the procrastination and justification centers of my brain become extremely active. And before I know it, the day is gone. It's not that I sit around in a semi-vegetative state all day. No. I do plenty . Just not the things that were originally on my list. My guilt is somewhat alleviated by the knowledge that this is a common affliction and perhaps, as some of you read this, you are actually putting off something more important. Ah. I feel better already.

So anyway, this afternoon I remembered that we needed a few things at the store (Yay! Another excuse not to do what I need to do but don't want to do!). I grabbed my keys and my debit card and headed for the front door. But as I turned the handle, I heard a knock. I opened the door to find a familiar face. "Hi there! Would you like some Avon today?" she said with a big smile. It took me a moment to respond, partly because she was not wearing her dentures, and partly because I was trying to think of a way out of this.

"Oh, darn, " I began, "I was just leaving...." but I didn't get to finish my sentence. "This will only take a minute." she said with an even wider grin, revealing that she did have some of her original teeth after all. I silently chastised myself for not having stuck to the plan that would have ensured I was elsewhere at that moment, thereby avoiding this situation entirely. Darn.

Twelve seconds later she was seated on my couch handing me a catalog. "We've got some great stuff in there!" she said, a little louder than necessary. I skimmed through, looking for something I could order quickly....something with a nice round number to avoid the mathematics marathon of her previous sales call. It soon became clear that I would be filling out my own order form again. "I don't have a pen, or my calculator, or my glasses" she reported in an apologetic tone. Then the couch rumbled beneath her. "Excuse me" she said with another Jack-o-lantern smile. Yep. I needed to get this over with as soon as possible.

I found some lip gloss and picked four different shades almost at random . While I was transferring item numbers to the order form, she relayed an unrelated story of her last apartment flooding...then there was another ominous rumble followed by an apology. She then began to ask me a rapid series of questions. "Do you like your apartment? How about this weather? How long have you lived in Logan? Do you ride the bus?" Trying to answer her questions AND focusing on not breathing though my nose AND writing six digit number sequences into tiny boxes AND calculating shipping and tax all at once proved too much for me. I messed up calculating the total and it was in ink. Shoot! This time it was ME that was making this simple transaction take longer than necessary. I told her I had made a mistake and needed to fill out another form. She grinned and assured me, "That's okay, I do it all the time!" Another rumble of the couch motivated me to complete the second form quickly and correctly.. The atmosphere was growing less breathable by the second. "I'll go get my checkbook" I said as I handed her back the form. I walked quickly down the hall to my room and took a deep breath before returning.

"Here you go! Have a great day. I really better be going," I said as I offered a hand to help her off the couch.

"Nice doing business with you!" she said with a final rumble.

I walked her down the stairs and didn't go back to my apartment for a full hour.

Please pass the racism...I mean, the rice...

When Diantha told me her brother, Joel, was bringing his new girlfriend over for dinner, I chuckled and said something like, "Okay...I'll try not to offend this one."

A couple months ago, he and his previous girlfriend came over for dinner. Somehow, the conversation turned to rock climbing and cave diving (two pastimes which I find entirely unnecessary) and she shared a rather tragic story. A friend of hers went cave exploring on a first date . She fell down an unseen crevasse and the impact detached her retina, causing permanent vision loss. I thought, "How sad! One so young, out on what was supposed to be an exciting adventure and now her life is altered forever...awful...just awful."

Unfortunately, there's a mechanism in my brain that activates when I'm confronted with unpleasant facts and emotion. I instantly revert to sarcasm or humor as a means of diffusing and processing the hard stuff. This is fine when it is my own troubles I'm laughing about. But when I react the same way in response to other people's woes, I just appear to be a terribly insensitive person. That is exactly what happened.

After a what seemed to be an endless three seconds of silence, I blurted out, "Well, I guess she won't be seeing that guy anymore." I immediately recognized my error. It made me feel a little better that Joel and Diantha were both choking back laughter. But the look on that girl's face clearly read, "Did you seriously just say that? You are the worst person ever." I tried to apologize, but the look of shock remained. We moved on to dessert and I remember being relieved that she was attending another university several hours away, so I wouldn't encounter her often.

So, that brings us to last night. The four of us--me, Diantha, Joel and his new girlfriend--sat down to the table and began passing dishes and asking the standard getting-to-know-you questions. "You look familiar," I said as I tried to place her face. I thought maybe she worked at the library or the grocery store... one of those places where you see the same people dozens of times but never learn their names. I was not prepared for her response.

"Well, there are a lot of Asians on campus....so...." She trailed off, but I finished it for her in my head...."so, you probably think we all look alike, don't you? You horrible racist!" Was she making a joke? Was I being paranoid? I couldn't tell. But seeing as my stated goal for the evening was not to offend her, I didn't dare open my mouth. My mind flipped into Hyper-Analysis Mode (all females have this setting in their brain) and panic started to set in.

At Joel's request, Diantha had prepared Korean food. Was this girl Korean? I didn't know...and somehow I felt guilty for the fact that I really cannot tell most Asians apart. But this is mainly due to lack of exposure, not some sense of superiority. (Although, I doubt she could have guessed which European nation my ancestors came from, so we're even). If she was Korean, would she be bored with this food? Or--no offense Diantha--what if it was a pathetic American attempt at Korean food? What if she wasn't Korean? What if she viewed this as us saying, "Oh, your family came from a certain geographical region, so you MUST love kimchi! And you probably don't know how to use a fork, either... so, here, have some chopsticks." Ah!

I thought about my Tongan mission companion. Upon meeting her, people felt compelled to tell her that they or someone they knew had a friend from Tonga or Samoa or Tahiti...or went on vacation to Hawaii...or that they really enjoyed pineapple. She was a good sport about it, but in private, she expressed her frustration. "Fool...I don't care if you went on a cruise. I'm from Salt Lake and I'm not here to hula for you!"

The conversation continued and for some reason, kept circling back to ethnic foods. I could have easily contributed but somehow my tales of culinary adventure in Vietnam seemed off limits. So, I kept quiet, which probably made me look less friendly. I looked at Joel as he contentedly scooped up another serving of bulgogi beef. I wondered why he had requested Korean food. Why not Pizza? Enchiladas? Lasagna? Something that wouldn't be causing me to feel awkward every time I asked his girlfriend to pass the rice. Probably because he likes bulgogi beef. That's all. I was making this entire experience waaaaay more uncomfortable than it had initially been after that opening comment. So, I relaxed and began to sing the following song in my head.



And the rest of the evening was fine.

Burning Bridges and Tax Returns

I grew up hearing my parents use the phrase “Don’t burn your bridges”. I had no idea what it meant, but I didn’t ask for clarification. In fact, for a long time, I thought they were saying “britches” which made even less sense. So when I was about seven or eight, I asked my dad, “Is that the same as being a liar?” His face registered total confusion. “You know...burn your britches... liar, liar, pants on fire? Is that why you keep telling people not do it?” His hearty chuckle momentarily hurt my pride. I didn’t think it was funny. He went on to explain that it was a metaphor for relationships with other people. Once they are damaged or destroyed, it is difficult to go back and you can never be sure which bridges you will need to cross in the future. He probably didn’t say it exactly like that, but I got the gist. Today I had a reminder of what a small world this is and how many little bridges we cross and forget about until we cross them again.

I went to have my taxes filed (something I probably could have done cheaper online, but laziness and/or fear of doing it wrong compels me to pay someone else to do it). The woman at the desk looked familiar, but it took a few minutes for me to place the face. She had been my boss at my first campus job. Freshman year seems forever ago. It was a rather boring office job...the kind where you think about pulling the fire alarm just for variety. My task was to sort through piles of returned mailings to alumni and enter address changes into the records system. I worked 12-15 hours a week for minimum wage and the highlight of my workday was that cute boy who was always leaving a class in the room next door just as I arrived for work. Yup. Grocery money and that boy were my only motivation for keeping that job. I remember wondering why my boss had stayed in that office for so long. I also wondered just exactly how many cats she had at home. She always smelled faintly of tuna.

One day, after sustaining yet another paper cut in the line of duty, I wasn’t feeling particularly excited about changing 100 more addresses. I decided to take a break. At the time, I was obsessed with homesrarunner.com . So, I put on my head phones—we were allowed to listen to music with head phones—and pulled up my favorite Strong Bad Email (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bT4SGdq0ZyU ) . In less than five seconds, my boss came walking toward my desk. I quickly—and cleverly, I thought—switched screens and began typing rapidly. Surely I had fooled her, right? Wrong. The headphones were not actually plugged in. The entire office could hear it. Woopsie. I got off with a warning and never did it again. But my embarrassment over it did nothing to boost my enthusiasm for the job in general and I did not return the following semester.

Fast forward eight years. I’m sitting across from this same woman trying to figure out why I know her. It clicked and before I could think about any potential awkwardness, I had confirmed her identity and mine. There was a long pause. Then she asked, “What are you doing now?” I told her, but didn’t return the question because it seemed unnecessary. I noted that she seemed happier and did not smell like tuna...she also had wedding ring...coincidence?) But after the head nodding and smiles were over, it got awkward. Or rather, she got awkward. I was pretty sure that even if she remembered me or even disliked me, it would be illegal for her to intentionally mess up my taxes. Still, she was acting strange.

The list of questions a tax professional asks are not really that personal, but she kept asking them with an apologetic tone, as if she felt she was prying (“Ever filed under a different name? Were you married at the end of the last calendar year? Any dependants? Alimony? Government benefits? “) Each time the computer system ran slowly, she tried to make small talk, but each successive attempt was more uncomfortable than the last.

I found myself wishing that I had not reminded her of our previous association. If I we had just been able to remain strangers, the silence wouldn’t be a problem. I would have been fine with silence. But it wasn’t possible now. I wondered if Allie Brosh would appreciate my circumstances. She brilliantly described what she called, “The Four Levels of Social Entrapment” http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/09/four-levels-of-social-entrapment.html
. I realized that I was experiencing Level 1 (a kind-of-but-not-really-knowing someone) AND Level 2 (forced proximity) at the same time. I wasn’t sure how this was going to end...I just wanted it to end.

Finally, she stopped what she was doing and said, “Okay, that year was a stressful year for me (she gave several reasons), so I’m sorry if I was a cranky boss or made your life harder.” At first, I had no response because I was not expecting that. But I had to say something, so assured her that what I remembered most about that job was the free online radio station she had introduced me to. She seemed relieved. I was also relieved....relieved that even though I hated that job, I had not left it in the fashion I frequently dreamed about....namely, throwing down my headphones, kicking over the large bin of shredded paper and yelling “I’m outta here! Enjoy your paper cuts, you crazy cat lady!”

So, let that be a lesson to us all. Careful not to burn bridges, however insignificant they seem. You never know who will be doing your taxes.