Why Crosswalks Don't Work (a short story)

Chapter 1: The Trouble Begins
Thursday evening I was feeling a bit bored. The Office was a rerun. I spoke with a few friends and suggested that we play Ticket to Ride and eat pizza. They agreed. We planned to play from 8-9 pm, before rogeber would be watching a movie in their living room.

I ordered two pizzas from Brick Oven; one was my favorite (pepperoni, pineapple, and green peppers), and the other was the suggestion of one of the girls playing--a pizza with bacon(!) and peppers.

I began walking to pick up the pizzas and decided to stop by and say hello to branflakes since I was passing his house anyway, and I hadn't talked to him for a while. He was leaving his house and offered me a ride. I accepted. We picked up pizzas and he drove me to the house we were playing at. I told him he could drop me off across the street and I'd cross, to save him time.

He did.

Chapter 2: The Plot Thickens
Branflakes rounded the corner and I waited for traffic to clear. I began crossing the street, in the crosswalk. About one third of the way across, I looked to my left and saw a motorcycle a few feet away from me. Unable to react quickly enough, I was hit by the motorcycle and fell in the middle of the busy street. The game and two pizzas dropped and napkins floated to the ground.

Traffic paused. The man who was riding the motorcycle had fallen off before it hit me. Two girls who had witnessed the incident came to see if I was okay. Was I okay? I wanted to say that I was fine, but I couldn't because I was in shock. Also, since I couldn't speak, I started to realize that I wasn't fine. My lower chest hurt badly. I couldn't move my left leg at all. (What if I had internal bleeding? What if my leg was broken. What if I couldn't play Ticket to Ride?) The girls picked me up and one on each side, they carried me back to the grass across the street from where I was going. I was probably mostly dead weight at first, but started to be able to use my right leg a bit. The guy from the motorcycle wondered if I was okay-ish. I was, I told him. Branflakes parked his car a bit ahead and, privy to what had happened, he came back to see how I was.

Apparently, a car turned in front of the motorcycle. Since the car was turning, Motorcycle Man couldn't see me until it was much too late. He was Very Concerned and apologized profusely.

I said I would probably be fine, and could I just go across the street to my friends' apartment? [NO. The police would want me to do paperwork.] Wellll, could they come get me when they were ready for me? [NO. The police didn't like it when people leave the scene of an accident before they get there. ] Oh. Okay.

The witnesses started talking. Should they call 911? I would be okay, I told them. That wouldn't be necessary. My chest stopped hurting. I stood up to prove that my leg was okay, and it felt like it would be. They agreed. It would be okay to call the police directly, instead of calling 911. "I already called 911," a witness admitted.

Great. Moments later, there were sirens. Four or five police cars came. The paramedics came, and a fire truck came and left. Did I want a ride in the ambulance? No, I assured them that I didn't. They told me that I could have the ride if I wanted it, but that it would cost $400 and I would be fine to take in a car if I wanted to go to the hospital. Branflakes accepted their assurance that I would be okay-ish, and I promised him and everyone that I'd go to the doctor if I felt like I needed to. I told him I would be fine, and he left.

About the same time as the sirens all came, the entire neighborhood became curious about what had happened. People came to their windows to watch from across the street. One guy went out to the stairway to stand at the edge and watch. Two of Optimistic[.]'s roommates who were going to be playing Ticket to Ride came to their window to watch. I grinned and waved so they'd know that I wasn't dead. They waved back and continued watching.

I called the friend who had suggested the bacon pizza and told her that I'd been run over. I suggested that she walk along the main street when she came so that she would walk past the excitement. She did, and came to hear the story and wait with me while I had to supply my ID and let the police do their paperwork.

A couple friends walked by the apartment and I let them know that I'd been run over and would be inside to play the game shortly.

You may be wondering if the pizzas made a mess on the road, or if the game was ruined. The pizzas and the game survived the accident better than I did.

I had fun laughing and joking with the police and witnesses. The police were kind of taking a while, though, and I started to feel a bit faint. I was thirsty, I told them. Could I cross the street and get water and come back? They granted me permission to do so.

I went into the apartment and announced my news: "I just got run over by a Vespa!"

Everyone wanted to hear the story. I told them. I also suggested that they begin eating pizza before it got cold. I went back to the police.

Must be nice being able to park by red curbs, I told them. They could park anywhere, they said, for emergencies. I joked with them "Oh, gosh, this is such an emergency! There's no parking anywhere!" They laughed. They said that often, they'll go to respond to emergencies, and they'll park along red curbs. They'll take care of the problem. Everything clears up, and they'll walk to their cars. People who didn't see the emergency when it was there will see them walking to their cars, parked along a red curb, and they'll start shouting dumb things about how since they're police they think they don't have to obey the laws. And the police will just put up with it, because people are dumb sometimes and don't know what they're talking about. (Police are such troopers.)

They asked me for my account of what happened, which was basically that I looked up and the motorcycle was right there. Were there other cars? Oh, sure. It was busy. Did I notice any in particular? Nope, sorry.

The motorcycle man apologized more. I have the same name as his wife, he said. He was so sorry that we'd met this way. He gave me a hug. We started making accident jokes-- So, how did you meet? Oh, he ran into me the other day. Just (shrug) on the street. The police groaned and smiled.

Eventually, I was dismissed to go play Ticket to Ride.

Chapter 3: The Long Evening
I hobbled across the street and into the apartment. I was covered in street. What happened? Everyone wanted to know. I retold the story several times as different people arrived and hadn't heard it.

I was feeling okay, but gradually, I started to feel less okay. My chest started hurting again. My leg started hurting a lot. I took some ibuprofen. I felt sore.

One of the guys offered me a ride home (as he often does). (Was the Vespa the one that was parked near me?) Yes, it was. (Um, [dimmi], that wasn't a Vespa. That was a motorcycle.) Oh. Yeah, because Vespas are like scooters. And I wasn't hit by a scooter. Well, it was red, I remembered. And maybe the name on it started with V.

I got home and found Lavish and Yellow watching a movie. "Guess what I did tonight," I told them. They guessed a few things. "I got run over!" I said, and went into the kitchen for water. "You what?!" Lavish asked. I came back and told them the story. "AND YOU DIDN'T CALL ME?!" Lavish was shocked. "Well. I was fine. And you were at your French dinner. Anyway, I would have called if I went into the emergency room." "New rule," she said. "Any time you get run over, you have to call me..."

Chapter 4: A Lovely Visit
Since I wasn't feeling well, I got permission to miss work that night. And I slept through part of Job #2 the next day. I called and told them what had happened, and took the rest of my scheduled shift off.

My mom had left a message on my phone wondering why I hadn't called her, since Lavish had told her that morning.

Optimistic[.] offered me a ride to the doctor, since I was still feeling unwell. I wasn't thrilled to go, but Mom thought it was a good idea too. ("What if you're feeling worse in a week? Then you'd go in and they'd ask why you didn't come a week ago..." "Anyway, it's good to check things out just in case.") He drove me far, far away (like 15 minutes) to the Urgent Care place that my insurance recommended when I called them.

They had a 1.75 hour approximate wait time posted. Optimistic[.] had work, so he arranged for rogeber to pick me up afterwards. I began waiting.

I looked for a decent magazine to read. There were a couple news magazines that looked promising, but they were across the room. Another lady saw me peeking through the stack of magazines that was on the table by me. "They don't have any of the good ones," she said to save me time. "There are no gossip magazines at all. I checked. That's the only reason why I didn't bring a book. I thought I'd just read one of those, but there are none." I feigned disappointment. "I just read this one, though. It was okay." She offered me a kitchen decorating magazine. "I actually don't have a kitchen to decorate," I confessed. "I live in student housing..."

"Oh, that's the best time to read them." She explained to me why it's worth it to decide what you like before you actually build a kitchen. You wind up with ideas. Otherwise you spend a lot of money on a kitchen that is just average and not what you really want. She was planning on having a new house later this year, and a new kitchen within a couple years. We discussed the merits of kitchen islands. She said she doesn't like them to have stoves, etc.

It was during that conversation that I decided something: waiting room conversations are the worst because the only thing that you have in common (the visit) is something that you usually can't discuss politely. It would have been entirely inappropriate to ask why she was seeing the doctor, but that was the only thing that we had in common, so we were left with nothing. This same phenomenon is the same reason why many people don't start conversations in waiting rooms to begin with. (That's also unfortunate, since long waits pass more quickly when you're distracted by conversation.)

Think about it, though: When you're at a wedding, you talk to strangers about the bride and groom. When you're at yoga, you talk about yoga. When you're waiting for kindergarten to let out, you talk about kids. When you're at the doctor's office...nothing.

Chapter 5: A Happy Resolution
I eventually made it in to see the doctor. He was happy to see me. "You served a mission, didn't you. " He could tell, he said. (Utah is such a funny place. ) I did. Where? Italy. He came close and showed me his name tag. It was a very Italian name. His grandparents were all Italian except one that was from Poland. He started speaking Italian with me. Nice. He told me about his experiences on his mission, and about how much he likes sister missionaries. Neat. I was so sweet, he said.

He checked my leg. And my ribs. And sent me off with Chuck, for x-rays, since I wanted them and nobody had any reason to believe they wouldn't be a good idea. Chuck took x-rays of my knee and leg and sent me back to Dr. Friendly (name has been changed).

The doctor came back into the room and told me I was lucky. I have "one heckuva bruise," he said. Or, if I wanted to impress my friends, I could tell them that I have a "severe pre-tibial contusion." He told me I should ice my leg for 20 minutes, three times a day. I told him that was a lot, and I'd think about it. He came up with a schedule for me, to show me that I could handle it. Ohhhh, he liked sister missionaries so much, he told me some more. He gave me a side hug, and sent me on my way.

Epilogue: How am I now?
I am still really bruised. My leg hurts, and it's starting to turn purple. My chest sometimes hurts, but not as much as before. I think I'll be okay.

Overall, I give being run over by a motorcycle only 1 of 5 stars. It was an interesting experience (I'd never been run over before), and it's been nice to have everyone inquiring about my wellbeing. I got to see really cool x-rays of my leg, and it's made for an cool story. These benefits have all been overshadowed with feelings that the whole event has been a major waste of time. I missed 8 minutes of playing Ticket to Ride and missed two goings to work. Also, I spent a lot of time waiting for the doctor. Additionally, the experience has been quite painful and makes me a bit nervous about crossing streets. So, I don't recommend it to anyone.

Also, I used to occasionally mutter under my breath that people should just run me over, and I'll sue them. I have no intentions to sue anyone, and the experience has not had many redeeming qualities. I don't think I'll mutter about it in the future.

The End.

Pop Rocks

It's been an exciting weekend.

I randomly bought Pop Rocks yesterday, because I hadn't had them in a while. I decided to share some of them with Abby. I'm telling you--it's the new fun way to tease cats. It was hilarious. She started running through our apartment, and she'd jump every few seconds when it would pop. Fantastic. And we thought Scotch tape was funny...

A list of some things that make me happy

(In no particular order.)

1. New phone books. In plastic.
2. Abby.
3. Good ice cream. Occasionally.
4. Making ice cream.
5. Kitchen stuff.
6. Mail. Especially the non-junk, non-bill variety.
7. People finding and friending me on Facebook.
8. Papa Murphy's Take & Bake pizzas.
9. The gym.
10. Having my hair played with.
11. Going grocery shopping with other people.
12. Random visits from friends, at work.
13. The answer section in the back of math textbooks.
14. Geocaching, even though I've never been.
15. Ticket To Ride.
16. Silent Football, especially when I don't lose right away for laughing.
17. Zip-bomb.
18. The toothpick game, where you go door-to-door and get people to trade you things, even though I've never played.
19. Clever, thought-provoking graffiti.
20. Puns.
21. Hugs and kisses.
22. Pulling out of a good parking spot in a parking lot that's really full, when there are people waiting for the spot.
23. eBay.
24. Everything Google.
25. 107.9, The Mix, which has become my radio station over this past week.
26. The song "Hey There Delilah".
27. The website imeem.com. I'm not sure whether or not it's legal, but you can find any song you want and listen to it online for free whenever you want, and make playlists, etc. I've been using it for the past few days and it's glorious.
28. Yellow taught me how to solve a Rubik's cube a couple days ago.
29. Vacuum cleaners. Especially central systems, Roombas, and wet/dry vacs.
30. The new Nissan Altima.
31. Absence of spiders.
32. Vaccinations.
33. Travel.
34. Spinning yarn.
35. Movies that end happily ever after.
36. Bubble wrap and popping it.
37. Tacos.
38. Messages or drawings in sidewalk chalk.
39. Stationary, especially with lined envelopes.
40. Fountain pens.
41. Cicada's blog.
42. Days where work is slow and I can sleep a bit.
43. Mandarin oranges.
44. Pasquetta.
45. Foreign films.
46. Artichokes, but not fried or pickled, or anything like that.
47. Things that look dead coming back to life after winter. Like our roses.
48. My grandparents.
49. Having my teeth cleaned at the dentist.
50. Cheez-Its.
51. That one garbage bin in Orem.

Funny things from work

Really, the only thing I've been up to lately is work.

I got a just-for-fun very-part-time job at my favorite store in the mall. I've been "working" there for almost three weeks now. I'm the oldest girl who works there, which is a position I've never been in before. Strange. (Incidentally, I was marking things on my 2008 calendar yesterday, and I marked my 25th birthday. Huh. That's so weird. That was always the far-away time that I would use for long-term goals. Time just keeps moving.) So working there keeps me younger, I suppose.

Anyhow, I was going to post a funny story from each of the jobs, so here's the one from Job #2:

A lady was shopping in our store and came up to pay for her stuff. She was from California, she indicated in conversation. Where in California? We all wanted to know.

lady: By Ventura. (I think.)

Oh! My coworkers' cousins live out there. (Those coworkers are sisters.) What part of the area?

lady: In Stephen's Ranch (sp?).

coworker: [very friendly and upbeat] Does it keep you busy?

lady: [confused] what?

coworker: The ranch. Does it keep you busy?

lady: Um. We don't actually live on a ranch. That's the name of the city.

coworker: [really embarrassed]

Awkward closing of conversation.

We keep teasing my coworker, though, asking her, "Does it keep you busy?" with the same interested voice that she used. Funny.

My other job has been the same lately. Nothing especially exciting has happened there.

Part of my job is responding to emails that customers send us, and this morning I got a good one. It was spammy, but relevant to our site. Go figure.

subject: Pop ups!
message:
No! No! No!
Forget ancestry, it's history. What about your future? Do you trust Jesus, the only one who can save your soul?

Who sends emails like that?

Living the good life.

I was thinking about cats.

My cat is so lucky. She has all of her food and water provided. She has free heating. She can sleep all day, or play when she feels like it. She demands and receives attention whenever she wants it. And she goes around getting massages from everyone; nobody gives it a second thought. Nobody ever fights her about anything. She has such a simple, relaxing lifestyle.


As I considered her sweet lifestyle, I was initially a bit jealous. How fortunate she was, to be born a cat.


I thought more about it, though, and really, being born a cat is probably usually a misfortune. The only cats that really have it good are indoor cats. And possibly farm cats.




There are a whole lot of cats that have to defend their territory, have to hunt to survive, and so on. They lose limbs and limp, and get ear mites and fleas, and eat trash. They have to avoid cars and hungry Koreans and dogs and bad weather.


There are probably loads of stray cats. And domestic cats that have to live outside. Life as an average cat wouldn't be all that great. And I'm sure the odds of being born an indoor cat are really, really not favorable.


Come to think of it, I guess there are people out there (especially in other countries) born with a lot of the same problems that outdoor cats have. I should be thankful for what I've got.

Spinning #2

Spinning ended a couple weeks ago. I missed the class so after much deliberation I've purchased my first spinning wheel.

She's an Original Lendrum, double treadle.

First I finished spinning the wool that I prepared as part of my spinning class, (from the very beginning. Then I bought a couple different colors of green to spin, and I've been making green yarns. And green and white yarns.

Now I'm spinning some wool that was dyed by Lorna's Laces, in a color that to me looks like rainbow sherbet. I googled Lorna's Laces, searched through the swatches of wool and discovered that it actually is called "SHERBET". Cool. (See color at left.)

And what will I do with all of the yarn that I'm making, since I now enjoy spinning more than I enjoy knitting? Oh, who knows. I may wind up with A LOT of new, colorful socks.

Funeral Highlights

Since Lavish missed out on the St.George / Vegas fun last weekend, she and I had our own road trip this past Saturday. We decided to go up to Bountiful, and invited several friends. Unfortunately, nobody we knew was able to join us. (I think it may have been because we gave them 10 minutes advance notice.)

We attended a killer (ha!) funeral while we were there. Since we didn't exactly know the man that had passed away, I kept thinking of 'Harold and Maude' (shown for Optimistic.'s movie night a couple weeks ago). (It was for my mom's uncle, whom we'd never met; Mom couldn't attend and asked Lavish and I to represent the family.)

Anyhow, since you all missed out, I thought I would post some highlights from the funeral. Enjoy!

Story #1 - The Cow Story
"JV" was an expert storyteller. His daughter shared a story-ette that her dad often told her when she was a kid. She wasn't sure if it was actually true, or not. To the best of my memory, it went like this:

When JV was young, he went to school, and he also helped take care of the family's cows. They would be down at the river, and they'd drink water, or whatever, and then he'd direct them back up to the barn to be milked. When he would milk them, there was never much milk, though. It was because when they were down at the river, their udders would hang into the river and the catfish would get at them!

(Lavish does not remember this story because she was watching a little girl who was playing near our pews. The little girl was sharing food with people. Another kid had dried apricots that they shared with her, and she graciously accepted, tasted it, and made a face indicating disgust. She took another bite because she was supposed to, since someone had shared with her, though. It was really funny.)

Story #2 - The Car Story
"JV" was a good father, and taught his children a bunch of lessons. A different daughter shared this story:

She borrowed the family car to visit a boy that she was interested in. He worked half a mile from their home. She stayed longer than she was supposed to, and kept the car longer than she was supposed to. Her father ("JV") walked down to where she was, and without going inside or saying anything to her, he took the car back home. When she finally left, the daughter saw that the car was gone, and she worried that it had been stolen. She called home and told her dad that they'd better call the police because the car had been stolen. "JV" was quiet for a moment. "No," he said, "The car's here. It knows when to come home even if my daughter doesn't."

Story #3 - Gardening
"JV" was an avid gardener, especially known for his prize tomatoes. His daughter helped him plant his garden after he was old and unable to do it. He made her replant the tomatoes twice (until they were planted properly).

"JV's Philosophy"
"JV" has something hanging at the wall of his house, and one of his kids said they think it was kind of his motto. It reads:

For every worry under the sun
There's a solution or there is none.
If there is one, hurry and find it.
If there is none, never mind it.

Hopefully that eased your grief and helped you come to terms with reality, just as it did for Lavish and I.

Save the Whales! And the Earth!

(Two blog posts from me in one day? Wow-ee. Can you handle the excitement?)

Last week for movie night, we watched An Inconvenient Truth.

Despite my status as a registered, ballot-wielding Republican, I happen to be sensitive to some environmental issues. And I realize that it all needs to be taken with a grain of salt, but the whole thing causes me some dissonance. I seem to have a continual voting dilemma-- do I vote for the party which supports the environmental issues that I am genuinely concerned about, or do I vote for the party which supports the other 99% of the things that I'm interested in? I tend to vote for the latter, and then I feel bad for not doing my part environmentally. I recycle when I can, and whatnot, but I wonder if my interests would better match with one of those parties that never wins any elections (not the Neowhig party.)

It's been in me for a long time.

I've remembered a couple stories from my childhood that I thought I would post.

Sometime in elementary school, I used our Mac to make a poster. It was a nice poster that I made in QuarkExpress. It had a little border around the edge and a big clip-art picture of a whale, and it said in really big letters "SAVE THE WHALES." I printed it on our dot matrix printer, and photocopied a bunch of them on Dad's copy machine in his home office. I went around the neighborhood and taped them to every lamp-post on my block.

I don't know what I expected to happen. Maybe people would start saying to themselves:
"Oh! We should save the whales. At first I was thinking that we shouldn't, but now that I've seen this smart poster, I think I'll change my mind and start to save whales!"

Despite my protests, my parents made me remove all of them. Probably the same evening that I'd posted them.

And then another time, I talked Lavish into making a Save the World commercial with me. It didn't go very far, really. We had a big video camera that I thought we could use. Lavish wondered how we would get it on tv. I was sure that we could just call up and get a tv station to agree to help us out with it. I called the TV station that was listed in the phone book and left a message.

They called me back while I was mopping. We were in trouble! for nothing! and so my sisters and I were having to clean the kitchen. (Chores like mopping always take much, much longer to do as a little kid than they do as an adult, because little kids don't have the same coordination that adults do.)

My dad told me that the TV station was on the phone. He didn't know why they were calling me. A nice man explained to me how expensive it was to produce commercials, and to air them. He asked me what my favorite TV show was (Woody Woodpecker) and told me how much it would cost to do a short commercial during that show. He liked to talk, and so even after I realized that we wouldn't be able to do our commercial, I kept asking good questions. He talked at length. I think it ended up being 40 minutes or an hour. By the time he was done talking, my dad had cooled down, and I didn't have to mop anymore. It was fantastic.

I was also a card-carrying member of the RecyCOOL club, but I don't have much to say about that.

Writing on Shirts

For as long as I can remember, I've had access to a washing machine and dryer. Even on my mission, our apartments always had washers. (We had drying racks instead of dryers, since pretty much nobody has dryers in Italy. Most stores that sell washers don't even sell dryers.) It's something I've taken for granted, much like CheezIts or linens or anything else.

Now, my house has no washer or dryer, and I get to make trips to a local laundromat. Lucky me. Lavish goes to a fantastic place that boasts wifi and new machines. Since I usually don't do my laundry at the same time and I have to walk, I go to a really ghetto (really nearby) joint that boasts cheaper dryers than Lavish's, and a shady crowd.

The last time I was doing laundry, another woman was drying hers near mine. She was hispanic, probably about 50-55 years old, wearing athletic pants and shoes, and a t-shirt with an unbuttoned plaid shirt on top. What fascinated me about her was her t-shirt.

The t-shirt had an African American young man on it, shirtless, and wearing lots of bling. (Perhaps a rapper?) He had a tough expression on his face. The shirt read "Don't judge me if you don't know me."

I began to wonder why the woman would have chosen to wear that shirt. Was it her son's shirt? Did she find it for really cheap at a thrift store? Did she somehow identify with the shirt? It was a mystery to me. I certainly couldn't imagine my parents or grandparents wearing a shirt like that.

(It reminds me of one time on the buses in Italy...a guy had his music on at a pretty high volume. The person directly behind him on the bus was a little old lady with long white hair. I started to feel sorry for her having to listen to his loud, worldly music until--I saw her from another angle and realized that my little old lady was sporting a mullet!)

I started thinking about writing on shirts.

I make a conscious effort to avoid wearing clothing with writing on it.

It started when I was in 3rd or 4th grade, when I chose a Peter Pan outfit as one of my new school outfits. It was a red shirt that had Peter Pan on it, and pants with Tink on the knee. Other kids would stop me on the playground and start reading my shirt aloud "Escape from Neverland........" and it made me uncomfortable. What do I care about Neverland!? It certainly had nothing to do with me. I really didn't wear it much after that.

I really don't like having to explain or defend things that are written on my clothing. I start feeling self-conscious.

Recently I've had a similar problem with one of my shirts that I ordered from Threadless.com. (I love their shirts.)

One of the shirts has writing on it, though. And almost every time I wear the shirt, people will come up and stare at my chest and read what the dialogue on the shirt says. Or they'll ask me what it says. And then after I tell them, they'll ask me why it says what it does, or why I chose that shirt. "I don't know," I'll say. "I just liked it." But I feel like it's never a good enough answer. In fact, I realized that there was more to my shirt than I knew of when I bought it, and it makes me enjoy the shirt a bit less.

(It's kind of like people's cellphone ringtones. You'll get these very uneducated guys that sometimes have classical music as their ringtones. I saw it more often before downloading ringtones was so popular; they'd just chosen a pre-programmed ringtone. And of course they didn't realize it was a symphony that they'd set. They didn't know that the composer was 11 and unable to speak, or that it was written in honor of some queen, or anything about it. Not your typical classical music crowd; they just thought it sounded cool. That amuses me to no end.)

I've had a couple of other issues with writing on shirts lately.

One of my little sisters gifted me some of her trendy clothes that she chooses not to wear (in favor of more comfy clothes.) It included a very comfortable brushed cotton shirt that became my favorite. There was also another one just like it that read "Your boyfriend says hi." that I wasn't really sure what to do about. On the one hand, I wanted to wear it because it was so soft and comfortable. On the other hand, I didn't want anybody to think that their boyfriend would be saying hello to them through me.

I decided that an excellent compromise would be to wear it only for painting. That way I could enjoy junk clothes that were soft and comfortable! I thought it was fantastic. Except...people came over to help Lavish and I paint our apartment, and they would sometimes give me funny looks. I felt awkward about it, too, because I liked and was spending time with a guy who was already in a relationship. My conscious effort to respect his relationship mad me very uncomfortable to be wearing that shirt.

Also, I have a Cecil sweatshirt which has writing on it. I almost always enjoy it anyhow. In California, though, nobody knew who Cecil was. They'd stare at my sweatshirt and say "Sissel is your home boy?" "Mhmm." "Who's Sissel?"

So there you have it, folks. Don't judge me if you don't know me. (Especially not by writing on my t-shirts.)

Parlando Italiano

This week I started a new job.

It's through the same company that I was already working for, but it's at their other office. (The office that I didn't even know existed until recently.)

I looked into my new job on a whim, and ended up accepting it. It should be really good: I become a full time employee (with full benefits!) and I'll be speaking Italian daily, among other good things.

Since I'll be speaking Italian full-time, I work on a full-time (10 am - 5 pm) Italian schedule. Italians live 8 hours ahead of us, though, so my shift on Utah time is... 2 am - 9 am! So far, I'm partying like a rockstar most nights.

It's quite a change for me. I'd really never even considered working a graveyard position.

I train for a month, and then I'll be able to work from home. Fun. Buses do not run at 2 am, and Lavish doesn't want me walking to work, so she gets up every morning to drive me there. What a trooper.

A few interesting things have happened, so far.

1) The reason they hired me is that the Company is entering the Italian market. I am the solitary resource that Italians will have...starting mid-February. Until then, I get to listen to calls that British people make. It's fantastic. And they have catchy accents.

Take, for example, yesterday. From the living room, I could hear that Lavish was washing dishes. I wanted to let her know that she shouldn't wash the stuff that I'd just put in the sink, because I was about to wash it. I had to self-censor because the words that came to my mouth were: "Lavish, don't wash those! I'll wash them forthwith!" (Forthwith?! Who says that? British people.)

2) My days have become really disjointed. I'm supposed to be sleeping after work, from 9 am-ish until 6-ish pm. The problem is, those are hours when things are happening. I keep finding things to do, or things to want to do, after work. So what's been happening is: I get home at 9:30 am, or so. I go to sleep until 2 pm, or so. I get up and do things. Sometime in the evening I sleep more. I get up for work.

The only thing is, breaking my sleep into two pieces makes me feel like my days are going by differently. My days are not 24 hours long, they are 12 hours long. (Ex. I feel like I've been working for like, oh, 6 days, and that I'm not getting any thing done any day.)

3) Yesterday, before I left, the guy training me wanted me to speak with someone. He liked the way that I read our training book and thought that this other guy would be interested in possibly having me do some voice work. (Whaaat....?) I met with him, and today he had me read an 11 page tutorial inside a sound box thing. (The girl they have doing voice work so far has a voice that is a bit scratchy, and she has a Utah accent. I'm not from Utah, right? No, no.) I may become the tutorial voice for our company's website. The guy really liked how it came out, and suggested I look into doing voice work. Strange.

Anyhow, those are my work stories of late. I should blog again, soon. Cheerio!

Spinning Class #1

For some reason, I am drawn to natural things. I like the idea of organic food. I would love to have a ranch someday, and have livestock and a big garden. Growing all of my own food sounds fantastic. It's not that I don't like nice things...I like classy natural things. If that makes any sense.

I discovered paper making and knitting through a friend that I met online, and have enjoyed both over the past few years. When I moved to Provo, I found Heindselman's (which is the oldest yarn store in the country!) and it became my new favorite store. They sell so much yarn!

They also sell rovings, which is fiber that is ready to be spun into yarn. I couldn't believe it. I had always just sort of assumed that spinning wheels were obsolete.

Turns out, they're not.

My yarn store offers spinning classes, and sells spinning wheels. Who knew!?

And then, I was catching up on my knitting friend's blog and I found out that while I was on my mission, she had started spinning yarn. Her stuff is gorgeous. [See picture at left.]

So I signed up for my class, and it started last night.

It was amazing. I love, love, loved it.

There are five of us in the class, and I am the youngest. By a lot. I think the other women are all 45-60 years old. (Our teacher is up there, too, and she's been spinning for 10 years. I'm 23. I will have been spinning for 10 years at a paltry 33 years old!)

Everyone is really nice. Last night we talked about the different kinds of fibers, and passed them around. [Nice story: One lady who shops at the store saved her dog's hair for 5 years and then spun it and made a really pretty cardigan. Dog hair actually does come out really nice. She wore it to a party. At the end of the night they went to the room where they had placed all of the coats on the bed. Coats were everywhere. Her cardigan was in the middle of the room, in shreds. Moral of the story: Dogs can always smell dogs. Think long and hard before spinning dog hair.] We learned how to spin with handspinners. We learned how to clean wool.

For homework, we have some stuff to spin, and two big bags of wool to pull apart and wash. This afternoon I picked it all apart. I'll wash it tomorrow. Next Thursday, we'll learn how to use spinning wheels. Cool.

My Life Since September, or Why I Love My Phone