The Pregnant Mind

Did you know that pregnant women have a good excuse for not remembering anything?  A factoid from BabyCenter reveals that pregnant women experience forgetfulness 15 percent more than nonpregnant women, but thankfully, memory returns after delivery.

This just explains so much of the last few months (namely an incident at the local Safeway last week) and will continue to justify any mental sloppiness leading up to my due date.  This incident of which I speak proved that my mind is not running at full speed.  After loading up Tiny Tot into his car seat, I drove all the way home before realizing I’d left my full cart of groceries in the parking lot.  Brilliant.  Since our Safeway has a reputation as The Un-Safeway, I prepped myself for the loss of six bags (”whomever stole them probably really needed them”) as I sped back to try and recover them.

And there they were, sitting gloriously untouched in the cart pavillion.  Lesson learned and sympathies extended to women whose memories aren’t fully restored until their baby is two months old and they drive away forgetting that their baby’s in the car seat on top of the car.  Let’s hope the pregnant mind stays sharp enough to avoid that critical mistake…

Make it At Least Sound Like You’re Working

Since working from home over the last sixteen months, I’ve experienced the bad and the ugly of talking to clients, bosses and others from my makeshift satellite office. Were it not for my ever-busy fifteen month old assistant in the background (whose music class teacher accuses of having “wiggle worms” in his overalls–she also can only communicate in verse), background noise wouldn’t be an issue. Dear Boy caused me a bit of panic back when he was three months old and breastfeeding round the clock.

In that stage, he could be placed on his Boppy pillow and I could continue to work on my computer completely uninterrupted while he fed. I became so immune to his little nursing soundtrack figuring that was the best time to make calls since he wouldn’t fuss at all. Imagine my surprise two minutes into a conversation when an events manager in San Francisco asked nonchalantly how old my little one was, with no prior indication from me that I had a baby. Flustered, I replied, realizing he heard my suckling child loud and clear in California, and he then said, “Oh, my wife and I have a five month old so those sounds are quite familiar.” Needless to say, I weeded his hotel out of the running for our event and got off the phone with a new set of personal phone regulations.

Now along comes a product for the stay-at-home worker or those that just work in smaller offices that want to a) block unintended background noise of dogs, babies and doorbells and/or b) create the illusion of workplace productivity. This CD creates a bustling background of “busy office” sounds like ringing phones, mumbling co-workers and incoming faxes. Two tracks exist depending on how badly you want to want to get off the phone with your client, “Busy” or “Very Busy.”

Thriving Office makes the grandiose claim that no one has ever returned one of their CDs out of dissatisfaction, since they also allege that by creating the myth of a busy office (starring you), you actually will get more work done in the end. The Pioneer Press points out an additional perk as “[giving] comfort to the lonely telecommuter.” Now one thing is for sure.

While I’ve had to mute my line during conference calls when Dear Boy takes over on the drums…

I’ve never been lonely as I’ve ducked work calls to attend to matters of greater importance, like perfecting Yoda’s Halloween strut.

Posted by JL

Men on a Mission to Mortify Joe Miller

As we’ve shared many embarrassing moments this week in posts, this little gem just had to be shared at the expense of our blogger laureate, Joe Miller. My friend Joy tipped us off about this most interesting new 2008 pin-up calendar of LDS missionaries and this is the following email exchange which took place this morning:

From LeMare, 10:50AM: What on earth–is this real?

From Joe Miller’s brother (who is receiving Joe’s work emails at his old address for some reason), 11:18AM: LeMare, I’ve changed my mind—you can use this address to email Joe anytime. You’ve put me on a new path. I have a new aim in life…Mr. “June 2008”.

From LeMare, 11:19AM: So these guys are REALLY on missions, and they’re REALLY posing shirtless with their pants as low as A&F models??? Certainly not while they’re ON their mission???

A couple of them are pencil-necked geeks. Some, not so much.

From LeMare, 11:34AM: I couldn’t look at this page too long because I was afraid that people were going to come up behind me and think that I am some kind of sick degenerate.

And, in thinking about it… would they be right?

From Joe Miller’s brother, 12:07PM: I’m not sure what you are suggesting. My wife hasn’t stopped looking at it since I showed it to her. Her favorite is Matt.

From Joe Miller, 12:18PM: Ok, someone just walked into my cubicle as I was checking out the website. My mouth was agape in shock but I wonder how my coworker interpreted my expression due to the fact that he immediately exited my area like it was an accident he ever ran into me. My life is now over.

P.S. If you have a picture of a recent Return Missionary, nominate them for the 2009 edition here.

Posted by JL

Myrt’s Blurts. Embarrassing Moments: The Catalog

Those of you who know me understand the relationship I have with jackassery. For those who don’t, you’ll be there at the end of what I’m about to share. There is a certain amount of opportunity cost I take in making this information pseudo-public, but for some unknown reason, I’m willing to underwrite that risk. Two caveats: one, some of these stories may be a rerun to a few of you; and two, I appreciate and apologize for the Ayn Rand-ish length.  

Let’s inaugurate this posting with the recent occurrence that started me thinking about my precarious flirtation with humiliation. A couple weeks ago, a friend-of-a-friend sent me an invitation to shelfari – an online book club. After three reminders, I got tired of it and thought, “I’ll just sign up, so they’ll leave me alone.” In the rush to get it done, I failed to take the time to figure out why they were asking me for my gmail password. As I clicked on the button to add the friend who invited me, I realized why: Shelfari sent a bloomin’ email to every person I have ever emailed. Ex-boyfriends, people I hoped would never contact me again, coworkers, my vice-president, my CFO, my old boss, potential employers, my bishop, the entire Sunday school and relief society. EVERYONE. All now invited by spam to join my on-line book club.  

Flashback to my awkward adolescence when one afternoon, my sister, friend and I decided to go skinny dipping in our neighborhood pond. As I slipped off the suit, it slipped away. Fifteen minutes and several deep dives to the bottom later, it was gone for good. My nefarious companions refused to fetch my towel, forcing me to run out of the water and across the beach naked. That story spread through the middle school faster than coke through Lindsay Lohan. 

Frustrated that my boss had answered only one of my five questions, I forwarded his email to my coworker, complaining about his lack of response. Trouble was, I hit reply and not forward. It was a long walk of shame into his office that day my friends. 

On the long ride up the ski lift at Sundance, I grew tired of the discomfort the dangling skis were causing on my poor knees and ankles. But then, it occurred to me: Take them off! Sitting there with my feet swinging weight-free and the skis and poles laying over my lap, I relished in the genius that was. But alas, it was not to last. As the lift skirted over the drop-off for the bunny hill, the toe of my boot clipped the top of the hill, propelling me, the skis, and the poles into mid air and down the slope. The teenaged lift operator stopped the lift and waited impatiently for me to detangle, redress with my skis on again, and reboard (a good two minutes). As if it needed to be said at that point (not that it should have in the first place), the operator smugly lectured me on why it’s imperative I keep my skis on.   

Sorry for the somewhat, um, unsavory subject matter in this next one. In preparation for an IVP, a medical test in which they shoot iodine into the veins to watch it stream through the kidneys and bladder, I had to have my system “cleaned out” with the assistance of laxatives. At the local CVS, I hurried to the aisle, grabbed my product and a few others as camouflage, purchased, and went home. Only to discover that I had bought the wrong type. So I went back. As I headed to the checkout for the second time, now with the proper product in one hand and the old product to return in the other, I thought I was in the clear – no one in line. Just as I stepped up to the counter, however, the other checkout closed, and the three good looking guys in that line file in behind me. No big deal. Until, as it turned out, my checkout asst was new and didn’t know how to return an item. She called for the manager, and as we waited, she kept trying to figure it out - the machine started beeping incessantly, the guys got impatient, and I stood there dumbfounded. After five minutes of this, the manager finally came over to help, held up both items for the entire line to see and asked which one I wanted returned and which one I wanted to buy. I finally finished paying and took what little dignity I had left home with me. 

One last one. On our way to an Illini basketball game, I got out a couple of quarters to feed the meter, realized it was late enough I didn’t need to, and put the two quarters in my pocket. During the game, I went to the bathroom, and while squatting in my stall, I heard a quarter drop and land between me and the stall next to mine. Yes it was a bathroom floor, but hey, it was a quarter. So I reached down, grabbed the quarter, finished my business, and left. As I emptied my pockets that night, I pulled out three quarters. That’s right, three quarters. Now imagine you’re in a stall, you accidentally drop a quarter, and before you can reach down and fetch it, a hand pops out from under the wall and snatches it without a word.

Guest Post: Notes from the Field

*The following is an unsolicited guest post from a certain sister missionary in the California Los Angeles Mission. These excerpts come from selected emails over the last year she’s been serving.

Celebrity Sightings
Dill Tweedy is going to be jealous, but yes I saw Goldie Hawn over lunch last Wednesday after a trip to the Temple which I shall never forget. Her arms are taut, but softer in a way that a 60-something’s arms must be. I heard her say “Exactly.” Her voice still rings with chutzpah and force. She’s still got it everybody.

Integrity
Anywho, for the 4th, the Mexicans went wild! Another reason to drink, play loud mariachi and fire to boot! Fireworks are actually illegal. We just had a stirring lesson this past Sunday in Relief Society about Integrity (ie honesty). The teacher acted like we were about to delve in to something to give us shame, like gossip. She said “This is a hard subject, so we are going to read straight out of the manual.” Note: This task is difficult seeing as literally four people in the rama are legal. Everyone else uses false papers, different names at work, and they all drive illegally, and allow their children the same privilege. The class was great. The trouble was the teacher was illegal too, lessening the power of her stirring remarks, “How many of us bought illegal fireworks and used them on the fourth of July?” Oooh.

Doting Younger Elders
i am afraid there is a strange elder who has a bit of a thing for me, as pointed out by my companion. He is always trying to get me to teach him French (hello, we are all learning Spanish right now…). he sat next to me at the Home Town Buffet on Saturday between sessions and I made the mistake of responding to my companion’s prods that I should marry her 19 year-old brother with “Age ain’t nothing but a number.” Which I believe I stole from a rapper. Anywway, the eager young elder quickly wrote this quote down in his planner. Great.

New Recipes
i must dash, but first, i have to tell you the funniest invention that my former district leader taught me: Ghetto cake. You take any boxed cake mix, or bread mix for that matter, mix it with just enough water so that it makes a thick paste that does not slide off of a spoon when tipped downwards. you then microwave the mixture (about 45 seconds for 1/4 c. of ghetto cake). The result is significantly lower calorie (no oil, no egg) cake that is cooked instantly and very easy to make. I thought this would be fabulous at a party. Individual cakes in cups for people, topped with fruit, frosting, whatever. It’s ghetto cake. you do what you want.

Sweet Discussions
A few favorite less-active moments from this past week…A sweet, obese less-active boy toddled in to the front room at the end of our lesson with his Mother to say, “Mom? I was thinkin’, could we get some tater tots? And some SPAM?” This sweet boy is a good 100 over.

Another moment, with our favorite narcissist, Miguel. After another rambunctious lesson with hi and his wife, (We asked him to name something that he likes about her, he couldn’t respond…), I shook his hand and said “Muchas gracias Miguel.” The little gnome said “Muchas gracias Senor.” He then paused and looked away. His wife and my companion were dying laughing, and I said in a raspy tone, “Gracias.” I hope that this is the last time that my gender shall be confused…

Bicycle Mishap
i wasn’t goin to share this story, perhaps this is against my better judgment, but it has never happened before and it SHALL NEVER happen again, so I here goes… I often follow my companion in and out of traffic, much like a goose following the head pin goose. Last Friday, my compaion whirred through an interesection, and I got caught behind some cars turning right, wiating for a gang of misled youth to cross.

By the time the light turned green, I sped off, supposing that Hermana had waited at the next intersection. hermana had not. Thrree minutes later I had a funny feeling. We had been on our way to visit Ana Silvia, an investigator. Resting at the side of our local major road, I realized that Hermana was no where to be found, i knew not Ana Silvia’s address. I felt vulnmerable and dark.

I took off down the next street, and pulled over to a phone book. i then realized that I did not know Ana Silvia’s last name. Ten minutes had passed. Where on earth was Hermana? By this time, i was inwardly vomiting, feeling susceptible and disgusting. I panicked, then thought of an appropriate course of action. I decided that the safest thing to do would be to go home, and wait to be contacted. I sped home, entered the apartment, locked the door and called Ana Silvia’s house. Little Angie, Ana Silvia’s daighter informed me that no, Hermana had not arrived.

Twenty minutes later I got a phone call from a ward member who did not speak English. After an exasperating few sentences, he said “Don’t move apartment!” Fifteen minutes later a frzzled Hermana called me. She had stopped, bawling, at a ward member’s house. she had called that President’s Assistants to inform them of my missing state. They told her that they were on their way (to do what I am not sure). hermana told me that she would come home immediately. When she got home we embraced, both terrified and panicked. She called the Assistant to the President and told him what had happened. Elder Allen openly laughed at us, and threatened to put our tale in the Clam Chatter news letter for the whole mission to guffaw over. We were not amused. We both decided that we never ever wanted that to happen again. Hermana now frequently turns around to make sure I am behind her.

Exercising
The people here call me GRANDE. I am at least six inches taller than everyone in this town. In the mornings we jog. P.S. I have found a companion who will go for 45 minutes with me! Heaven! I jog in a fuschia outfit and when I randomly and aerobically punch the air in front of me, the Hispanics do not know what to do. People openly stare at me.

From Palos Verdes to Maywood, CA
Dad: Expect my bills to now read “McDonalds, A&W, and El Ceviche Loco.” No more Trader Joes. We go to the Logorio.

Some people don’t have maps

IRF is behind the 8 Ball in reporting this, but I finally got around to watching the talk of the town:  Miss Teen South Carolina.

I am speechless.  Watch it again.  It’s even worse the second time around.

Guest Post: Understanding Directions

This is the first time I’ve committed this horror story to print, but I was inspired by LeMare’s bravery in sharing her tale of catching shigella in the Amazon basin and JL’s assurance that my identity would never be revealed. Let this tale be a warning for anyone unfamiliar with massage rites.

It all started innocently enough. Through his banking work, one of my husband’s clients heard I was pregnant with our second child and offered me a free coupon for a 1/2 hour massage at the massage therapy clinic she owned. After months of forgetting to go in, I set an appointment, knowing I was going to see the owner at a baseball game the next week and figuring she would ask me about the massage.

When I arrived at the front desk, the receptionist said, “I realize you requested a female masseuse but she already completed her hours today. Would you be okay with a male?” My reply would have been NO had it not been for the row of male masseuses in white waiting right there. So, I said GUESS SO.

We’ll call my masseuse Frederick, who I would put at the age of my younger brother. Because it was a training clinic, the place did not have a lot of bells and whistles. It was more like triage in a hospital, with massage tables separated by shower curtains. Frederick accompanied me to our station and he said to remove my clothes, get on the table and he would be back in a few minutes.

Blame it on my distracted mind, his fuzzy instructions or this being my first massage experience, but it still pains me to think of the scene that unfolded. I followed his instructions and got on top of the sheet, waiting for my escape into relaxation. Frederick opened the curtain to discover a nude pregnant body, unhidden by the sheet that was supposed to be on top of my back side. He let out an embarrasingly loud gasp which was of course audible to the 10 other masseuses and clients within 20 feet of us and then quickly stuttered, “I meant get UNDER the sheet, m’aam.”

Turning the color of my daughter’s favorite singing dinosaur, I shoved my body beneath the sheet and wished nothing more than to escape the state. The humor was not lost on me so I was also on the verge of laughing myself into tears. To make matters worse, Frederick returned and began the massage by scaring me half to death by clapping his hands like a kung fu master and doing some sort of Eastern chant. This almost pushed me over the edge, but I kept it together long enough to get dressed, leave a tip, and get out of there. A total of four children later, I have yet to attempt a second massage as my dignity was so very threatened from that first clinic.

Larry’s Manifesto

Think you dislike your job? Not as much as my former co-worker Larry. Everyone has moments of frustration at work, but not just anybody could pen the following email, especially to someone he’d never spoken to before. I believe this speaks for itself and to not lessen its impact I will let it do just that. Just beware that any correspondence you ever send me goes into the official archives.

From: Disgruntled Larry
Sent: Thursday, June 24, 2004 4:24 PM
To: JL
Subject: test

Testing to see if you are the JL that is my next door neighbor.

-Larry

From: JL
Sent: Thursday, June 24, 2004 4:25 PM
To: Disgruntled Larry
Subject: RE: test

Officially verified that testing is correct.

From: Disgruntled Larry
Sent: Thursday, June 24, 2004 4:32 PM
To: JL
Subject: RE: test

Ha! I had to test before saying this - I don’t like being a non-social person in the office- it kills me! In the last job I was in before temping, I knew everyone in the office, and that’s probably part of the reason I don’t work there anymore, besides the fact that I hated the work.

Anyway, I’ve already had two ‘talking to’s’ with kelly, and she ‘understands’ that I am a social person, but so far she has called me in her office twice to tell me to ‘focus.’ She heard me on the phone twice today and told me that she ‘couldn’t take it anymore.’ I guess I’m really a crazy, insane office worker. What a rebel! How dare I ‘talk’ to my officemate, to make the day go by. I guess I come from some koo koo Krazy planet where people actually have fun while they are in the office. I’ve found that this office is incredibly dry, and people seem like they’ve had the life beaten out of them.

Anyway, the point is, I didn’t want you to think that it is a personal reflection, I just have the dragon lady breathing down my neck, and the fact is that we are way ahead of schedule, so she needn’t worry so much.

Ok, thanks! Also, my left ankle clicks all the time when I walk, so it’s like step click step click step click, if it wasn’t bothering you before, it probably will now!! Ha!

Larry

Embarrasing Moment #1

Some mortifying situations are epic tales, while others are but a moment.  Today, I mercifully only experienced the latter.

Upon walking in my lobby this evening, just past the doorman, I reached back into my messenger bag to grab my keys, not realizing that along with them came some medication crashing to the floor.  A neighborly gentleman, however, noticed, and picked them up.  He tapped my shoulder and gingerly handed me my pills, holding them away from his person like they were a box of tampons:

The Worst Story You’ve Ever Heard

Precisely one year ago, I experienced the most horrifying experience of my young life, which, in all probability, will be the worst story that you have ever heard. It started with plans to go to Peru to see Machu Picchu with my siblings and (then) boyfriend (whom we will call Suitor—of “Stupid Things Guys Have Said To Me” Fame).

Yes, it all started with high hopes…but ended with being reported to the Cook County Communicable Disease Unit.

After spending a few days all together in Cuzco, we split up for a few days and Suitor and I joined a tour with some young, foreign, Bohemian vagabonds and ventured into the 10 hour drive to a lodge in the Cloud Forest.

The next morning, we biked from the cloud forest in the high Andes down into the Amazon basin, but an indefinable illness set in midway.  We finish the 40KM ride (barely) and I was keenly aware that my body had never before been under an attack of this magnitude..  Before white water rafting, everyone (save me) was elated to see parrots and monkeys… Then as soon as we saw Rodents of Unusual Size, violent projectile vomiting ensued, probably 12 times… Let’s just call it a baker’s dozen to be safe.  Once I looked up, Suitor stepped forward with a Kleenex and I promptly wiped off my face.  Then he produced another, “for your shoes.”  At this point, I’m deep in the rainforest, no Pepto for 1,000 miles, no sink to clean up, no toothbrush.  Suitor rifled through my bag and found me Purell for my hands and some Orbit gum in lieu of brushing my teeth.  We boarded the raft and I managed to survive, despite my earnest prayer for immediate departure from my brief sojourn in life.

 We reach a stopping place where we were to switch to the motorized jungle boat, and I used the opportunity to use the outhouse.  At this point, I realized my sickness was NOT going away and it moved from stomach violence to a lower GI problem of unprecedented proportions.  In front of the group, the tour guide asked a direct question as to the nature of my illness, and as any lady would do, I lied.  We had officially reached the ends of roads, so we boarded the jungle boat and arrived at the open-air lodge.  I’m covered in mud from the bike ride and vomit splatter and I have never been in such grave need of a shower in all my life.  I was shaking with a fever, however, so Suitor insisted I just needed to get into bed (at 1pm) since I would be too cold.  I kept insisting on a shower because I was so gross and didn’t want to get in the sheets dirty.  He agreed with the gross part, but held firm: “you will be freezing if you shower right now, so get in this cot, then you later, after a shower we’ll share the other clean cot.” But I shot that idea down since I didn’t know if I was contagious. (NOTE:  MY RESPONSE IS VERY IMPORTANT TO THIS STORY).  We compromised that I would avoid the shower due to my uncontrollable shaking and we commenced wiping the mud and vomit off my skin with Charmin wipes.  

I climbed into bed and they pile extra blankets on me and I am KNOCKED OUT for hours.  Suitor tried to wake me up a few times so I wouldn’t be up all night, but I couldn’t move except to go the 100 yards to the bathroom.  Finally they produced a medicine man in from an indigenous tribe over the mountain.  He made me some tea that I throw over my shoulder as soon as the coast was clear.  I tried to play cards with Suitor and the Bohemians, but finally, after 15 minutes, I turn back in for the night at 7pm and continued regular urgent trips in the middle of the night to the facilites.  The generator was off and I couldn’t see ANYTHING without a flashlight and I frequently made the along trip to the bathroom alone in the dark jungle.  With every trip, my dehydration steadily declined until I was in such a weakened condition that I woke to the most unwelcome of wake-up calls known to man: