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Showing posts with label imagination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label imagination. Show all posts
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Saturday, October 23, 2010
FAIL MAIL...
Because I write to so many missionaries, it becomes quite disappointing when I don't hear from a SINGLE ONE OF THEM in a MONTH. Each day I check the mailbox a hundred times, hoping and praying that this next time there will be something in it for me... But it's always the same. Nothing. The little mail slot belonging to my apartment is either empty, stuffed with ads, or has some letter for one of my other roommates.
Last summer, my sister decided that SNAIL MAIL isn't quite the correct term to use when describing a lack of missionary correspondence. This is FAIL MAIL. A mailbox with no missionary letters is most pathetic. Here are other types of mail one can receive:
EPICFAIL MAIL: There's nothing in the mailbox but junk that you don't want. Not even a meaningful magazine... just ads and wasted paper.
FRAIL MAIL: Letters from a missionary in poor health. I would express concern for this missionary.
ALE MAIL: A letter written while intoxicated. Hopefully you never get one of these from a missionary. Not only is it bad form, it's impossible to read a drunk person's handwriting.
QUAIL MAIL: Mail delivered by homing pidgeon, which would be epic.
YALE MAIL: Letters that are waaaaaaaaaay to smart sounding for you to properly understand them. When you have to look every other word up in the dictionary, this missionary may be too smart for you.
JAIL MAIL: Letters sent from prison. I would be a little concerned if you suddenly get one of these... which leads me to...
BAIL MAIL: A letter asking you to help bail out a person from jail... Also not a very pleasant letter to receive in the mailbox.
NAIL MAIL: A letter with holes in it. Yes, these do exist. I just sent one to a friend of mine in California.
FLAIL MAIL: Mail that makes you have an epileptic seizure because it's so freaking cute.
STALE MAIL: The kind of letter you get when you really have nothing to say in response. I get these from missionaries I don't know all that well. I end up simply rambling about useless, random topics like the weather and asking questions about missionary work that I already know the answers to.
HAIL MAIL: A letter that discusss the weather.
VEIL MAIL: Letters that include marriage proposals. I really can't tell you how to adequately respond to these letters...
SCALE MAIL: Mail with content that discusses weight. These are actually more common than you think. Missionaries like talking about how much weight they've gained or lost on their missions. Which brings me to...
WHALE MAIL: Letters from an obese missionary. Hopefully you don't get too many of these. Missionaries should at least be TRYING to stay healthy while they're out.
FEMALE MAIL: Letters from a sister missionary.
BRAILLE MAIL: Letters written in Braille. (I plan on sending one of these to Mr. California Missionary as well).
WAIL MAIL: Letters that make you cry out in sorrow.
IMPALE MAIL: Letters that make you want to kill yourself out of embarassment for the sender.
BETRAYAL MAIL: A letter that states that a missionary has been discussing the content of your letters to his companions.
GALE MAIL / DALE MAIL: Letters from a missionary named Gale or Dale. I don't know any Dales or Gales in the mission field...
TO-NO-AVAIL MAIL: A letter that completely ignores all that you said in your last letter. Your words and opinions aren't even acknowledged. This is worst when it involves romance.
TELLTALE MAIL: Mail that reveals waaaaay too much about a missionary that you really didn't need to know.
PREVAIL MAIL: Mail you FINALLY get from a missionary you haven't heard from a while. These are the best kinds of letters.
Friday, October 22, 2010
My Mowing Story.
So not only have I epic-failed the blogging-every-day thing, I have hardly blogged AT ALL during the month of October!
...And I still don't have much to blog about even now that I've started a post! This is ridiculous.
I guess, because it's on my mind, I can talk about work...
Work is GREAT FUN, especially when we're not stuck mowing all morning. Mowing -- in and of itself -- is a fairly easy job that is not too dirty or physically taxing and leaves you feeling quite accomplished once you have finished. However, mowing is also a very individualized job that doesn't give you much chance to talk (and.. dare I say.. FLIRT??) with coworkers. The lawn mower is way too noisy for pleasant communication, and everyone sort of breaks off and does their own thing in their own area anyway.
Another downside of mowing is hills. That's where all the real sweat comes in, especially once the sun has come over the mountains. Just last Wednesday I had to mow this BEAST of a hill -- I will affectionately call it the SOB -- that was pretty much at a 180-degree angle with the horizon. It was also in an area where water just DOESN'T GO AWAY, so it's always very muddy and slippery all of the time. Basically, your life is in constant peril whenever you mow this hill.
I have attempted to mow the SOB only once before, and it ended in a disaster.
I decided it would be best to mow from one side of the hill to another, rather than up and down. After a few scary trips across the top of the hill, I got to a particularly muddy section and suddenly the wheels of the mower completely lost traction with the ground and the mower began to slip sideways down the hill, dragging me with it. I ended up sliding down the muddiest half of the SOB on my butt, holding my feet out in front of me, praying for a place to sink my heels into for a foothold before I careened into the wall at the bottom of the hill, breaking my mower as well as my own body.
I decided it would be best to mow from one side of the hill to another, rather than up and down. After a few scary trips across the top of the hill, I got to a particularly muddy section and suddenly the wheels of the mower completely lost traction with the ground and the mower began to slip sideways down the hill, dragging me with it. I ended up sliding down the muddiest half of the SOB on my butt, holding my feet out in front of me, praying for a place to sink my heels into for a foothold before I careened into the wall at the bottom of the hill, breaking my mower as well as my own body.
Fortunately, I was able to successfully find a foothold, stop the mower, and save myself from crashing into the wall. But this presented a new problem: I was now holding on to an active lawn mower, holding mysef for dear life in one place with just a tiny dirt patch for a foothold that could give way at any moment. What do I do now? I was far to weak to pull the mower back up toward me, and even if I could do that, there arrived the new problem of getting the rest of this muddy line done before I slipped again. I could just let go of the mower, but the image of my boss's face upon first gaze of the completely smashed two-thousand-dollar mower in a heap next to the wall at the foot of the hill turned me off to that idea very quickly.
There was only one solution: I would have to slowly make my way down that hill in as controlled and careful of a fashion as possible. This meant I would have to put a lot of faith in my limp arms, my heels, and the slippery muddy footholes that hopefully were present in my path. This would have one of two consequences: I would be successful in my quest and find myself safe -- though a little muddy -- at the bottom of the hill.
There was only one solution: I would have to slowly make my way down that hill in as controlled and careful of a fashion as possible. This meant I would have to put a lot of faith in my limp arms, my heels, and the slippery muddy footholes that hopefully were present in my path. This would have one of two consequences: I would be successful in my quest and find myself safe -- though a little muddy -- at the bottom of the hill.
OR I could end up losing control and gravity would take me straight into that wall. Maybe in the meantime, my pant leg would get caught in the blade of the mower and... goodbye foot.
But did I have a choice? No. So down I went. I let my foot slip from that foothold that saved my life and I carefully tried to scootch my way down the hill with a hundred-pound-mower leading the way. My legs stretched as far out as they could, searching for new footholds with which I could manipulate my speed down the hill. My poor butt scraped against the grass and mudd, leaving stains on the seat of my pants that never ever would come out.
But by some miracle, I made it to the more shallow part of the hill and I was able to successfully turn the mower away from disaster.
It was then that I decided that this SOB was not going to get mowed -- at least not that day. As I dragged the mower away from the hill, I turned my head back toward the butt-smear I had left behind in the mudd and grass. "You may have won this time," I mumbled to that hill under my breath, "But we will meet again. Someday, SOB, I will mow you, and you will not know what hit you." This was my vow as I trekked back toward the shed. I was going to mow that hill or die trying.
But did I have a choice? No. So down I went. I let my foot slip from that foothold that saved my life and I carefully tried to scootch my way down the hill with a hundred-pound-mower leading the way. My legs stretched as far out as they could, searching for new footholds with which I could manipulate my speed down the hill. My poor butt scraped against the grass and mudd, leaving stains on the seat of my pants that never ever would come out.
But by some miracle, I made it to the more shallow part of the hill and I was able to successfully turn the mower away from disaster.
It was then that I decided that this SOB was not going to get mowed -- at least not that day. As I dragged the mower away from the hill, I turned my head back toward the butt-smear I had left behind in the mudd and grass. "You may have won this time," I mumbled to that hill under my breath, "But we will meet again. Someday, SOB, I will mow you, and you will not know what hit you." This was my vow as I trekked back toward the shed. I was going to mow that hill or die trying.
Well, that day was last Wednesday. Early in the morning, I awoke with the knowledge that today I would have to mow the SOB. Suddenly, my resolve to completely own the SOB with my superior mowage was not as strong as it was a few weeks earlier. I dreaded that hill. I knew it had rained that week, which meant even MORE mud and slipperiness than before. Furthermore, I had stayed up until 2 in the morning the night morning doing homework, so I was in no way ready to start my day with mowing a death trap. Why did the day have to be TODAY? I moaned to myself as I trudged to work.
Upon my arrival at the mower shed, I selected the trustiest mower I could get my hands on and prepared it for battle. I tried to take my time doing it, though. Maybe one of the boys would go handle the SOB themselves and leave me to do some other area. Sadly, only one boy -- I'll call him THE BABY from now on -- went in that direction, and this boy was the biggest WIMP I've ever met in my life. No WAY he was gonna even HELP me do that hill. By the time I caught up with him, he had mowed EVERY OTHER AREA surrounding the SOB, so it was the ONLY THING left to do. Just as I arrived, he looked back at me, shrugged, and walked away. I felt very much like the Little Red Hen right then.
So there I was, alone with that monster hill. I stiffened my upper lip and raised my head erect. This SOB was not going to mow itself, and none of my coworkers were going to help me. It was just me and the SOB.
So off I went.
So there I was, alone with that monster hill. I stiffened my upper lip and raised my head erect. This SOB was not going to mow itself, and none of my coworkers were going to help me. It was just me and the SOB.
So off I went.
The first lesson I had learned since last time was how to manipulate the motor of the mower so I didn't have to push so hard. After weeks and weeks of mowing experience, I had figured out which mower had the best motor for the job. I trudged along, starting at the bottom of the hill and working my way up, side to side, side to side. Things were only slightly scary until about halfway up the hill; that was where the mud began to appear.
The hardest part about mowing hills is switching directions. Once you got your mower moving in a straight line, there's usually no problem. But in this case, I had to pull my mower up and around on its back legs to get it to go the right direction. And there was indeed a LOT of mud...
Before I could back down, I threw myself into pushing the mower around so it was facing back the way it came. There came a point where I was directly underneath the mower on the hill. I was precariously holding that giant machine on the steepest, muddiest part of the hill with two limp noodles for arms. I could see the back wheels slipping under the muck, leaving ugly scars in the otherwise very green grass just in front of me. I could feel my own feet slipping farther and farther down the hill, into puddles of grime. It was only a matter of time before my strength would give out and the mower would slide backwards and run me over. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and using all the arm strength I could muster, I pushed that mower out of its rut and up the hill.
The hardest part about mowing hills is switching directions. Once you got your mower moving in a straight line, there's usually no problem. But in this case, I had to pull my mower up and around on its back legs to get it to go the right direction. And there was indeed a LOT of mud...
Before I could back down, I threw myself into pushing the mower around so it was facing back the way it came. There came a point where I was directly underneath the mower on the hill. I was precariously holding that giant machine on the steepest, muddiest part of the hill with two limp noodles for arms. I could see the back wheels slipping under the muck, leaving ugly scars in the otherwise very green grass just in front of me. I could feel my own feet slipping farther and farther down the hill, into puddles of grime. It was only a matter of time before my strength would give out and the mower would slide backwards and run me over. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and using all the arm strength I could muster, I pushed that mower out of its rut and up the hill.
And my feet slipped.
I could see my life flash before my eyes. The mower was going to careen backwards down the slippery surface, crushing me and tearing me limb from limb as it passed over my fallen body. Then it would roll headlong into the wall, bursting into a thousand pieces. Whatever was left of me would then be chopped up and fed to dogs by my boss as punishment for ruining a perfectly good mower. It was inevitable. The SOB had won.
I could see my life flash before my eyes. The mower was going to careen backwards down the slippery surface, crushing me and tearing me limb from limb as it passed over my fallen body. Then it would roll headlong into the wall, bursting into a thousand pieces. Whatever was left of me would then be chopped up and fed to dogs by my boss as punishment for ruining a perfectly good mower. It was inevitable. The SOB had won.
But thank heavens for human reflexes! I don't know how my legs did it. One minute they were flailing in thin air, unable to find a firm grip on the ground... The next, they were planted sturdily into the soil, and I was able to turn that mower around and back to a saver, more vertical position with the hill. I had not fallen. The mower was safe. My body was safe. I could continue the trek across the SOB and finish the job.
Perhaps it was the confidence I gained from that little triumph, but I managed to complete the entire SOB without any further problems. This time, as I walked away from the hill, I looked back and saw clean stripes of tire tracks with hardly any mud scars. I had defeated the SOB.
I AM NEVER MOWING THAT LAWN AGAIN. Next time, I'm making the Baby do it.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Lament of the Philosopher King
I'm Blind if I'm in
Blind if I'm out
I know it all but I still don't know what life is about
I've been told all these years how people should behave
It's like I spent my life living in the back of a cave.
Like a well, it was hell
But I didn't know the difference.
Felt the light from behind
But I didn't show interest.
But then one day
the chains were released
and I found my head could turn
to the sun in the east.
So I turned my sight toward the newfound light
But I had to turn away because the sun was too bright.
But it was right.
Cuz for once I had a glimpse of the truth
And I came to recognize it all, despite of my youth
So unaware I was about the world the night before last
Who knew that what I saw was just a shadow moving past
At last
I relax, cuz my life has a meaning
Revealing, I'm being, and I like what I'm seeing.
I can't tell you all the things that I didn't know
But my eyes became accustomed to the blinding glow
And I learned to forsake all the days I spent lazing
All the rhymes and the scenes, all the dreams I spent chasing.
It was amazing!
But hissing in the back of my mind
Something was missing; don't wanna leave the others behind
So I climbed back down
to the heart of the dark and I started reminiscin
hoping that they'd listen.
But then,
I couldn't quite believe my eyes!
To my surprise, they kept on believing the lies
The disguise, their demise, like flies to honey
Unaware, only caring 'bout honor and money
I tried to tell them; but they just wouldn't believe
I forgot how well the shadows in that cave could deceive
Little did they know, little could they see
And they didn't quite appreciate what happened to me
And for once I had to wonder was I outa my mind?
Had the fire of the truth burned me blind?
Now rewind to the time when I was a pris'ner like them
Am I better off now than I was back then?
Or am I still a pris'ner, locked inside a different cell
I'm alive, but living now is like a living hell
But I'm telling you
I'm not about to back down now
I'm gonna make the most of what I got so I'm tellin' the crowd
I gotta take responsibility and do my duty
and make my voice heard and let the truth run through me
Like blood, no crud, it's the legit G-C
It's a Gift and a Curse but it's part of me.
So listen close, pay attention to the words I sing.
Cuz This is the life of the Philosopher King.
Blind if I'm out
I know it all but I still don't know what life is about
I've been told all these years how people should behave
It's like I spent my life living in the back of a cave.
Like a well, it was hell
But I didn't know the difference.
Felt the light from behind
But I didn't show interest.
But then one day
the chains were released
and I found my head could turn
to the sun in the east.
So I turned my sight toward the newfound light
But I had to turn away because the sun was too bright.
But it was right.
Cuz for once I had a glimpse of the truth
And I came to recognize it all, despite of my youth
So unaware I was about the world the night before last
Who knew that what I saw was just a shadow moving past
At last
I relax, cuz my life has a meaning
Revealing, I'm being, and I like what I'm seeing.
I can't tell you all the things that I didn't know
But my eyes became accustomed to the blinding glow
And I learned to forsake all the days I spent lazing
All the rhymes and the scenes, all the dreams I spent chasing.
It was amazing!
But hissing in the back of my mind
Something was missing; don't wanna leave the others behind
So I climbed back down
to the heart of the dark and I started reminiscin
hoping that they'd listen.
But then,
I couldn't quite believe my eyes!
To my surprise, they kept on believing the lies
The disguise, their demise, like flies to honey
Unaware, only caring 'bout honor and money
I tried to tell them; but they just wouldn't believe
I forgot how well the shadows in that cave could deceive
Little did they know, little could they see
And they didn't quite appreciate what happened to me
And for once I had to wonder was I outa my mind?
Had the fire of the truth burned me blind?
Now rewind to the time when I was a pris'ner like them
Am I better off now than I was back then?
Or am I still a pris'ner, locked inside a different cell
I'm alive, but living now is like a living hell
But I'm telling you
I'm not about to back down now
I'm gonna make the most of what I got so I'm tellin' the crowd
I gotta take responsibility and do my duty
and make my voice heard and let the truth run through me
Like blood, no crud, it's the legit G-C
It's a Gift and a Curse but it's part of me.
So listen close, pay attention to the words I sing.
Cuz This is the life of the Philosopher King.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Fight
"Well, Jacob, some things are just important to me!" she screamed, running into the bathroom to try and erase the blemishes that appeared under her eyes, made up of mascara, sweat, and tears.
"I already told you I'm sorry!" he answered from the other side of the bedroom. His hands were at his sides, as if surrendering.
"But you're NOT!" she screamed, stomping back out of the bathroom again without even completely reaching up to run her finger across her eyelids before another cascade of tears left their prints across her cheeks. "You wanna know what your problem is? You. Don't. CARE!" The last word ended in a choke, a wretched sob, and then another and another. She's buckling over now, as if the weeping were possessing her. "About anybody!" her mouth moved but nothing came out. She looked up at him with searching eyes, but all she found was a gape. A worthless gape that proved even further that he understood nothing.
All he could do was stare. Suddenly his wife had become someone else; a monster about to swallow her with her gaping mouth and roaring sobs. What could he do? He dare not run. She would always out-run him, out-scream him, out-push him. Where had this started? The tube of lip stick? The phone call? The bill notice lying on the table? He could not remember. All that took his mind was this thing that was crouching over the bed, shaking, wailing.
Finally one word escaped his lips. "Honey..."
"Don't 'honey' me!" She screamed, suddenly losing the sobs that had so overcome her just seconds ago. "I hate it when you call me honey! I hate it when anybody calls me honey! I want honey to go to HELL!"
"Okay! Hannah. Please. Look at yourself! Just look at yourself for at least a minute! One MINUTE!?" Suddenly the words poured from his lips. It was not like him to talk so much without thinking. He was always the one in control; patient, forgiving, almost all-knowing at times. But suddenly feelings began to rush to his head like vomit and there was only one way out. "I don't care? I don't care about the fact that my child is in your womb now, waiting to come out into... this?? You think I don't care about you? Geez, I only let you walk all over me because it feels good?? You think I take your... your baggage around because I feel like it, huh? Am I a bad husband? Do you regret marrying me? Are you better off without --"
"SHUT UP!" She screamed.
"SHUT UP!" He replied
She lunged from her place beside the bed across the white covers. He flinched out of reflex, but there was little need. Her fist swung at his face, but there was so little control it hardly hit his shoulder. She crashed onto the bed, sprawled out like an oozing ball of tears and snot. And there she stayed, completely miserable. He stood above her, completely lost. There they stayed for eight seconds... three sniffles from her, six deep heaves of breath from him. Finally, out of the corner of her wet, stinging eyes, she could see his shadow on the carpet sink away toward its founding source of the downstairs lights.
"No," she moaned. "No, no, n-n-no, no wait. Wait! WAIT!" She sat up, her eyes fixed upon his retreating shadow. "Don't go!"
The figure stopped and turned. She finally snapped her head towards his own.
"Don't go! Please, no!" She was now a child, clambering on her hands and knees as quickly as she could across the mattress, nearly tumbling head first over the edge of the bed, forgetting how to walk as she dove at his form. "I-I don't want you to go! No-no I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!"
She clutched at his chest with her groping hands and dove her face into his neck, drowning it in tears.
"I didn't mean it! I want you to stay! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! I really love you!" More tears.
He put his arms across her back, buried his face in her wild brown hair and rocked side to side, cradling his beloved monster-child of a wife, chanting, "I know, I know. Me too, me too. I know I know."
There they stood, rocking and weeping and chanting, until finally her words came out, "I hate this fight and I never wanna fight again. Never, never, never!"
"I already told you I'm sorry!" he answered from the other side of the bedroom. His hands were at his sides, as if surrendering.
"But you're NOT!" she screamed, stomping back out of the bathroom again without even completely reaching up to run her finger across her eyelids before another cascade of tears left their prints across her cheeks. "You wanna know what your problem is? You. Don't. CARE!" The last word ended in a choke, a wretched sob, and then another and another. She's buckling over now, as if the weeping were possessing her. "About anybody!" her mouth moved but nothing came out. She looked up at him with searching eyes, but all she found was a gape. A worthless gape that proved even further that he understood nothing.
All he could do was stare. Suddenly his wife had become someone else; a monster about to swallow her with her gaping mouth and roaring sobs. What could he do? He dare not run. She would always out-run him, out-scream him, out-push him. Where had this started? The tube of lip stick? The phone call? The bill notice lying on the table? He could not remember. All that took his mind was this thing that was crouching over the bed, shaking, wailing.
Finally one word escaped his lips. "Honey..."
"Don't 'honey' me!" She screamed, suddenly losing the sobs that had so overcome her just seconds ago. "I hate it when you call me honey! I hate it when anybody calls me honey! I want honey to go to HELL!"
"Okay! Hannah. Please. Look at yourself! Just look at yourself for at least a minute! One MINUTE!?" Suddenly the words poured from his lips. It was not like him to talk so much without thinking. He was always the one in control; patient, forgiving, almost all-knowing at times. But suddenly feelings began to rush to his head like vomit and there was only one way out. "I don't care? I don't care about the fact that my child is in your womb now, waiting to come out into... this?? You think I don't care about you? Geez, I only let you walk all over me because it feels good?? You think I take your... your baggage around because I feel like it, huh? Am I a bad husband? Do you regret marrying me? Are you better off without --"
"SHUT UP!" She screamed.
"SHUT UP!" He replied
She lunged from her place beside the bed across the white covers. He flinched out of reflex, but there was little need. Her fist swung at his face, but there was so little control it hardly hit his shoulder. She crashed onto the bed, sprawled out like an oozing ball of tears and snot. And there she stayed, completely miserable. He stood above her, completely lost. There they stayed for eight seconds... three sniffles from her, six deep heaves of breath from him. Finally, out of the corner of her wet, stinging eyes, she could see his shadow on the carpet sink away toward its founding source of the downstairs lights.
"No," she moaned. "No, no, n-n-no, no wait. Wait! WAIT!" She sat up, her eyes fixed upon his retreating shadow. "Don't go!"
The figure stopped and turned. She finally snapped her head towards his own.
"Don't go! Please, no!" She was now a child, clambering on her hands and knees as quickly as she could across the mattress, nearly tumbling head first over the edge of the bed, forgetting how to walk as she dove at his form. "I-I don't want you to go! No-no I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!"
She clutched at his chest with her groping hands and dove her face into his neck, drowning it in tears.
"I didn't mean it! I want you to stay! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! I really love you!" More tears.
He put his arms across her back, buried his face in her wild brown hair and rocked side to side, cradling his beloved monster-child of a wife, chanting, "I know, I know. Me too, me too. I know I know."
There they stood, rocking and weeping and chanting, until finally her words came out, "I hate this fight and I never wanna fight again. Never, never, never!"
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