I know so many people loved the MTC when they served as missionaries. I was not one of them. I had such a difficult time while in the MTC. I was older than most there--I was 24 when I entered the MTC and I had already graduated from BYU. Plus, I chafed at the rules. I understood to an extent the need for such stringent rules for everything, but I felt that many of them were dumb and didn't apply to me. So I struggled.
On Sunday evenings, we always had a fireside. After the fireside, we had almost 20 min (normally, we had 5 min--20 min was near to being free!) before we had to be in our dorm. My companion and I would walk around the grounds of the MTC before retiring for the night.
On one particular night, I was really feeling the chains of all the rules. While walking, we heard the sounds of a party. In one of the homes behind the MTC grounds, there was a birthday party going on. We stopped for a moment to watch the interactions of family members. As we walked away, I commented that I wish I could sit on a real couch and put my feet on a table in front of me for just 5 minutes. Just 5 minutes.
We continued on our way and I kept this image in my head -- a comfy couch, table, and 5 minutes. We then noticed a door that was ajar in the MTC. It was definitely out of place and we decided to investigate. As we tiptoed over to the door and gently pushed it open, lo! and behold! we saw a couch and a table. Apparently we entered a spare room that a lot of furniture was kept and someone forgot to close the door.
God heard my prayer. We sat on that couch and I put my feet up for 5 minutes. As we quietly closed the door and walked back to the dorms, I was reminded once again that Heavenly Father truly does think of us even in our most selfish moments.
Another similar miracle occurred while I was at the MTC. Once again, I was chafing under all the rules and wished that I could get away from the MTC for just one hour. I told my companion that just one hour from the MTC would help to boost my spirits and give me enough fortitude to last. We were a week away from our P-day, so going to the temple was out of the question. And by this time, the Eastern bloc countries had gotten in trouble and were not allowed to walk the MTC grounds between classes. So, we sat in a classroom from somewhere around 8 am to 8 pm with about four 5 min breaks, but all we could do is go outside the building and stand for 5 min. Needless to say, I was chomping at the bit again as I felt it vastly unfair to restrict the Eastern bloc countries like that and watch all the other missionaries walk by us. I felt like a 2 year old being put in time out.
So, I'm mumbling under my breath, trying my best to not actually murmur and keep faithful, and wished with all the yearning I had to leave this prison for 1 hour. And then, the miracle happened. My companion's glasses broke. She had a strange prescription, so to simply put the lens back in was not feasible--she needed an expert to do that.
In order to leave the MTC, one had to get written permission from your branch president. I remember going with my companion to see our branch president. He interviewed both of us and tried to find other solutions to this dilemma. Finally, he sorrowfully signed our permission slip and said, "Sisters, I truly regret this, but I give you permission to go to the mall for 1 hour. That is all, just one hour--may God watch over you and keep you safe while in the world."
After rolling my eyes and wondering how he thought we would survive once we got in the mission field, we went to the bus to leave for the mall. As we sat on the bus, I realized that miracle #2 had occurred. We were going to be out of the MTC for one hour--the time I asked for.
My companion and I enjoyed that hour away (and what do you know--God saved us from all the sinners in the mall!). We were able to buy some contraband (i.e. candy) for our district and of course go to the Missionary Emporium to torment Elder G.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Practical Joke #1.01
So, remember this post? There is more to the story. First, Sis. R. didn't really know it was me. I think her companions told her that I had been by. So, although it was obviously me that put the cheese on her pillow, she actually believed me when I told her I was coerced by Elder G.
A couple of weeks later, my companion and I had an opportunity to go to the University Mall in Provo. While there, she and I visited the Missionary Emporium. This was a store exclusively made for missionaries. One of the things it had was a "Dear John" wall -- hilarious! -- and a "Please write me" wall. On this particular wall, missionaries would post a note asking for letters and would add their address. Usually, it was an Elder asking for girls to write him. Since my companion and I were there, we decided to help out a fellow missionary. We wrote a sappy note from Elder G. (the same Elder that "coerced" me to putting the cheese on Sister R.'s bed).
Getting back to the MTC, we told everyone what we had done. We laughed about it and Elder G. thought we were lying. I assured him we were not and if he got a letter, to not be surprised. In the meantime, Sister R. wrote a letter and had a cousin mail it from southern UT. Elder G. received this letter and then realized that I was not lying....his name and address really was up on the wall in the mall.
Of course, he didn't know that the letter was written by Sister R. But what was funny was that he soon received another letter--and none of us wrote it. He actually had received a letter from someone who had read the sappy note and took pity on him.
A couple of weeks later, my companion and I had an opportunity to go to the University Mall in Provo. While there, she and I visited the Missionary Emporium. This was a store exclusively made for missionaries. One of the things it had was a "Dear John" wall -- hilarious! -- and a "Please write me" wall. On this particular wall, missionaries would post a note asking for letters and would add their address. Usually, it was an Elder asking for girls to write him. Since my companion and I were there, we decided to help out a fellow missionary. We wrote a sappy note from Elder G. (the same Elder that "coerced" me to putting the cheese on Sister R.'s bed).
Getting back to the MTC, we told everyone what we had done. We laughed about it and Elder G. thought we were lying. I assured him we were not and if he got a letter, to not be surprised. In the meantime, Sister R. wrote a letter and had a cousin mail it from southern UT. Elder G. received this letter and then realized that I was not lying....his name and address really was up on the wall in the mall.
Of course, he didn't know that the letter was written by Sister R. But what was funny was that he soon received another letter--and none of us wrote it. He actually had received a letter from someone who had read the sappy note and took pity on him.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Dreamin'
I dream a lot. Usually every night and I remember many of my dreams. I'd like to share two of my favorites.
I dreamed once that a man in a gorilla suit "kidnapped" me. I say kidnapped, but he and I had it planned. I'm not sure why he had to conceal his identity, but in order for us to be together, he could not let anyone know who he was. As he grabbed me to leave, we were surrounded by police cars with lights flashing. At one point, this man in a gorilla suit looked at me with the bluest of eyes. We seemed to speak without words because I knew what he needed to make a clean escape. I was able to steal one of the police cars and urged him to get in so we could make our getaway.
In real life, I've seen men with the same blue eyes, but alas, they were not wearing a gorilla suit.
I also dreamed that I was a man. Tall, dark, and so darn hot looking in my black leather jacket that I had a crush on myself. I was a detective and lived near my mother. As I was coming home one night late, I saw that my house had intruders. I quickly ducked behind a bush and planned my strategy. My mother had seen me and opened her door to welcome me home. I knew that she would blow my cover and put herself in danger, so I quickly dispatched my highly trained German Shepherd. While he distracted the intruders, I sent my secret weapon--my highly trained and vicious black cat. I knew that my attack cat would take no prisoners. My mom, unknowing of danger, beckoned to my animals. However, they would not be deterred from their mission. They quickly dispatched the invaders and I was able to greet my mother without her knowing any danger was near.
I will say that my dreams are often very amusing and I look forward to my nightly entertainment as I close my eyes.
I dreamed once that a man in a gorilla suit "kidnapped" me. I say kidnapped, but he and I had it planned. I'm not sure why he had to conceal his identity, but in order for us to be together, he could not let anyone know who he was. As he grabbed me to leave, we were surrounded by police cars with lights flashing. At one point, this man in a gorilla suit looked at me with the bluest of eyes. We seemed to speak without words because I knew what he needed to make a clean escape. I was able to steal one of the police cars and urged him to get in so we could make our getaway.
In real life, I've seen men with the same blue eyes, but alas, they were not wearing a gorilla suit.
I also dreamed that I was a man. Tall, dark, and so darn hot looking in my black leather jacket that I had a crush on myself. I was a detective and lived near my mother. As I was coming home one night late, I saw that my house had intruders. I quickly ducked behind a bush and planned my strategy. My mother had seen me and opened her door to welcome me home. I knew that she would blow my cover and put herself in danger, so I quickly dispatched my highly trained German Shepherd. While he distracted the intruders, I sent my secret weapon--my highly trained and vicious black cat. I knew that my attack cat would take no prisoners. My mom, unknowing of danger, beckoned to my animals. However, they would not be deterred from their mission. They quickly dispatched the invaders and I was able to greet my mother without her knowing any danger was near.
I will say that my dreams are often very amusing and I look forward to my nightly entertainment as I close my eyes.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
I say the dumbest things
Kids don't have the market on saying dumb things. I work in long term disability. When I first began working, whenever I was introducing myself to a client, I would always say, "Hi, I work with your long distance carrier. I mean, your long term disability carrier."
Another example. I was talking to a friend once and we were discussing elderly people. I was trying to make a point, so I exclaimed, "Do you know how many dead people die?" Ahem.
I come by it naturally. My dad has difficulty with the English language on occasion. Imagine this scene. My dad calls me at work one day to let me know that they have lost an important card for my mom. She had gotten a pacemaker and had to have a medical card with her at all times. So he wanted me to call the company and ask for another. When I asked him for the phone number, he replied, "It's 1-800-CATARACT." Huh? He said that's exactly what it said, "1-800-CATARACT." I asked him to spell it for me. "1-8-0-0-C-A-R-D-I-A-C." Ohhh, funny.
But, my all time favorite happened several years ago. When one of my nephews was younger, he followed my dad everywhere. On this particular occasion, he and dad were in the backyard messing in the garden. Ryan came in the house muttering the same phrase over and over, "Get down down there. Get down down there." My sister-in-law asked him what he was saying. He said he's just repeating what Papaw says whenever Ryan gets in the garden. My SIL very seriously asked, "Ryan, do you know why Papaw talks like he does?" And Ryan, just as seriously, replied, "Yes, it's because he's Chinese." Hahahaha! Since that time, whenever dad says something that we can't understand, we'll ask him to stop speaking Chinese and speak English.
Another example. I was talking to a friend once and we were discussing elderly people. I was trying to make a point, so I exclaimed, "Do you know how many dead people die?" Ahem.
I come by it naturally. My dad has difficulty with the English language on occasion. Imagine this scene. My dad calls me at work one day to let me know that they have lost an important card for my mom. She had gotten a pacemaker and had to have a medical card with her at all times. So he wanted me to call the company and ask for another. When I asked him for the phone number, he replied, "It's 1-800-CATARACT." Huh? He said that's exactly what it said, "1-800-CATARACT." I asked him to spell it for me. "1-8-0-0-C-A-R-D-I-A-C." Ohhh, funny.
But, my all time favorite happened several years ago. When one of my nephews was younger, he followed my dad everywhere. On this particular occasion, he and dad were in the backyard messing in the garden. Ryan came in the house muttering the same phrase over and over, "Get down down there. Get down down there." My sister-in-law asked him what he was saying. He said he's just repeating what Papaw says whenever Ryan gets in the garden. My SIL very seriously asked, "Ryan, do you know why Papaw talks like he does?" And Ryan, just as seriously, replied, "Yes, it's because he's Chinese." Hahahaha! Since that time, whenever dad says something that we can't understand, we'll ask him to stop speaking Chinese and speak English.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
My Kentucky roots
My mom's mother was from Kentucky. She could cook good home cooking that we all love. One thing she could make that I loved was biscuits and gravy. Mmmmm, good.
My grandma lived with us for several years before she passed away. About a year or so before she passed away (I was about 13 at this time), she got so sick that she became bedridden. She slowly lost her appetite throughout this year.
One time when she and I were home alone, I got a taste for some biscuits and gravy. I knew how to open a can of biscuits and cook those, but I had no idea how to make sausage gravy. I asked my grandma how to make it and she gave me instructions. Then she said that she wanted some when it was ready. I told her that maybe she should wait until I see how it turns out since it was my first attempt. She insisted that I make her a plate when it was ready.
I tried my best and used her instructions, but despite good intentions it did not turn out well. At all. But, my grandma still insisted on a serving. She loved it and praised it as the best tasting gravy she's had. As I scraped the rest of the gravy into the trash, I thought to myself that my poor grandma was really sick--she couldn't tell the difference between gravy and glue.
Now fast forward a few years. My friend, Monica, and I went to West Virginia to see her friend get baptized. We stayed in some cabins that Monica's friends rented for a family vacation. One morning, we decided to go out for breakfast. We went to the nearest town and went to the small cafe for breakfast. There were about 5 of us and we sat at the counter. Monica sat with her friend at one end of the counter while I sat with others at the other end.
Since the only breakfast food worth eating is biscuits and gravy, that's what I ordered. Monica and friend ordered the same. Our order came as most restaurants serve it--2 biscuits on a plate with a bowl of gravy with it. I begin to eat and as any biscuits and gravy aficionado knows, you break your biscuits into bite sized pieces, place them in the bowl, and eat everything with a spoon. Monica and her friend began to eat theirs as most non-biscuits and gravy eating people eat it--slice the biscuits, place on the plate, spoon gravy over them, and eat the whole with a fork and knife. So proper and precise.
Unbeknownst to me, Monica and friend were snickering at how I chose to eat my breakfast. They were making fun of me tearing my biscuits and eating it all with a spoon. Suddenly, next to Monica, an older man asked her in a thick country accent, "Ya ain't frum around here, ar ya?" Monica politely answered, "No." He continued, "I kin tell. Ya don eat ya biskits n gravee raht." Monica asked, "How are you supposed to eat them?" Then my hero explains the proper way to eat this breakfast, "Ya tear up yer biskit into yer bowl and eat it all wit a spoon. That's the only way to eat it."
I may not have learned how to make this breakfast dish at 13 years old, but I knew EXACTLY how to eat it! Take that, city-girl!
My grandma lived with us for several years before she passed away. About a year or so before she passed away (I was about 13 at this time), she got so sick that she became bedridden. She slowly lost her appetite throughout this year.
One time when she and I were home alone, I got a taste for some biscuits and gravy. I knew how to open a can of biscuits and cook those, but I had no idea how to make sausage gravy. I asked my grandma how to make it and she gave me instructions. Then she said that she wanted some when it was ready. I told her that maybe she should wait until I see how it turns out since it was my first attempt. She insisted that I make her a plate when it was ready.
I tried my best and used her instructions, but despite good intentions it did not turn out well. At all. But, my grandma still insisted on a serving. She loved it and praised it as the best tasting gravy she's had. As I scraped the rest of the gravy into the trash, I thought to myself that my poor grandma was really sick--she couldn't tell the difference between gravy and glue.
Now fast forward a few years. My friend, Monica, and I went to West Virginia to see her friend get baptized. We stayed in some cabins that Monica's friends rented for a family vacation. One morning, we decided to go out for breakfast. We went to the nearest town and went to the small cafe for breakfast. There were about 5 of us and we sat at the counter. Monica sat with her friend at one end of the counter while I sat with others at the other end.
Since the only breakfast food worth eating is biscuits and gravy, that's what I ordered. Monica and friend ordered the same. Our order came as most restaurants serve it--2 biscuits on a plate with a bowl of gravy with it. I begin to eat and as any biscuits and gravy aficionado knows, you break your biscuits into bite sized pieces, place them in the bowl, and eat everything with a spoon. Monica and her friend began to eat theirs as most non-biscuits and gravy eating people eat it--slice the biscuits, place on the plate, spoon gravy over them, and eat the whole with a fork and knife. So proper and precise.
Unbeknownst to me, Monica and friend were snickering at how I chose to eat my breakfast. They were making fun of me tearing my biscuits and eating it all with a spoon. Suddenly, next to Monica, an older man asked her in a thick country accent, "Ya ain't frum around here, ar ya?" Monica politely answered, "No." He continued, "I kin tell. Ya don eat ya biskits n gravee raht." Monica asked, "How are you supposed to eat them?" Then my hero explains the proper way to eat this breakfast, "Ya tear up yer biskit into yer bowl and eat it all wit a spoon. That's the only way to eat it."
I may not have learned how to make this breakfast dish at 13 years old, but I knew EXACTLY how to eat it! Take that, city-girl!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
My Crush
Just in case you didn't know, I have a crush. Yep...me, a 30 something woman has a crush. Orlando Bloom makes me feel like a 13 year old. I feel giddy when I watch him in Lord of the Rings. I get breathless when watching Pirates of the Caribbean. He's younger than I, but he's within my 10 year rule...barely.
So, here's a picture of my cubicle (can it be called a cubicle if there are only 3 walls??) at work. Notice the Orlando pictures? No? Let me point them out. One large poster, two pictures on my metal cabinet, one calendar, and large face picture. Yeah, I'm a boy crazy teenager.
Because of my obsession, one of the guys at work would always tease and joke with me. Each month when I would get a new Orlando picture on my calendar, he would post something funny on it. Usually something about how young Orlando is. If you notice on one of my metal cabinets, you see some other things besides Orlando's face. Thanks to Scott, Orlando has been defaced.
But one of the best practical jokes ever played on me was done by this co-worker. Around Christmas one year, he began asking me if I had received anything "special." He kept asking periodically and wouldn't answer any questions when posed. Finally, in mid-February, I got a "special" delivery at my desk. Scott had signed me up for a year's subscription to Tiger Beat magazine. And guess who was in it??? Yep, that large facial picture was the first issue I got. Hilarious! Each month, I got to be 13 again. Of course, I wasn't really 13 because unless Orlando was in it, I had no idea who these kids in this magazine were. I would take the issues to church and give them to my 12-13 year old Sunday School class girls. They knew these teen idols and loved the magazine. Sadly, when the subscription ran out, so did my pictures of Orlando.
So, here's a picture of my cubicle (can it be called a cubicle if there are only 3 walls??) at work. Notice the Orlando pictures? No? Let me point them out. One large poster, two pictures on my metal cabinet, one calendar, and large face picture. Yeah, I'm a boy crazy teenager.
Because of my obsession, one of the guys at work would always tease and joke with me. Each month when I would get a new Orlando picture on my calendar, he would post something funny on it. Usually something about how young Orlando is. If you notice on one of my metal cabinets, you see some other things besides Orlando's face. Thanks to Scott, Orlando has been defaced.
But one of the best practical jokes ever played on me was done by this co-worker. Around Christmas one year, he began asking me if I had received anything "special." He kept asking periodically and wouldn't answer any questions when posed. Finally, in mid-February, I got a "special" delivery at my desk. Scott had signed me up for a year's subscription to Tiger Beat magazine. And guess who was in it??? Yep, that large facial picture was the first issue I got. Hilarious! Each month, I got to be 13 again. Of course, I wasn't really 13 because unless Orlando was in it, I had no idea who these kids in this magazine were. I would take the issues to church and give them to my 12-13 year old Sunday School class girls. They knew these teen idols and loved the magazine. Sadly, when the subscription ran out, so did my pictures of Orlando.
I recently had a meeting for my church calling. While there, one of the counselors handed me a folder--with Orlando all over it! She said she and her daughter were out and saw that and just had to get it for me. This same daughter gave me a framed picture of Orlando a few years ago...I still have it....next to my autographed picture a friend got me for Christmas one year. I'm so pathetic............
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
What time is it???
Living in Indiana, I've never had to change my clock for Daylight Saving Time. Just not something I've had to worry about. Now I had to keep track of it since I had to know if the temple was on the same time as us or an hour ahead. But otherwise, I could care less about DST.
Until my mission. Bulgaria changes their clocks for DST. So, one morning as I was in the shower, my companion got the phone call from our District Leader to change our clocks. After my normal 30 minute shower, I emerged to an enraged companion. Apparently I had taken 90 minutes to shower and not 30 minutes! She ran to take her shower as I pondered what had happened. Did I fall asleep and not realize it? Did I do more than a normal load of laundry while in the shower (I had to hand wash all my clothes since we didn't have a washer/dryer)? I was very confused and troubled. I could not account for an hour of my day. What was I to do? Did I need to see a doctor or something?
I then got a phone call from some sister missionaries to remind us to change the clocks. As I glanced at my watch, I noted the time I should change it to. This sister gently reminded me that no, it's only 1 hour difference. So I looked at the clock on the bedside table and repeated what time I thought it should be. Again, this sister reminded me it's only ONE HOUR difference. When I then checked the clock in the kitchen, I was thoroughly confused. Not only did I lose an hour in the shower, now all the clocks weren't showing the right time.
When my companion got out of the shower, I told her of my confusion and troubles. As she began to snicker and then to just laugh uproariously, I realized that I had been had. I didn't know how I had been had, but I had. She then told me what had happened. She had changed that clocks in every room and decided not to tell me. For the rest of the day, I was off about an hour. My brain could not grasp the concept that the time had changed.
After my mission, I was home one morning when suddenly I awoke at 6 am. I was disoriented and knew that DST had started. So, as I looked intently at my clock, I tried to figure out what time it was. I called a good friend and as she sleepily said hello, I asked her what time it was. When she informed me it was 6 o'clock IN THE MORNING, I then asked, "No, I mean what time is it really?" She then snarled that it was 6 AM--Indiana doesn't change our clocks! I then sheepishly wished her a good morning and quietly hung up.
Now, Indiana has decided to join the rest of the world and change its clocks. This past weekend I knew that DST would start. While I was in the shower on Sunday morning getting ready for church, I realized that I had forgotten to change the clocks. So instead of it being 8:40, it was 9:40--almost time for Sunday School. I had missed the first hour of church.
I think I need to move to Arizona.
Until my mission. Bulgaria changes their clocks for DST. So, one morning as I was in the shower, my companion got the phone call from our District Leader to change our clocks. After my normal 30 minute shower, I emerged to an enraged companion. Apparently I had taken 90 minutes to shower and not 30 minutes! She ran to take her shower as I pondered what had happened. Did I fall asleep and not realize it? Did I do more than a normal load of laundry while in the shower (I had to hand wash all my clothes since we didn't have a washer/dryer)? I was very confused and troubled. I could not account for an hour of my day. What was I to do? Did I need to see a doctor or something?
I then got a phone call from some sister missionaries to remind us to change the clocks. As I glanced at my watch, I noted the time I should change it to. This sister gently reminded me that no, it's only 1 hour difference. So I looked at the clock on the bedside table and repeated what time I thought it should be. Again, this sister reminded me it's only ONE HOUR difference. When I then checked the clock in the kitchen, I was thoroughly confused. Not only did I lose an hour in the shower, now all the clocks weren't showing the right time.
When my companion got out of the shower, I told her of my confusion and troubles. As she began to snicker and then to just laugh uproariously, I realized that I had been had. I didn't know how I had been had, but I had. She then told me what had happened. She had changed that clocks in every room and decided not to tell me. For the rest of the day, I was off about an hour. My brain could not grasp the concept that the time had changed.
After my mission, I was home one morning when suddenly I awoke at 6 am. I was disoriented and knew that DST had started. So, as I looked intently at my clock, I tried to figure out what time it was. I called a good friend and as she sleepily said hello, I asked her what time it was. When she informed me it was 6 o'clock IN THE MORNING, I then asked, "No, I mean what time is it really?" She then snarled that it was 6 AM--Indiana doesn't change our clocks! I then sheepishly wished her a good morning and quietly hung up.
Now, Indiana has decided to join the rest of the world and change its clocks. This past weekend I knew that DST would start. While I was in the shower on Sunday morning getting ready for church, I realized that I had forgotten to change the clocks. So instead of it being 8:40, it was 9:40--almost time for Sunday School. I had missed the first hour of church.
I think I need to move to Arizona.
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