Thursday, April 18, 2019

The awkward column

I've written a couple of these before, and I have to say, they're some of my favorite blog posts to write. Basically, this (and past ones) are a summary of small awkward moments that aren't substantial enough to be their own blog post, but definitely deserve to be written about.

Poncho the Punk

I love my dog, Poncho. I really do. And he is a pain in the patootie sometimes. Most the time. All the time. And I love him. Except when he pee’s inside, which (for reason’s the vet and I still can’t pinpoint why) happens quite often.

One night, I was having a game night with some friends. I took Poncho out at his scheduled nighttime pee. After I got back to the apartment, I let him off the leash and, for reasons I STILL DON’T KNOW, he ran to my bedroom and peed on my desk.

Annoyed and discouraged, I yelled at him, leashed him back up and dragged him outside so he could pee again. Anger was instantly added to my annoyance and discouragement when I saw that it was snowing AND IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SPRINGTIME.

Image result for 30 rock bomb gif

As I walked Poncho down the sidewalk, I spotted a woman walking her short, fat dog towards us. Poncho, who demands all males to submit to him, began yanking hard on the leash. I restrained him, and moved to the snowy grass so as to avoid the fat dog, who was growling and yapping at Poncho.

The snow was slick, and Poncho became more and more difficult to resist. Then, he did his strongest yank yet, and I slid, falling into the snowy grass on my back.

At this point, defeat overwhelmed me, and I just sat there, lying still on my back, small tears trickling down my cheeks, as snow fell on my face and Poncho yanked on the leash, continuing to attempt to charge towards the dog.
The woman was making no effort to restrain her dog or walk it away from us, so I knew I had to get up and face my defeat. 

That's exactly what I did. The woman stood there, staring at me, her fat dog yapping at us as I stood up, yanked Poncho with bitterness back towards my apartment, where I walked inside with a sad look on my face and said, "He pulled me into the snoooowwww." 


The Golden State Killer podcast

Fun fact about me: I love serial killer podcasts. And books. And documentaries. Really, anything to do with true crime, I’m obsessed with.

Image result for the office serial killer gif

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So when my friend told me about a five part podcast all about the Golden State Killer? Oh man, I was all over that.

I began listening to it at work. Now, fun fact: the Golden State Killer would often call the phone numbers of his victims and torment them by saying stuff like, “I’m gonna kill you” and other scary, awful things.

Each podcast began with those creepy whispers of the Golden State Killer over the phone.

One day, I couldn’t hear the podcast after I pressed ‘play’ on my phone. I checked the screen. Sure enough, it was playing, so I turned the volume up on my phone.

“I’m gonna kiiiiill you….”

And that's when I realized, my headphones weren't plugged in.

“Oh, come on.”

I put my thumb on my phone for a fingerprint recognition so I could pause it. My phone rejected it.

You: wHy DiDnT yOu JuSt PlUg In YoUr HeAdPhOnEs?!

I DON'T KNOW, OKAY?!

The podcast continued on.

“I’m gonna kiiiiiill you…”

I replaced my thumb for a second try. Once again, my phone rejected it.

*Heavy breathing

“Okay, you know what?! You need to chill.”

By now, my nearby coworkers were eying me curiously.

“You’re going to diiiiiiiie…”

I typed in my passcode while mumbling, “Oh, shut up.”

And I quickly paused the podcast. My coworkers were still eyeing me. I plugged my headphones in and said, “Podcast. Nobody’s gonna actually die here.”

And we turned back to our work. 



The bomb threat

Speaking of work, there was a day a few months ago when someone emailed (or called??) in a bomb threat to a BUNCH of businesses, saying that there was a bomb in the building and they'd blow it up unless they transferred X amount of bitcoins to them.

One of the businesses that shares the same building as the company I work for was fortunate to receive this threat.

News spread fast, and the next thing I know, all my coworkers are rushing out of the building.

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I looked around, confused, and my coworker approached me and said, "There's been a bomb threat. We're evacuating."

"Oh, for real?"

"Yeah."

I swung my purse over my shoulder and said, "Well, I mean, if it goes off before we leave the building, it'll at least be a fast death."

My boss — who walked by right as I said that — looked at me with a mix of fear over what was happening and horror over what I just said.

I shrugged.

"I'm not wrong."

FYI, the threat was fake and we went back inside 45 minutes later.



Greatest fear


Okay, so for about six months, I taught a Sunday School class once a month at church. Also once a month, all the Sunday School teachers would have a meeting together and discuss ways to improve our teaching, techniques we found that worked, etc.

All the teachers sat in a circle facing inward. The guy in charge stood up and said, “Okay, well, I think some of us are new here. Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves? Say your name, your major and . . . let’s go with your greatest fear. Carmen, you first.”

He motioned towards me as he sat down, and I sat there, unsure of what to say. You see, I know exactly what my greatest fear is, but I wasn’t sure if I should actually share it.

“Okay, well, what kind of ‘greatest fear’ are we talking about, here?” I asked. “Because, like, I have a serious fears, but then I have not serious fears, and I don’t know which one we’re saying.”

Silence.

“Cause, like, I could say that my greatest fear in life are zombies, but I know they aren’t real,” I said, sputtering over my words. “But really, I have a massive fear of getting kidnapped, raped and forced into human trafficking. So, like, which greatest fear are we sharing? Zombies, or kidnapped, raped, human trafficking?”

Silence.

“Okay, well, I guess my greatest fear is being kidnapped, raped and forced into human trafficking,” I said to the silent crowd. “Oh, I’m Carmen by the way. Communications major.”


I flashed a peace sign, then looked at the kid next to me, thrilled to turn the attention to someone else.

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The next guy introduced himself and stated his major, then put his hands in his lap and solemnly bowed his head with a sad look on his face as he said, “I’m worried I won’t go to heaven.”

I did one of my best and biggest eye rolls and muttered to myself, “Oh brother.”

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Because, no offense to this kid but, as a member of a religion that believes it’s difficult to NOT get into heaven . . . that fear is stupid.

It was the next kids turn.

“Hi, I’m Josh. I’m an engineering major and . . . I’d have to go with vampires. Vampires are my greatest fear.”

“THOSE AREN’T EVEN REAL!” I shouted, getting defensive, as I usually do when I feel dumb.

One by one, each teacher went by and said their stupid fear. I heard spiders, the dark and other cliche', small fears. At one point I even shouted, “Okay, you guys have to say you actual fears like I did. This ain’t fair.”

“I’m scared of not graduating!” piped up one kid.

“. . . okay, fine. I’ll give you that.”

Just then, a girl walked quickly through the door, holding a binder and looking disheveled.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said. “I was organizing another meeting. What did I miss?”

“We’re going around and introducing yourselves. Say your name, major and greatest fear.”

The girl took a seat and organized herself while saying, “I’m Annie. Psychology major. My greatest fear is that my husband will pass away, and I won’t be able to care for my family.”

She looked up, and I could see the horror on her face that she had just shared that.

“Oh — I’m sorry, I know that’s kind of serious, but . . .”

“No, thank you!” I said. “I said my greatest fear was being kidnapped, raped and forced into human
trafficking, then all these losers were like ‘uh, vampires.’ So, THANK YOU.”

I reached my hand out for a high-five, which she hesitantly returned.

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The time I got mistaken as Jesus

Ah, now, this is one of my favorite moments.

This was while in Rwanda on my study abroad. Two friends of mine walked with me to go buy some water bottles at a nearby store. It was getting pretty dark out by the time we started to head back.

As we neared the dorms we were staying at, a group of about six drunk men came waltzing by.

Out of habit, I took a large step away from them and hid behind my two guy friends that were accompanying me. I'd only ever had scary experiences with groups of drunk men.

I breathed a sigh of relief as they walked by without acknowledging me . . . until one stopped, pointed at me and said, "Jesus."

The three of us halted abruptly.

"Jesus," he repeated, pointing at me and then pounding his chest. "Jesus."

"Jesus," said one of my friends, nodding.

The drunk guy beamed with delight, came in towards my friend and embraced him in a massive hug while saying (you guessed it), "Jesus."

He turned to my next friend and did the same action. Then, he turned towards me. He moved towards me, arms outstretched for a hug . . . which I intercepted by stepping to the side and grabbing his hand to shake instead.

"Jesus," I said.

"GOD BLESS!" he yelled.

He then turned back to the guys who were with me. He pounded his chest, said "Jesus," then pounded my friends chest. He repeated this with my other friend . . . then turned to me. He pounded his chest saying, "Jesus." Then he hand stretched out towards my chest . . .

and I stepped to the side, grabbed his hand and shook it.

Eventually we got the man to leave. We pointed out that his friends were leaving him behind, to which he responded saying, "Ah, friends, yes." He pointed to me and said, "Jesus," then walked away to his friends, continuing to say, "God bless" and "Jesus" along the way.

My friends and I began walking slowly towards our dorm again. There was silence between all of us until I finally blurted out, ". . . What just happened?!"

"I'm pretty sure that guy thought you were Jesus," my friend responded.


Image result for michael scott dressed as jesus christ


And that's the story of the time I got mistaken as Jesus.



Anyway. Hope y'all enjoyed. Always remember to love and embrace your awkward moments!

And always remember:

Jesus.

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

The time I got plastic surgery

Okay, so it wasn’t technically plastic surgery, but it fell under that category when it came to insurance, and I find it hilarious to tell people that I got plastic surgery, because their first reaction is always shock and they wrack their brains to see what part of me has been altered.

I can’t remember what the actual procedure is called. But, basically, I took a laser to the chin to get rid of pretty big acne scars I’d had since high school. (Sometimes I see pictures of myself from high school with the zits that caused those scars, and I dramatically point to the picture and go, “You.” to the zit.)

Here’s what was different about my acne scars: the majority of people have acne scars that are indents/divots into their skin. Mine, however, are not-so-little bumps. Thankfully, those scars are only located on my chin, and not everywhere. So, this laser treatment would zap those bumps in hopes of flattening them.

So, after a couple of preparation doctors appointments, it was time to go forth with the laser treatment.

I plopped down in the chair. It was similar to a dental chair. They leaned the chair back so that I was basically laying down flat, covered my eyes with some dark goggle type things, and began zapping my chin.

It definitely hurt. Part of it was because I’m a redhead. The gene that comes with being a redhead includes being more resistant towards numbing medicine (such as epidurals). The doctor forgot to take this into account, and gave me the normal amount of the numbing medication. After expressing pain and wincing multiple times, she said, “Oh! Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. You’re a redhead. I forgot that I have to give my redheaded patients a double dose.”

She injected my chin with more medicine and was able to finish the procedure with me being pain-free.

What came next, I documented on my Instagram story . . . and I’m so grateful I did. Because it captures it in a way that my words never could.



So, without further ado, please enjoy the next 12 hours following my procedure.





So, what happened next?

I drove to my apartment, still crying. I parked, hid in my car for probably 20 minutes, and sprinted into my apartment (still crying) where I promptly took a nap.
I woke up when it was dark. Keep in mind, this was summertime, so it got dark pretty late. I had slept a long time.

. . . I had also bled all over my pillowcase.

I looked at my chin to see it puffy and crusted with dry blood. And, wouldn’t you guess it, I started crying again.

Not as hard, though. So . . . that’s good, right?

It was time for my nightly cleaning of my new injury. Cleaning included soaking it with a vinegar-soaked cotton ball for 15 minutes, followed by rubbing it with a liquid steroid, an ointment used for diaper rashes, Vaseline and, lastly, taking two antibiotics. This would be part of my nightly routine for about the next two weeks.

I had transferred my vinegar-mixed-with-water concoction into a water bottle, which I dunked my cotton ball in. I plopped down on the couch, placed the now-soaked cotton ball on my bloody chin and watched TV with my roommates as I snacked on a Texas Roadhouse roll.

My chin was still aching, but at least I had my roll.

Then. This happened.








In case you didn’t catch that, I drank my vinegar soak. Yup. Took a big, ol’ sib. And promptly spat it out onto my leggings.

I bet you can guess what I did next.

Yup. I cried. Again.

But, I’m still grateful I didn’t spit it out on my Texas Roadhouse rolls.

The next day, my chin looked better. It had stopped bleeding and was beginning to heal. Each day, it got better and better, though my chin remained an angry red for quite some time (and, to this day, the skin on my chin is still a ting pinker than the rest of my face. Thank goodness for makeup).

Two weeks later, I was back at the doctors, sitting up in the all-too familiar dental-like chair.

The appointment was earlier in the morning. Now, at this time in my life, I didn’t have a job or school going on. This, combined with the fact that I am not a morning person, meant I got up late and was running behind.

I legit threw on some basketball shorts, wore the shirt I wore to bed, brushed my hair and teeth, slid into some flip-flops and ran out the door with my mom, who was accompanying me to the doctors.

So, there I was, back at the doctors, sitting up in the dental-like chair as my doctor held my face and got extremely close to check out my acne scars.

“Hmmm, looks like we’ve missed a few spots,” she said.

My heart began to race. I was still recovering from the first time! There’s no way I could do this again!

“We’re just going to do some touch ups; we won’t do the whole procedure,” she reassured me. Honestly, she could probably see the fear on my face. I am terrible at hiding my emotions.

I remained sitting up, and she took a small laser to my face. I didn’t need to back up or cover my eyes this time. She numbed part of my chin (this time using twice the amount to begin with), and this time, as opposed to lasering my whole chin, she targeted specific spots.

Now . . . I was expecting this appointment to go by quickly. I thought I’d be in and out in no time. It was supposed to be just a check up, not a touch up.

Which is exactly what I told myself when I left my house without eating anything for breakfast.

Guess what. Me + pain =


Yup.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII passed out. I had caught myself in time, however. I could tell it was going to happen because of how sick and lightheaded I began to feel.

“Stop,” I said, reaching my hand out. “I didn’t eat breakfast. I’m either going to throw up or pass out.”

I leaned forward to put my head in my lap, but my dermatologist said, “No, I need you to lean back.”

And I did.

And that’s the last thing I remember.

I was walking in the woods in the dark. Character's from the Walking Dead were all around me. I turned, and saw Negan – the character that my celebrity crush plays. He smiled at me and said, 


 And I smiled back at him. 

There was a loud, buzzing sound. That was the sound the chair moved when it was being tipped backwards. I was starting to come back to. The chair was leaned back almost all the way. I wasn’t just flat on my back; my legs were slightly higher than my head so that blood could get to my head.

Time seemed to move by in slow motion. It seemed like my chair was tipping back for an eternity.

I don’t know how long it had been before I spoke. I’m sure it’s not as long it felt. But, I finally said, “Did I pass out?”

“Yes,” my doctor said. “How are you feeling?”

“I might throw up,” I said, my eyes remaining closed.

“I’ll go get her a bucket,” said the nurse.

I heard her walking, then the door open and close.

“I dreamed about Negan,” I moaned to the doctor.

I’m sure she had no idea who I was talking about.

“You were only out for 20 seconds,” she said.

“Well he said hi to me,” I said.

“Well, I guess you did snore,” she said.

“Somehow that’s more embarrassing to me than the actual passing out.”

The nurse came back. I heard her place a bucket on the ground and said, “I have some juice and crackers for you when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

They went back to zapping my chin. I began to feel a little bit better, but I didn’t dare open my eyes.

“I’m surprised you’re not totally freaking out. If my mom were here, she’d be in a total panic,” the nurse said, directing the question to my mom, who was sitting at the side of the room.

“Oh. Well, we do this. I pass out all the time, her sister has passed out. It’s just something we do,” she replied.

And it’s true. Maybe this is just part of being initiated into the family. My dad and one of my sisters are next.

A few minutes later, the doctor was done.

“Okay, we’re all done,” she said, and I cracked my eyes open to be greeted by the bright, florescent lights.

She rolled her chair back to her computer and said, “Come back in a couple weeks for another check-up. You can make that appointment up front, but don’t sit up yet. You’re still looking quite pale.”

“I’m always pale,” I mumbled.

“Well, you’re really pale,” she responded.

I always know that, if you can tell I’m pale, then I’m obviously not doing well. So, I trusted her and remained laying back.

“I’m going to Africa in a couple weeks,” I explained. “Should I make the appointment before or after?”

She got really excited as she had recently returned back from a trip to Rwanda, the country I was going to.

“Don’t worry about an appointment until you get back from Africa. Just make sure to always wear sunscreen, especially on your chin. I do not want to see you with a tan when you come back!” she said.

“Deal.”

A few minutes later, I felt back to normal aside from a little bit nauseous. I drank my juice, ate a few crackers, set up an appointment and left with my mom feeling mortified that I had snored when I passed out.

Let’s fast forward to after my trip to Rwanda. It was a final check up to see how I was healing and see if any more touch ups needed to be done.

I sat back in the familiar dental-like chair. This time, I had eaten.

My dermatologist walked in, and a huge smile came across her face and she exclaimed,







I was proud of myself, too.

ANYway. Everything had healed properly and was back to normal. The acne scars I was so self-conscious about remained, but they weren’t nearly as noticeable as before. And, they’re easier to cover with makeup now.

Am I glad I did it? Yes. Would I do it again? Probably not.


And that, my friends, is the story of the time I (kind of, but not really) got plastic surgery.


Have an awkward day.



(This was taken a week apart)

Wednesday, January 16, 2019

Here and back again: Online Dating

Sometimes, I think I should rename this blog to "Woes of a Single Woman." But then I'd have to buy a whole new domain name, and that's just not worth it.

I'm back to trying online dating. It's something I've done before (see: My Tinderella Story), and have never really had much success in the love department. I have, however, had much success in the good story department with online dating.

This time around, I've been using Mutual. Mutual is basically Tinder for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the religion I'm a part of). Members in this organization tend to marry others within their same religion. Combine that with a high concentration of members in Utah? Mutual is generally a good place to try online dating for free.

If you don't know what Tinder is, I applaud you for being that out of the world that you don't even know what Tinder is. For an explanation of what it is, click on the blog mentioned above. In that blog, I give a description of what Tinder is and how it works.

Anyway, I've been much pickier than I have been in the past when deciding who I'm interested in and would like to chat with. I was exhausted of going on awkward dates with people I met online, and decided to put an end to it as best as I could. So, thankfully, I haven't had uncomfortable dates.

I have, however, ran across some . . . interesting profiles. And, I think they're worth sharing on my awkward blog.

I tried to hide these guys' identities as best I could. So, names and faces are scribbled out using my highly quality photo editing option on my iphone.

So without further ado, here's what I found to be the most cringy and/or entertaining bios and pictures on Mutual. Please enjoy.






Alright, let's start with this guy. Look, if you have to specify that you're not gay, the chances are, you probably are actually gay. You may not realize it yet, but . . . you're probably gay.
Also, the rest of the bio is just kind of hilarious. It's like reading the bio of a teletubbie.
































Speaking of funny bios, here's this lil guy. It made me chuckle. If one of you guys listen to his podcast (or, pawdcats), let me know how it is. I'm listening to too many true crime podcasts right now to add another to my list. Also I hate cats.

































Okay, now with this guy. How DARE you put Beyonce and Kim K. on the same level! I'm not even a big Beyonce follower and have probably only listened to two of her songs, but I know she is far more talented and respectable than Kim K! HOW DARE YOU INSULT THE QUEEN. HOW DARE YOU.




And while we're on the subject of insulting bio's . . .





Maybe I'm biased because I'm a dog mom . . . but is this totally douchey? It comes across as totally douchey. And since it's douchey, I can be douchey back, right? Cause he is not tall enough or rich enough to make such a judgmental statement. Once you grow at least five inches and get a real job, then you can tell women to be emotionally stable. And even then? JUST DON'T DO IT.







Okay okay okay. Now, I don't know why, but the "tickle your back" statement makes me shiver. And, not the good kind of shiver. The creeped-out kind of shiver. Maybe it's cause I'm not ticklish, and get tired of guys attempting to flirt with me by poking my sides and it turns into just that. Just a little fella obnoxiously poking my sides as I stare at him with a dead look on my face. It's very obnoxious. 


Aaaaaaaaaand speaking of unwanted physical contact. . . 





Aaaaaaaaand on the topic of things not to say . . . 





I just . . . I just can't. I cannot express how much this grosses me out. 



Yeah okay so I circled the "from" answer, cause I thought it was weird, but then I read the entire profile . . . and decided that basically the whole profile was weird. The guy's really good at not answering the questions presented to him with a straight answer. He should be a politician. 
'Ight. Before we transition over to amusing pictures featured on Mutual, we'll cover this conversation I had with a guy on the app. 

Background info: he asked if I was from Utah. It lead to this:


The bigger thing to do would be saying something like, "Oh, okay. I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in something that would ultimately be a long distance or not go anywhere."
Something like that. 
But instead . . . I ghosted him. (Ghosted is a slang term that means you just ignore someone that's interested in you until they go away.)


Alright. Now for the pictures. 


This was one of the guys pictures. He also didn't have his name listed. Or any personal information about himself. And not really any clear pictures of his face. So I legit knew nothing about him. But hey, some girls are into the mysterious type. 


This fella gave ZERO explanation as to who this bride he's kissing on the cheek is. And, let's be real. It looks like he's the groom! Maybe he is. There's nothing to say otherwise. 
I wish him and this woman the best future together. I hope they're happy together 💗


Okay, a couple things about this. 1. I think I did a better job hiding his identity than this guy did of hiding this chick's identity. 2. Why did he even use this picture?? First of all, it has - what I assume to be - his ex girlfriend in it. Second of all, the quality of this picture isn't that good, either. The lighting is bad, the angle of the face is bad . . . I'm just like, surely there's a better picture of you that you could've used! 3. If by "you," you mean that I have the chance to one day be featured on your dating profile with my face poorly blurred out? . . . Pass. 

These last two? They just made me laugh. 

 


I don't think I'll meet my future spouse online. That's just my gut feeling, and I could be wrong. Regardless, online dating has brought some joy, awkwardness and dates into my life. And for that, I'm grateful. 

Saturday, December 29, 2018

Sticky lips

Look, guys! I made a crappy vlog for my crappy blog!!

I wrote this story out three or four times, but because of how many visualizations there were, I decided to just vlog it.

So, without further ado, enjoy “Sticky lips” and this extremely poorly made vlog.

Thank you.

So at this point, my battery died. Then I filmed the rest when I was at home (still wearing sun glasses cause #nomakeup), and then I tried to edit it . . . but I accidentally cut off a crucial plot point . . . THIS IS WHY I WRITE AND NOT VLOG. 

 SO HERE'S THE CRUCIAL PLOT POINT: 

The grooms men and bridesmaids are paired up and walking down the isle one couple at a time. 

And who's a groomsman who's part of the ceremony? 

My. Ex. 

Okay here's the rest of the story, including the "sticky lips" part. 


Thank you everyone for coming to my blog.

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Thursday, November 29, 2018

European American


This is a post about a political topic, and I don't think the changes I'm suggesting will happen. Also, my opinion likely wont be changed by your angry comment.

I’m just publishing this cause I think it’s an interesting idea.


Image result for 30 rock political gif


Thank you.

Here we go!

Here's something that bugs me about the United States. Every American has 'titles' that go along with their identity.

African American.

Asian American.

Latin American.

Native American.

And so on. 

I want to start by saying that I don’t think these labels are bad. I think an amazing part of America is the different cultures that make up the States. I think labels allows us to embrace our heritage and helps us remember where we came from.
  
Here’s where I do have a problem, though, and would like to see a change that will never happen:
  
White people.

I’ve never been called ‘white American’ or ‘Caucasian American.’
  
I have, however, been called ‘American.’
  
And it’s true. I’m absolutely an American, and my identity certainly lays heavily on being American. I was born here, as were my parents, grandparents and great grandparents.
  
And before that? They came from Europe. 
  
But I’m not a Caucasian, white or European American. I’m just American.
  
And that bugs me.
  
Why?
  
One reason is because it makes us forget where we came from!
  
I think it's dope that I’m descendants of (mostly) Belgian and British immigrants (I’m still very much a European mutt)! I’ve had the opportunity to go to those countries, and I loved it! I love being able to say that my ancestors came from those countries! They survived the plague!
  
And they were all super poor peasant folk, so I’m pretty sure they didn’t participate in the colonization of Africa! . . . right? Right?
  

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 Not only that, but it makes me wonder how much my ancestors went through to get me to this awesome spot that I am in life. They truly are responsible for helping me be where I am today!
  
It also gives us more of a sense of identity. I cannot tell you how at-home I felt when I went to Utah's Scottish Festival (despite my little-to-no Scottish blood). I was around others who came from the same place, struggled with the same pale-skin issues, and shared so much of the same culture!

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 The other reason why this makes me sad is because I believe it subtly feeds into white privilege without us knowing it, realizing it, or meaning to.


Image result for 30 rock race gif

That’s just how our culture is. We’re American’s. They’re African American, Asian American, [ethnicity] American. But we’re Americans.

Why is that?

I don’t know. I don’t know how this started, or why it is the way that it is. I just think it’d be cool if it was different.


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What I’d love to see happen is for white Americans to start referring themselves as/being referred to as European American. (Or Caucasian American. Did you know Caucasian literally means ‘of European descent’? I had no idea until today!)

I believe doing this would help us be more accepting of others, welcoming of different cultures, and – in an ideal world – maybe even cut back racism.

Now because I have overly-sensitive white friends who probably have their panties up in a wad over this post, I want to make this clear:

There is nothing wrong with being white.

There is nothing wrong with embracing your Irish/British/Scottish/German/French/Belgian/Russian Heritage.

There is something wrong when you forget you’re a descendant of immigrants.

There is something wrong when you judge someone else for being an immigrant/descendant of an immigrant, when you yourself are one.

We can't get rid of these labels. And to be honest, I think it would be sad if we got rid of these labels. I think these labels are a good way to embrace, honor and remember our ancestors. They help us uphold traditions and remember where we came from.

I guess, the point I’m trying to get across here . . . or my thesis statement . . . is this: White Americans are European Mutts and should be referred to as European Americans. (Or Caucasian Americans. I don’t know, for some reason, I just like the word European more than the word Caucasian.) 

Also!

I do think there's one ethnic label we should get rid of, and that's Native American.

They are the only ones deserving of the title of just "American." Because they're Americans! Like, they’re the Americans. And they’re wayyy more American than us European mutts are ever gonna be!

And as for those saying, “Hey but what about the fact that I’m 3% African/Cherokee! That makes me ethnic!”

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Oh, shut up. I'm 7 percent Irish and don't even claim to be Irish.

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You’re white, and you probably only have that percentage cause one of your ancestors slept with a slave who didn't even want to be slept with.


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And that's what I'd love to see happen in the world, and am sure it wont.

Thank you.

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Thursday, November 15, 2018

The Awkward Column

I go through a number of small, awkward moments daily. Most of these moments aren't exactly long enough for an entire blog post. So, here is a random hodgepodge (a word that we, as English speakers, don't use nearly enough) of awkward moments that have happened to me recently. 

The self high-five

Disneyland is a hub for members of the Church of Jesus Christ. Probs cause most members have a lot of kids, live on the west coast, and Disneyland is on the west coast and geared towards families.
Brigham Young University is also a hub for members of the Church of Jesus Christ. The reason for this is obvious; it's cause it's owned by the church.

So it's not uncommon to see people wearing BYU attire at Disneyland.

Which is exactly what happened this last time I went to Disneyland.

My friend and I were exiting Space Mountain and making our way over to Indiana Jones, when I saw a guy wearing a BYU shirt.

We passed him, I raised my hand for a high five, made eye contact with him and said, "Go cougars!" (BYU's mascot is a cougar. Like, the animal. Not the old-ladies-on-the-prowl-for-a-young-man type.)

We walked past each other, my hand still raised, and I was ignored.

So I did the most logical thing:

I gave myself a high-five.

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The time I made a waterfall

It was around 5 a.m.

I was on my study abroad in New Zealand. We were moving from the North Island to the South Island.

I was boarding an airplane and was extremely grumpy because, well, it’s 5 a.m. and I’m not a morning person.

I had hastily packed the night before, but had left too much stuff out and shoved it all in my backpack the next morning.

As a result, my backpack was the size of a parachute.

We were on a pretty small plane, so the overhead compartments were pretty small as well. I got to my seat, turned to the overhead compartment, and started shoving my backpack into the small space.

“Come on,” I grumbled, punching the backpack into the compartment. “Can. You. Just. FIT?!”

One last final shove, and it was in.

And that’s when I saw the water trickling down and dripping out of the compartment . . . and right on top of a man’s bald head.

My eyes followed the trail of water and it lead right to . . . my unopened water bottle.

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I frantically tried to close the water bottle, turned the cap the wrong way, opened it more, panicked some more, and ended up just pulling the water bottle out altogether and sticking it my jacket pocket.

Water continued to drip steadily onto the man’s bald head. And he had a reaction that I appreciate to this day:

He sat there, staring straight forward, and just blinked. His mouth was stretched out in this line, and his face just read, “Of course this would happen to me. Oh well.”

I’m still so grateful for that reaction. He could’ve yelled at me. He could’ve caused a scene. He had good reason to, after all. Water was being dumped on his head at five in the freaken morning.

But instead, he just sat there like, “Well this is happening. This is a thing.”

And this was my reaction:

“Oh my gosh. I am so, so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m SO sorry.”

I pulled the sleeve of my jacket over my hand and started dabbing the water off of his head.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

It was pretty useless, and my friend standing behind me gave me a nudge and said, “Come on, Carmen.”


I began to half walk/half be pushed away from the guy, my arm still outstretched while I continued to spew never-ending apologies. 


The baby rhino

We were at a rhino reserve in Uganda. After watching an impactful (and frankly, depressing) documentary on rhino poaching (which you shouldn't do, by the way. It's stupid and useless and harmful to the animals and the enviornment), I stepped out of the room we were watching the documentary in, and went outside to go back to the bathroom.

That's when I was greeted by a warthog.

This warthog, to be exact:


(He's sleeping. Not dead.)

"WOAH."

I stood there, frozen. The warthog was just standing there too, minding his own business. I couldn't tell if the warthog was looking at me or not.

I also realized in that moment that, everything I knew about warthogs, I learned from The Lion King.

And I'm not totally sure that information is completely accurate.

Regardless, it wasn't helpful information anyway.

I didn't exactly know how to handle this situation. So I did what I do best:

I ran away from my problem.

Well, kind of. I very slowly began to do a sideways shuffle away from the warthog.

"Hello," came a voice from behind.

I jumped.

It was one of the workers of the rhino sanctuary.

I had forgotten that we generally needed to be accompanied by a worker while moving from building to building on a reserve/safari, in case we run into wildlife. That way, the workers can handle the situation and prevent the idiot tourists from potentially dying via hippo.

So, you know, we needed them to prevent the exact situation I was in right now.

(Also, in one of our camps, we fell asleep to the sounds of hippos and I found it oddly calming.)

"Are you going to the toilet?" the worker asked in his thick, East African accent.

"Oh - uh - yeah," I said.

He nodded and said, "I show you where it is."

"Thanks," I said, not taking my eye off the warthog. "Is that uh . . . uh . . ."

I had completely spaced the word "warthog," and said the one animal that came to mind:

"Baby . . . rhino?"

I face palmed myself internally.


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“No, that is a warthog,” he said kindly. “Rhino’s are much, much bigger.”

"Oh, right. Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense," I said. "Is he . . . it . . . dangerous?"

"No, he will not harm you unless you try to harm him."

"Got it."

As we walked to the bathroom, I reassured myself that he’s probably used to arrogant white people asking stupid questions.

That’s what I told (and still tell) myself, anyway.

Who knows if that's actually true. 

An awkward date I went on


This took place after a rough breakup. I decided to give dating another try, so I downloaded a dating app.

I still regret this decision.

But, I stand by my life motto (the same motto that got me through the following story): Everything in life is a good experience or makes a good story later.

I agreed to meet up with a guy at a nearby sandwich/panini place (he let me pick where to eat). The way our conversation had shifted before the date, I was getting a vibe that this wasn’t gonna be as great as I initially hoped, so I picked somewhere that I enjoyed and didn’t want to pay for.

Might be mean, but I had to get something good from this date.

We met outside the restaurant, ordered our food and sat down. The casual, get-to-know-you questions began. You know, the “where are you from”, “what are you studying”, “what year in school are you”, etc.

“So, how many siblings do you have?” he asked.

I responded, then said, “What about you?”

“Guess,” he said.

“Uh – okay – I don’t know. Like, two?”

“I was born in China,” he said.

“Oh, then I’m assuming it’s just you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I had an older sister. I didn’t know her, though, because the government came when she was a baby and like, kidnapped her and put her in a dumpster or something.”

“Oh, wow. That was probably hard for your parents. I actually have a couple friends who’s family adopted girls from China who were abandoned as babies.”

“Wait, are you serious?” he asked.

“Yeah, like one was abandoned in a hotel, and I think the other actually was in a dumpster or something like that,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.

“. . . because I was just kidding,” he said.

Awkward silence.

“. . . Wait, really?” I said.

“Yeah, that didn’t actually happen.”

And so I did what I do when I can’t run away from my problems:

I laughed it off.

But, like, I really didn’t know exactly how to handle the situation so . . . I think I definitely overdid the laugh.




But what I really wanted to do was laugh my way out of the date. 




I didn't, though. I'm not that socially inept. 

I honestly can’t tell you what happened the rest of the date. I think I just went on autopilot and internally begged for it to be over. Conversation continued, but none of it was riveting.

At the end of the date, we exchanged phone numbers, and I went to the car thinking, “Oh man I wonder how late it is. That was pretty long –.”

It had been 45 minutes.

My date was 45 minute long.

And I thought it was like, two hours.


Also, I haven’t heard from him since. 


My period

I started my period three days early, in the middle of the day, while I was at work. 

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No big deal, I've been dealing with this for quite a few years now. I had some back-up pads in my desk drawer for occasions just like this. 

So I went to my desk, pulled open my drawer and opened the package of pads I had stored in my desk. I had bought these pads while in Africa after I discovered I forgot to pack feminine hygiene products. 

Well, my body decided not to have a period that month (don't worry - I'm not pregnant) so I ended up never using them, thus becoming my back-up products at work. 

I went to the bathroom to put my pad in, and realized the pad was massive. First of all, it had been quite a few months since I had worn a pad, and it had been even longer since I had used one that thick. Like, I didn't need that much protection, but I was sure getting it. 

While I was on the toilet bleeding my uterus out and experiencing period poop (every woman who has experienced a period knows exactly what I'm talking about right now), I realized that the bow of my dress . . . was sitting in the toilet water. 

I about threw up. First of all? Disgusting. Second of all? My bow had been tied SO CUTE before, and now I was gonna have to untie it and take it off! Third of all? . . . how on earth was I gonna take it off without splashing nasty toilet water everywhere?

It proved not to be as difficult as I originally thought it would be, but it was a definitely process. I untied it with two fingers, trying to prevent myself from touching the now-contaminated bow. Then, carefully, I set it on the ground, where a puddle began to form around it. 

I gagged, finished my business, picked the bow up with my pointer finger and thumb, and made my way to the sink where I washed my hands and pathetically tried to rinse/clean off the bow. 

Here's what I'm most grateful for about this experience: Nobody came into the bathroom while I was in there. Nobody. So nobody had to see me washing an article of clothing. And nobody watched me as I wrapped it in a paper towel. 

You know what I was also extremely grateful for? This dress had pockets. And not only that, but I had put my car keys in my pocket, and not my purse, so I had my car keys on me. 

And my car is exactly where I'd store my now sopping-wet-and-filthy bow. 

And guess what else I'm grateful for. The hallway outside the bathroom was completely empty. It was legitimately a miracle. I was able to jog down the hall, outside and to my car while holding a wet piece of fabric bundled up in a soaking paper towel without running into a soul

This is evidence that there is a God and he was sure watching out for ya girl. 

And that concludes my random hodgepodge of awkward moments. 

Embrace your inner awkward, everybody. And enjoy your day. And life in general. 

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