Wednesday, June 17, 2015

So Not Legal.

My life, guys. My life.

To start, I am going to answer questions that are necessary to completely appreciate this story:

Q) How old are you, Camilla?
A) 22.

Q) Why do you wear make-up, Camilla?
A) Because if I don't, I look like I'm in high school. I mean, even WITH make-up I get mistaken as a high schooler, but the chances of that happening are lowered.

Q) Wait Camilla, are you single?
A) Recently, I took the liberty of looking up the meaning of my name. It means, 'Nobel Virgin.'
This explains so much.
So yes, I'm single.

Now, I'm not completely thrilled with these facts. I mean, I'm not miserable and moping around all the time, but I also don't wake up every morning and think, "YES! Another day of being single and looking like a high schooler! Just what ever 22-year-old strives to accomplish, and I have achieved this without even trying!"

Anyway. Today, I went to visit my friends. I really hadn't been out in public at all that day, so I didn't bother putting on make-up.

My friends and I got on the subject of boys, and I was left to wonder how on earth I can diminish my awkwardness enough to attract the opposite sex.

During this encounter, I realized how I really hadn't eaten anything that day besides a couple of granola bars and cheerios, and how blasted hungry I was.

Thankfully, a Mexican restaurant sat right next door to where I had visited my friends, and I eagerly walked to the restaurant to get some type of subsistence for my body.

I walk up to order my food. Behind the counter, I see two pubescent high schoolers  probably between the ages 16-17, donning terrible looking man-buns.

"What can I get for you?" asked one.

"Small pork salad, please."

"Sounds good." he said.

He got the first part of my salad started, the handed it off to the second high schooler, who looked at me and immediately said, "WOAH! You look JUST like my cousin! That was FREAKY!"

"Maybe I am." I replied monotonously, because I really was not in a mood to talk. I just wanted my food.

The kid gave me a weird look. Then I said, "Just kidding. I'm not your cousin. I could act like her if you wanted me to, though."

"She is pretty cool. She's in the army and stuff."

"Nice." I replied, when really I'm thinking, 'I'm so blasted hungry, please just give me my blasted salad before I pass out from hunger."

He then began to ask me a series of various questions.

"What would you like on your salad?" he started.

"Um, those diced tomato things--."

"Do you rock climb at all?"

I blinked, then said, "Um. I mean, I did in the fifth grade once. Then my shoe fell off and I came back down, and didn't feel like going back up again."

"C'mon! You just gotta monkey crawl back on up there!"

"Yeah, I gotta try rock climbing again." I said, feeling my face turn red.

"Corn and onions on your salad?"


"You really gotta try rock climbing again," he continued, "It's so great. Gotta get yourself out into the sun!"

My thoughts? "Um. I have a sun allergy. Are you implying that I look pale? Because I already know that. It comes with the redheaded gene. Back off."

. . . My subconscious gets a little defensive when I'm hungry or tired. I consider it to be part of survival mode. Please don't judge me.

What I really said?

"Yeah I think that's something I'd probably enjoy."

"Sour cream, ranch, and cheese on your salad?" he asked.

"No thanks. But does the mango dressing cost extra?"

"Uuuuuuugh." he said, looking from me, to the dressing, back to me, "I really like you. So for you, no, it's free"

"Well thanks."

"But you gotta give me your digits."


". . . . . . . . . . . . I'm in a relationship."
That's a big, fat lie.

"Ah man. Well, you have a good day!"

"Yeah, thanks. You too."

He slid my salad down, and the cashier began to ring up the price. Now, the cashier had such a thick, Hispanic accent I couldn't understand a WORD she was saying, so I just say 'yes' to everything. While I'm agreeing to whatever this lady is saying, High School Boy turns to his friend and says, "Hey, we're getting pretty good at this."

I rolled my eyes and fished out my money to pay the cashier. First of all, I wondered how old he thought I was. But I knew already: He probably thought I was somewhere between ages 16-19.
Second of all, why on earth would he hit on a girl that looked like his cousin? Is he attracted to his cousin?
Both of these facts are just flat out wrong and illegal.

"You know," said High School Boy to me as he slid back up to the cash register, "If you'd like, you and your boyfriend could come rock climbing with me sometime."

Here was my thought process: "Crap. Okay, which guy friend can I get to agree to pose as my fake boyfriend to go rock climbing and scare this high schooler away? WAIT. WHY AM I PLANNING ON GOING ON THIS? I HAVEN'T AGREED AND I DON'T NEED TO AGREE TO DOING THIS."

So what did I say?
". . . . . . . . . . . . . . .No."

"Ah, okay. Well have a good day!"

I had to pay for the stupid mango dressing.

So I leave and go to my friends apartment. I stayed there to eat and talk to my friend, then it was time to head home since it was getting decently late.

Now, the apartment complex my friend lives at double as housing for EFY kids. (EFY = a camp for LDS youth ranging from ages 16-18.)

As I left the housing, an EFY student raced up to the door and opened it for me. I smiled and said, "Oh, thank you!"

"I hope you find the right man." he responded.

"Thanks! I hope so too."

I walked a little bit farther, stopped dead in my tracks and shouted, "Wait. . . WHAT?!"

I turned around, but he was already gone and the door was shutting.

I don't know, guys. Maybe he was a little guardian angel there to give me hope that one day, someone will fall for me despite of my awkwardness.

Happy awkwardness, everybody.
Hey, guess how old I am in this picture.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

The Mistake

My friends. Mistakes are a part of life. I think that's what this whole blog really proves. We can't get out of life without awkwardness, embarrassment and mistakes. And recently I've made a couple of them.

Recently, I returned home from a trip to Arizona. Although I was only there for three days, it was packed with fun-filled activities of four-wheeling, going to the Gilbert Temple, movie watching, eating delicious food and seeing good friends.

I returned home on a Sunday night and, let me tell you, I was exhausted. That Sunday had already included four hours of driving to see friends and to get to the airport, and a two hour flight back home to Utah. I was sweaty, slightly sunburned and just outright exhausted.

I landed back in Utah around nine o' clock and was ready to crawl into bed, but knew I had another hour drive back home to my apartment ahead of me.

As I left the airplane, one of my friends called me. I hadn't talked to her in quite some time, so it was fun to catch up briefly and see what she was up to. I talked to her as I waited for my dad to pick me up.

After a few minutes, I saw my dad roll up in my moms car. He wasn't driving to the edge of the sidewalk, but was stopping in the middle of the left lane. Odd, but whatever.

I continued talking to my friend as I waved at my dad in the car, and signaled that I was coming. I grabbed my suitcase and raced to the trunk of the car.

I popped it open. It began to raise a few inches, then my dad pushed a button and it began to close again.

"Very funny, dad," I thought as it closed.

I continued talking to my friend on the phone as I pulled on the latch of the trunk a second time. My dad repeated the process of closing the trunk.

"Oh come on," I grumbled to myself and said to my friend, "Hold on a second. DAD! DAD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? OPEN THE TRUNK."

A third time. I pulled on the latch, and just as it began to raise, it lowered and closed once again.

"DAD! YOU'RE BLOCKING TRAFFIC! COME ON!" I apologized to my friend once again for yelling in her ear.

My dad then got out of the truck and approached me as I began to yank the now-locked trunk, grumbling to myself and my friend.

He gently touched my arm, and I whipped up to see . . . not my dad.

"Miss, I'm sorry, but I think you're mistaking me for someone else." he said.

I stared at him and said, "Oh. Crap. Yeah. You're driving my mom's car and well, you look like my dad. But hey! It makes a good story!"

"It does. You can tell everyone about it." he said as he walked back to the drivers seat and I walked shamefully back to the sidewalk with my luggage.

"Oh, I will!"  I yelled back to him. "I'll post about it on Facebook!"

And with that, he rolled off in my moms car as color rushed to my face.

One of these days I want to hear HIS side of this story.

Have an awkward day, everyone.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Caught in the Act

So, we all do things in our life that we really hope other people don't witness. But because there must be embarrassing situations to enjoy the non-embarrassing situations, we all get caught in those moments.

And I had the pleasure of that happening to me multiple times this week.

The Garbage Can

One such experience happened the day of cleaning checks. After a fun night out with friends, I got home around midnight and remembered that cleaning checks were the next morning.

Knowing very well that I would NOT get out of bed at a reasonable hour to do my chores before the managers came to check my apartment, I knew it was best if I stayed up a little late to do them.

I scrubbed the toilet and shower down, swept the floor, de-junked my desk, and in the process, filled the garbage can to the brim with paper towels, dirt, hair, and papers. These were in the small garbage cans - the kind that a grocery sack can fill. It was time to take it out.

I took out the bathroom and my personal garbage bags and tied the top, threw on some shoes and headed out into the night to the dumpster.

Let me paint in your head exactly what I looked like at this moment: make-up smeared under my eyes from the days activities, wearing basketball shorts that showed off my pastey-white, harry legs, a bright blue t-shirt that read: NEW YORK, greasy hair because I had yet to shower, and topping it off with the very first pair of shoes I managed to find: black high-heels.

I looked like pretty stellar if I do say so myself.

I left my apartment and ran downstairs to the main courtyard and realized . . . I had just moved in a couple weeks ago . . . and had NO idea where the dumpster was.
And I sure as heck did NOT want to tromp around my apartment complex looking like THIS in the middle of the night.

I began towards the pool, which still had a few kids lingering by it. I saw a small, public garbage can sitting by the gate that entered the pool, and thought, "Meh. Good enough."

Now this was one of those garbage cans that had a square top and a flap on it. I went up to it, put my first garbage bag up against the flap and went to push it in . . .
and discovered that my trash was a little TOO full.

Well, like I said, I was NOT about to go hike around my complex looking for the dumpster when it was midnight. I was DETERMINED to make this grocery bag full of trash fit.
So, I put the second grocery bag down, pushed with all my might against the first grocery bag, until it finally slid right on into the trash can. Success. Now, I had to do this once more.

I repeated this process. I pressed the grocery bag against the flap, leaned onto it and. . . nothing. I shoved it a couple more times. Still nothing. It was jammed. I sighed, threw my fist back, and began punching the crap out of this poor little trash bag. Inch-by-inch it slid into the trash can, until finally, I threw one last punch, and it slid right inside, and the flap closed.

I dusted off my hands, and turned around to walk back to my apartments . . . to see two girls and a guy staring questionably at me.

I nodded once at them, shoved my hands in my pockets, and walked away with my head down and heels clicking back to my apartment, hoping they wouldn't notice where I lived.

The Jacket

This one, oddly enough, involved a trash can as well.

As part of my job, I report on a few events that happen on campus.

On this particular day, it was raining, and I had to report on an event. So, I threw on my black jacket, threw the hood over my hair, and started my walk to campus.

Within seconds my feet were sopping wet, as well as my jacket. I half walked/half jogged to campus until I finally reached the building where the event was taking place

And it. Was. PACKED. People filled the main parts of every floor as they took part in the activities provided and talked to one another.

Instantly I stripped off my jacket and tied it around my purse, and got to work interviewing people.

As I squeezed through the crowd, the weight of my bag was exaggerated from my jacket, and I found that it kept swinging and hitting people at twice the speed and weight as it normally would. I found myself constantly apologizing to people as my bag hit their butt, back and thigh at a fast speed.

Not only that, but it was INCREDIBLY hot in that building. Almost as soon as I stripped off my jacket did I begin to sweat. I tried holding my jacket a few times, but it was too clumsy and warmed my arms and hands up too much when I cradled it.

The jacket was getting in the way far too much. I had to do a tricky balancing act as I would hold out my recorder while interviewing people, hold my jacket, wipe sweat away from my brow, AND take notes on the interview all at once.

The jacket had to go. But where? I could just see myself hiding it under the staircase, only for some good citizen to turn it into the lost-and-found, and me not being able to rediscover my jacket.

I thought about hanging it up in the bathroom but no, I could see someone taking it or turning it into the lost-and-found there, too.

I trotted downstairs which was the least-crowded floor, although it still had a good amount of people. I wandered the hallways until I found an empty one. In the corner of that hallway sat a garbage can. I began to concoct my plan right then: I would simply move the garbage can, ball up my jacket, and hide it behind the trash can. Brilliant.

Quickly, I went over to the garbage can and wrapped my hands around the sides. I was surprised by how heavy it was. I tugged and pulled, but it only managed to move a few inches at a time. So, I knelt down, wrapped both my arms around the body of the trash can, and did this really weird looking backwards-hobble-while-squatting-while-holding-a-trash-can move.

I really wonder if anyone else had ever done a move like that before.

As you probably predicted, I hadn't moved it that much before I toppled over on my butt and had to let go of the trash can. But I had moved it enough to hide my jacket between the trash can and the wall. Quickly, I balled up my jacket, placed it in the corner, and shoved my whole weight into the trash can. It moved just enough to hide my jacket.

The whole event had made me sweat even more. I wiped my hands off on my pants, pushed my now-sweaty and soaked-with-rain hair back, and as I wondered why I bothered to shower at all, I turned around . . . and made eye contact with a mom holding her two-year-old, as she looked at me with a very confused look.

I gave a small smile, nodded once, shoved my hands in my pockets, and raced away in the other direction, hoping that I wouldn't run into her again.

The Hang Nail

The last even happens to me far too often, but it doesn't get any less embarrassing.

I was sitting in class and you see, I sit behind a really cute boy. I've only talked to him once. Partly because we don't get much of a chance to talk in that class, and partly because I already got all the small talk questions out of the way and now have nothing to say to him.

But I get the pleasure of staring at the back of his head and examining his neatly trimmed hair.

But anyway. Enough about my weird infatuation. All you really need to know is I think he's attractive.

Now, as I mentioned in a couple previous posts, I have an unfortunate habit of chewing my hang nails that I just have not been able to kick. It's an issue.

Because of my peeling cuticles, I have taken a break from painting my nails, so my habit has gotten even worse.

Now this particular day, the boy was sitting kitty-corner in front of me. It was a discussion based class this day, and we could pipe in with a comment whenever we wanted. At one point, the girl sitting next to me raised her hand to comment. As the teacher called on her, the attractive man sitting kitty-corner in front of me turned around to see who was talking.

We made eye contact.
. . . right as my thumb was up to my mouth as I knawed the life away at a piece of dead skin.

I froze.

He looked at me.

Slowly, I lowered my thumb to my lap, but the damage was done.  He had already seen my disgusting habit in the act. He knew my shameful addiction.

He turned around. And I shamefully went back to chewing the crap off that stupid piece of dead skin.


I still haven't talked to that kid. I think I basically convinced myself that he found me disgusting after he saw me chewing my hangnail.

Either that, or he thinks I suck my thumb.

Both those are terrible habits, and I wish he didn't think I did either of those, but alas. I was caught in the act.

Happy Awkward Tuesday, everyone.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Word Clumsiness

Do you ever just say things that come out wrong? Or you just say whatever pops into your mind? I have a CURSE of doing that. I just have a natural talent of sticking my foot in my mouth. Figuratively. Not literally. I've never tired actually sticking my food in my mouth.

It's not like I mean to offend anybody, I just say what's in my mind, and after I say it, I realize how offensive that could be taken, and I'm left standing there, blushing, and trying to fix the damage that's already done.

I call this "Word Clumsiness."
Word Clumsiness: Unintentionally saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
Example: This blog post

Take this last Friday, for example.

I get to my job, sit down at my computer, and (because I live in Provo) we got on the subject of dating and marriage.
"You guys don't even know," one of my coworkers said to us, "I had to live through the missionary age change! After the announcement was made, there was 123 guys in my congregation, and only 27 girls! It was like a blood bath! It was like the Hunger Games! And the worst part was, half of those 27 girls were taken!"
"Yeah, and were the other half single for a reason?" I asked.
He stared at me, pointed a finger at me and said, "That . . . is a very rude question . . . . but yes. Yes, they were."
"Called it!" I said.
Offensive? I guess so. Did I mean it that way? Not in the slightest.
Strike one.

Lunch time came. We all decided to go out to eat. As we walked there, we passed various apartment complexes. I pointed to one, falling apart, brick building and said, "Ugh. That place. Every time I've gone there I have met the WEIRDEST people. Pretty sure everyone who lives there is weird as crap."
"I lived there before I was married." said the same coworker as the above conversation.
". . . .Oh."
Offensive? YES. Did I mean it that way? WELL NOT TOWARDS HIM! He's normal.
Strike two.


I pulled my earbuds out of my ears and rubbed them. I had been wearing them for about three hours straight now, and the insides of my ear were almost soar from them being constantly in.
"Ugh," I groaned, "I think those big, cushioned, headphones look ridicules, but I may have to purchase them. My ears hurt so bad."
"They're not ridiculous! I wear them all the time!" said the kid who I conversed with in the previous two conversations.
". . .Oh."
I was really getting off to a good start with this kid.
Strike three.


It was nearing the end of the day. By now, my earbuds rested to the side of my computer, and I was left to the noise of the office. One of my coworkers sat behind me, playing various music on his computer. They were trying to find something to go along with a video they were in the process of producing. In the midst of the music, some terrible band with an according came on.
"Oh my gosh," I said through fits of giggles, "What on EARTH are you listening to?"
"It's my band," responded my coworker who sat at the computer behind me.
". . . oh . . ."
"It's okay. That was like . . . 16 years ago. Look - I'm shirtless with an according with this video!"
I glanced over his shoulder to see his pale, awkward, 16-year-old self.
". . .Nice."
Still didn't stop me from feeling a little bit guilty.

I guess we can learn from the above conversations that, well, the truth hurts.

But my clumsiness doesn't stop with words. I also have a terrible habit of laughing at inappropriate times.

Since we're on the subject with work, we'll start with the inappropriate laughter that took place then:
We were having a team meeting, and our tech manager was giving us instructions on simple computer care.
"Make sure to turn your computer off at night, especially on the weekends! Otherwise the computers keep running and it overheats. The person who previously used my computer wouldn't turn it off, and it started to smoke."
I couldn't hold it in.
Nobody else was laughing, but almost everyone was staring. I proceeded to blush, and stick my knuckles in my mouth to muffle my laughter.

Another time, we were sitting at our computers, working. It was pretty quiet, when one of my coworkers piped up and said, "You know, I'm the coworker who is preventing this office from being taking up straight to heaven! Which is good, because we have work to do!"
Oh no.
I could feel it bubbling within me. I tried to stop. Nobody else was laughing! I can't do this!
But, it happened.
"Haha . . .haha. . . hahahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"Well. At least she think's I'm funny." said my coworker as everyone else began to snicker at the fact that I was laughing.

Now you're probably thinking, "Camilla, that's just laughing at slightly funny things."
Well it goes farther than that.

I was once sitting at a dinner of one of my families friends. One of them was talking about how his parents recently returned home from serving a senior couple mission.
"I didn't know it, but they got a new phone number. The day they came home, I kept calling and calling but nobody would pick up! I thought they had died or something!"
"Hahaha!" I laughed.
"Don't laugh," he responded sternly, "It was actually quite horrific."

I could go on. I really, really could. But I think you all have seen enough examples of how clumsiness goes far beyond just tripping and falling; it extends to words, too.

Happy Awkward Tuesday, everyone.
I know I will one day regret posting these awkward pictures of myself.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

An 11 Dollar Lecture

"Woah, Camilla . . . you're back. What happened?"
"School and life happened, my friend. School and life happened."
"What does this mean for the blog?"
"It means I'll post as much as I can! Hopefully I can get back in the swing of weekly posts. But I refuse to make any promises at this point."

Yes, my dear friends, I am back for the time being. This past semester I was working towards getting my associates, which meant cramming in my last required classes. These classes included biology, statistics, technology, philosophy and film studies.

I thought I was going to die.

But, with some tears, a lot of laughter, a lot of naps and a lot of homework, I managed to survive and get my associates degree in communications! I am excited, but at the same time, I still have at least two more years ahead of me, and am currently working full time and taking a couple classes.

And thus, the insanity of my life continues.

In the midst of this complete chaos and excitement of my life, I made a trip out to Houston to see my lovely, lovely sister, with my other wonderful, wonderful sister. The three of us hadn't been together in quite a few months, so we were all excited for this vacation.

We made a lot of plans for the three of us to do together. We wanted to go to the NASA space center, get manicures, go shopping, go to the LDS Temple and just hang out together.

And so that's what we did. Day one, after walking the dog together and watching General Conference, the three of us dashed off to get our nails done.

I had never gotten my nails done professionally before. In fact, up until probably four months earlier, I hadn't painted my nails in general in at least 4 to 6 years. However, since I was little, I've had a terrible habit of chewing my hang nails. At age 21, I had had enough of this terrible habit, and decided that it was time to quit! So to accomplish this, I began painting my nails in an attempt to stop me from picking my nails.

It helped, kind of. But as you probably gathered from above, I was quite stressed this last semester, and although my habit had dwindled, it was still there. And the week that I went to Houston? Well, it fell the week before finals, and the week after I had gone through a lot of social-life stress. So, they were especially chewed up.

We walked into the nail salon, and a few minutes later, my sisters were seated for a pedicure, and I was shown to the nail polish options to choose what color I wanted.

I had no idea. When I decided to stop chewing my nails, I went a little crazy and bought a lot of different colored polish. So, I had at least one shade of every color in the rainbow.
Well, except for green.

Green is Slytherin's color,  I thought to myself, And it's something different and fun. Guess I'll go with that. Might as well get my money's worth and do something kind of crazy.

So I picked up a deep green color and waited to be seated.

Now, I will be straight up with you. This nail salon was a very stereotypical nail salon. Everyone who worked there was Asian. Everyone. Not a single white, black or Hispanic person worked there. There was one man, and the rest were woman.

The Asian man showed me to my seat. I sat down, and he sat across from me, taking my hand delicately in his as he stared at my nails.

And what were the first words out of his mouth?

"You chew your hangnails! Terrible habit! Terrible!"

Well, I could have predicted that was coming.

"I know, I'm trying to quit," I said kindly, though I was clenching my teeth with embarrassment and annoyance, "That's why I paint my nails. It's to help motivate me not to chew. It kind of  helps. . ."

Though every single one of my fingers was evidence that it was NOT indeed helping.

"You should get FAKE nail. That help," he said as he began to clip, file, and soak my nails, "Many people get fake nail, and they stop. It's terrible habit. Terrible. At least you don't chew nail, but still terrible habit."

"Yeah, I know. Fake nails are just hard to type, write and play the flute with . . . as far as I know . . . "

Awkward silence

I began looking around the room, watching Wheel of Fortune on the television set, and making faces at my sisters who were getting their pedicures done. I wasn't really sure if I should make conversation with this guy, when suddenly. . .

"AYA." he snapped, putting the nail file down.

"What is it?" I asked, alarmed.

"Your nail! What's this? What happen?"

He pointed to my finger nails, and I could feel myself blushing again. I have ZERO idea what the cause was, but starting about two weeks earlier, my nails began to split. Like, the top layer of the nail began to peel off at the tip. It was disgusting, and I really had no idea why that occurred or how to stop it.

"I know," I said, "I don't know what happened. Maybe because I've been painting my nails so much?"

He then mumbled, "Terrible habit." and something in Chinese.

I bit my lip and began avoiding eye contact once again.

Soon, it was time to actually start the process of painting my nails. We began a very serious routine: He would paint one hand.
I would put that hand under the mini fan he set up while he painted my other hand.
I would then switch hands while the previous hand got a second coat.

All was going fine and dandy. He was moving past my 'terrible habit' and accepting me for who I was. Most of the comments had stopped, aside from the occasional complaint that his, "hands will be all green after working with you."

And then, it was time for the third coat.

I switched hands, and my eyes widened as I saw a HUGE glob missing right in the center of my middle fingernail. I knew this wouldn't be good.

"WHAT HAPPEN?!" he yelled.


"Did you put it too close to the fan?!"

"I---I---" as I stammered for words, I glanced at his own hands. He wore a large, bulky, gold ring on his own middle finger.
And hanging from that golden ring, was a huge, dangling, drying, dark green blob.
My nail polish.

In a split second, my brain processed the two ways this could go:
A) I could pull the naive card (as I often do), take the blame, and have him go on with his green-handed life thinking that I was a fool
B) I could point out his ring, have him potentially curse me, blame me for this problem, and continue to cause public  humiliation to me as he complained, pointed out and wouldn't let go of the fact that I ruined his ring.
Of course this was a gamble, but I knew what I had to do.

"Yes." I said, pulling option A, "I put it too close to the fan. My bad. I will be sure not to do that again."

"You don't do that!" he scolded me, while he frantically repainted the nail.

"I will be careful next time." I said, my voice void of any sincerity at all.

He said something else in Chinese, and we went on with finishing my nails.

Nail painting = finished. I moved to the front room where he put my hands under another fan. And I literally literally put. He moved my hands to exactly the right position so that they weren't too close to the fan, made sure I didn't move them, and went back to his station to clean.

Paying time. The total came to eleven dollars. Not too bad! I had seen some other nail salons that cost close to 30 or 40 dollars. My sisters were kind enough to grab my money out of my wallet and give it to the guy so that I didn't mess up my nails.

We thanked them, and went out to the car to go to our next adventure; shopping!

As we drove, I retold the story of the ongoing lecture he gave me. We all had a good laugh about it. As we pulled up to the store, I went to take a picture of my nails. . .
Only to see that the nail polish on my right pointer finger was now wrinkly and chipped.
"Are you kidding me?!"
"What is it?" asked my sisters.
"Look at this nail! It's demolished already. Ugh. Oh well. The rest still look good."

But I spoke too soon.
Within that hour, each finger nail got damaged in some for or another. Some wrinkled, some chipped, and the nail that had the blob missing? Well that blob suspiciously went missing again.
At the end of our shopping trip, I stood in line and stared at my nails, shaking my head.

"I payed eleven dollars for a lecture," I sighed.

Needless to say, the next time I will be getting my nails done will be when I quit this habit of chewing my nails. So, if my nails still get damaged within the hour, I would have avoided a lecture.

I snapped this picture after my first nail got damaged in hopes to document the polish before it got anymore damaged.

Have an awkward day, everyone.

The Daily Awkward

Hey, guys.

So this post really isn't in story form. I've just had a lot of awkward moments that I can't really make into a long story, cause they're just some of those daily awkward moments that happen. So, what better way to do it than to combine all of them into one post?

- I had a conversation with a kid who just got back from his mission three days ago. I asked him if he was 18 or 19 when he left on his mission.
"I'm 27." he said.
"Of course you are." I thought.
"Oh. . . well you don't look 27!" I said.
"I know." he said.
Man I have a way with words.
He has since dropped that class and I'm taking it a little personal.

- Smiled at a cute boy on campus. My mouth was full of a half-eaten cookie. And I had just put lip gloss on, so my lips were coated in cookie crumbs.
I bet it was the most attractive thing he had seen all day.

- I was in the laundromat and talking to a kid while I loaded my whites in the washer . . . and he CLEARLY saw me lift my bra out of the laundry basket, hook it together, and put it in the washer.

- I show up to the bus stop.
"Hey, Alex."
Kid doesn't respond.
". . . .you're not Alex, are you?"
Kid looks at me and says, "What?"
"Oh. You just look like someone in my church. What's your name?"
"Nice to meet you!"
"Yeah . . . OH good there's the bus!"
He hurriedly got on the bus.
"All I wanted was a friend!" I thought.

- "Hi, Camilla!"
"Hey, Dave!"
*Dave keeps walking while holding hands with a girl.
"Wait, is that your wife?" I ask.
*Dave doesn't hear me and keeps walking.
"Dave? you didn't hear me! I'm going to walk away now and stop yelling at no one! This is awkward, Dave! THIS IS GOING ON MY BLOG!"

-"Hi, Sister Hawkins!....I mean Dr. Haw-- PROFESSOR Hawkins! Ugh!"

- One time, on my mission, we were teaching an old lady about the restoration of the gospel.
I said, "If we read this scripture in Amos..."
"My brother's name was Amos!" said the old lady.
"That's cool!"
"Yes...he got run over by a tractor."
How does one respond to that?

- I went to a random doctor. Not completely positive, but I think I'm the only patient above age 10 that my doctor saw that day.

-That bra thing happened again. Only it was two guys this time. I gotta find a better way to get my bras from my hamper, untangled from my clothes and into the wash without people noticing.

- "When did you get back from your mission?" I asked a girl I was talking to.
"A month ago."
"Did you know a sister so-and-so?" I asked her.
"Yeah!" She replied
"Cool!....she didn't like me!"
Why did I just say that?
"Oh...haha!" the girl laughed. 
Conversation killer.

-*I knock on a door*
*Man Answers.*
Me: "...wrong door."
And I walked away without further ado.

-Sent an email to the aforementioned Professor Hawkins, and signed it, "Sister Stimpson." I realized that after I had sent it.

-Gave a gift to my friend. Signed it "Sister Stimpson." Stared at it for a good number of seconds, then decided to leave it.

-*knock on door late at night, when I was falling asleep while doing homework*
I answered the door, to see two men standing there.
"Um. Hi?" I said, trying to wake myself up, and figure out if I knew them.
"Hi!" they replied .
"'s up?" I asked, very confused as to why they were standing on my doorstep right then.
"Do you have any trash?" they asked.
"We go around and pick up everyone's trash once a week!" they explained after a long silence of me looking at them VERY confused.
"Oh." I responded.
..............we continued to stand there and stare at each other........
"OH! Yeah, um, come in." I said, letting them come in.
I showed them where the trash can was, and began to take the trash bag out of the garbage can, when they grabbed it from me and said, "Woah! That's OUR job!"
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." I said, and took a step back, only to accidentally back up into a plate of cookies, which clattered and cookies scattered everywhere on the counter.
"Oh! Did someone from the church congregation drop those off to you?" asked one of the guys, as the other replaced the garbage bag.
"What?" I asked.
"The cookies? Did someone drop those off to you?" he repeated.
"Oh. Yeah. Wait, I mean no. No. My roommate made them. Yeah."
They grabbed the garbage bag, we exchanged goodbyes, and they left.
I closed the door, thought about how socially awkward I just was, and decided that it was time for bed.

-For you to fully appreciate this moment, allow me to briefly describe the mailing system of the mission I served in:
Mail would get delivered to Utica.
The mail would then get forwarded to wherever the missionary was located.
Thus, it was important to put the missionaries full name on the letter, else they wouldn't know who to forward it too.
One day, I was in Utica for a missionary meeting. I went to the pile of letters that hadn't been forwarded yet, and found one addressed to me. I opened it up, and was surprised to see another envelope inside of it.
I could see that the envelope had been returned, because it was addressed to "The Girl With Hot-Girl Problems." I burst out laughing, and ran up to the missionary who was in charge of the mail.
"Do you remember getting this letter?" I asked.
She looked at it, smiled and said, "Well, yes I do!"
"That was to me!"  I said, still laughing, "It's an inside joke of ours."
The woman smiled and said, "Yes, well I had to laugh. I do get a lot of letters like that. Some of them, however, are inappropriate."
I then had to stifle my laughter as she continued talking. She then began to talk about how she doesn't think it's right for missionaries friends to address letters with them in such an inappropriate way, and how they should be addressed professionally.
"Um. . . yes, I'll be sure to convey that message to my friend." I said, nodding. Then I walked away quickly and laughed in the other room.

- I walked into my class, and saw my friend Anna sitting down. I plop down next to her and go, "PHEW! Man, is that a HIKE up those stares!I thought I was going to be late! But I made it! Hmm. . . are these desks pushed up farther than usual?" I shake the desk violently "They seem farther up than usual. Or is it just me?"
At this point, I make eye contact with Anna.
"Um, the desks look normal to me." she said.
And then I wasn't completely sure if she was Anna. . .
She had the same hair color, her face looked like it COULD'VE been Anna's, but holy crap! Anna didn't wear that strong of perfume before! Still, though. I could just be mistaken. . . but wait . . . did Anna have freckles like that? Oh no, I can't tell if I know this girl or not!
Anna popped her gum, played with her hair, and turned away from me, staring at her phone, purposely ignoring me.
Dear goodness, I hope this isn't Anna. I thought to myself.
I look around my the classroom, looking for Anna. I couldn't see her anywhere else in the classroom. Anna usually sits in this seat! Okay, so . . . is this Anna? Or some girl that looks like Anna?
The teacher passed the roll around. I signed my name, than slid it over to Anna, and watched creepily over her shoulder as she signed it.
Rachel Grill.
Yup. Not Anna.

- I boarded the bus to see that at least one person was sitting in every row. That means, I'd have to sit by a random stranger.
I sat down next to a fellow redhead, and was pulling my iPod out of my backpack, when the bus pulled over at the next bus stop.
The majority of the bus got off . . . aside from my fellow redheaded seat buddy. However, rows and rows ahead of me were now empty.
Ah, crap, I thought to myself, Everyone knows it's a social no-no to sit by someone you don't know on a nearly empty bus!
I then had to make a very important decision: Do I stand up and move to an empty row? Or do I keep sitting.
If I stand up and move, that could just look flat out rude. She could take it personally! The girl's self esteem could plummet! All because of me!
But, if  I stay sitting, I could look like a total creep. I mean, we're on an empty bus! And I'm sitting next to this girl I don't know!
I decided to move. I grabbed my backpack, preparing to move. I leaned forward, preparing to move, my butt hovering slightly above my seat.
This is stupid. 
I sat back down, and shuffled my stuff around. I'll stay seating. 
The redheaded girl sitting next to me began to put her stuff away, into her backpack.
Oh, she must be leaving soon. I'll move.
I grab my backpack, crouched above my chair slightly, only to see her grab something different out of her backpack.
I sat back down.
Okay now I just look like a creep. 
Then, she pulled the signal requesting the bus driver stop at the next bus stop.
Are you for real?
She stood up, and so did I. I moved seats, and she easily got out of the seat, and left.
Well, I think it's easy to say I over thought that. 

-I plugged my earphones into my computer, and put them in my ears. I turn on a song.
Little did I know my volume was on full blast.
Thus, I ripped the headphones out of my ear, throwing them across the table while saying, "BAH!"

Happy Tuesday, everyone.

Men, Missionaries, Tampons, and a lot of Blushing

This story. Oh buddy.
This story is I think thee number one awkward experience from my mission.


I think it is possibly thee number one awkward moment in my life thus far.

I'm a little sad that I'm handing it over to you all so quickly, but really. It's worth the read.

Now, as I mentioned in my previous post, I served a religious mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

I was assigned to serve in the New York Utica mission.

A mission lasts 18 months for females, and 2 years for males.

During this 18 months, I did NOT spend my whole mission in just Utica. In fact, I never really spent any time in Utica. Utica is just the headquarters for all the missionaries in that area. The Utica Mission covers most of the upstate New York. You are assigned an area to serve in for at least six weeks. You are assigned a companion who will serve with you, who you will live with and be with 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

These details will be important not only to this story, but also to future stories.

Now, every six weeks, you get a call from one of your missionary leaders, telling you if you are leaving the area that you are assigned to be in, or if you are staying. You then have 3 days to pack up your life and go to your new area.

Once upon a time, I got a call telling me that I was leaving the area I was currently serving in, and moving to an area that was right next door to the city I was currently serving in.

I then had to pack up my entire life in two suitcases and one carrying bag (which turned into two suitcases, three backpacks, and two garbage bags) and move to my new area.

But I forgot one very important thing.

Feminine Hygiene Products.

And now you see, two days after I had moved to my new area, I woke up and well. . . I needed them.
And I didn't have them.

But, hey! I have a brilliant idea!
Today was Friday, and on Saturday and Sunday, there was a big meeting that all the missionaries would be at! I will just call the missionaries in the previous area I was serving in to get my feminine hygiene products! They can bring them to the missionary meeting!
There's only one slight problem to this.
The only other missionaries in my previous areas were male.

Oh, buddy.

And thus inserted some of the top awkward moments I have ever had with a man.

That Friday, the Elders (male missionaries) in my previous area called to ask me and my companion a couple of questions.
At the end of the conversation, Elder Jacobson (name has been changed. More for his sake than mine.) asked, "Well, anything we can do for your sisters?"

"Um.....yes.....well I may need you to pick something up for me from our old apartment. But I'll let you know about it tomorrow, before the meeting."
"You can just tell me now, it's fine."
"Um.....are you sure you want to know?"
"Yeah, it's fine!" he said.
"Okay. So I'll need feminine hygiene products---."
"NO, NO, NO, NO, NO."
I pulled the phone away from my ear as he yelled.
"LOOK. If you feel TOO uncomfortable, just ask a member in the local congregation who is a FEMALE, and unlock the door for her, and SHE can run in and get them!" I said.
"No, I can DO it, I just don't want to hear about this until it's necessary, okay?"
"Understandable. Thanks, Elder."

The next day came, and I had to explain to him where to get the feminine hygiene products.
"They're under the bathroom sink, to the right." I said.
"Bathroom sink. Got it."
" you know what pads and tampons looks like?"
".....I don't even know what those are." he replied.
"Oh no." I thought.
"Oh, dear goodness. Okay, so....there's going to be some big, green squares. They'll be in a green bag. Get those. Then there's going to be a few little colorful squares. Those will be in a plastic bag. Then there's going to be some orange and white.....tubes. They'll be in a plastic bag. You'll need those, too."
"Big green squares, colorful little squares, and it."
"Okay, um, thanks."
.....awkward silence......
"Elder, do you feel as awkward as I do right now?" I asked.
"..............I just never thought I'd be getting a call like this on my mission." he said.
"Yeah, I'm just preparing you for marriage.....BUT NOT OUR MARRIAGE! Oh my gosh. Can I just hang up now?"
"Yeah that's fine."

Saturday comes. I'm on my last feminine hygiene product. We arrive at the missionary meeting and, desperately, I ran up to Elder Jacobson and said, "Did you bring them?"
I couldn't help by shake my head.
"I'll bring them tomorrow, I swear!" he said.
"Okay that'll work." I said, remembering that tomorrow, thankfully, we had another meeting that all the missionaries would be at. "So....sorry this is so awkward."
"No, it's fine." he insisted.
"Really? Cause your face says otherwise." I said, though I didn't have room to talk. My face was beat red.
"No, I only panic in the moment. So, tomorrow, I'll get there and probably panic."
I didn't really know how to respond to that. So I smiled uncomfortably, nodded, and walked away.

I then began to frantically ask various woman at the meeting if they had any feminine hygiene products.
"Honey I don't need to use those anymore."
"Sorry, I don't."
"Yes! Here! No, wait, we'll go to the bathroom and I'll give it to you." said one of the sisters.
A member gave me a few more products, and I was set for that night.

Sunday morning came. My companion and I showed up to the  meeting. Before it started, I scouted out the crowed until I found Elder Jacobson. Quickly, I trotted up to him. He was already sitting in his seat, and his companion was turned around talking to someone behind him.

"I forgot." Elder Jacobson said before I said anything.
I rolled my eyes, and sat down next to him and said, "Elder Jacobson. I'm going to give you some life advice. In the future, when your wife asks you for these things, you need to give them to her within the hour."
He breaks eye contact and looks straight ahead and says, "I'm just kidding. So....I got there... and panicked, and forgot what I was supposed to be looking for, so I just shoved everything in a bag. I think I got everything, but I think I forgot just ONE thing. But everything else is there. It's in the car."
By now both of us are just sitting all stiff next to each other, and not making eye contact, and my face is as red as my hair.
"Okay, thanks, Elder."
"Here's some candy as a thank you." I said, handing him a kit-kat and M&M's.
"Let's never have a conversation like this again, okay?" I said.
"Deal." he agreed.

Later, my companion and I then went out with Elder Jacobson and his companion to their van. He gave me the bag, and sure enough, he got it all. And actually didn't forget any. In fact, he grabbed some stuff that wasn't even mine.
I turned to his companion, "Did you help him at all?"
"He wouldn't even tell me what's going on!" he said.
"Oh! He saved you! That's nice. Elder Jacobson, I was going to make you share your candy with him, but you can just keep it for yourself." I said.
"I already gave the candy away." said Elder Jacobson.
"Oh my. That's the last time I give you chocolate."

We shook hands, and walked away.

And I think it can be easily said that Elder Jacobson and I never really talked to, or associated with each other, anytime after that.

Now, to finish, please enjoy this awkward picture of me: