Black Widow?

Here's a spider I found in my dad's barn:

Crazy

It's been a crazy couple of weeks. We've gotten a new customer at work, and it's added a lot to the work load. Janelle just did payroll and she had worked one hundred hours in the last two weeks. The sad part is that the first week she only worked 30 hours.

Last week I had to pull over and clean a bird's nest out of our diesel engine that we haven't used in a while. If I had've left it in there, it would have ignited, making it an even worse day. I had cleaned out the dry, leafy branches and there was still quite a bit in there, so I reached my hand down in the crevices of the engine, only to get my hand wet. The top of the nest had been dry, but the bottom of the nest was completely glued together with the bird's waste products. It stank like hell. Then, I went into the gas station bathroom to wash up, and the faucet was broken, and it gushed water all over the front of me.

The best and worst of last week was my dad's heart attack. He was in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming when it happened. Of course, he decided to fix another ATM machine before he sought medical assistance, and he refused to be flown to Idaho Falls, so my mom drove him all the way back home. The great news was that the clot dissolved, and he didn't even need a stent; he just needed to take loads of medication for the next year.

Update

This is an update of what has been going on in my life--absolutely nothing! I'm still looking for a job, still living with my parents, and still working for my parents in the delivery business. My life looks like a lot of young people's lives right now, and, knowing that the stock market crashed on the eve of my college graduation, there's probably many people living the same life, which totally sucks.

I went shopping with my parents today, and, except for my parents, I have Christmas done. It helps that all of my grandparents are dead; I have less shopping to do. It also helps that my family draws names, and I only have to shop for one person, plus my parents.

New Favorite Food

We had a retirement party for one of my co-workers last night. He likes sushi, so we went to Blue Hashi, and I had never had sushi before. I loved it.

I'm going to be sad to see Ron leave; he was such a pleasure to work with. I'm certainly going to miss the sound of his voice saying, "Super!" or "Fantastic!" every time I gave him something extra to do.

Les Miserables

I've been reading Les Miserables and thinking about the economic crisis. It used to be that when a person was thrown in jail, they were taught a skill, usually something like brick-laying or some other type of manual labor. They would then work to pay for their food and their stay at jail. At the end of the ordeal, they came out of prison with a skill and a pocketful of cash from the "leftovers" after the state deducted their living expenses.

Now we spend an exorbitant amount of money on state prisons, and our nations are heavily in debt. Yes, I think our prisons used to be cruel and harsh, but we have over-corrected ourselves.

Won't You be My Neighbor?

Our neighbor (the one next to our business, not the one next to our house) constantly bickers about our business. He lives downhill from us, and occasionally his building gets flooded just from the way water runs downhill. But of course, this is obviously our fault because we park our vehicles by his property line (which is five feet away from his building), and the snow that collects on our vehicles is most definitely the cause of his building being flooded. We end up having to shovel the snow away from the building because it is "our fault."

Last time we did this, my dad was kind enough to help shovel the neighbor out of his mess with his Bobcat. The Bobcat slid into the building, denting the side of it. It cost the business a hefty amount of money, and, needless to say, we vowed never to help the neighbor with his snow removal again.

Recently, we had some concrete done, and we worked with the neighbor and the workers to get some concrete put up on his and our side of the property line. The workers were even kind enough to slope the concrete so water would not flood the neighbor's building.

The whole time our neighbor was outside with a measuring tape and a level, griping to the workers and us about how the slope wasn't going to work.

Fast forward to this week. Someone hit the neighbor's car, and he is hopping mad (as any normal person would be). We are investigating it on our end to see if it is one of our drivers, which is very possible. We are more than willing to admit when we make mistakes.

What I did not appreciate, however, was our neighbor's pounding the pavement with a measuring tape, measuring the height of each vehicle in sight, including the vehicles of our customers, who need high security because they are armored cars with armed guards. I also did not appreciate his taking pictures of each and every vehicle that parked on our private lot.

Sure, I would be mad, too, if someone bashed into my car and did not leave any contact information, but I would hope that I would have the maturity to understand that a company that has already admitted their mistakes with me and offered compensation for other things will certainly be capable of performing a professional investigation without my help.

So, howdy, neighbor, this blog was written just for you with one message and one message only: get a life.

Thankless Jobs

Every job is thankless. Mothers don't get the praise they deserve; soldiers are rarely thanked for fighting for our freedom; teachers go to work every day to educate people; the list goes on.

I often hear people's frustration about how thankless their own jobs are, but I rarely hear of people who thank other people. Housewives often complain that their jobs are thankless, but do they ever show how much they value motherhood with a "thank you"? Do they write notes to their mothers, thank their mothers-in-law for raising great sons, or even thank their husbands at the end of the day for working to support them?

This realization helped me to be more grateful. I need to thank the people close to me for being there for me. I need to thank television networks for showing good, uplifting programs, instead of complaining about the "corrupt media" and showing everyone my distaste.

Sure, their are distasteful things out there, and I love to write my "rants" about them. But their are some great things out there as well.

Fair Weather Parents

One thing I have noticed lately is what I'd like to call "fair weather parents." They are like fair weather friends, only they are parents, parents who only make certain sacrifices for their children.

Some of them, who don't like working, will cancel work for every recital and little league game, "sacrificing for their family." But when it comes to working on the weekend to up their pay and earn enough for their kids, they have "family obligations."

Others love their jobs. They work long hours, "sacrificing for the family," but they rarely see their family and don't seem to want to see them.

I am grateful that I had parents who sacrificed for me, rather than doing what they liked and using me as an excuse.

Family

My Aunt Barbara and Uncle Keith are over for the weekend. We are going to have an awesome breakfast and spend some time together.

Westerns

Reading the newspaper, trying to get things done, being intimidated by the looming Writer's Market and all it holds for me. Just a few of the things on my mind today. I found a contest in Writer's Market for Western short stories. I'm going to enter it, and my dad will probably be enthusiastic about it because he loves to watch Westerns on TV.

To tell you the truth, I make fun of him for it. Don't get me wrong, I love a great Western once in a blue moon, but my dad can watch them for hours. He can lip sinc every John Wayne movie, and he prides himself in being able to say a line before the characters say it themselves.

My only hope is to wait until he falls into a deep sleep, clutching the remote control to his chest. Sometimes I can steal the remote; other times I'm not so lucky.

Some of the outdated Westerns are corny. The last one he watched was about some bandits terrorizing a quiet little nun. John Wayne comes to the rescue, wounded in the shoulder by the lead bandit. The nun thanked him in a sweet, quiet voice, and he rode off into the sunset with a bandage over his glory wound.

You may be asking why I would be writing in a genre that I'm currently making fun of. I only think some Westerns are corny, and, frankly, I just can't watch them for hours on end. But I am a Western girl, I have horses, and I live in the wilderness among sagebrush, farmland, and an annoying screech owl that keeps me awake at night. So I guess that qualifies me to write a Western short story, just don't tell my dad. (I really do make fun of him a lot.)

Hang Gliding

This morning, I heard a strange noise outside my window, and it was someone hang gliding. I was able to catch some pictures while the person buzzed by my house, 100 feet above me.

Lobster

My mom had this great idea for the Fourth of July: she ordered in Lobsters from Maine, her home state.

Here is my huge nephew looking at his dinner, sort of.

The grown-ups are helping the little ones.

Carly doesn't seem too exited.

EmmaLee is helping Curtis.

Abigail is thouroughly enjoying the lobster.

Our number one fan of all things edible: Curtis.

Will Freelance for Food

I'm giving a more full-fleged effort to freelance writing, fueled by a Writer's Market 2010, courtesy of my sister Sarah on my birthday. I'm putting myself out there, and if anyone responds to my queries, I'll buy myself a dinner. (Normally publishers don't pay in meals, but the thought was nice.)

I made the decision to freelance more for two reasons: 1) I have temporarily exhausted all my resources, including local businesses, every personal connection I have, and various businesses across the country. 2) It's easier to BS my way through a short column about the health benefits of cauliflower than it is to BS my way into flattering some company into thinking that I "wanted to work there my whole life" and "I would be a wonderful asset to your company because..." Frankly, I'm temporarily tired of all that. I haven't completely given up on finding a job right now; I'm just taking a sick leave because I'm sick and tired of playing the game.

So, for now, I'm going to don a cardboard sign that says, "Will Freelance for Food" and see what comes of it.

Romance

Right now I'm attempting to write a submission for the Ensign. Maybe it can be an "in" for one of my first publications. One can only hope.

My other best bet is to write a "lust in the dust" novel. Romance novels are published far more than any other genre, and they are the easiest to get a contract for. (I've done my research). My only problem is getting an idea for one. I've tried to read romance novels, but they seem boring and have no substance.

The Mormon romance novels are the worst: a girl meets a boy, and [gasp] he's not Mormon. The whole rest of the novel is dedicated to the conversion process: a complete waste of paper. Then they get married in the temple, and all happens before their first year in college.

Needless to say, I will not be writing a Mormon romance novel. I would rather stick to the true genre of "lust in the dust," where I shall create a fanciful world full of tall, muscular men that look incredibly good in speedos. Fabio can pose for my cover, even though he is well past his prime. You can't write a romance novel without having Fabio on the cover. Period.

So I'm either getting my foot in the door writing personal essays about my spiritual experiences for a religious magazine, or I'm getting my foot in the door writing a steamy piece of trash. Beggars can't be choosers.

The Weekend

I did absolutely nothing this weekend, and it felt great. Well, I did finish a sewing project, but it's a gift for a friend, so I can't show pictures until she gets it. For the rest of the weekend, I watched TV and grazed the contents of the refrigerator, which were non-existent.

A couple of weeks ago, if you happened to be driving by a side street off of Yellowstone Highway in Idaho Falls, you would have seen a white van parked by the side of the road. An arm was sticking out of the van's window holding a bio hazard bag. Two seconds later, you would have seen a green Toyota Rav4 screech around the corner on two wheels and buzz up to the van as the man's arm flung the bag into the passenger window of the Rav4. The casual pass was completed in a matter of seconds and detected by no one. And the bio hazard bag was to the airport on time that day, making it's way to New Jersey with punctuality. Now that's service. I love it when there's a fleeting moment that makes my day job seem bad ass.

Work

There are some things that I do at work that seem strange to explain. For instance, I spent a chunk of my day folding boxes, putting coolers in them, and sticking labels on the whole of the packages. This was all in preparation for shipping biological samples out of prisons. I'm glad to know that our prisoners are safe and healthy. It does my heart good.

Apparently, these prisoners are given no notice to when and where they will be shipped. They are just randomly shipped to rural states like Idaho, where cows outnumber people ten to one. I would like to personally thank the state of New Jersey for sending these wonderful people that keep me in business. Thank you, New Jersey.

I would also like to thank the prisoners themselves. Thank you for doing drugs so I can be employed in a small part of the effort it takes to test your blood. Also, thank you for giving me the resolve to never, never go to prison under any circumstance. Cheers.

Self-fulfilling Prophecy

My mom was saying that many of the young single adults in my branch live with their parents. It's something that I have noticed, too. She pointed out that it wasn't a big deal to the parents because many of them had big, nice homes that were perfectly capable of holding one other person with little or no inconvenience, and, after all, it's a good time in a person's life to be frugal and save money by living with one's parents.

It is with that statement that I have noticed a trend in our community. My parents and I live in a predominantly religious area. A couple of years ago, there was a trend of purchasing large houses. A lot of the forty-, fifty-, and sixty-year-olds said that if there were hard times ahead, like the times predicted in the Bible, they could house their children and grandchildren. They also bought food storage, going heavily in debt to prepare for the hard times that would surely come.

Now the hard times have come, and, after burrowing in their big, fancy dens, clutching their food storage like a mother squirrel would hang on to her last acorn, their children finally need the help that they so predicted. They thank the Lord for having this opportunity to help their needy children and see this as a divine opportunity to edify and instruct them for a second time because all the lectures from high school years certainly weren't enough.

But here's a thought--perhaps the adult children of the Baby Boomers wouldn't need all this help if their parents weren't so set on the end of the world. It's as if they wanted it, and then they created it. Now they have their disaster, and it's good for them that they prepared for it. All that food storage is going to come in handy. Those big houses sure come in handy when your kid can't get a job because the nation is swimming in debt. But don't worry; it's Wall Street's fault. All those people in their fancy suits. Disgusting.

Fat Lip

A half hour ago my sister came over with her four-year-old daughter cradled in her arms. The girl had been running and tripped on the porch, hitting her lip on the pavement. Her front tooth had gone completely through her upper lip. Both of her front teeth were quite loose, and I think that she will be toothless in the following week. She was pretty good; she just cried softly while my mom tried to see the damage. The inside of her lip looks like hamburger. She wouldn't let us take off her bloody clothes to wash them.

As my mom was taking care of my niece, she told about how all of us kids had had similar injuries. Janelle was playing in the bathtub with EmmaLee, and cut her lip on the metal soap holder. Sarah was running with a pencil in her mouth and tripped. Last but not least, I cut my lip tripping into a coffee table. History repeats itself.

Urine-soaked Pants

The same day I had the weird missionary ask me how old I was, I had another mishap. (That day was so bad, it deserves two blogs.)

I got back to the office smelling like soup, and, since I work with my sister, my niece was there. (My brother-in-law and my sister do a type of "shift change" where they switch who takes care of the kids. They are there for about five minutes while their parents switch cars.)

Little Cassie can drink her weight in water, as I have seen her drink an entire jumbo soda at Sam's Club. That day she had peed through her diaper and onto the seat of the shopping cart. So I am no stranger to her accidents.

A moment after the children arrived at the office, I sat down at the computer desk to send a report. Instantaneously, I was soaked to my knees. Cassie's pee was dripping off of the chair, soaked through layers of fabric padding, and my clothes had quickly absorbed it.

Luckily, I was able to take a break and go home to shower and change my pants. On the way over, my car was filled with the strong scent of someone else's urine. I even had to disinfect my wallet, as the pee had seeped through my pocket.

I got back to the office clean but cranky. What do you expect, a positive attitude?

Feeling Old?

I'm only twenty-three years old, and I can honestly say that I have never felt old. Also, I have never felt like an old maid. An experience last week almost made me feel that way. Almost.

I volunteered to can beef soup at the cannery to help needy families. Actually, I just volunteered because Brother Shweider snagged me at the temple because there weren't enough people going. I'm not that generous.

There were only two people there from our branch: me and my home teacher.

For the entire morning, I was standing straight across from a tall, gangly missionary, complete with freckly skin, red hair, and glasses. He had a habit of sticking his large nose out in front of him and following it, like Tucan Sam, only not as cool. He had small, vacant eyes that would stare at objects for a long time.

The object of his desire was a newly-graduated girl of eighteen years, full of hope and dreams for her first year of collage. She was also full of delicious gossip from her high school: gossip that would be obsolete in a couple of weeks, when she would forget these people's names entirely and be wrapped up in a new college boyfriend. Ah, sweet youth.

I was enjoying this conversation that I didn't even have to contribute to; I just had to stand there and let the sweet words float to my ears and take me back to my former hopes and dreams of college. As I was daydreaming, I noticed that the red-headed missionary was staring intently at my face, his eyes squinting with scrutiny.

"How old are you?" he asked in a nasally voice filled with awe and plain nosy-ness.

"Twenty-three," I told him, thinking this was going to be the beginning of some light chit-chat.

"Oh," he said, and walked away.

He continued talking with the eighteen-year-old about high school gossip and what college was going to be like.

Two hours later, I was getting motion sickness from looking at the cans of soup go by on the conveyor belt. I took a second to look up and stretch my back and was startled to find that the red-headed missionary had been staring at me for quite some time, sticking his nose out and squinting as he analyzed every feature on my face.

"Are you married?"

"No."

Silence.