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Fishes for Disneyland
It was the first time that either of us had ever been to the aquarium, and I have to say that we totally judged it by its “used to be a craft store” exterior. However, when we stepped inside, we were really impressed—it was actually pretty cool! They pretty much had me with the Finding Nemo shark on the ceiling. And the octopus. And the fact that I didn’t have to go fishing to see a Rainbow Trout up close.
Anyway, we got there, signed in, and were directed to the theater room. People had spread out on all of the chairs, busily folding brochures, cutting papers, and stuffing envelopes. They turned on this educational film about Utah Lake, which, even though it sounds really nerdy, was pretty interesting. (Did you know there used to be a party boat and boat races on the lake?) So we just watched and folded for about an hour and a half, which passed relatively quickly.
At that point, the lady in charge of the volunteers took us on a tour of the aquarium. For free. She took us from exhibit to exhibit and told us about the different animals and how the aquarium acquired them. (For instance, they had an anaconda that was donated because it had become too big for someone’s bathtub. It has since doubled in size. Seriously, who is even crazy enough to want that thing in their bathtub?)
Am I sounding like a commercial? I don’t mean to be. I really was impressed. We got a free aquarium tour AND a free ticket to Disneyland. For two hours’ worth of work.
So awesome.
Wait, what? No, seriously, what??
So. About today.
We finally had the big meeting at work, the one to determine—once and for all—what we planned to do with our logo, branding, and company image going forward. Realize this comes after nearly two months of deliberations in less-effective meetings, so this is kind of a big deal. Now when these meetings first started in November, I had big dreams about working with a really respectable design firm. Then, the big boss mentioned that he was going to give our business to his buddy who runs a two-bit design firm that actually outsources all of their work to the Philippines. Wait, what?
Needless to say, my big, lovely dreams were quickly diminished to hoping that something decent would come out of this mess.
Lucky for me, the Filipino designers struck out big time, so no green umbrellas or power buttons in our logo. (Not joking.) Unlucky for me, the owner of this two-bit design firm thoroughly convinced the big boss that the respectable design firm was comprised of people my age and experience level who have advanced degrees in design because they couldn’t get a real job and who overcharge their clients for fluff and don’t have any real value.
A full rebuttal of this idea will have to wait for a later post because GUESS WHAT HAPPENED NEXT…
He put me in charge* of the logo design, the branding, all of it. And he wants me to have it to him in T-minus one week. ONE week. The professional design firm wanted four weeks. I get four-and-a-half working days. What??
The rest of the committee applauded me, saying what a great compliment it was that the big boss would trust me with the identity of the firm. And, certainly, they’re right. It is a big compliment—the big boss trusts very few people and he said he was impressed enough with my previous work that he trusted me with this. I really feel like I should be excited. However, there’s this very cynical part of me—formed through previous work experience—that worries that I’m getting set up to fail. That I’ll invest all this time and energy into making the logo as aesthetically pleasing as I can, while simultaneously pleasing the different personalities on the committee, only to have it scrapped because of some off-hand comment by a random employee. (It’s happened before.)
And are you wondering what the * was for? Well, remember this? Remember the replacement who, on her very first day of work, deliberately insulted my designs in front of the big bosses, complimented my work in private, made me cry for weeks, and got me removed from the project I’d been working on for six months. Yeah, her? Well I’ve been told to work with her again on this project. Seriously, what??
Wish me luck on this one, folks. I’m gonna need it.
Jenn vs. The Silent Treatment
I have this coworker who has been giving me the silent treatment for over a year and a half. Because I’m friends with a guy she had a crush on. Because this is middle school, and that’s how these things work.
When I pass her in the hall, on the stairs, or in the lunchroom, I’ll almost always say “Hi Jen!” (We have the same name, did I mention that?) Without fail, she just puts her head down like she can’t see me and walks very quickly past me. Not a word, no head bob, no acknowledgment at all of my presence.
Which is fine, I guess. It doesn’t really have much of an impact on my day-to-day. But apparently it’s getting to me subconsciously.
For the last few months, after one of these events, I’ve found my mind wandering to ways I can get to her at least acknowledge me. Like “accidentally” tripping with a glass full of ice water, which would then send my cup of ice water directly into her face. Or making faces at her while saying hi her, just to see if she notices. Again, because this is middle school and that’s how we do things.
Is this a bad thing? It’s not really a conscious decision to plot against her. Just a natural reaction to a frustrating situation. Apparently, this is becoming another one of my reoccurring daydreams at work, along with telling off the opinionated financial lady and crawling under my desk and hiding from all my coworkers who don’t get it.
Maybe I should just resolve the whole thing by passing her a note.
There’s a reason it’s not in the top 100.
Family Rule #6: No matter what, we will never, ever name any of our babies “Raptor.” Not even as a middle name. Not even as a “secret middle name.”
This shouldn’t even have to be a family rule. Common sense should completely disqualify “Raptor” as a potential baby name. But someone in this family needs to have everything spelled out.
(However, I would be willing to make an exception to this family rule if we can get BYU to agree that this baby will be appointed head football coach in the tradition of LaVell and Bronco.)
In case of a Donner Party / Zombie Apocalypse
Family Rule #5: No eating other members of the family.
I’ll spare you the my-body-is-falling-apart gory details, but I may or may not be turning into a zombie. Therefore, this already important rule has become crucial to keeping our little family together. Ryan, being the great guy he is, says he’ll still love me even if I do become a zombie. However, zombie or not, family rules are still family rules, and he promises to be strict in the application of this rule.
As he should be.
Hallmark is a card company, not a lifestyle
Family Rule #4: In conjunction with family rules 1–3, no other activities/experiences are allowed that would ever be considered for a Hallmark made-for-TV movie.
Yes, this is totally a catch-all rule. There can be no loopholes in the family rules! (Don’t like it? Too bad, my rules!)
Growing up, my biggest fears were falling and failing. I am still abnormally terrified of heights—my hands get clammy from walking too close to the railing on the second story as my mind thinks of several creative ways I could trip/get pushed/slip under that protection. Don’t even get me started on what I feel while hiking on a mountain ledge.
Dealing with the fear of failure is a subject for a-whole-nother post.
However, those fears pale in comparison to my newly married #1 fear: the fear of my life becoming a Hallmark made-for-TV movie. Right now Ryan have so much ahead of us, and I’m terrified of not being able to experience everything I want to—having babies, making memories and growing old together. I do not want to battle cancer while my husband has an affair and my children die in car crashes. Nor do I want to be left an unexpected windfall only to find that my family tears itself apart arguing over the wealth while I die penniless and alone. Nor do I want a “learning experience” as my husband slowly dies of diabetes while I express my emotions through overeating and my children express theirs through acting out or bad acting.
It’s not that I want to sidestep pain or sadness. I know that those are part of a normal life and that I wouldn’t be complete without them. I just want all the joys, frustrations, and sorrows inherent in a normal life.
Band-aids, yes. ICU, no!
Family Rule #3: No serious, life-threatening illnesses. Or injuries involving internal organs, deformities, and/or large spurts of blood.
This is based more on my fears of the unknown than on anything I’ve actually experienced. Needless to say, I’ve been pretty lucky—while I’ve been alive, my parents and siblings have had only a few minor medical procedures. That’s not to say we haven’t had some scares. Before I was born, my dad neglected his seatbelt and went through his windshield. My mom has also been in a few car accidents. Both my dad and brother had some cancer scares that turned out to be benign. Again, I’m pretty lucky.
That said, from about the age of 12 to about 22, I was convinced I was going to contract some sort of horrible illness and die slowly in 30s. Mostly, I think this was a product of an overactive imagination, a dash of hypochondria, and a tendency to project my feelings into others’ family tragedies.
In grade school, our neighbor died of cancer. In middle school, a close neighborhood friend of mine was diagnosed with cancer, and she passed away while in high school. In college, another close friend of mine lost her father to cancer. My coworker not only struggled with cancer herself, but is married to a man who has a rare form of cancer. My friends are ending up with babies in the NICU. My grandma’s on permanent oxygen and even still her body is suffocating itself.
I know that sickness and even death are just part of being alive—part of the plan, if you will. I just don’t want them to be part of my plan. I’ve witnessed the life-changing learning, the strengthened love, and the intense growth that can come from dealing with an illness. Like anything else, profound blessings can be found in the company of profound trials. However, I have also seen the everyday tension, the gnawing uncertainty, and the loss of simple dignities that also can accompany major illnesses and injuries.
Therefore, if my family is able to obey family rules #1–3, I will count my stars among the luckiest and most blessed.
Stay away from the great and spacious building
Family Rule #2: Nobody goes to prison.
Mostly, this rule is in place to protect Ryan from himself. He has a fabulous mind that naturally sees the most effective, logical way to do something—from cleaning our house to arranging a schedule to robbing a bank. If he were a criminal, he would be a criminal mastermind. But he’s not a criminal, and I would like very much to keep him that way. Therefore: family rule #2.
Did you know that 1% of American adults are in jail? With any luck, however, none of them will be related to me. I know it’s pretty basic, but I figure if I can get married and raise a family where nobody dies young or gets sentenced to jail, I’ll have gone a good way towards getting what I want out of life.
Of course I have a carbon monoxide detector
When Ryan and I first started dating, we quickly established some basic ground rules for our relationship (including alternating days to be right and proper usage of the phrase “be nice”). This rule-making tendency continued after we were engaged, resulting in our current list of family rules. All of these rules were established as a result of a conversation—be it silly or serious—and all of them express a need or attempt to fix a problem. (Note: I do realize that several of these things are outside of my control; however, having a rule for it makes me feel better and allows me to stop worrying about it for the time being. Our family, our rules. So there.)
Family Rule #1: Nobody dies before the age of 84. Also, I get to die first, followed an instant or two later by Ryan.
Ryan’s granny has been a widow for decades—she’s spent more of her life without her husband than she did with him. She’s in her 90s right now and will, from time to time, make comments like, “I wonder why he hasn’t called me back yet. Doesn’t he miss me? Maybe he doesn’t want me anymore.” It breaks my heart. Being without a spouse for so long seems so difficult—I get teary just thinking about it. Ryan has brought so much happiness and laughter into my life, I can’t picture living it without him. We chat all day every day—email, text, and even, once in a while, in person—and a life without him seems oppressively silent. I don’t want to deal with that loss. Luckily, Ryan feels the same way about losing me; therefore, we created this family rule—giving us a long and full life together without any real knowledge of being parted.
(Note: This rule will also apply to our children, once we have them, since I strongly suspect that losing one of them would be just as heartbreaking. By being born into this family, they will be expected to follow this and all the other family rules. But this one in particular.)
So you can expect to be reading our obituaries sometime between April 25 and May 3, 2067. (Since that’s within our nine-day window of both being 84.) I’m hoping we’ll go by carbon monoxide poisoning in our sleep; however, other instantaneous, painless ways would be acceptable.
Why 84, you ask? Because 100 is too old—my back’s already breaking down and I’m only in my 20s! I can’t even imagine what’ll be sore in my 30s, let alone my 80s. However, 80 isn’t quite old enough—I’d like to stick around long enough to watch my grandkids become grand-adults. So really, living to 84 sounds just about right.
(Of course, when we get closer, we always have the option of evaluating the age and pushing our schedule back a couple of years. We’ll see how things go down the road.)
Clearly I’m not the cheating type
Though I survived my childhood without braces, by my early 20s it was no longer possible to ignore the movement of my once-straight teeth. So I asked my dentist about my options and he recommended Invisalign. I was sold—the clear, removable trays were a lot less noticeable than regular braces, which made me feel more confident in flirting with Ryan.
Well…the Invisalign didn’t do what my dentist said it would and there were a number of problems in working with him. (Problems like when I asked him about a chip on my front tooth, he said “We can fix that,” and leaned me back in the chair. I thought he’d fill the chip, but instead he FILED DOWN THE TOOTH. With his drill. Without asking. And he did it crooked. That doesn’t count as fixed.)
However, even though I’d have these bad experiences with my dentist, I was reluctant to see someone else. I’ve been going to this same dentist since I was little and even though there were all these problems, I just felt guilty leaving his practice. I’m like that, I guess.
Anyway, last week, I had a problem with my retainer. I asked the dentist to fix it, but he told me it was fine. And then, two days later, the retainer split in half. And that did it. Last straw.
I set up an appointment with Ryan’s orthodontist. And he was great. He wasn’t in a hurry. And he listened. It was so refreshing. I called Ryan and we made a plan for this new orthodontist to fix my teeth. I couldn’t have been more excited.
Then, about 20 minutes after I’d finished that appointment, I got a call…from my dentist.
My first thought? Oh. Crap. He knows. How did he find out? Did my new orthodontist call him? Is there a code of dentists that requires that? Crap.
This is how my brain works.
Turns out, it was just a routine call regarding the billing from my previous visit. But apparently I need to break up with my dentist before I can start seeing my new orthodontist.
