Church: The Hawaiian Way

They say no matter where you go in the world, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is the same everywhere. That's because they've never been to church in Hawaii. I'm in Hawaii right now (and it's wonderful, by the way: beautiful, breezy, beachy and palm-treezy) and on Sunday, I went to church.

Now okay, the layout of church was the same. You've got your opening song, and the opening prayer, and the doctrine was all the same, but oh what a cultural experience it was. For starters, each member of the bishopric wore a brightly colored lei made of real flowers. They (and every speaker following them) began with the friendly, "Brothers and Sisters, Alooooha" (They like to stretch out the "o" part) and then the congregation would reply the same. The women wore flowers in their hair and decorative wood bracelets on their arms. Some of the men wore what looked like long black skirts with flip flops. My mom thinks they do it just as an excuse to wear sandals to church, but I say, heck, if the shoe fits! I guess they give a whole new meaning to the term "dress pants."

Since we are in a rather touristy part of town, the congregation gets quite the array of visitors every week, and it was easy to pick them out. The pews in the front were filled with regular ward members, and then the entire gym behind the chapel was completely packed with nervous, sun-burned tourists wearing weird combinations of jeans and a tie, a beach sarong because they forgot a skirt (me? Never) or nice slacks with sandals. There were so many of them, they literally out-numbered the regulars.

My family was privileged with front-row seats to what was about to be the best Sabbath-day entertainment ever. We sat directly behind a precious little Hawaiian family with four or five (it was hard to tell who's kids were whom's) of some of the most unruly kids I've ever seen. But oh, they were cute little devils.

The mother was a large woman with curly black hair and a flowery dress. She held an overgrown ping-pong paddle turned decorative fan that was covered in black stencil designs and braided palm leaves. Its true purpose quickly became evident, however, when this fan doubled as a naughty-kid swatter. It was well used too. Little girl talking too loudly? THWAP. Little boy making faces at little girl? THWAP. Kids arguing over bag of baby goldfish? THWAP THWAP. What an efficient little invention.

I was quite impressed though, with just how well the oldest girl knew her mother's swatting range. While the mom held the baby (whose diaper she just changed, by the way, on her lap, pausing only to take a piece of bread from the sacrament tray (and evoking some gagging from the seat behind)) her arm could only swat so far, and this girl stood in the aisle, dancing so that the fan brushed not one inch from her nose. Then of course, she sneered at her mother, who then passed the fan to the other woman sitting in the row, whom we'll call "Auntie." Seconds later, the fan came crashing down on little girl's head. Ha!

The father of this little family only lasted about five minutes, when he decided the barely-walking toddler was too antsy and needed to be taken outside. We didn't see him again until the last five minutes. Smart man.

The theme of the meeting was about speaking kind words to one another and so at one point, the speaker was talking about how if you literally hold your tongue with your fingers, you can't say a word. (Go ahead, try it. I know you want to) This caused the little girl to stick out her tongue as far as she could to lick Auntie's fingers. And holy smokes, besides that guy from KISS, I don't think I've ever seen a longer tongue. This lasted a few minutes until Auntie face-grabbed her palm-to-face style and then it was on to something new. At least we know she was listening, right?

Speaking of listening, the mom made sure everyone else in the congregation was getting the most out of this meeting. Two rows ahead, a young man, probably in his late teens had fallen asleep, resting his forehead on his arms that were crossed on the pew in front of him. The mom whispered in little girl's ear and gave her a sharp nudge on the rear end which sent her skipping toward said young man. She quietly crept up to the sleeping giant, and in one swift motion jabbed her finger straight into his armpit. He bolted upright before he even knew what hit him. The mother smiled. Job well done, little girl. Job well done.

And finally we have the grand finale of church mischief. During the closing song, a small boy from another family nearby went teetering down the aisle, minding his own business and aimlessly staring at the people in the surrounding pews. Suddenly, and without warning, one of the little girls shot out of her seat, went careening down the aisle, and plowed into the boy, knocking him off his feet football style. So as the entire congregation sang about speaking kind words to each other, there's a full-body tackling in left-chapel.

So Hawaii, though I didn't get much in the way of spiritual upliftment from church that day, thanks for the entertainment. Who needs a luau when church is free?

Peace and blessings.

Amen.

Sometimes, It's Tough Being Misunderstood

Last night my family was sitting in the living room when my mom suddenly looked around and said "Where's Tyler?" She then frowned and said, "Oh yeah." Tyler is in Spain, and has been for four months now.

My older brother, Kyle then said "Yeah, well don't feel so bad. Dad still calls me Tyler all the time." It's true. "Actually, it's really funny," Kyle said, "Some people call me Tyler who don't even know I have a brother."

"That happens to me too!" I said, "Only they call me Laura without even knowing my mom's name is Laura." My mom then agreed that the same thing happens to her occasionally as well. It's really a strange phenomenon.

Then my dad, clearly feeling left out, slapped his knees and, obviously exasperated, said, "Yeah! And nobody ever calls me Stud, and...I am one!"

Poor, poor Dad.

The Not-So Smart Phone

My lovely roommate Kayla has a cool phone. In fact, it's about 14 times cooler than mine. She has this feature where you can speak into it, and it will type what you say into a text message. So for instance, if you say "Hey, what's up." into the speaker, it will type "Hey, what's up." Cool, huh?

Well, we were playing with it the other day and found that it's surprisingly accurate. That's when Kayla had an idea.

"Hey, I wonder if it speaks Spanish! Here, say something in Spanish."

She held it up to my face, and I said the first thing I could think of in my highly advanced Spanish-speaking abilities, "Hola, me gusta burritos." (Okay, so she caught me a little off guard)

Kayla looked at the phone expectantly and after only a few seconds, doubled over in laughter. Tears sprang from her eyes and she gasped for breath.

"Let me see!" I said, because clearly she was in no state of telling me what it interpreted. She held the phone up and this is what I saw:

"Are at me goose that booty goes."

Nope...it doesn't speak Spanish.

The Key to the English Language

This story has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I just thought of it the other day and it made me laugh.

Over the summer, I worked as a banquet server at a fancy hotel. The staff who worked there were incredibly diverse. In fact, most of the other servers with whom I worked were from a foreign country, and I was the minority more often than not.

While I worked in Sun Valley for a week at a special conference, I met a boy from Turkey. He was friendly, fashionable, and even a little feminine, but we quickly became friends. We’ll call him Mehmed.

Mehmed was short, had darker skin, and wore square-ish glasses. He was just a few years older than me, and he was trying to learn English. He was actually pretty good and could communicate just about anything he wanted, but all with an endearing Turkish accent. He would often swing by wherever I was working and in his sing-song voice say something like, “Hallo, yewlee [Julie], haw are eyew today?”

Then we would stand at the counter in some back hallway and fold stacks of pink napkins together while he would tell me about Turkey and teach me how to count to ten in Turkish. One time he did me a favor and I said, “Thanks, Mehmed. I really appreciate it.”

He looked at me blankly and said, “Whad is appreciate?”

“Um…” how do you explain that? “Well, it’s like being grateful, you know? It’s like saying, ‘I’m thankful you did that. It means a lot.’ Something like that.”

“Why do not you just say that then?”

Good question.

Just then another server came by. She was a petite brunette with big brown eyes and a quick step. “Mehmed,” she said, “we need to take this cart to the banquet room. Here, you take that end.” Mehmed, always willing, jumped up from the table and grabbed the handle of the cart.

“Okay, push that," she said.

“Okay.” He stood at the ready with a big smile.

The girl pulled the other end but the cart didn’t budge. She turned around to face him, “Mehmed, do you know what ‘push’ is?

“No.” He grinned.

She sighed, exasperated. “Here, like this,” and then she yanked the cart. “Oh, okay!” he said, and they were off.

A few hours later, I was hand-polishing a mountain of silverware with another server named Derek. Suddenly, Mehmed came bounding by. “Guys!” he proclaimed, clearly pleased with himself, “I just learned new word!” I looked at Derek. This was gonna be good.

“Oh really?” I said, “and what word is that?”

He leaned in close and threw his hands in the air, “I learned ‘doot.’”

Derek and I looked at each other, puzzled. “Doot?”

“Yes!” he said, beaming. “What’s up, doot!?”

And that was that. In one word, Mehmed had just mastered the English language. 

Ode to the End of Winter

The temperature sign at Walgreens showed 46 degrees today. This might just be one of the warmest days we've had so far this year. People are wearing T-shirts and sunglasses. You'd think it was summer. Plus, as of last weekend, I can now see the ground again. Aside from a few giant snow piles that still take up a good chunk of the parking lots, the snow has pretty much melted. It's enough to make my heart sing. I kind of forgot what grass looks like. Now that I've written this, it will probably snow a foot tonight, but I'm being optimistic. In my timid celebration that winter just might be closing in, I'm posting a few of the winter pictures I've taken this semester.

My poor, poor bicycle:

Please note: This is the inside of my window when it was -25 outside. The inside.

Sometimes, the Truth Hurts

I'm telling you, I make the weirdest stuff in this digital photography class of mine.  Like for instance, this little number:

Our latest assignment was a scan-o-gram, which, contrary to popular belief, is not in fact a medical procedure. We had to use a scanner as a camera, so we had to compose a picture with objects on the scanner and then let 'er rip. I've got to be honest, I'm not really into this type of thing. Hence, mine is not exactly the coolest picture ever, but it got the job done. When I took it to class, one of my classmates looked at it and said, "Nice, so it's a self-portrait right?"

Haha, funny joke, sir.

And I suppose it was funny, but then it was time for the class critique. We each placed our images on the wall as my teacher went around examining each one and critiquing it. He came to mine.

"Hmm, that's interesting," he said. Then he turned to face me, "So I'm assuming it's a self portrait?"

Really? Two people? This is not good, my friends. Not good at all.






Just for kicks, here's my other one. Don't ask me what it means. I don't get it myself. It's supposed to be modeled after the work of Maggie Taylor, and she does some weird stuff.

The Finished Product

All I can say is I spent way too many hours of my life on this thing. Hope I get a good grade!

How About a Little Fiction?

So I'm taking a creative writing class this semester. It's not required. I'm doing it totally for the fun of it, and it is fun. Every few weeks we have workshops where we have to turn in seven pages of original creative writing.

I'm also doing a Lazy Man Iron Man this month. I actually finished it this morning, thank heavens. If you don't know, that means I did an Iron Man, but I had the whole month of February to do it. That's 112 miles on the bike, 26 miles running, and 2.75 miles swimming. Needless to say, I've spent far too many hours at the gym this month, peddling away on the stationary bike. In between the moments where I sat there late at night, hating life and wondering why on Earth I was doing this again, I people-watched and dreamed up ridiculous stories.

Hence, my latest creative writing workshop piece. Please note, that unlike all of my other posts, this one is in fact fiction. Enjoy!

                                                                               Stud Finder             
                                     

I’ve spent the last three years of my life at the gym. I mean, I’ve never really considered myself a fitness guru or anything, but I suppose with all the calories I’ve burned there, I could probably be scientifically classified as one. As much as I’d love to believe it though, it’s not the workouts that motivate me. Who am I kidding? My metabolism is off the charts and I probably couldn’t gain a pound even if I sat on the couch for a week eating nothing but Twinkies. I’ve never been able to chart my dropping dress sizes, or watch as the pounds melt away. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m not complaining; I just haven’t seen the fruits of my labors yet. I guess I can’t expect my destiny to just unravel itself before my eyes after only a month or two, but I’m getting a little impatient.

I am working at it though. It’s not like I show up every day in old paint-splattered T-shirts and ugly velour sweatpants like the moms who come after dropping their kids off at school. I always wear the latest trends in workout attire, like my pink Addidas sweatband, and dark gray Underarmor spandex capris that make a snapping sound when I slip them on. I like to pull my long brown hair in a high ponytail so it bounces and waves as I run. I put on just enough makeup to cover blemishes and make my green eyes pop, but not enough so it appears like I’m wearing any. I can’t look like I’m trying too hard. I mean, I never wear earrings or anything. I wouldn’t want to look like one of those purple leotard-clad aerobics girls from the 80’s that have blue eye shadow caked on their faces. That was a nightmare that would be best staying in the past. I’m telling you; it’s all about the subtleties.

            Much like a morning mocha, I get my fix on the treadmill. I always pick the one closest to the door so I can inspect every guy who walks in, and they can see me. It’s a perfect view, not to mention the cool breeze every few minutes that keeps me looking fresh despite the fact that the counter shows I’ve already run 3.6 miles. Some of the guys who come through are old, some are short, and some look downright fantastic in their red Nike kicks and sleeveless shirts that reveal their chiseled biceps.

            One guy looked particularly scrumptious the other day as he swiped his membership card. He smiled at the receptionist and brushed by as he made his way over to the weight machines. He pretended not to notice me as he walked by, but he totally did. How could he not? I had the machine cranked up to level ten. After he passed, I looked down: 1.2 miles. Not exactly my goal for the day, but it would have to suffice. Besides, my triceps could use a little work…maybe? I wiped off the machine and inconspicuously made my way over to the dumbbells near where Mr. Biceps just so happened to be working on his lat pull-downs. What an uncanny coincidence. 

            I smiled, kicked the stray bangs out of my face, and picked up a seven-pound weight.

            “So, I’ve never seen you here before,” I said in my most cheerful voice.

            He let the bar slowly retract, his muscles flexing gracefully like ripples in hot cocoa. Then he turned to face me.

            “Oh hey,” he said, “Yeah, I usually come in the evenings but they just switched my schedule at the fire house so now I guess I’m coming in the mornings.”

            A firefighter. That’s hot. 

            “Oh nice! Have you been coming to this gym for awhile then?”

            He stood up, picked up his towel and wiped off the seat. “Um, not too long,” he said, his head tilting adorably to the left, “My wife and I only moved in about two months ago.”

            Wife.

            Turns out some guys don’t wear their wedding rings when they lift weights. Wouldn’t want calluses. I suddenly didn’t feel the need to work on my triceps anymore. In fact, I think I would have rather just taken that dumbbell and knocked myself in the head with it. Any blunt object would have worked, really.

I guess this called for yet another date with Ben and Jerry’s and more re-runs of Friends. I think I’m on Season six now. It’s kind of a let-down after the big Season five break-up, but what can you do? Maybe this is the real reason I keep coming back to the gym. After all, Ben and Jerry’s and I have become pretty tight lately.

            So basically what I’m trying to say here is that aside from a nice waistline and rockin’ calves, the gym has done nothing for me. Nothing, that is, until last Tuesday.

            I always go to Zumba class on Tuesdays. Somehow, that Latin beat lets me escape to a dance patio on a gorgeous beach somewhere in Costa Rica. The girl who teaches it, Jenny, is fantastic. She puts together flawless routines, picks the best music, and she’s got that Puerto Rican blood that simply exudes Latin Jam perfection. She’s been pregnant for about six months now though, and there’s only so much hip-shaking pregnant ladies should be allowed to do before it should simply be outlawed. I mean, as much as I love her, it’s kind of like trying to look at an old man in a Speedo swimsuit. It just hurts.

So there’s been a sign in the window for a few weeks advertising for a new instructor. I’ve seen a few of the applicants come in. Some wore flashy, sequined tank tops—that one was a guy, and one lady came in wearing platforms and seriously huge bell bottoms. I’m pretty sure the only salsa she knew was the kind that goes on chips. The gym managers were getting exhausted with the options, that is, until Armando showed up.

            I’m quite certain I’ve never seen a more beautiful man in my entire life. I was working the elliptical trainer when he walked in, and thank goodness because if my feet weren’t strapped in, I would have tripped. His skin was the color of perfectly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and it emanated a luster that gave me the sudden urge to just bite a chunk out of him. His black hair framed his delectable face in perfect waves, except for that one taunting little lock that fell across his coal black eye, beckoning me to come hither. So I did.

            I’m not really sure how it happened. One minute I was pretending to watch Channel 6 News on the elliptical, and suddenly I was standing right next to him, staring at him as he spoke to Gina at the front desk. He glanced down at the counter where his massive forearms were resting. His muscles suddenly flexed as I assume he was probably just trying to see the paper on the counter better.

            I don’t know what he was saying, but his lips were irresistible. They were big and luscious like those marshmallow peeps they sell at Easter, without the sprinkles of course. And that jaw. Oh, heaven help me.

            I was suddenly jolted back to the present when he turned towards me and those piercing eyes seared straight into my soul. My gosh, he’s even more attractive from the front.

            “Hola, hermosa,” he said to me, and winked.

            I don’t know what hermosa means, but it was the most heart-melting compliment I’ve ever received.

            I smiled like a fool and being the genius that I am, I responded with a, “hey” and a little wave.

            “Melissa, did you need something?” It was Gina.

            “Oh, uh, no.” No? No, I have to need something. I can’t just be standing here for no reason. “I mean yes! Yes, I just wanted to let you know that uh, that the elliptical machine over there is um, well it’s a little squeaky.” Wow. Smooth.

            “Okay thanks hon, we’ll take a look at it.” Right. I think that was my cue to leave. For a second, I panicked. I forgot how to move my feet! No wait, I got it. I floated out the door to my car, and then realized I had been bit by tragedy. I forgot my keys on the shelf. And my bag. And my water bottle.

Shoot.

It was too late. I couldn’t go back in there. I would die of embarrassment. Then I was flooded with a burst of inspiration. The spare key. I knelt in front of my car and began clambering around for the key under the front license plate. It was harder to find than I expected. I could feel the dirt and grime managing its way under my fingernails and tried to avoid it rubbing on my sweaty forearms as I reached higher and higher under the car.

“Would this help you, perhaps?” I jumped. His voice was like velvet and candy canes. He dangled my keys in front of me with an apologetic smile. My Seaworld dolphin keychain laughed at me, and I wanted to cry.

“Oh! Uh, right. Thanks,” I said, snatching my keys.

I clambered off the dirty parking lot, brushed off my knees, looked him straight in the eye, and then jumped in my Hyundai and sped off. I know! I know. I’m such a loser, and a wimp, and a little girl.

But I’ve been thinking a lot about it, (Ben and Jerry helped me out on this one, a lot) and I’ve decided (one carton of Cherry Garcia later) I’m going to suck it up and go to his Zumba class. I have to. If I don’t, it’s like I’ve given up. I’ve been defeated, and I have not been defeated, dang it.

I woke up extra early Tuesday morning. I had a banana and ¾ of a cup of honey roasted oatmeal. I needed my protein so I could showcase my best performance. I was thinking Wheaties probably should have been my first choice, but everyone knows that’s all a mental thing anyway. Besides, that stuff has way to much sugar, and I couldn’t crash in the middle of Zumba. I pulled on my aqua tank top with sweat-wicking technology. It would make me stand out for sure.  

I got to the gym at 7:45—same time I always do. “Good morning, Gina!” I sang as I swiped my card. Gina mumbled something back through her NutriGrain bar and waved.

I walked over to my usual cubby where somebody had so kindly placed my abandoned gym bag and water bottle, and then I made my way over to the dance studio. As I neared the room I could hear the Latin music pulsing through the hallway. My anticipation grew and I had to pause outside the door. Remember, breathe. I pushed the door open, plastered on my best smile, and glided inside. A few people were already standing around the edges stretching out. I nodded at them and then took my spot in the middle of the floor where the second row would be. I couldn’t be too obvious.

Armando looked up from the sound system where he was selecting music on his iPod. He raised an eyebrow and flashed me that stunning smile. Oh my gosh, he likes me! He so did. I gave him a little wave as I lifted my arm over my head in a shoulder stretch. A few others began filing into the room, and I could tell they were surprised to find a hot Latin guy instead of Jenny. The competition was going to be tough, but I wasn’t worried.

The electronic clock finally flipped to 8:00 and it was time to start. Armando took his place at the front of the room. “Bienvenidos,” he said, as he clipped the microphone to his ear, “Welcome to my Zumba class. My name is Armando, and I will be your instructor.” Oh, that accent. “Are you ready to dance?” The class responded with an overenthusiastic “Si!” and with that, he whipped around toward the mirror and began the basic bachata step as he scooped his arms out and above his head, and then slowly brought them back down.

“Alright ladies,” he said once the warm-up song ended, “it’s about to get hot in here.” That’s when Enrique Iglesias’ enchanting voice blared through the speakers. Armando got us started into some hip shaking (and by the way, that man knows how to shake it) when he started singing, “Baby I like it. Come on ladies, sing with me.” Not only was he totally hot, and a dancer, but he could sing too? I really must be dreaming.

I made sure to smile the biggest, lunge the lowest, turn the fastest, and shimmy the hardest. The other girls tried, but it was a simple fact. I was his best student. There was no way he could miss me. I noticed he had an interesting style of teaching though. Jenny used to turn around to watch us and give us a few pointers. Then she would walk around and give us some encouragement when we’d get tired. Armando, on the other hand, spent most of his time looking at himself. I’m sure it was just to make sure he had proper form so he wouldn’t teach us incorrectly though. That’s actually really kind of him to be looking out for us like that, although it did make it difficult for me to catch his attention.

As the class went on though, I was getting a little frustrated. Even during the Shakira song, he focused his attention on his own biceps. At first I thought maybe it was because he was ensuring the routines were properly working certain muscles, but it started to get a little excessive. I dismissed it for the most part, but at the end of the song, he quickly whipped around in a complete turn, faced himself in the mirror, and winked.

Oh. My. Gosh. The man is in love with himself.

I couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t even glanced at another person the entire time. Thankfully it was the last song, so after a little cool down time, I picked up my water bottle and walked over to him to thank him for the class. It’s something I always do. This was my last shred of hope, my one last chance to see if he was actually the egotistical crazy I feared he was.

“Armando,” I said, “thank you for the class today.”

He whipped around, “What? Oh, gracias,” he said, turning back to face the mirror. He folded his arms across his chest, allowing his bulging biceps to flex as he watched himself at an angle, “You like it?” I think he was still referring to the class, but either way, I could hardly contain my disgust. I sighed loudly, and walked out. I’m not sure Armando even noticed.

I brushed past my cubby, grabbed my gym bag and keys and stormed out to my car. My ponytail swung side to side and my hands clenched to fists around the bag strap. My jaw tightened and I didn’t even see who was at the front desk to wish them a good day.

I was done. So done with it all. How could I have been so dense? Forget the spandex, forget the protein shakes, forget the nice abs, forget it all! I was never going back to the gym. So what if I’ve been defeated? I never liked that place anyway. It was stupid, smelly and full of sweaty old men who I wanted nothing to do with. Maybe single was just my destiny after all.

I slammed the car door, plopped myself on the seat, blasted some Beyonce, and sped out of the parking lot to do what I do best. Eat.

I was done being desperate. For once in my life, I didn’t care what anyone else thought. I drove to the Metropolitan Grill (the nicest restaurant in town) put on my best “don’t mess” face, and asked for a table for one. The nicely-dressed hostess looked at my gym clothes a little warily and took me to a high table by the window overlooking the bay. I didn’t even look at the menu. I knew what I wanted.

“I’ll take your triple chocolate ice cream sundae with caramel and chocolate morsels please—the biggest one you offer.” So what if it would take half my paycheck to pay for it. I was having a renaissance, an awakening.

I have to give the waitress props for how well she kept a straight face. For heaven’s sakes, the place barely opened for the day and already she had a sweaty, spandex-clad girl asking for a three-person serving of ice cream.

When the waitress brought it out a few minutes later, I didn’t even think twice. I lifted that spoon and practically inhaled the gooey slop of heaven. I didn’t think about anything, actually. I just sat and ate and let myself be carried to a land far away. It was so creamy, so fattening, and so perfect.

I was suddenly jostled back to the restaurant when a man came up behind me, “So it’s good, huh?” I turned around to see a brown-haired guy in his late-twenties with square-ish glasses and a nice button-down shirt.

“Wha?” I really should have swallowed before answering.

“The ice cream,” he said, pointing to my soupy bowl. I looked down and was suddenly shocked and ashamed at how empty it was, “I’ve been eying that sundae on the menu every time I come, but I’ve never felt brave enough to get it. I guess it’s good though, huh?”

And then I actually looked at him. He was average height, average build, and yet I couldn't take my eyes off of him. “I’m Josh, by the way,” he said. He stuck out his hand, and when I took it, my heart—like the ice cream—melted.

It Was For a Class, I Promise

For my digital photography class this semester, I have to create a "New Realities" image that combines a few images, tweaks them, and come together to create one unreal image that looks realistic. 

Little-know fact about me: I have this absurd fetish with jumping pictures, as in, capturing people in the air. Hence, the reason I love this Lacoste clothing ad so much.

I love all their ads, really, but this one inspired me. I decided I wanted to recreate it in a way. I was going to take pictures of a bunch of different people dressed in brightly colored clothes jumping and put them all together in one picture.

Then I got lazy.

I wasn’t trying to be vain; I just didn't want to have to deal with finding willing models, finding a time that works to photograph them, telling them what to wear, how to jump, how their facial expressions should be, etc. It just sounded like too much work. So, I thought to myself, 'I can jump. I know what to wear and how I want the expressions to look, and I'm certainly willing.' So, I did it myself.

I dressed in some of the brightest colors I have, loaded up my camera and a tripod and searched for the ideal location. It was a rare sunny and warm (40 degrees. I'm serious. That was warm.) day in Rexburg, and I found a nicely-lit yellow wall at the Pinnacle Security building. I nonchalantly began setting up my tripod and focusing the camera and stuff while I'm sure everyone driving by was wondering what on Earth I was doing taking pictures of a blank wall.

Then when I was pretty confident nobody was looking, I moseyed over in front of the camera, clicked the button on my remote, waited...and jumped! I seriously felt like the world's biggest loser as I ran back to the camera to check. Shoot...too far to the right. So I did it again. Dang it, my eyes were closed.

This went on until I finally got all the camera settings right. Then it was time for a cool pose to use for my project. I clicked the button, jumped, and

"rip."

Yes, I ripped my pants. Have you ever done something so stupid that you embarrassed yourself? I’m pretty confident that nobody saw me, but in all reality there was probably some Pinnacle recruiter sitting at his desk watching the bouncing freak out his window and saying, “Hey Doug, check this out. What the heck is she doing?”

I guess it’s a good thing I only paid $3.98 for those jeans. They were my favorites though.

Just then, another car drove right through my shot, giving me some more strange looks. That’s when I said to myself, “Forget it!” I no longer cared that it was a nice background. It wasn’t worth my dignity. Once I snapped at least a satisfactory picture, I took off back home.

For this reason, the rest of my pictures take place in front of the nasty snow pile next to my apartment door. At least the passersby were polite enough to pretend to not stare as I leaped in front of that stupid tripod in my remaining six outfits. Sometimes I feel bad for my roommates who have to live with me. In the end though, I think I ended up with a few fun, project-worthy pictures…as well as sweet new facebook profile pic.