The Attack of the Spider… June 12, 2007

Last night, I was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and I felt a tickle on the left side of my neck. My hair was down, so I assumed it was my hair brushing against my neck. I reached up with my left hand to idly brush the hair away when I happened to glance in the mirror and see a black spider crawling on my neck!!!!

I completely and utterly freaked out.

You know, you always want to think that under pressure, you’ll remain calm and keep a cool head. You imagine that in a crisis, everyone will fall apart but you, you’ll be the rock who doesn’t get excited or riled up. I have given up all such dreams. No, last night I instead screamed bloody murder and did this wild there’s-a-spider-on-my-neck dance that would have to be seen to be believed. My poor husband comes running into the bathroom, thinking I was dying or something, and all I could do was scream incoherently about there being a spider on the wall or the floor or the counter, I didn’t know but I had just threw it off of me, so I was sure it wasn’t on me and he had to kill it, and IT WAS ON MY NECK! He finally found it, huddled on the floor in a little ball.

“It’s just a little spider!” my husband laughed.

I didn’t happen to think it was that funny, strangely enough.

For the next hour, every time I felt a tickle on my body, or something brush up against me, I did a little mini-freak complete with wild gestures and crazy woman dances. The most amazing part is that I actually admit this on a public forum. Perhaps there’s more “crazy woman” in me than I realized.

Hava

Irony August 15, 2006

First off, I just wanted to say that I have made a goal of putting up a blog on here on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. We’ll see if that actually happens, but that’s my goal. I really love blogging and could honestly be here all day, but I just can’t afford to. I just looked at my statistics for the Google AdSense ads at the top of my blog (I get paid per click on the ads) and although I never expected big bucks from it, the money made thus far has exceeded even my worst expectations. I have only made a penny thus far. They don’t even send you a check until you’ve reached $50–at this rate, I will most likely be dead as well as my grandchildren before $50 is reached.

So now that I have firmly established the fact that this blog is in no way a money-making venture, let’s move onto funnier items, like the fact that my best friend, Bonnie, has West Nile Virus. Now before everyone sends me hate mail, just a bit of background here. First off, she’s going to be just fine. She doesn’t feel so hot at the moment, but she is going to be just fine, no lasting effects. It’s like she has the flu combined with a really bad rash. If she was in serious trouble, I wouldn’t find this immensely hilarious like I do. No need to send the hate mail, scout’s honor.

Secondly, Bonnie and I go walking Monday through Friday for an hour around a lake (sounds prettier than it really is, sadly enough) and we have spent many a morning discussing the fact that Bonnie is petrified of getting West Nile. She has given the whole run down to the children (any aches or fevers, any rashes, and you come running straight to me like your butt is on fire!) multiple times. She sprays them with mosquito repellent like most people eat chocolate (as much as possible as often as possible) and her kids, good-natured like they are, ignore her for the most part. I don’t think she has passed this particular fear on to them, at least not that I can tell. The eye rolls and shrugs are fairly strong indicators of that anyway.

To make things worse, she watched the news a couple of weeks ago and found out that Idaho has the highest cases of West Nile in the country. She freaked out. She began spraying herself with mosquito repellent before our walks (now mind you, we are walking at 6:30 in the morning. I don’t do ANYthing before our walks that isn’t 1000% necessary) and even started offering to spray me down. I told her I was just fine. I don’t know why, but I have never really been that worried about West Nile.

But for Bonnie, the fear has become almost irrational. In her hometown, a guy at her church got it and went blind from it. It has been Bonnie’s “boogeyman” ever since. She studied it on the internet so much I’m sure she could teach the experts about the subject.

So when she called me today and told me that she had it, I just started laughing and couldn’t stop. I’m sure that I’m going straight to Hades for that, but the irony was just too much.

To make up for my hysterical laughter, I dropped a present and a get-well card off at her house. Perhaps that seat in Hades can be passed onto someone else. I think the greatest part of this has been the fact that Bonnie has figured out that she has it, she’s going to be fine, and life will go on. Her boogeyman has suddenly shrunk to a manageable size. Boonie can be a bit neurotic sometimes (she’s my best friend, so I can say that in all fairness,) and I think this has taught her to breathe a little more.

Me? I’m just laughing. Sometimes this universe is just too much.

Hava
Who just may start wearing mosquito repellent herself…

Troublesome Children July 12, 2006

What do you do with the children that test your patience to the limits? Not just push the boundaries every once in a while, but out and out push you to the max? I have had the *ahem* great joy of dealing with several children who do just that.

One of my children in Primary that has pushed me past any previously known boundaries is Christopher. Chris is your typical preteen boy–he loves to push the envelope, he loves to cause problems, he has zero interest in the topic at hand, and his pride and joy in life comes from figuring out the absolute best way to wreak the absolute most havoc in the absolute least amount of time. His tricks include yanking chairs out from underneath children as they went to sit down, getting up and stealing the visual aides and running off down the hallway with them, pulling on girls’ hair, raising his hand to answer the question and then instead of answering why he loves Jesus, going off on the statistics that he got on his video game that morning. He would frequently say (usually in the middle of me speaking) “Is it time to go home yet?” He would sing the words to the songs, but not the words that we were teaching him…on and on and on.

My first strategy was to just ignore him. If I ignored him, maybe he would get bored from the lack of attention, and instead find some other way to pass his time. He did, unfortunately, do just that, and the “other ways” that he found ended up being even more disruptive and destructive than his previous antics. Ignoring was not an option.

I tried sitting him in time-out–didn’t work. I tried talking to his mom–she didn’t do a thing. I tried giving him his very own notebook to draw in while the lesson was being taught, and although that worked for a couple of weeks, he quickly got bored and started back into his old habits.

So how did I deal with Christopher causing so many problems? Easy–I simply waited for him to graduate from Primary, thus passing the buck on to the Young Mens. At the time, this was a sound strategy, guaranteed not to fail. Time does steadily tick on, and some day (May of 2005 to be exact) Christopher was going to turn 12, thus advancing him from Primary to Young Mens. Unfortunately, my hubby got called into Young Mens almost directly after Christopher graduated from Primary, dumping the problem entirely into his lap. So now my hubby spends his Sundays complaining about Christopher, just as I used to spend mine. I just nod and smile.

Life is good.

Havs

Times flies when you’re having… July 12, 2006

…well, fun would be a stretch, but how about working your tail off? I think that more accurately describes my current life. I am juggling about 17 things right now, and every once in a while, a plate comes crashing down and hits me hard on the head. I am getting this permanent bruise going on up there, and someday, I’m going to learn to wear a hard hat. Difficult to fit headphones over, but I’ll give it my best shot.

But anyhow, I put some blogs together because I was trying to apply for a job working as a blogger (how great would that be!) but the company has not responded yet, and this was sent into them on Monday. They usually respond within the day. So I think that it’s a no go. But I can’t let these perfectly good blogs go to waste! (Yes, I also save all of my leftovers from dinner, only to have to throw them out three months later when aliens from space come into my kitchen, looking to reclaim their own. What’s your point?) I was putting together blogs about being a Primary President (the blog I was applying for was Families.com and they actually have an LDS section, with a subsection for Primary) and although I wasn’t going to post any LDS content on this blog, I am much too lazy to see all of this work go to waste. For those of you who are not LDS/Mormon, the Primary is simply the organization for the children in the congregation. The Primary President is the person in charge of all of the little munchkins who do their best every Sunday to remind all of the adults that Thou Shalt Not Kill is one of the 10 Commandments. Having said that, here’s the first of three…

When I first got called to be the Primary President, I thought for sure the Bishop had lost it. After all, I had to be one of the youngest Primary Presidents to ever be called–wasn’t there some sort of age limit that kept 22 years old from being Primary Presidents??

Although I was in shock, a small part of me had known this was coming. When my husband and I got married and moved from Logan, Utah to Blackfoot, Idaho, I was called to be the Primary Music Leader within a month of us buying our house. I filled that calling until the Primary Presidency was rearranged, at which point I was called to be second counselor in the Presidency. I was in shock when I got that calling, because I figured only incredibly talented and loving and perfect people could be in a Primary Presidency. Why were they calling me?

I found out much later (when I was being called to be Primary President, actually) that Sis. Yancey, who called me to be her second counselor, had actually had just as many doubts about me becoming her second counselor as I had had doubts about me becoming her second counselor. In fact, she argued with the Lord and told him that she didn’t want me to be her second counselor. And then the Lord told her that I was going to be the next Primary President, and it was Sis Yancey’s job to teach me how to do that.

Luckily for both of us, Sis Yancey kept all of this a secret. I imagine if I had been told that I was going to be the next Primary President when I was being called to be the second counselor, I probably would have gone running screaming in the other direction. I probably would have had my house sold by the end of the week and made the move to China by the end of the month. I just wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility at that point.

In fact, I didn’t feel ready for that kind of responsibility when I actually did receive the call to be President. Luckily the Lord knows me and all of my shortcomings, and He knew that He couldn’t just throw something like this at me. In the months before Sis Yancey’s move to New Zealand, I would have random thoughts pop into my head: “I will handle that (situation) differently when I am in charge.” Or, “When Sis Yancey leaves, it will be up to me to keep things going.” Then I would draw back and think, “Where on Earth did that thought come from?? I’m not going to be in charge. Sis Yancey isn’t going to leave.”

But she did leave, she moved across the world, leaving a mighty huge gap in the Primary structure. The first counselor moved at almost exactly the same time to Las Vegas, leaving me the only one left in the Primary Presidency.

So when the Bishop asked me to talk to him “real quick” in his office, I had an inkling of what would happen. Deep down, I knew that I was going to be the next Primary President. I just ignored that knowledge and instead clung to the idea that they would magically find somebody else to do the job. Anybody else. I was too young, and too dumb, and too unorganized, and too…everything to do something like this. I had no children of my own–certainly that was some sort of requirement to become a Primary President

And yet, I have not only survived these last two years, I have thrived. Through the Lord, everything is possible, and I am living proof of that.

Sweet Silence June 22, 2006

Apparently, my hubby thinks I talk too much. Now, if you asked people who know me well, they could definitely…Um, never mind.

I told the hubby that of course I talked too much, because I was home all day with just the dogs, and so by time he gets home, all of my thoughts for the entire day have bottled up inside of me until they just have to come bursting out, and he just happens to be on the receiving end of the flood. I told him that I only had the dogs for company, and they never listen to me half the time anyway. Based on the amount of holes dug in my backyard and shoes chewed up in my closet, I should probably up that estimate.

But anyway, we got to our destination (the mall) and I decided to conduct a scientific study: To discover whether I am the only wife who does all the talking in a relationship. As I walked around the mall and surreptiously watched other couples, I came to the sad realization that not only was it normal for the wife to do all of the talking, but based on what I saw, it was the only way that husband/wife relationships worked. I did not spy a single couple where the hubby talked even half of the time, let alone dominated the conversation. I wasn’t sure if I should be happy because I wasn’t the only one this way, or if I should be embarrassed because the female population doesn’t seem to have an off switch.

We left the mall and headed over to the grocery store. There, finally, I found a couple where the hubby talked all the time, and the wife didn’t talk at all: They happened to be standing in line and the husband was arguing with the cashier as to whether the orange juice was $00.88 cents a can or $00.66 cents a can. The cashier left the checkout stand and personally checked the price himself. He came back with the sad news that the husband had been looking at the wrong sign, and the price was in fact $00.88 a can. The wife never said a word, and I wasn’t sure if it was because she was mortified because her spouse was making real jerk of himself over 22 cents, or because she just tended to be quiet no matter what.

I vote for the quiet no matter what, not only because it ups my scientific study from 100-0 to 99-1 (yay! One couple!) but also because it’s hard when you’re embarrassed by your spouse, and I hoped she didn’t understand what an idiot he looked like. In this case, ignorance truly is bliss.

After the shopping expedition, it was time to head home. We loaded up the groceries and headed back out to the freeway. As we got on, my hubby made the fatal mistake of bringing up the “too much talking” subject again. I finally said, “Is this a challenge?” He laughed, a deep belly laugh, and patted me on the knee in that condescending way that men have, and said, “Honey, you could never stay quiet for more than 3 minutes.” I just looked at him, raised my eyebrows, and smiled, that easy-you-are-about-to-eat-mud smile, and then leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to talk to him if it killed me.

It almost did. I never truly realized this about myself (get ready for a belly laugh here, peoples!) but I actually DO talk a lot!!! About every three seconds, I thought, “Oh, I–” and then would stop myself. I couldn’t say anything. I was sure I was going to pass out from the exertion of keeping my mouth shut. It truly was hard work! As we pulled into the driveway 20 minutes later (some sort of a world record for me, I am positive) Doug turned to me. “I never thought you would last this long.” There was wonder in his voice, and just a bit of respect. I turned to him and smiled sweetly. I didn’t say a word.

We unloaded the groceries and brought them inside. The dogs did their Happy Puppy Dog Dance that they do every time we come home (I haven’t seen you for days and days! I missed you so much! Please give me a belly rub! Please please please please,) and I realized that my not speaking meant I couldn’t even say hello to my dogs! That was hard for me. I petted them, and then as quickly as I could manage, I went back to my room and hid on my computer. If Doug wasn’t around to talk to, it would be a lot easier to not slip up.

I made it for two hours before I had to call a friend and talk to her. Doug and I talked that night in bed and he told me how proud he was of me for making it two hours. He learned that sometimes silence truly isn’t sweet, because he would rather have a wife talking his ear off than a wife who hides from him so she doesn’t make the mistake of talking to him. And I realized that perhaps, maybe, there is an infinitesimal chance in this wide universe that I do, in fact, talk too much.

Just don’t tell the hubby I said so.

Havs

So I got locked in the bathroom today… June 10, 2006

And it wasn’t even my own bathroom, at home. No, that would be much too easy, and so much less embarrassing. No, in typical Hava-style, I got locked into a bathroom, in someone else’s apartment.

It all started when a friend of mine offered to let me clean an apartment to make a little extra cash on the side. All nice and dandy, or so I thought. My friend manages a large apartment complex, and she happened to have an apartment come empty, that needed to be cleaned before the next tenant could move in. No problem! I hate cleaning (anyone who has visited my home can attest to that fact!) but getting paid to clean was another thing entirely. I went in, bucket in hand, and happily started scrubbing. The hubby of my friend, who does all of the maintenance on the building, had removed all of the doorknobs on every door in the apartment, thereby making it much easier to paint them all. They had long-since been painted, but the knobs had not been put back on yet. He left the metal part in the doors, the part that the knobs operate, but the knobs themselves were gone.

I didn’t pay much attention to any of that. I tend to be the sort of person who wanders around in my own la-la land, until something jerks me back down to earth. Sometimes that landing can be awfully hard, as I found out today.

I took a quick break from cleaning, and went into the bathroom. I closed the door behind me, did my business, washed my hands and went to the door, thinking all the while about everything else that needed to be done. After a couple of seconds of standing at the door, I realized that the doorknob that I had been subconsciously grabbing for was not there. I looked down to where it should have been, where my hand had been grabbing just air and realized sure enough, there was no doorknob.

I didn’t panic, not at first. I laughed at myself for not realizing it sooner, and then I went about trying to get the metal parts inside of the door to move, to let me out. I am not in a habit of taking doorknobs apart and studying how they work (when was the last time you tore your door knobs apart?) so at this point, I was lost. I tried pushing, pulling, lifting up, twisting…nothing.

The panic starts to creep up a little bit more. I wasn’t completely worried, because I knew that somebody would come looking for me eventually, (hey, has anyone seen Hava today?) but I have never been the kind to sit around and wait for something to happen. Especially not when I am trapped in a bathroom that has no outside window. There was only way out of that bathroom, but I certainly wasn’t having any luck with that route.

I looked around the bathroom, evaluating my options. I could try switching the light on and off…and what? Annoy the fly that was flying over my head in dizzying circles? Right then, the fly goes through the hole in the door, where the doorknob was supposed to be at, and I stared longingly after it. That was the first time (and I imagine the last time!) I have ever wished I was a fly.

Uummm, I could try flushing the toilet over and over again! Yeeeaaahh, that wasn’t going to do a thing, except waste perfectly good water. Right then, I heard my friends walking around in the apartment above me. Luckily for me, the apartment I was cleaning was directly underneath the apartment that my friends live in. I knew I had to get lucky some day! But, how to get their attention? Staring at the ceiling certainly wasn’t doing the trick.

AH-HA! I spied the towel rack and knew I was in business. I quickly removed the rod and started hitting the roof of the bathroom with it. “DONOVAN!!!” I’m yelling. “DONOVAN, HELP ME!!!!!” Pound, pound, pound…

Nothing.

I am peering through the hole in the door, through where the handle was supposed to be at, and I see my friend’s child go running past the apartment. “ELIGH!!!!!” I screaming. Nothing.

Back to the rod I go. I am trying not to make any holes in the ceiling, because they may not be happy with me if I pound holes into their ceilings that they then have to fix, so I am trying to gently pound, if there is such a thing.

About 5 hours later (okay, maybe it was only 5 minutes later, but close enough!) I hear, “Havilah?” Salvation! Donovan had heard me! I start yelling, “In the bathroom! In the bathroom!” He opens up the front door to the apartment and just starts laughing. I thought he wouldn’t be able to make it across the room, he was laughing so hard.

Even though I was more than a little freaked out by that point (what happens if no one comes looking for me for a couple of hours? I have got better things to do than to stare at a toilet!) it suddenly hits me–this is freakin’ hilarious!!!!! I start laughing too, and by time Donovan got the door open, we were both laughing so hard we were having a hard time standing up.

The funniest part of all? I kept thinking, “I can’t wait to get home to write this in my blog!” And that is when I realized I was truly addicted to posting. Only 3 posts in, and I am already unstoppable.

Heaven help us all, eh?

Hava