Umm . . . Excuse Me, But Didn't You Mean to Give Me Some of That Banana Bread?

You already know I'm an awkward person. I mean, I already know I'm an awkward person, and I would think you'd have gathered as much from my blog entries. It's okay, though. There are other people in the world who share my awkwardness. College freshman and math majors, for instance. In fact, I met a great college freshman/math major who was awkward just the other day. It was great, and my day was subsequently brightened as a result of this encounter.

I was in my yard weeding a couple evenings ago. (I weed a little--almost--every day. I estimate that at my current rate, the northeast corner of my driveway will be weed free by about the time it freezes and all the weeds die. Ah, the circle of life.) In the middle of my weeding, I heard someone approach from across the street as a male voice said, “I haven't yet met my neighbors.” I turned to see who it was and was able to identify the voice's owner as a freshman even before he introduced himself. He was carrying two small loaves of what appeared to be banana bread wrapped in Saran wrap.

He told me his name was Josh (name may have been forgotten and then made up to protect the innocent, but I'm not actually sure) and asked if I was a student at SUU and I told him that I wasn't, but my husband was.

I think that's when things started to go wrong.

There was a slightly long pause in which I expected him to hand over the banana bread and high-tail it back to his apartment across the street, “the downstairs, but not the basement,” as he had told me just before he asked if I was a student. However, he kept his banana bread and stayed. So, I attempted to advance the conversation:

“You're a student? At SUU?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am.”

“What's your major?”

“Math.”

I paused and realized that if there was damage to do it was already done. “My husband is a math major. Do you have an emphasis?”

“Yeah, actuarial science.”

“Oh, really, that was his degree, before he changed it!”

So, we discussed why Alex is no longer interested in an actuarial job for a short time and then came to another pause. And I again expected to part ways, each of us holding a loaf of banana bread. Again, I was wrong.

“So, Malinda, right? Well, it was nice to meet you!”

“And you . . . , I forgot your name, sorry!”

“Josh.”

“Right, Josh. Good to meet you. See you later!”

“Right, bye.”

And then he walked off with my banana bread.

Okay, so maybe that's a bit presumptuous of me to call it “my banana bread,” but every other time I've had a neighbor introduce themselves while holding goodies, I have come out with some in the end. Also, every time I've approached a neighbor with a treat, I've given it to them. Maybe we're all doing this wrong?

So, after he left with both loaves of bread, I just stood there. . . until he was out of earshot. Then I laughed.

I mean, it was funny to me. Why make the effort to come over to meet your neighbors with bread in tow and then take it home with you? Perhaps it was as Alex suggested as he interrupted my story (before I had gotten to the punchline—he thought he was so funny) and Josh said, “Well, I really intended this bread for unmarried people,” and went home. I could understand that. If you're using your “Getting to know the neighbors routine” to pick us on girls, it can be a real downer to encounter an old married woman. You probably don't want to waste your banana bread on her—it takes time to make, and you aren't getting any less single! I get it. And having been in the single realm, I could see it being true for many guys. Hence, the laugh.

But maybe—and I'm gonna go with this option—he was just a little flustered and not used to how these situations go. It's his first time away from home and he probably hasn't done this a lot. Maybe he's a new high school graduate who's still acclimating to the concept of meeting girls—or a returned missionary. Who is also still acclimating to the concept of meeting girls. In any case, I don't think I was intentionally denied my right to getting-to-know-you goodies. (That's a right, right? “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness [in the form of baked goods from new neighbors]”?) I think it was just a case of social ineptitude. And I salute that, because I have certainly had my share of those moments. My only hope is that I, like Josh, have given those on the receiving end of my blunders a laugh, even when I may have forgotten the other reason I came.

Never Look an in-Law in the Mouth

I don't give my in-laws enough credit.

Mothers-in-law are often misunderstood. I mean, very few people even know that the correct way to pluralize the word mother-in-law is to make it mothers-in-law, not mother-in-laws. This may be because most people only have one mother-in-law and figure that they will never need to use the plural form. But aside from not understanding the grammar related to the mothers of our spouses, I feel like we often suffer miscommunications with our in-laws that cause them to get a bad rap. If we stop to think about it, though, many of the negative mother-in-law jokes that are responsible for making our fear of our moms-in-law second only to step-mothers (who are also undeserving of such a reputation), most—if not all—are unfounded.

Sometimes, I negatively critique people. However, as my husband recently pointed out after patiently listening to me vent for awhile, “Umm . . . not to be offensive, but a lot of the things you've mentioned are just as much your fault as theirs. If not more.” And he was right. I think this is the case with in-laws. I mean, I'm basing my evaluation on a rather small sample size consisting of . . . well, just my in-laws, but they are good people. However, we're both human, so we have some misunderstandings. Some of which can be rather humorous, as illustrated by the following story.

It was the Fourth of July weekend and we were spending it in Richfield with Alex's family. Having had Melody just over a month earlier, we were both tired and in dire need of sleep. I'm sure my mother-in-law could see this and she generously volunteered to watch the baby anytime so that we could go rest. We being new and slightly over-protective parents, though, we nodded and thanked her—while staying close by.

As the baby fussed and our nerves got shorter, though, I finally surrendered and handed Melody over to her grandma. To be completely honest, after having Melody I was overly sensitive and saw offers to help as an attack on my motherhood. You wanna hold my baby? Oh, I see—because I'm not doing a good enough job, huh? (I don't need to say this, but that was the fatigue talking; my mother-in-law was being nice. I, on the other hand, was being a brat.)

Anyway, as Melody continued to fuss, Elaine rubbed her back and softly murmured something which to my ears sounded like “Should we go put some margarine on that belly?”

I thought, I'm just going to ignore that, pretend it didn't happen, and hope that it doesn't.

But the crying continued, and again I heard “Yes. Let's go put some margarine on that tummy.” She then took my baby upstairs. Presumably to smear a mixture of vegetable oils and animal fats on her belly. I was at a loss.

“Alex!” I hissed across the room, “What is your mom going to do to Melody?”

“Hmm . . . what?” he replied as he tore his eyes away from the TV screen.

“She just took Melody upstairs saying something about putting margarine on her belly! I don't want her to put margarine on her belly!” I started into a sleep-deprived panic.

“What the . . . ? I'll go stop her!” And off he ran to rescue our baby from the evil trans fats.

A little while later he returned with a smirk and assured me that everything was fine.

“Well . . . ?” I asked expectantly.

He stifled a snicker and reported: “I asked what she was doing and she told me she was going to put some marjoram oil on Melody's belly to help with her gas, but then she settled down so it was unnecessary.”

Huh. Marjoram. Fancy that.

So, here I stand (or sit, rather), guilty as anyone of condemning my in-laws. However, I would like to say that I'm sorry, and I'm trying not to do it again. They are good, nice people.

They have a really odd daughter-in-law, though.

Halfbacks, Quarterbacks, and Flashbacks

With high school football season starting and Fall just around the corner, I've been struck by this funny excitement. It's funny because I'm not a particularly avid sports fan. I can take them or leave them, but having been raised in a family that has spent a certain amount of time watching games, I value this time not because of the sport so much as the memories and lessons that I have in connection with the great sport of quarterbacks, tackling, and touchdowns.

My dad is a football coach. Although he has never played the game, he has spent many years watching games and studying to the point that he could coach. Because of that, I've always had football memories. When I was young, we would watch BYU games at my grandma's house. (This really meant that we'd eat cookies until my mom told us to stop, then we'd go outside to play in the leaves.) Since my dad didn't get his boys until later, he taught his girls to throw a football with a perfect spiral and how to protect the ball by holding it tight to the body with one hand on each point of the ball so that if we got tackled we wouldn't fumble the ball. He talked football to us like we understood, and somewhere in the middle of Xs, Os, and Wing Ts, he would stop and say something like “You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?” I didn't, but I didn't mind, either. In fact, I enjoyed it.

When I got to be a Freshman, I became more interested in football and decided to start going to games. (Actually, I think I just imagined that it was something that normal high school students did and that if I followed suit, it would make me more of a normal high school student. For those of you wondering, it didn't work.) I tried going and sitting—actually, it's more like standing—in the student section, but it wasn't really my thing. Since my dad was typically on the sidelines, my Grandpa George became my football buddy.

We hit most of the away games for a couple of years. Sometimes it would be just the two of us, like the time we went to Beaver and it was raining like crazy. Grandpa led the way to a couple of seats on the Beaver side, and while ignoring my protests that we couldn't sit in the opponents' side, sat down to watch the game. Pulling out a large garbage sack, he proceeded to poke arm and head holes in it so that he could use it as a rain poncho. In front of everyone! As I stared at him while trying to avoid looking like I was staring at him, he pulled out another trash bag and offered it to me. I politely declined and assured him that I had a jacket. He took one look at my light jacket that was cute, but didn't shed water, and told me I was going to get wet. Then he started yelling “SCORE ONE FOR THE REF!” in protest of a call he disagreed with, as he was wont to do. I just knew in my teenage mind that every person in the stadium was looking at me and my trashbag-wearing, ref-berating grandpa sitting on the wrong side of the field. Even if they had been, grandpa never would have cared.

Sometimes grandpa's friend, Sheldon, rode with us. On these trips, I'd usually sit in the backseat, listen as they talked, and wait for the inevitable moment when they'd start their sing-a-longs. They'd encourage me to join in (again, I would decline for fear of what they would think) and start singing some songs that I knew and some that I didn't. One of my favorites was Irving Berlin's “Play a Simple Melody.” (Which I have since heard my dad singing to my daughter Melody on several occasions. It's cute, guys.) It has two verses that are sung first separately, then together. I liked hearing grandpa sing the second verse because as he sang “Musical demon, set my honey to dreamin', won't you play me some rag?” he got this little bounce in him and he would tap his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music. He looked like he was having fun. And always, without fail, he would turn to Sheldon and say enthusiastically, “We oughta sing the 'Wreck of the Old '97'!” when they'd finished. And Sheldon would say “Aw, I can't remember the words.” So grandpa would say “Oh, but it's a good one! Wish I knew the words. Now, let's see . . .” Then he'd start bouncing in time as he tried his best to remember.

“'He was comin' down the hill goin' 90 miles an hour, when the whistle began to scream. He was found in the wreckage with his hand on the throttle, and scalded to death by the steam. Oh . . . ' Hmm. Yep, I just wish I could remember the words. Only know that little bit. But it's a good one. It's a good one. . .” Then he'd hum to himself and sing a word here or there as he remembered it. For a while, I didn't believe that “Wreck of the Old '97” was a real song, but that maybe he just made up parts and mixed up various songs to make a new one. But lo, and behold! I Googled it, and it is an actual song. Sung by Johnny Cash, no less. (Not originally, though. It was originally sung by one Vernon Dalhart. Just so you know.)

Anyway, that was grandpa. While others may be concerned with appearances and what others thought, he bounced along and persisted in his own way, with little care for what others may think. And though I may have found it humiliating or obnoxious at times, I now find it to be one of the things I admire most about him. I think it's why I enjoyed sitting with him at ball games more than with the other students. (That, and Sheldon would share Almond M&Ms with me.) I learned more about football and had even more experiences when I became a manager for our high school team, but my best football memories were with my grandpa. As he gets older—as most of us do—and the memories are fading, I value my time with him even more. That's why I get a little thrill when I think of the beginning football season; it's not so much about what's coming as it is about what has passed.

Cheap Yogurt and Hypocrisy at Walmart

Walmart is an interesting place. There are people who will smile back at you when you smile at them, and there are people who won't. We all come together in this one place to purchase almost anything we could want or need, and we all respond to that opportunity differently. Sometimes we get stressed about how many other people are doing the exact thing we are: just shopping and minding their own business. I often catch myself hypocritically feeling like I have a right to be the only one in the store. “WHY DOES EVERYBODY ALWAYS HAVE TO SHOP AT THE SAME TIME I COME?” *Ahem.* Please excuse my outburst(s).

My grandma likes to tell me about how she enjoys psychoanalyzing people according to the contents of their carts. She invents stories about what kind of people they are because they have healthy/unhealthy food in their carts. Well, as much as I may judge people in my head, I try not to be too harsh because I know my cart must be giving healthy people a laugh heartier than their oatmeal. And I always try to keep my judgments to myself.

This is a lesson I learned while shopping at thrift stores with my sisters. No matter how ridiculous the item you are mocking, there WILL be someone who comes up right after hearing your “Who would buy this?” who will pick it up and buy it. Always. So, I try to discreetly whisper about how silly certain items are, instead of broadcasting it to the entire store. And though the local DI's sales have dramatically decreased, my embarrassment has followed suit. I consider this to be a win.

Unfortunately, a lady in the yogurt aisle today had not learned this lesson. I was minding my own business and making my way toward the cheap, store-brand yogurts that are, I know, less nutritious (but also much cheaper) than name brand yogurts that are all-natural with great probiotics and such. As I approached, I listened as a woman loudly explain to her children that she would be buying GREEK yogurt, and that they could have some. Her children evidently didn't want Greek yogurt because they continued to pester her to have a different type of yogurt: “But moooom, look, strawberry banana!” To which she replied even louder than before: “NO. Those yogurts are full of sugar and artificial colors!”

So, I paused for a second and tried to decide what to do since I was heading right for some colored sugar myself. Should I grab a more healthy yogurt? Just because some stranger lady was berating her children in the dairy section? No. I'm better than that. I would have my cheap, inferior yogurt.

I toyed with the idea of walking past and circling around again after the yogurt aisle was deserted, but decided that was taking the easy way out. Not to mention it would be utterly ridiculous! I don't know why I found it so intimidating to just walk up and get my darn yogurt while a woman argued with her children about the nutritional downfall of normal yogurts, but I did. For just a second. I mean, it's not like she made an example out of me after I left by telling her kids “See, what happens to you if you consume sugar and coloring? You'll be like that girl!” If anything, she probably just judged me quietly, like my grandma would. I mean, what kind of person comes home from Walmart and obsesses with people they saw in the yogurt aisle . . . ?

And thus the hypocrisy continues.

Y, Oh, Y Do I Have to Cook?

You probably didn't know this, but I type my blogs with a disability. Yes, that's right; the “y” key on my keyboard is dented and falls off. I muddle through, but as you read, just keep it in mind.

It happened like this: I was baking. All the worst things begin with me baking, and it didn't help that I was in our tiny kitchen with limited counter space. We were responsible for providing a treat for a Family Home Evening we were attending with friends, and I had decided to make a trifle. Despite their name, trifles are not a dessert of small consequence. Although, in all honesty, it's just a chunked up cake layered with toppings and pudding layered in to make it look better than the average cake.

The cake had been baked and I had begun to cut out cubes to stack in our best glass bowl. Unfortunately, as I mixed the pudding to spread, my already too-small counter seemed to shrink even more. It was either that, or the cake pan suddenly leapt off the edge. At any rate, I watched in horror as my cake pan, with at least half of the cake still in it,

fell

to

the ground, striking the y key on the laptop as it fell.

So, I did what any self-respecting individual in my situation would have done; I picked up the pieces of chocolate cake, broke off the parts that touched the ground, and salvaged the rest. I know this was okay because I watched my Aunt Terri lead an army of spoon-wielding nieces and nephews to save a pie that had fallen to the ground—by eating it off the gravel. This is also why I laughed incredibly hard at the part in “Julie and Julia” when she drops the chicken on the ground and ends up lying on her back in the kitchen having a meltdown. The number of times I've found myself on the kitchen floor lamenting my cooking abilities and the mere fact that I have to cook dinner is more than I'd care to admit.

I promise this was the only time I did something of this sort. To date, anyway. But you may be able to see “Y” cooking is so stressful for me. (And “Y” you may want to avoid eating my cooking . . .)