PRK, Perks and Pasta

It's been a little bit since I posted and that is the result of two things. 1) Lack of anything interesting to say. If you're thinking that what I say is never interesting, well then why are you reading this? 2) I had PRK corrective eye surgery and couldn't see, therefore do much for about a week. I thought about Helen Keller during that week of eyes closed and laying on the bed quite a bit and wondered how on earth she made out. As in got by, not got her kissing game on, because you only need your lips for that! At least I had my book on tape, Their Eyes Were Watching God which was really interesting and made me think of love and being in love and how that changes everything and then I moved onto The Memory Keeper's Daughter which is not as great a piece of literature as the latter, but is still really interesting and I'm still listening to it. In fact, I apparently left a voicemail on my co-worker's cell with part of the book talking and it inevitably sounded really weird and random and she thought it was a joke but it was no joke, not funny, not at all. At least she thinks I'm a funny person who would play jokes. Guess I should play one now. Anyway, my phone randomly calls people. It's an IPhone so it's not like I can but dial someone. It's really annoying. But I have to say that phone is one of the only purchases I've ever made without regret. I have huge buyer's remorse, and even had with PRK a bit, especially since I'm not even sure I'l be 20/20 at this rate, but with the IPhone it just rocked my world and I am the happiest little camper around. And nobody's paying me to say that :)

There are always perks about those you date that are specific to that person, like I dated someone once whose family owned a hotel, so I could stay for free and I dated someone who was a gypsy who grew up in Italy so I could practice my Italian which was fab, then there was the guy I dated who was a musician, so I got to have one of my poem's recorded to his album as part of the song and sometimes he serenaded me from the stage just like is any girl's dream. Well he was the bassist so it was more of a serenade with his eyes, like "Babe, this one's for you" but there's been the singer serenader too, which girls, you know you like it.  Perks like that. Other perks could include getting discount furniture, VIP passes to parties, free Jambas whatever perk it is, there's usually something specific to that person. Like for the guys I date they get to hear an ear full about wearing seat belts and not texting and driving. Ya know, perks. So I met a guy this weekend who works for a bail bond company and he told me, "Not that you seem the type, but if you ever needed it..." Like I said, there are perks of all kinds.

Some people have these amazing talents of dancing, singing, playing music, creating the most beautiful paintings one could every envision and all I can do is practice the piano day after day and make about a snail's worth of progress. Not a painter, I can't sing, you already know about my dancing, but I do have a hidden talent. I can make a mean place of pasta. I don't cook a lot due to time, laziness and resources, but I can truly just know what needs to go into the sauce, know in my gut and put it together--a little bit of this, a lot of that--and voila. It's funny because when I was living in Italy, I did not have this gift and for a year or so after getting back to America it was even less evident and every pasta anyone made, especially my own, tasted gross, but after a bit of time, I suddenly started making these delectable dishes. I can even make the pasta without planning or buying anything, just letting my pasta intuition lead me to choose things around the house and after some concocting, people are scraping their plates. My error is that I don't write the recipes down and totally forget what it was that momentarily took away all sorrow, trouble or concerns for those partaking. The reason is because it takes like an hour to clean up the incredible catastrophe I cause in the kitchen and I'm too exhausted afterward to want to record anything. This gift is rather a miracle considering that no one believed anything I created by me would taste good since I baked my first batch of cookies in college. My sister even laughed out loud the first time she found out I was going to cook dinner. Whose laughing now, sucka! I understand more why the Italians are SO proud of their pasta, so possessive of it. It's against all rules to add salt to the pasta they make, you know. It's their masterpiece, their gift to their friends and should be perfect just like they made it. And served hot. I get so looney when people are slow arriving to the table. The pasta has to be served IMMEDIATELY. Hot. Tasty. Rich. Delicious. Mmmm. And I have to admit that I added this pasta section just because my title was really lacking with just "PRK and Perks" or "Perks and PRK" because they both seemed misleading. But how much better does my alliteration sound now? First time I've ever written to create a title, but now you get to know the joys of pasta and my hidden talent, so it was all for the best.

Recent Discoveries

Last week was a week of discoveries. First one, saltine crackers are MUCH better when they’re the mini-size. I even checked to see if it was butter or special of the week flavor and it was not. They were simply more delicious small size.

Next, adventures are always awaiting. I went up to Logan last weekend for work—Road Respect had a trailer at the MS-150 century ride and I asked people questions about safe cycling and driving and gave prizes. It was really cool, in fact, Road Respect is one of the favorite components of my job, but it got extremely cool once the crowd went back to their tents and it was just me and Smitty the Rat. I can imagine what you’re thinking will follow, but unless you’ve seen the 30-foot inflatable mascot that X96 so hilariously claims, you really have no idea what I’m about to say. This 30-foot inflatable rat has gangly teeth and a big fat belly and a long inflatable tail. It’s all quite ridiculous.

Well I ended up hanging out with some of the guys from X96 for a few hours playing the Wii on the belly of this inflatable rat Smitty. It was the most random and ridiculous thing I could have concocted for a Friday night. They ordered pizza after awhile and the delivery boy looked so petrified, truly nauseous when he came up, asking hesitantly, “Is..this the right place.” After seeing the instructions on his computer: “Look for the giant inflatable rat” I really wondered how he could have even been in question. I looked around. Nope, no other large inflatable rat in sight. So we ate pizza and started talking about politics, then religion, during which we looked up and remembered that the angry jaw of Smitty was literally looming over our heads and it kind of halted the conversation.

Another one, if your plans get thwarted by outside interferences, sometimes those interferences are worth using in a plan B. I went to the gym to swim laps and after about 10 minutes all of these old people started filling up the pool and they took out the lap divider. I realized there was an aqua class at the top of the hour. I was already wet anyway, so I joined ‘em. Me and all of Salt Lake City’s finest senior citizens doing our water aerobics together on a Thursday morning. And I’ll have to say, it was one of the most fun workouts I’ve ever done, and challenging too. I did have to chuckle to myself when I got out and noticed there was a walker near the pool stairs. Love those old people.  

Last discovery, I was sitting in church, feeling kind of blah and ugly, when it hit me that being good and cool is also attractive. Doesn’t sound so profound, I know. We all learned that lesson in elementary school in the warm and fuzzy lesson and hear it all the time, but obviously living in society can make us question those simple life lessons and what’s really important and worth working toward. Well it hit me hard that character and substance equate for a lot more than I was giving them credit for and after several weeks of having this deeper understanding and internalizing it, it’s really made a difference for how I’m able to view myself and others. I saw this young teen girl crying on the side of the road while walking to fireworks last night. Her cry sounded like a little animal, just desperate, scared, defeated. She said her boyfriend and her had gotten in a fight and had left her there and she was scared and didn’t want to get lost. I looked at this little girl, whose huge plastic blue glasses covered more circumference than her shorts and knew that her childhood understanding of worth was already lost, if not temporarily. It was clear that society had currently gotten the best of her, thinking that being sexy and accepted is the most important thing, as it’s gotten the best of all of us at one point or another. Now I’m hoping that I can hold on tight to this re-discovery of what I’ve always known but used to actually understand as a kid, and hoping that others can remember too.

Attack of the moth-bat

You know those weeks where you’re just exhausted ALL WEEK?  It was only Wednesday, but I’d felt that way since….thinking…..well, January, so it was one of those days where I was so excited to go to bed early. I was literally just about to fall asleep in my bed, the happiest moment of the day, when I remembered I hadn’t started the dryer because I had had to wait to clean the lint filter since I was brushing my teeth when I had put the tablecloth in it. I grudgingly got out of bed to start the dryer so the tablecloth wouldn’t have to sit wet all night and get that weird smell and have to be washed all over again…when I got attacked by a moth-bat.

Now if you’re unfamiliar with the monster, moth-bats are very evil things. They are very large moths that look like bats without your contacts in. Very scary, especially when you’re roommates are gone for the night.

The whole horror started when I heard this repeated thumping on the ceiling. I got scared, thinking it was footsteps upstairs, when I saw a shadow following the horrific thumping. I looked up (and not very far because I practically touch the top of my ceiling) and freaked out because something big was fluttering around right near my head, thumping its nasty self on my ceiling. I ran to my room and grabbed my glasses to discover, in full 20/20 vision glory, the most ginormous moth perched on my wall, wings spread and ready to attack. I’ve always had an aversion to anything that can fly, except, of course, fairies and butterflies. The evil twin of butterflies, the furry and up-to-no-good moth, is up there on my list of things to avoid, along with rapists, robbers, murderers, spiders, snakes and Savage Garden.

After a few moments of deliberation about how to proceed, I decide to kill it. I would man up and face this demon. I didn’t know what to kill it with since there’s no fly swatter in the world that would be strong enough to crush those thick, furry, disgusting wings—plus we don’t have one—so I grabbed the broom with the dustpan attached and planned my attack. I crept back down the stairs to the moth- bat still perched on the wall and took a deep breath, mustering all of the courage I had. I knew I had just one chance. One chance alone. I held that breath I’d just taken and lunged. If you saw me play softball last week, you may know that this story isn’t taking a good turn. I was the one where people kept saying to me, “Nice effort. That wasn’t so bad” when in reality, I struck out, so yeah it actually was so bad.  

As for the attempt to destroy my sickening predator, it all happened in slow motion. I guess I missed because suddenly, a hairy monster came flying angrily toward me. I couldn’t see where it went. I screamed bloody murder, shaking my hair up and down, sure it had nestled itself in those long locks that were very unruly from being previously in bed. Instead, it was actually flying crazily all around me, all around everything, unpredictable, dangerous. At least it didn’t get it my hair, holy heavens. I ran into my room and stuffed some pants in the small space under the door, my poor little heart pounding at full speed when it should have been peacefully beating, already in dream land. Then I waited…until tomorrow morning.

In the morning I had to watch every step, not a clue where the moth-bat had gone. It was the worst and most terrifying morning in the world. A fly buzzed in my face and I almost had a heart attack, thinking it was him, Barf-wings the Moth-bat. Although I could feel sickening fluttering and wings around me all day, I didn’t have a run in with him again until I came home from work and there he was, lying on my sofa, acting like he owed the place.

Fortunately, my friend was there and said he was dead. I couldn’t bring myself to go near the thing, so she took a napkin to crunch the thing and it was alive! It got angry and wanted to fly away so she threw it in the toilet where it started trying to fly around and around. As you can imagine, I was so scared I could have peed right there, but I couldn’t because Barf-wings was in my toiled!! Jessie had enough bravery to flush it down while I quivered in the corner of the bathroom, ready to die if moth-bat didn’t kill me first. And so it happened. He was washed down the toilet and my life began anew. Welcome, Lora, to a moth-bat-free life full of sunshine and peace.

I just hope he didn’t lay any moth-bat baby eggs anywhere. 

Not Just Another Book

I watched a little bit of the Tony awards a few weeks back and watched the jokes flying around about the Mormons and the Book of Mormon and our faith, due to the hit broadway play that was winning everything, "The Book of Mormon". It made me sad to hear the MC's jokes and the audiences laughter because I cherish my faith so much, but more than anything, it made me sad because I knew the people were laughing because they don't understand. I used to not understand as I spent several years passively half way in and half way out of the church. That was a hard time. The hardest time of my life. There was nothing in my life to make it so sad and hard, I can't claim anything, except that I wasn't utilizing what was right at my fingertips, and that's the happiness that the gospel brings. I know some people could read this and think negative things towards what I'm writing. I know that because people sometimes think negative things about what I say regarding this same topic. But all it is is a message of joy and truth and love. It's the kind of thing that makes life more than just a timeframe that we pass because we have to, but a journey of progression to a destination. It's knowing that someone greater than ourselves made us and loves us and knows us and has plans for us. This is what I learned once I started reading the Book of Mormon again after years of letting it sit on the shelf. After years of trying to direct my own life and watching that blow up in flames, feeling the burn every day. The sad part is that as much as I suffered and felt that pain blatantly, I didn't ever think, "Well maybe I could fix this. Just maybe this is because of my actions." This was during middle and high school when I was a person with no plans, no aspirations, no hope in anything. Now I'm a person who wants to experience and do everything, become the best I can be. A complete shift from that lost, hurting, confused person I once was. With the Book of Mormon, sometimes I just open the book and can feel the power. I feel it. Those words, written by prophets inspired by God himself, have helped me beyond the ability to describe. Have helped billions. On my mission, I remember seeing people transformed after reading those sacred words. I got so excited because I understood. One time we were getting on a train and shared some verses with a woman we chatted with every morning as we waited for the train. I watched her change as we shared those words, the tears fall, the light come into her face. It's a true book. The words are true. That means that there is a God, a Savior, a true church, hope. It means everything.

All in a name

My whole life I’ve gotten flack for my name. People can’t seem to figure out how someone’s name could possibly be spelled phonetically. My name is Lora pronounced Lore-uh.  It’s not Laura, Lori, Dora, Cora, Loren, or any other combination or derivative of the name Lora. I’ve always thought it was pretty simple, but apparently, I stand alone on a segregated island surrounded by a confused, angry and unaccepting world. When I was younger especially, people would call me Laura. Or maybe they still do just as frequently but I just don’t notice anymore. Come on though, I don’t call someone named Jack, “Jock” or someone named Jeff, “Jiff”. I mean really people, it’s an entirely different vowel sound. Recently, it’s seemed to have become more of a problem as far as the spelling, not just the pronunciation, with people saying how my name is weird or it’s spelled weird or I’m weird. My name is Lora. Is that really so difficult? So I was answering someone’s email who doesn’t know me and I signed the email with my name, which was written above my work email signature that has my full name written again underneath the first name that I typed in. Got it? It was written twice. Not to mention that this is the third time I’d corresponded with this person, so he’d seem it a total of SIX TIMES. Anyway, he responds back, “Laura, blah blah blah, blah.” I was indeed appalled. No sir, I assure you that I did not misspell my name in the past three emails. I’ve never misspelled my name except one time when I wrote Lora Smith on a paper at school, which is my best friend’s name (see, other people spell their name Lora whose names are Lora). A short-lived identity crisis which I immediately corrected. At any rate, I know I have a true friend when they can get my name right.

On a lighter note, yesterday I was stopped at a red light and this young woman wobbles across the cross walk with her towering high heels, cut-off butt shorts, long blond extensions and bubbling cleavage. I watched her, afraid she may fall over, and then I looked around and noticed that I wasn’t the only one concerned for her well-being. Three men parked at the same light were following her pathway, harmoniously inching their heads further and further to the right as she crossed, then turning them completely as she turned to walk down the street, following her with their eyes and heads until she was too far away that their necks would have broken to keep looking, which I’m kind of surprised they didn’t keep it up. At that point, all three men settled back into position, looking straight-ahead, apparently rest-assured that she would be okay and could indeed walk in those heals and cross the road safely. I’m so glad there are so many considerate and concerned men in the world.

The interesting happenings of my driving path are endless. The other week I saw Mario walking down the street. He was straight from the Mushroom Kingdom, with a round belly pugding out of his red jacket, a black mustache and a red hat.  Neh neh neh neh neh neh (you know what I mean) started playing in the background as I drove past him. I wish I could have snapped a photo.

I did, however, snap a photo of this dumpster that says, “Sometimes we don’t know where we’re going...” I wasn’t sure how to take that exactly but decided it can’t be a great thing in the context. You decide.

Dancing Lessons

I saw the beautiful Elizabeth Smart country dancing this week and couldn't help but watching her a bit as she danced with lots of guys who were constantly asking her to dance. She looked really happy and like she was having a lot of fun. Looking at her, you'd never know she had had so much trauma and horrible experiences in her life, except that everyone knows. It made me think how you really have NO idea what's going on in people's lives, even when they seem a certain way or act a certain way. The most important thing is to always be kind. Most people in the US would never be rude to Elizabeth Smart, knowing what she's been through. I'm sure she is treated so kindly everywhere she goes. But she did recently get back from her mission in Paris where I know people were rude to her, because she was a missionary and there are always people who are rude to missionaries. The nicest people can be rude to missionaries, I've been one, I know. If those people had any idea what she's gone through in her life, I know they wouldn't have ever slammed a door or yelled at her or ignored her or maybe she got rocks thrown at her like I did in Italy. They may have said "no thanks" and closed the door, but they wouldn't have been rude because most people are good in their hearts; they have compassion and sympathy and substance, especially for the wounded. I think we all have something in our lives that would motivate people to be kind, charitable and decent towards us if they knew we were going through or had gone through.

As for me, I was told I'd need two months instead of the typical one to learn how to country dance. I'll admit, I was one of the only girls in seventh grade who didn't make dance company. And I saw a picture of my dance recital in preschool and I was in my yellow polka-dot bikini bobbing up and down to the left side when everyone else was turned to the right. But it's not my fault, in the womb, I was upside down and backwards--I guess I've just always been a little bit directionally challenged (which makes it hard to dance, if you couldn't figure that out). Needless to say, everyone has their own talents.

Random Rambling

I was at the mall awhile back and kept meaning to record this moment I witnessed/shared. There was a kiosk of hairstyling products and the employee was curling a woman’s hair to demo the product to her. The woman had dirty blond hair and heavy eyeliner and her eyes were rolled back in their sockets as this other lady curled her hair. She was in pure exstasy. As I watched this moment I felt like I was somehow a part of it. It was such a personal, intimate moment to be witnessing, and there she was, in the middle of a crowded mall, just letting herself revel in the bliss of having her hair done. I smiled then.


People joke with me that the older you get, the less picky you can be. Some of my single friends joke that they'll take what they can get at this point. All of this, is of course, a total front, because the reality is that older people get, the pickier they get. They figure they've waited this long to find that special someone, that the person better be out of this world incredible. So now that I got that into the open, I might as well be quite frank that I also have some very specific and high expectations for my future spouse:


1) He must be a certified massage therapist. Yep, that's right. 


The end.


I just got back from getting a massage and I'm telling you, I feel amazing. There is nothing better than walking out of that room all relaxed and pain-free. Well, I'm sure there are better things, but getting a full-body massage from someone who knows what they're doing and isn't afraid to rub out all of that muscle pain is truly one of life's great joys. But it's too expensive, so either I need to get a part-time job dedicated exclusively to regular massage therapy or I just need to marry a massage therapist. The latter is looking more favorable at the moment.


So speaking of work. I love my job. I'm one of those really blessed people who didn't know exactly what they wanted to be when they grew up, but were lead to a great fit that made so much sense they wonder how they didn't think of that on their own. Well, I guess people don't necessarily think, "I'm going to be a safety nerd when I grow up." So that's probably why I didn't think about it then.


At any rate, the other day we were giving out Creamies to high school and middle school kids to entice them to listen to our message about construction safety. As you can guess, they really only wanted the Creamies, especially the 7th graders, so there was one point during our first lunchtime presence that I had a horrifying flashback to the movie Selena. You know the scene where she's singing in Mexico and everyone's so excited because Selena's the bomb diggity, so they start crowding toward the stage to be near her and people are getting trampled. Apparently, free ice cream can have the same effect. You get real popular when you're giving that stuff away. I am a big fan of JLO, but as much as I love her, I don't want to be her, and I certainly didn't want 7th graders trampling each other for a free Creamie. So we resolved that situation immediately and the rest of the schools we visited were much more controlled. Hey, there's always a learning curve.


On a final note, I was thinking about how fun dating used to be when you were 16. I remember repeatedly going with my girlfriend and sneaking into the backyard of my crush's house and throwing rocks at his window. He'd come out and we'd stay up all night talking on his tramp. Now-a-days I don't have the energy nor the desire to stay up all night, ever. Never ever ever. Plus, everything's so serious. If I tried that approach now, the guy would think I was some obsessed crazy person or it would make it all awkward, when really a crush or a bold move isn't a marriage proposal. That's what 16 year olds understand that older people sometimes don't. I daresay the one thing that 16 year olds understand that older people don't. Dating when you're younger was so carefree, so exciting and had such low pressure. Now you go on a first date and wonder if you're getting sized up for a lot more than your bowling skills. Don't get me wrong, I still have fun on dates. But it's definitely a very different experience than it was even freshman and sophomore year of high school. I remember going on motorcycle rides with the guy I liked when I was 19, who looked like Jim Morrison with bad teeth, through the red hills of St. George, holding on tight and feeling the wind on my face and hair--no care in the world and no helmet. Now, I would never ride without a helmet (which I'm proud to say) and I wonder if I'd even hold close.