Some Dreams Go Up in Flames: Literally

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what my true love is: Cafe Rio. Perhaps it’s the stamp  cards that can be found in almost all the pockets of any of my jackets (yes, I am one of those people who tend to forget my stamp card when I go, so I insist on getting a new one each time) or maybe it’s the outrageous amount of times that leftover pork salads can be found in my refrigerator with threatening notes on them. When I was in high school, a friend even asked me to the prom via a folded up note inside a burrito and left it on my porch.

Either way, it’s clear that my heart belongs to Cafe Rio. There is a Bible story which talks about Esau selling his birthright to his brother, Jacob, in exchange for a bowl of pottage. I have always thought that this was ridiculous, especially since I always pictured pottage being something like cold oatmeal. (But seriously. What kind of delicious food would be named ‘pottage’?!) It wasn’t until later that I realized that perhaps back in the day, pottage was similar to Cafe Rio. Yes, I would definitely consider trading my birthright for a good pork salad.

This past year I have been able to serve as part of the activities committee for my ward. This is fun because I truly have an amazing ward. When I got the calling back in July, I already made the decision that the most important part of my calling would be ensuring that Cafe Rio catered at least one activity. December rolled around, and as I helped to plan the Christmas SociaI I decided that this was the perfect time to implement my plan. (Naturally I try to make people think that Cafe Rio is their own idea by saying things like, “Hey everyone, so should we cater from Cafe Rio, or do you guys hate happiness and stuff?”) Hands down the hardest part of planning the activity was scheduling BYU’s students center, the Wilk, because the people there kept insisting that I needed to be on a certain “list.” I’m not sure what it takes to be on this list, but it seemed to be so elite that I am certain the only people on that list are Oprah, Kate Middleton, and Mark Zuckerberg. (I wanted to tell campus scheduling that I was Oprah, but apparently liars are not on this elite list either.) After literally a month of trying, a room was finally scheduled.  Once that was done and Cafe Rio was called, I was so excited I could hardly stand it.

The Ward Party finally arrived, and I piled my plate high with God’s greatest gift. I get particularly nervous about planning ward activities since I want everything to go well, but once I sat down with my food I was clearly in my element. In the middle of my meal, I looked over to the tables holding all the large, glorious trays of food and noticed a large group of people. This wasn’t totally weird because I am a firm believer in second helpings. I went back to eating for a moment until I realized exactly what I had seen: the group of people were surrounding a large, glorious tray of food that was on FIRE! Sometimes it’s not a big deal if your food is on fire. For example, if you go to a restaurant like Benihana’s, you can watch your food be engulfed in flames as it is cooked right before your eyes. Awesome, right?! Unfortunately, I am NOT an awesome cook at Benihanas, and instead am a poor college student that could be kicked out of the university for being an arsonist.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever had the horrifying moment of having to watch the thing you love most go up in flames, but I almost couldn’t even move. Then I laughed, which I believe was due to my insanity that is usually caused by horrendous experiences such as this. It turns out one of the burners had tipped over, causing a fire, and thus destroying a large part of my heart. The fire was put out quickly, and everyone moved on to other things. (Except for me, of course, since I was busy writing my will that distributed all of my half-filled Cafe Rio stamp cards to my closest family and friends.)

There are a few important things which I learned from this experience, most importantly to never take pork salads for granted again, because you never know when it will be devoured in flames. Campus Scheduling was nice enough to not send me a “This is why only elite people are allowed to schedule rooms on campus” note, and instead I just  had to fill out a quick fire report since apparently the university police isn’t too crazy about indoor bonfires.

In the end, I realized that my love for Cafe Rio will always burn brighter than any grease fire ever can.

Moms are Always Right: Except when she Tried to Ruin my Life

My mother is right about everything: when I need to bring a jacket somewhere, when I need to study harder in school, when I need to take a break and study less for school, when I need to eat my vegetables, when I should go to class, when I need to get my flu shot (this is debatable, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt), when I should fill my car up with gas, when I should stop talking so loudly so that the neighbors don’t have to hear my entire conversation,  when I need to stop falling asleep with my light on every night, etc. etc. etc.. This, of course, comes with the exception of the day she tried to ruin my life entirely by cutting off my hair. 

I was in second grade when she insisted I cut my hair because I refused to brush it.  She called up Fantastic Sam’s to schedule the appointment for me, politely saying, “Hi, my incredibly charming, intelligent, beautiful, and sometimes slightly stubborn daughter needs a haircut.”  What she didn’t expect was for her charming, intelligent, beautiful, and slightly stubborn 7 year old daughter to race to the other phone extension and scream right into the ear piece, “SHE DOES NOT NEED A HAIRCUT! SHE DOES NOT NEED A HAIR CUT!!!” I sometimes wonder who exactly it was that answered the phone on that fateful day, and how much money they have spent in attempt to regain hearing. I would call and apologize, but obviously she wouldn’t even be able to hear it anyway. Either way, I sure hope she had a good long laugh at hearing me yell at my mom through the phone. Anyway, my mom hung up the phone after telling the lady nevermind, apparently her daughter doesn’t need a haircut, and came to inform me that she, in fact, would be cutting my hair. This would be fine if it were physically possible for me to sit still for more than 5 seconds and my mom had more experience than cutting my brother’s hair, but naturally all things were going against me, and before I could run to the phone and start screaming at the next innocent person, my mother had chopped off my long locks short enough that you could see half my ears. (Granted, perhaps this was my fault, because as I was insisting that she put down those horrendous scissors down this instant, she probably couldn’t even hear me due to the fact her ears were still ringing from my earlier performance on the telephone.)  Now, I know the thought that “everyone is beautiful” but let me just say that everyone’s mother did NOT cut their hair in such a hideous fashion.  After the deed was done I informed my mother that I would definitely NOT be attending Park Lane Elementary School ever again, and that she had ruined the rest of my life. Probably she couldn’t hear me still, but I don’t even remember her being bothered by my comments.

During the next hour I tried to figure out how exactly I would still graduate from elementary school without anyone else having to lay their eyes on my Frankenstein-esque hair-do. (You know how those second grade critics can be…yikes.) Fortunately this experience happened when I was seven, so the longest I could focus on anything was half an hour at the most. By the end of the afternoon I had forgiven my mother and I was back on track for graduation. However, this did not stop me from glaring angrily at my teacher when I went to school the next day and she made me stand in the middle of the class so she could examine my “darling haircut.” (Quick Reminder: Forgiveness meant I wasn’t furious with my mother anymore, but unfortunately forgiveness doesn't also entail my haircut being darling. Forgiveness can help a lot of things, but it certainly can’t make an atrocious haircut into a cute one.)

Yes, my mom was wrong about one thing in her lifetime, but as people like to remind every person that has endured an ugly haircut, “Hair grows.” However, my mom has been pretty spot-on with everything else that she’s done for me. She knows that even when I tell her I don’t need any more food, that she should send the leftovers from dinner and half the year supply of food storage back to college with me. She knows that I still like her to come to the dentist with me just in case they decide to perform a random root canal during my 6 month checkup.  She knows how to be an incredible example of  being a disciple of Jesus Christ. She knows that I hide all the strawberry yogurts in the back of the refrigerator, and she doesn’t even try to stop me.

So basically my mom is right when it comes to just about everything. So when I stopped by my parent’s house last week and my mom told me for the 76^th time that I should start a blog, I figured that she was probably right. (This, of course, was after the fact that I informed her that apparently to create a blog when you’re my age you have to be newly married or have a baby, or at the very least do something more than Facebook stalk people all day, but my mom said that it shouldn’t matter. Which is another pretty cool thing about my mom, because she tells me I get to do what I want.) So, mom, here it is.

Here’s to never having a haircut that make people question my gender ever again.