Popping the Bubble

Infuriated Fowl

2011-06-26T19:05:00.013-06:00

You know you live in an age of technology when your mother tells your little brother and sister to mute the sound on the iPod Touch and the iPad because Dad is trying to take a nap...

...when, in reality, the Angry Birds she hears relentlessly tweeting are real birds outside the open window.

Life adventures with Betty Crocker

2011-06-21T18:14:00.006-06:00

I am not one whose current life situation allows for gourmet meals to be a part of everyday living. That being said, however, I do enjoy stints of culinary creativity* every now and again.

One such stint took place on a cold winter's evening not long ago (or perhaps 'several months ago' would be more accurate--my blog has some catching up to do) whilst I sat alone in my apartment, all four roommates having vacated the premises for the evening. After flipping through dozens of TV channels and finding oodles of incredibly interesting programs to watch, I decided instead to put my mind-boggling gastronomic** skills to work and amuse myself by cooking something delicious. I walked to the kitchen cupboard and then the refrigerator and critically studied each location's contents before carefully selecting the finest ingredients with which to create a true masterpiece: vegetable oil, two large eggs, a cup of water, and a box of Betty Crocker's Rainbow Chip Super Moist Cake Mix.

As I had invited Ms. Crocker to supplement my phenomenal cooking skills, I knew I could do no wrong. Before mixing the batter, I turned the oven on to preheat and then commenced to racing the preheat buzzer as I threw (ahem, I mean...carefully mixed) my ingredients together and poured them into the pan which I had, in fact, remembered to grease. Before I knew it, I was placing the colorful batter into the warming oven and triumphantly doing a small fist pump while informing the oven that I'd just won the race (the buzzer had not yet sounded).

I returned my plethora of ingredients to their rightful places and quickly washed the numerous dishes that had been required to create the above-mentioned masterpiece, and then returned to my seat on the couch. Once again, I commenced to flipping through dozens of channels and finding oodles of incredibly interesting programs to watch.

Time passed.

I wondered to myself when the delicious smell of baking cake would begin to fill my apartment. In the back of my mind, I also wondered (in a somewhat embarrassed manner) if I had actually become engrossed enough in the flipping of channels to entirely miss the sound of the preheat buzzer. However, the thought was fleeting, and I quickly dismissed it.

More time passed.

At last, I could faintly smell the beautiful aroma of cooking cake. Noticing that the bake time was nearly up, I stood and returned to the kitchen to check on my creation. I opened the oven, expecting a rush of deliciously warm air to rise out of it. Instead, what I felt as I pulled the creaky oven door partially open was something like the weather on a cool day in Phoenix. I looked at my beloved cake and saw that the edges had begun to cook, but all else was still very battery. "Patience," I told myself. "Just have patience."

And so I returned to the couch and waited.

More time passed.

I checked on the cake again.

Still battery, and the oven was possibly less warm than last time.

Great.

Well, I wasn't about to let the oven conquer me, even if it was twice my age. I cranked up the heat--400 degrees, baby.

I returned to the living room yet again, expecting heat to start radiating from the kitchen. Uncomplaining and long-suffering, I waited another five minutes.

Back to the kitchen.

I opened the oven door only to confirm my suspicions that the oven was mocking me. In fact, the temperature was probably now cooler inside than out.

Feeling a tiny seed of frustration beginning to bud, I eyed my beautiful cake and then glanced at the knobs and buttons on the oven.

And then I saw it.

Self-clean.

With a malicious grin beginning to spread across my face, I shut the oven door, locked it, and triumphantly pressed the button.

This time, something was different. Aha! Yes, the oven was beginning to heat. Perhaps it would at last become warm enough to bake my precious cake.

I returned to the living room.

Victoriously, I yet again commenced to flipping through dozens of channels and finding oodles of incredibly interesting programs to watch.

The smell of baking cake began to fill the apartment. Heh.

A few minutes later, I returned to the kitchen. As I entered, a very faint burning smell filled my nostrils. I assured myself that this smell was simply due to the fact that the edges of the cake had already been slightly cooked and so were probably now becoming slightly burnt, and that a slightly burnt cake is better than a cake that won't cook at all.

I retrieved some hot pads and reached for the oven door and pulled. It wouldn't budge. But of course! The lock was still on. I proceeded to push the lever back to its original position so as to unlock the oven. However, it, too, did not care to budge. I pushed harder, feeling the waves of heat from the oven attempting to scorch my skin. The burning smell originating from the oven was beginning to grow stronger. Small beads of sweat began to form on my forehead.

I pushed, I pulled, I tugged, I tried random angles of attack. Nothing would make the oven unlock. I looked desperately at the timer on the oven, realizing that the lock would not disengage until the next three hours and thirty-seven minutes had passed. I frantically wondered what would happen if I couldn't figure out a way to pry the oven open before then.

Shortly thereafter, my question was answered.

I watched in horror as a small waft of smoke began exiting the oven. Desperately, I yanked on the locked lever, but to no avail. By this time, the smoke was becoming more than a waft. In fact, it was pouring from the oven. The kitchen was beginning to resemble the edge of an uncontrolled forest fire. What could I DO? My apartment building is awfully old and certainly could use a remodel, but I was painfully aware that a fire would not be the ideal way to start a renovation.

I rushed to the windows and, though it was a mere fifteen degrees outside, threw them all open. The fire detector in the upstairs hallway began to go off, but I paid it little heed.

Taking a deep breath, I reentered the kitchen and dove down into the heart of the billowing smoke and examined the locked lever. I noticed a small latch that was causing the oven to stay locked but that my fingers could not quite reach. I stood up again and decided to change my tactic. I began to pry the stovetop away from the rest of the oven. With much effort and grumbling, it gave way, and I propped it open. I could see the latch more clearly now, but still could not reach it.

The next few minutes became a blur (not unlikely at least partially due to the damage I'm sure I incurred from all the smoke inhalation).

Prying, poking. Tugging, turning, twisting, hammering.

And then at last.

The stubborn latch gave way. I threw the oven open. Dark smoke billowed everywhere. I could see the burning embers of what had once resembled a cake inside. Doubling my hotpads, I reached my precious hands into the oven and pulled it out. I placed my culinary creation on the cupboard and stood back. The serenity of the cold night air began to seep in and the oxygen levels inside the apartment began to rise.

I walked over to my cake and brushed away some ashes.

"Well, at least it finally got baked..." I thought to myself.

I poked the center of it. A crusty outer layer caved in.

To my dismay, the center was still...

batter.

*The "creative" part is usually unintentional and, I'll admit, generally makes said creations inedible.

**Although the prefix "gastro" makes me think of unpleasant things like "gastrointestinal infection," "gastronomic" simply means: "the creation of beautiful or significant things" in relation to "the art or science of good eating." (yes, really)

DISCLAIMER: Some hyperbole may or may not have been used during the writing of this post.

Ahem.

2011-06-06T11:15:00.008-06:00

Well, if you were expecting a real post, you'll have to come back later. I do offer my most sincere and profuse apologies for the energy I caused you to wastefully expend upon clicking the link to my blog (or worse yet, the strain of the eye muscles it took to view this post in Google Reader) in expectation of an eloquent, grand comeback after my recent--rather lengthy--hiatus.

However.

I very much hope that you will forget your hardships for a brief moment and enjoy the work of art below just as much as I did:

Hehe.

(Photo found here.)

Stolen Identity

2010-10-25T14:05:00.010-06:00

The following narratives are based on actual events:

My friend's dad (to whom I shall henceforth refer as Mr. Parker) was once pulled over for a mild speeding infraction. As the officer approached, Mr. Parker rolled his window down and the usual license and registration jargon proceeded. Upon obtaining the necessary documents, the officer went back to his cruiser. Mr. Parker sat and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The officer stayed in his car for an unusually long time.

At long last, the officer got out of his cruiser and began walking back toward Mr. Parker's vehicle.

Carrying a pair of handcuffs.

The officer brusquely ordered Mr. Parker out of his Astro van.

"It seems, Mr. Parker, that you have been avoiding arrest over the past several months in no fewer than six states," he stated as Mr. Parker confusedly began opening his door.

"What?!" exclaimed Mr. Parker. "That's ridiculous! There must be some mistake!"

"You are Gary Parker of 12345 Oak Drive, are you not?"

Mr. Parker gave a hesitant nod.

"Well, my report says that you were last seen in Kentucky robbing a jewelry store."

Mr. Parker gave a hysterical laugh.

"I've never even BEEN to Kentucky."

There followed a pause in which Mr. Parker began pulling out his mustache (his heart-rate all the while accelerating) while a look of pitying comprehension began to dawn upon the officer's face.

"Well, sir," said he (eyeing Mr. Parker's faithful and rather delapidated Astro van with a look of understanding belief), "I'm afraid you are a victim of identity theft."

***********************

Yesterday, I was at work. (surprise)

A fellow grad student walked in and asked if I had registered for classes for Winter semester yet.

I had not.

So of course I immediately went to the BYU website and began sifting through the classes I was interested in taking. Upon finding the first one for which I wished to register, I clicked the "Add" button. The usual pop-up box appeared.

But then I realized this was not the usual pop-up box at all.

In glaring red letters, the system was informing me that the class for which I wished to register was not added due to a hold on my account.

I racked my brain, wondering what the reason for the hold could possibly be.

Did I have library fines?

I quickly checked.

No, no library fines.

Was something amiss with my BYU financial account?

I clicked on the financial account link on Route Y.

The page began to load. And load. And load.

At last, the page appeared. My anxiety was only heightened.

$495.00

$495.00!

$495.00?

I owed BYU four-hundred ninety-five stinking dollars?! But for what? I clicked on the details.

First item: a five-dollar testing center fee. I racked my brains. Had I taken a test last week? Yes. In fact, I couldn't forget that test if I tried. Three large blue books, three essays, three hours. But I hadn't taken it on a late day. There hadn't even BEEN a late day. Had there? Did my professor cruelly make the last day a late day and then not tell us?

But wait.

The day listed on my account was not even the day I had taken the test!

Confusion.

Second item: apparently, I had recently decided to purchase a bus pass. In the amount of $100. Ridiculous. Not possible. I can name the cities in which I have ridden public transportation (in the United States, anyway), on one hand. And none of those fingers is called Provo.

More confusion.

Third item: $390 in unpaid tuition. At this, my panic did a little flaring. I had definitely paid my tuition for fall semester. Months ago. On time. Using nearly all my summer savings. This couldn't be happening! No. I wasn't going to let those forty hours per week spent in the library stand for nothing. If someone was stealing my precious BYU identity, I wasn't going to let them get away.

I dialed Financial Services.

A voice recording answered, as usual.

I pressed "0" to just skip right to the part where I could speak to an assistant. But alas, no such luck. I sat through the entire voice recording, which seemed to have to inform me of every minute detail regarding financial payments, scholarships, grants, and other forms of pecuniary assistance. When the recording was at long last concluded, my delight was only furthered as my ears were subjected to a rendition of that beautiful, rare, and always well-performed composition: Fur Elise.

After a few minutes of waiting--during which I realized Fur Elise might never again be un-stuck from my head--a cheery voice answered the phone and asked me what she could do to help me. Dispensing with the niceties, I got straight down to business and gave her my student ID number so that she could pull up my account and shed light onto my dire situation.

"All right," she said, "I'm looking at your account. What seems to be the trouble?"

"The trouble," I replied, "is that none of those fines are mine! I didn't take a test in the testing center that day, I never ride the bus, and all my tuition is paid!"

There followed a puzzled silence.

"I'm not quite sure I understand what you're saying," the assistant finally replied.

"Those fines!" I said, slightly exasperated. "They're not mine! And now I have a hold on my account, which means I can't register for classes. What am I supposed to do?"

Another perplexed pause.

"I see no fines," she said.

"But..." I said.

How could this be?

Who was clever enough to fine my account mysterious amounts of money, and then make it look as if nothing was amiss when the financial office viewed it?

What could I do?

And then, I saw it.

The answer to all my problems.

In fact, my problems were not mine at all!

At the top, left-hand corner of the screen was written a name. The account holder's name. And that name was not mine.

"Aha!" I cried euphorically. In my head.

Realization was dawning. Had I ever actually logged in? No. The computer had kept the previous user logged in. I had simply not noticed.

"Let me try logging out and logging in one more time, " I said aloud to the patiently waiting assistant.

I logged out.

I logged in.

No fines.

No holds.

No stolen identity.

I was free!!!

"Well, never mind," I said, "There's nothing wrong with my account at all."

"Great!" said my assistant. "Have a nice day!"

"Oh, I am!" said I.

I am.

A beautiful message

2010-10-23T23:28:00.002-06:00