My Zumba Experience

     In case you don't already know, a lot has happened in my life since I last wrote. Let me update you:

     I got engaged, and I got married! Whoohoo!

     I love being married, and I'm convinced that I have the best husband in the whole wide world. We've already been married four months. How time flies!

    I know that many of you have probably thought I put my blonde moments behind me once I got married since you haven't heard from me in so long, but I'm sorry to disappoint you. I have not lacked for blonde or embarrassing moments. Rather, I've been...busy. Getting engaged and married in five months is no small feat, I'm just saying. 

     I try to exercise when I can, and I saw a flyer at the library advertising a zumba class. I thought, "Why not?" 

     The only background I've had with zumba was doing a couple of DVDs at home. I figured I could do this. 

     I showed up and introduced myself to a couple of ladies since I didn't know anybody yet. The music got started and so did we. It was so much fun! I thought I was catching on pretty well, there in the back of the room in as inconspicuous place as possible. The two ladies I introduced myself to were fairly new, too, but they seemed to catch on pretty well. 

     Some of the routines got harder and I started turning when I shouldn't or turning the wrong way. The instructor yelled out instructions a couple of times when I was stumbling. I guess I wasn't as inconspicuous as I had thought. 

     Being in the back of the room has it's advantages. However, you can't hide forever because sometimes the dancing turns to the side, or heaven forbid, towards the back of the room, making me in front. Now, that's embarrassing. I have to crane my head to try and watch the people beside or behind me so that I don't look any more uncoordinated than I already am. 

     When we got to one routine that was a line dance, one kind lady stepped forward and tried to help me. 

     "Two back, two forward, one back," she instructed. I tried, and I think I got somewhat better. Maybe...At least I wasn't running in to her anymore. In my book, that's improvement. 

     I tried to console myself that it was the first time, and I just needed time to learn. It didn't help that there were actually a lot of new people there that seemed to have been doing it for years, or even decades. (I'm pretty sure they were older than they looked.)

     I talked to the instructor afterwards, and she said that after about three times, I'll catch on. Basically, two more times, and then I'm a veteran. Oh boy...that's a lot of pressure for someone who struggles with distinguishing right from left occasionally. 

     The other thing she said was as long as I have fun, that that's all that matters. 

     Hey, I may be turning, and shaking my butt, and clapping all at the wrong time, but I can have fun. 

     Yes, I can. 

     

P.S. I would just like to add a small note in regards to a previous post I had about last names. I'm happy to announce that when I married my beloved Matthew, my last name went from four letters to four letters. Yes, I went from Evangeline Rupp to Evangeline Dodd. I am most happy. 

P.S.S. Also, my husband had dinner ready for me when I came home from zumba. I told you he was the best husband in the whole wide world!

P.S.S.S. I don't think I will teach a zumba class anytime soon. 

     

Sweet Pepper vs. The Government

     As most of you know, I own a kayak. I got it last year at Menards and was enjoying myself very much until one day...

     I was talking with a friend about my kayak, which I affectionately dubbed Sweet Pepper. My friend said she had a kayak too, but that it wasn't registered.

     "Wait. Registered? For what?" I asked.

     "You have to have your kayak registered in Ohio, but you don't have to in Indiana," she said matter-of-factly.

     "Ha! You're kidding! What, seriously?" I chortled, hardly able to believe it.

     "Yea, for real. It's the rules," she reassured me.

     I couldn't believe it. Seriously?! Make someone register their KAYAK? This couldn't be real. So I went to the source of all knowledge--Google. Sure enough, you had to register your kayak AND pay to get it registered!!!!

     I was in shock. Then I was mad.

     The government obviously doesn't have a enough money from what they have already wrung from us in taxes, and they certainly don't have enough control over us either, so they decided to make adventure seekers register their canoes and kayaks.

     My thought is...where will this end? Will I need to register my bike? What about my rollarblades? Technically, they are a mode of transportation. Oh well, why stop there? Let's register our shoes too. Wouldn't want those little babies to go missing.

     What exactly do they expect me to do in my kayak anyway? I can see the scenario now...

     There I'll be, speeding through a lake at unprecedented speeds until the DNR catches up with me.

     "Take your hands OFF the paddle," comes a booming voice from a megaphone while they shine lights on me. "We have clocked you going 10 miles an hour in this lake with the wind, and that is illegal. We are going to have to give you a ticket, ma'm. Oh looky there, Frank, she doesn't have the little registration numbers on the side of her boat. It's not registered. This isn't looking good, ma'm. This isn't looking good."

     What are they gonna do? Stick me in jail?

     There I'll sit in CCNO with all the other inmates. After staring at each other for awhile, we'll get around to talking about why we're incarcerated.

    "What are you in for?" a gruff woman will ask another who has a hardened look about her.

     "Robbed a gas station," she sniffs with an arrogant air, proud of her attempt.

     "What about you? the woman asks a girl in her twenties.

     "Arson."

     "You?" she finally asks me.
 
     All eyes turn to look at me, and I cower under their gaze.

     I clear my throat trying to sound tough.

     "Didn't register my kayak," I squeak out.

     I'd also like to point out that people like Daniel Boon, Davy Crocket, and Lewis and Clark would have been on my side. I know this. They were pioneers and explorers, and if some little dude from the DNR came up to them and told them they had to register their canoes and rafts with the title office or else, I'm pretty sure, they would have gotten knocked in the head with the butt of a rifle and left to fend for themselves.

     I feel like I have several good arguments for why it is not right for us to be made to register our kayaks.  I generally am a law abiding citizen and I try to be conscientious in my taxes and work, but there comes a time when a patriot is pushed too far, and registering my kayak was that line. I refused.

     The topic came up again this spring as I've been thinking about going out kayaking again. My boyfriend and my parents thought differently than I did. They were of the opinion that I should obey the law. I gave Pop and Matt all my reasons, but they seem unconvinced and unimpressed.

     So how does this story end? Did I stick to my guns and end up getting fined? (Matt said he would have laughed at that). Did I cave and end up registering after all so that I was once again a law-abiding citizen?

     Well, I won't make you guess and wait until the next post. I'll tell you.

     I registered it. Ugh.

The Scarf

     My dearly beloved brother, Peter aka Joe, bought me a scarf in Thailand or one of those countries he visited when he was over in Taiwan. (He couldn't quite remember where he got it.) It's lovely with big chunky stitches, small sequins tastefully placed, and it's a nice tan color that goes with a lot. The only thing is, it's rather large. By large, I mean large. I'm not that big of a person. At least height wise. Width wise is debatable. Anyway, moving on...

     Sheer intimidation and a tinge of laziness had kept me trying out the Pete's gift this year, but after a fruitful trip to Goodwill, I was feeling ready to take on The Scarf. I had just purchased a tan and white striped shirt that it would go well with, so I tried it on.

     "Kinda looks like a yoke," Mom said when I wrapped it around my neck twice. Kinda felt like a yoke too. I'm pretty sure I could have lost my cell phone in there or maybe a small sandwich.

     I fiddled and fumbled with The Scarf but couldn't come up with a good way for me to still be visible underneath it. That's when I brought Joe onto the scene.

    In my opinion, Joe is the expert on tying things. He looks up websites and youtube videos on how to tie scarves and ties, and then he applies his knowledge to his own wardrobe or helps others' with theirs as was the case this particular day.

     He wrapped and fiddled and finally got The Scarf downsized enough for me to look out and for my shirt to be seen underneath it. We were headed in the right direction.

     I decided to wear it to Defiance to have coffee with a friend, and after awhile, I began to realize my neck was hurting. The Scarf just kept on giving because on the way home, my lap felt really warm and I looked down to see that The Scarf had pooled on my legs, acting as an insulating blanket. Let's just say that if Sweet Char had gotten stuck in the ditch that night, I would have been nice and toasty and had room for two more adults and one small child.
     
     As the cold winter continues, more adventures with The Scarf might be inevitable.

Sorry, Sweet Char

     It was a cold, snowy night and Pete, Matt (my amazing boyfriend), and I had just gotten out of the movie theater in downtown Bryan after watching the The Hobbit. There was hardly anyone on the roads because we had had quite the winter storm so only snowplows and crazy people (like us) were out. The courthouse was pristine in Christmas lights with snow everywhere. This is where my story goes from warm and fuzzy to blonde. 

      Matt helped me scrape off Sweet Char since she was covered in snow and some ice. For some reason, I decided I needed to open my back passenger door, and I'm thinking it was to put away my snow scraper. Anyway, the door was stuck or rather frozen shut. Naturally, I pulled harder. And harder. And harder. The handle decided to come off. Oops. Sorry, Sweet Char. 

      To make matters worse, when I went to open it from the inside, I found out that it wasn't frozen shut at all. It had been locked. Now, THAT was Sweet Char's fault. 

     I believe Matt was rather amused by the situation because when I offered him my brush and scraper for his car, Bucky, he smugly replied that he already had a brush, scraper, AND a handle. Oh boy...he totally deserved any snow I may have chucked at him later on that evening. 

I Didn't Mean To

     It's been awhile since I've written and I had a good blonde moment I was planning on writing about, but I totally forgot it. Moving on...

     I did run over a tombstone.

     I tried to move it back.

     In heels.

     I was partially successful.

     I had to call the trustee.

     I didn't mean to desecrate a grave.

     It was Sweet Char's fault.

     The end.

Tubing, Jets Skis, and Grover

     Once upon a time, it was a nice sunny day. The flowers were blooming, the water was pristine and...  

     I just wanted to start my story out like that, but following that stream gets difficult since my life isn't a fairy tale, so I decided to take my usual, realistic approach.

     It was fairly hot and I was lost and late. Not a good combination. Besides that, no one had phone reception since they were all on the boat tubing and I couldn't find the public access dock. It was killing me. If there's anything I like it's water. If there's anything I don't like it is being unable to get to the water where all my friends are enjoying themselves.

     Finally, I saw the public access dock across the lake (without the help of my stupid GPS, I might add), made my way there, and parked. I walked out on the dock and after awhile, I spotted my friends and tried the waving-from-the-dock approach but it didn't work. They were too concentrated on drowning the tubers behind the boat. So I sat down and waited.

     There was an unassuming man, probably in his fifties, fishing off the bank to my right.

     "Catch anything?" I asked. Might as well make conversation with a stranger rather than feel sorry for myself because I wasn't tubing.

     "Nope. Never been here before. Do you know if you're allowed to drink on this lake?"

     "No, I don't know," I replied. "I don't drink."

     "Are you still in school or what do you do?" he asked.

     "Well, I graduated from beauty school in October."

     "You look like you graduated from beauty school. I graduated from ugly school."

     I could have asked him what year he graduated, but I wisely refrained.

     "God doesn't make anybody ugly," I replied, but I guess I'm wrong because, well, I won't finish that thought.

     "I'm Grover, by the way," the man said.

     A little while later, Grover's two brothers sailed in on jet skis. One had a lady friend with him. They beached their jet skis and then got ready to fish with Grover.

     "Hey, if you guys go out again, flag down her friends for her," Grover said in a passing comment.

     The brothers didn't say much so I let my hope die for a little while.

     "Yea," I said a few minutes later, "If you do go out again, could you just let them know I'm here."

     "Well, you can take it out," brother number one said.

     "Grover, go with her and bring back the jet ski," brother number two added on.

     Although Grover and I had just started a rather awkward acquaintanceship, I was more than willing to do what it took to get out on the water and finally get to go tubing. I also wasn't entirely against the fact that I would get to ride a jet ski.

     I thought Grover was going to drive, but brother number one indicated that I could. "You ever driven one of these before?" he asked.

     "Um, well, I think a friend let me drive one once," I said sounding very convincing.

     "You can do it," he said and gave me a quick 2 second tutorial.

     Grover jumped on and we were off. I love the wind and water and speed, but I didn't gun it like I wanted to because I didn't want to wreck a stranger's jet ski and I really wanted to tube. There were some big waves and those were fun. I really want a jet ski now. Ahem, moving on...

     So Grover and I jet skiid around the lake and couldn't find my friends. It was almost as if they disappeared. Grover did say my hair smelled nice, which was really weird, but I just told him it better smell nice because I put enough product in it.

     We finally found a channel to go through and it opened up into a whole new part of the lake. I found my friends and followed them, and although they waved back, they didn't know it was me. Finally, some tubers fell off, and without running them over (a fact of which I am very proud), I came along side the boat.

     "Vange?!" Phil, my brother, asked incredulously. "What are you doing?"
 
     "You guys didn't see me on the dock so I came to you," I replied. I have to say that I was pretty proud of driving a jet ski and finding a way out to the boat. I'm dedicated to tubing. I think I made that very clear that day.

     Phil, and Dave, the driver and owner of the boat, helped me in. I thanked Grover and waved goodbye.

     "Who was THAT?!" Phil asked.

     "I think his name was Grover."

     "You don't even know his name?!"

     So began all the jokes and crap everyone gave me for riding a random stranger's jet ski. Hey, I'm willing to sacrifice for my dreams, even if it means driving a jet ski.

     Oh, and the tubing was totally worth it...whiplash and all.

   

My Take on Drive Throughs and Car Washes

     Have you ever been to a drive through at a fast food restaurant and been completely unsure of what you're ordering? I know I have. I would love to sit there and peruse the menu comparing prices, gluten-free foods, and dessert options, but you literally have 2.3 seconds before a cheery voice comes over the intercom and asks, "Do you want to try our new greasy combo meal for $5.99?" 

     I always say "no" to those sales gimmicks as a rule even if I might have eaten them otherwise. Then comes the big question. "What would you like to order?" 

     Ahhhh! I always know this moment is coming, but I'm never quite prepared. Sometimes, I just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind even if it's completely different than what I thought I would get initially. Other times, I waver back and forth until I feel the impatience of the employee and the anger of the people in the car behind me. I hate that pressure, so I usually cave and order something stupid. Like ice cream. Come to think of it, that's not stupid at all...

     Car washes. Where do I begin? 

     I'll start with some advice. Never wash your car in below freezing temperatures and try to wipe it off with towels before it cakes over with ice because it doesn't work. You also are being a bad advertisement for the car wash company because some other person might drive up to wash their vehicle, see you struggling with the ice, and decide to leave. It's not that I've ever done anything like that, it's just a good piece of advice to keep tucked away for the future. 

     Always have a plan BEFORE you put your quarters in the little car wash machine. Figuring out what button does what wastes precious seconds once they start counting down. I mean, if you don't read it and figure it out before, you might not figure out how the sprayer works until your time is over halfway done, and then you'll end up with soup suds all over your car and have to put in more quarters or drive away with soap flying everywhere. I've never done that either, but I'm thinking of these things to help you all out. 

     It's always a good idea to go to the car wash when you know there is an attendant there because they can make change for you when all you have is a ten dollar bill, and they might even give you an extra few minutes of water pressure to get all the soap off your car if you look pitiful enough. Of course, I haven't needed any of that, but some of you might. 

     I hope all of this advice has been helpful, and that none of you will make these mistakes because I sure didn't!

A Typical Day (Not Really)

     Hi! It's me again. I decided you all would like to hear about my day. Okay, so I decided to tell you all about my day whether you want to hear about it or not. (It was actually yesterday, but I'll call it today.)

     I started the day literally slapping myself in the face in bed about 6:30 in the morning because I had forgotten to retrieve my kayak paddle and dirty blanket from Sweet Char's trunk before taking it to the mechanic last night. It was kind of important since I was going kayaking with my friend, Rachel.

     “It's okay,” I thought, “After my Paul Mitchell class at work, I'll drive to the mechanic's, get the stuff out of Sweet Char's trunk, and then meet Rachel and Jake.” The latter was going to drive us up river so we could leave our vehicles at the landing where we planned to stop. It was a perfect plan. I would even have time to take care of my Kombucha tea and get the mushrooms out before I left.

    Only problem was, the color class went over and I ended up giving a haircut towards the end, so that I was leaving my house when I should have been arriving. I called Jake and tried to catch him so that he wouldn't make the trip and be waiting on me, but I couldn't get a hold of him. I first went to the landing where poor Rachel had been waiting for nearly an hour. Part of it was because I was late, and the other part was because she had been very early. She said Jake had come around and she explained to him the situation, so at least he wasn't waiting around. Thanking her, I headed off to the mechanic's where Sweet Char was done getting new back shocks.

     I consciously prepped myself ahead of time to pull the trunk lever and not the gas cap cover so I wouldn't look like a ninny who forgot her kayak paddle and couldn't even open the trunk. So guess what happened?

     That's right. I looked like a ninny who forgot her kayak paddle and couldn't even open the trunk. The helpful mechanic reached in and pulled the correct lever for me. Whatever.

     Taking my dad's truck with my kayak, Sweet Pepper, I went back to the landing and met up with Rachel. We left my dad's truck at the landing, and drove ourselves and both kayaks up to where we wanted to put in. We put in at the Lockport Bridge and then braved the raging rapids of the Tiffin River.

     It's not that the rapids in the Tiffin are necessarily raging or even that there are rapids on the Tiffin, but there sure are a heck of a lot of log jams and those have to count for something. Rachel and I portaged over most of them as taking the kayaks around on land was rather muddy, full of mosquitoes, and not nearly as fun. The mosquitoes had quite a feast today, I must say.

     We kayaked for about two hours until we came to the landing where my dad's truck was parked. All too late, I realized that I had locked my keys in Rachel's truck. Rats.

     Rachel was a good sport and rather fond of walking so that's what we did. We started the walk and once we got on the road that led straight to where we parked, we got up enough nerve to hitchhike. Yes, that's right. Hitchhike.

     If you have followed my blog, then you know that I almost did it last summer but chickened out. Now I had someone else with me, so I figured we'd have more of chance of staying alive and escaping kidnapping and murder since there were two of us instead of one. Well, we must have looked way too intimidating and scary because no one would pick us up.

     “I hope they don't call the cops because this is technically illegal,” I commented as we walked.

     “Really?!” Rachel gasped. I suppose she didn't think I would ever do anything that wasn't purely by the book.

     “Yeah, but then maybe the cops will pick us up and take us to your truck,” I said hopefully.

     We decided to stop hitchhiking and I called our friend Matt to see if he was available to come pick us up. Thankfully, he was and we made it to Rachel's truck much faster than if we had walked.

     The rest of our adventure went quite well and there is nothing of importance to note except that I did finally get my Kombucha tea taken care of before the day was over. 

     Stayed tuned for the next installment of the Blond Blog because I may be writing about fast food drive thrus and car washes.  

The Last Four Days

Day 7:

Long day, but I made it! I was gone about 11 hours from home all at one time, so I tool reserve lemonade mixture with me. Hey it's easier than packing, lunch, dinner, and snacks. This way, I have lunch, dinner, and snacks all in a water bottle. There are some good things about this cleanse.

Day 8:

I've lost nine pounds which is a very happy thought. I'm gonna take a nap now.

Day 9:

Had to pack lunch, dinner, and snacks for the day again.

Day 10:

Did well until I went to my friend's birthday party where they were having a crawdad bake. I've never had a crawdad before and couldn't turn down an opportunity like that, so I ended my cleanse a few hours early. It was worth it.

Day 5 and 6

Day 5:

Felt awful in the morning, but once I was at work, I had plenty of energy and I was effectively able to keep distracted as I did hair and nails for my clients.

Day 6:

Last night I dreamed of those small, buttery Ritz cracker sandwiches with that orange, tangy, artificial cheese spread in the middle. Oh man, I love those things

The Cleanse

Once again, I have taken it upon myself to do a ten day cleanse called the Master Cleanse. It involves not eating anything for ten days, drinking only a lemonade mixture, and hoping to stay alive in those ten days so you can finish your blog post about it.

It's really not that bad if you don't mind being hungry 24/7, and it does have its perks. Perks like losing a pound a day, getting your digestive system cleaned out, healing all the health problems you ever had, and giving you super human strength and intelligence. Just kidding! The last two aren't exactly true, but they sounded good.

Mom, brave woman that she is, has agreed to go on the cleanse with me to help me out for moral support. She's doing it for five days. I figure if I don't have a handle on it after five days, then I best be quitting, too.

Day 1:

I did really well as I started out my day. Drank the lemonade drinks, went to work, etc. It was a good day. Then, 11:00 am rolled around. HUNGRY! More lemonade. 12:00 pm rolled around. HUNGRY! 1:00 pm rolls around...do I need to keep this up?

I must say, I did have lots of energy. What did I do with all that energy? I did what mostly any woman would do—I worked and worked and got as much stuff done as I could before it gave out. That's what I did.

Day 2:

I worked and then took a three hour nap 'cause I was pooped.

Day 3:

This day was a bit crazy. I did four updos at work, went to Defiance to watch a softball game which I was too late for, and then went to a dance recital. I was really exhausted when the day was over, but being busy helped keep my mind off my troubles, such as acute hunger and weakness. Chugging lemonade drinks whenever I felt the need.

Day 4:

Exhaustion seems to be a running theme because that is what I was today. A nap after church, another lemonade drink and I'm raring to go. I have to say that I will be very leery of a certain kind of herbal tea from now on.

Sweet Pepper

Ahhh, dear Blond Blog, how I’ve missed you! You haven’t been far from my mind, I assure you, but I finally am making time to spend with you. Please don’t take this personally, but I’ve had other things I’ve been doing. However, I think some quality time tonight might just be in order. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, and I’m listening to the only country song I listen to, I think I can proceed.

I must say, I’ve had some blond moments since I last wrote. Which one to write about? Perhaps my trip to Detroit airport where I embarrassed myself at the paid parking place? What about how I singlehandedly replaced the dome light in my car? What about the best purchase of my life and how the guy at Menards and a random truck driver had to help me? Maybe the time I tried to portage over a log jam while kayaking and lost my paddle instead? (It is REALLY hard to paddle with a stick. Just sayin’)

Hmm, maybe I’ll talk about the best purchase of my life.

So my dear and loyal friend, Lynell, and I were on our way to Defiance to buy a kayak. Yes, I just said a kayak. After renting a kayak in Indy a couple of years ago and having a hi ho time, I’ve never been the same since. I’ve thought of buying one off and on, and this spring, I decided that this was the season to buy my very own kayak. My sister-in-law found an ad for a really good deal for them at Menards, so naturally, Lynell and I were en route to Defiance and the closest Menards.

I was so excited I told Lynell that this was the happiest day of my life.

“You mean besides the day when you get married,” Lynell clarified.

I thought a minute. “Nope. This is the best day of my life,” I answered.

“Wow. I’m really beginning to see the depth of your excitement,” Lynell replied.

Finally, someone got it.

A rather standoffish guy helped us buy the kayak and some ratchet straps to secure it on Sweet Char, and then I had to pull around back to get the kayak. Lynell and I found the kayaks and Lynell thought I should go for the second one because the top one was probably faded.

Really, Lynell? I’m going to go hard core kayaking and you’re concerned I might have a slightly faded kayak? I don’t think you’re grasping the situation.

We pulled the kayak off the rack and stared at the ratchet straps.

They were secured in the case with wire twisties and I had just cut my nails, so there was no way I could unwind them. Thankfully, a Menards guy came up to help us and had a wire cutter on his belt. He undid the wires and I got the ratchet straps out.

Apparently, Menards has a rule that they’re employees can’t help the customers secure large items on their vehicles because if it falls off, then they don’t want to be held liable. I guess they hadn’t figured on me.

The Menards guy let me fumble with the ratchet straps for about two seconds and decided not to listen to that rule.

“You can tell us how to do it, so you don’t get in trouble,” I said, but I guess he figured he might as well go all the way if he was going to break the rules anyway.

He wasn’t particularly fast at securing the straps and so a truck driver who had either been loading or unloading something came over to help.

“I do this for a living,” he said confidently.

That was good to hear, but when he didn’t know how to initially thread the strap through the ratchet, I began to have my doubts.

“My ratchets aren’t like this,” he said.

Uh oh.

Despite my justified misgivings, he and the Menards guy got my new kayak, affectionately dubbed Sweet Pepper, secured on the top of Sweet Char, my car. After eating out and shopping, which is what naturally follows kayak purchasing, Lynell and I headed to church and then I went home.

The next day, Pop got Sweet Pepper down for me, and low and behold, there was a big old crack on the back. Ahh! I was so ticked. Mostly because Lynell was right, and I should have gotten the one on the bottom. Just kidding! I was mostly ticked because I had to go back to Defiance that night. However, Lynell was still right, and I’m pretty sure she enjoyed that fact immensely.

Oh well. I now have a fully functional kayak, and I kept the same name. Lynell has a kayak named Pongo and we’ve already had an extensive adventure together. Just think. Summer is only beginning.

 

What's in a Name? Part II

After writing the previous post, it was suggested to me by a friend that I should give a tutorial on my last name. I think that is a brilliant idea, so I decided to do implement it.

Before I begin, I would like to add in a couple of nicknames that I left out of my previous post. It wouldn’t do to leave it incomplete, so here they are:

Evange: A friend of mine started calling me this and I thought she just hadn’t caught on to the whole Vange thing. However, she purposely left the ‘e’ in front to be different. Not bad. A+ for creativity.

Evan: This is not pronounced the way you would pronounce the boy’s name. It’s a long “ē” sound, making it sound like the beginning of my name with the rest chopped off. Maybe people will start calling me Evan Almighty…(Btw, I never watched that movie)

Eva: This one kinda sounds like an old lady’s name, but I don’t mind it too much.

Okay, now that I’ve exhausted just about every name people can possibly call me, I’d like to take a closer look at the last name of Rupp.

The name Rupp has its roots in German. In fact, my dad is pretty much all German and my mom has some German in her, so I’m mostly German. However I don't speak German. I don't even speak Pennsylvania Dutch for crying out loud.

When people see the name, Rupp, they automatically pronounce it Rŭpp. This is NOT correct.

At least not for my family. There are Rŭpps around, but I am not a Rŭpp. I am a Rupp, pronounced like Roop. It rhymes with loop. Please don’t make up a rap song about my name either. Already had that done…

The way we pronounce it is the German way, and I’d like to keep it that way. Pronouncing it Rŭpp would just not be loyal to our roots. I’m all about loyalty. I mean, I guess.

I think all of us Rupps and Rŭpps come from the same families who settled in this area back in the 1800s. (I’d have to verify that fact with my mom who is the family genealogist, but she’s not here right now, so I’m going with it.) However, some of the Rupps were traitors to the name and switched over to the dark side. Because of this, it gets really confusing who are Rupps and who are Rŭpps. However, I have a little expression that will help you all keep it straight.

“The Rŭpps have all the money, and the Rupps have all the kids.”

In my experience, this has held true. Maybe I should change my name to Rŭpp…

Just kidding

 

Honestly, the only bad thing about my name is spelling it out loud. Go ahead, try.

See what I mean? I’ve started saying “double p” at the end just to get away from that. Moving on…

So, are you ready for this???? Here is my full name and you now know how to pronounce it correctly:

Evangeline Joy Rupp

If you need a whole tutorial on how to pronounce my middle name, I’ve got nothin’ to say to you.

 

You know, my mom had the freedom to give me a long first name because my last name is really short, but what if I marry some guy with a super long last name? (Side note alert: Okay, so me getting married is HIGHLY improbable. If you question that statement, then just read this whole blog. It’ll clear things up for you pretty quickly. I mean, who would want to marry someone who does cartwheels at work and whacks guys in the face with kayak paddles? Exactly.) But all the same, what if I married a guy with the last name Neuenschwander?  

Evangeline Joy Neuenschwander

Wait, is it already 2014?

 

What about Snodgrass?

Evangeline Joy Snodgrass

That girl sounds scary

 

How about Drozdovandropopozgiopanatzakis? This is a real last name and here is the link if you don’t believe me: http://www.gazettetimes.com/news/local/the-man-with-the-long-last-name/article_5c9a63e4-2d01-11e1-a2ab-001871e3ce6c.html

 

Poor Evangeline Drozdovandropopozgiopanatzakis. Three years after the wedding, she was finally able to write her last name without her husband’s help. Ten years later, she was able to pronounce it correctly. Maybe one day, she'll be able to pronounce it with a Russian accent. Who knows?

 

Maybe, I’ll just stick with Rupp. Yea, I like Rupp.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

What's in a Name?

     I have recently joined a small Baptist church, and I love attending there and being part of a church family again. Last January when I left my old church, I didn’t realize how taxing searching for a new church would be, and then how great it would be to finally find one.

     That aside, there are two, very sweet elderly gentlemen who are the greeters for my church. One is named Don Frank and the other is Gene Rettig. That’s all good and fine, but for the life of me, I couldn’t get their names straight. In my mind, Gene was Don and Don Frank was Frank. Don’t ask me how my brain did that, but it did.

     Just about every Sunday, I had to ask them who was who and then I would repeat their names after they said them so that I could remember them. Finally, the day came when I thought I had mastered this small feat in my life. I was walking up to the door at church and I could see Don ready to open the door for me.

     “Don Frank, Don Frank, Don Frank,” I said to myself over and over again as I approached. He opened the door, and I stuck out my hand with a big smile. “Hi, Frank!” I exclaimed and then groaned. Back to the old drawing board…

Lately, I have done a pretty good job of remembering Don and Gene’s names, if I do say so myself. Recently, however, my brain decided that it couldn’t be perfect in all areas, so I found myself calling my Bible study leader Paul, when his name is really Joe Paul.

 

     I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad about messing up other people's names because they mess my name up a lot. With a name like Evangeline, I shouldn’t expect anything else. I might take this brief opportunity to give instructions on pronouncing my name.

Here it is from the dictionary:

Evangeline (ē-văn-jŭ-lĭn) 1. Bringer of glad tidings 2. A fairly cool person of the female gender

 

(Okay, my name really isn’t in the dictionary, so I took the meaning of my name and a pretty accurate description of myself to compile my own definition. Bingo! It will be in the next edition of Webster’s. I just know it.)

Continuing on with the pronunciation of my name, I would like to point out how my name ISN’T pronounced.

It is not Evangelīne. My name does not rhyme with pine or whine. I just need to make that clear.

It is not Evangelēne. The only One I want to lean on is the Lord, and I don’t like lean foods because they don’t taste good, and I used to love to read about Mary and Laura Ingalls who used to live in a lean-to. However, that word is NOT part of my name.

It is not Evangelēna. This is a version that people like to add on to the previous pronunciation. Another variation of this is Evangelica, but only one person has the nerve to call me that, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t read my blog, so I didn’t feel the need to list that separately.

It is not Evangel. That’s a cool variation because evangel is synonymous with evangelist, but that’s still not my name.

It is not Avangeline. Some of my dear friends were quit shocked when I told them they were pronouncing my name wrong after knowing them for about eight years. Oh well…

It is not Vangeline. This variation happens after someone knows me for awhile and gets tired of saying four syllables, so they decide that taking off the first one is easiest.  At least its not the second or third syllable ‘cause that would just be weird.  

Some other mispronunciations of my name include, Evangelista, Evangelotta, Angela, Angelica, and Robert.

My name is Evangeline. (ē-văn-jŭ-lĭn ) I would change the spelling of my name to Evangelynne, but it's too much of a legal hassle. Just kidding. I like the spelling how it is.

To those of you who are sweating bullets because my name is so difficult to pronounce, I have a simple solution for you. I have lots of nicknames!!!!! Whoohoo!

Vange. This is the most commonly used nickname in use for my name. I respond quite readily to this one.

Vangie. I like this one a lot but only a few people use it. A variation of Vangie is Vangie-poo, but only four people call me that, and I’d personally like to keep it that way for obvious reasons.

Vango. This one is unacceptable. I only let my older brother call me that because I can’t get him to stop. The end.

Banjo. See above explanation.

Van. I was called this by one girl, but it kinda made me feel rather large and 15 passengerish.

Lynne. I was called this by one girl, but it never stuck.

Jo. This comes from my middle name of Joy, and fell out of use in my middle teen years.

Angel. A few years ago, I actually realized that this word was in my name. I thought it was cool, but it’s pretty clear why no one calls me that.

 I know that everyone has been on pins and needles waiting for a full pronunciation guide for my name, so I thought I’d end your suspense and give it to you today. You’re welcome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ETA, SPD, ODOT

     First off, I think it’s kind of rude for people to use abbreviations. I mean, they know what it means, but does anybody else? I think they say to themselves, “Hmmm, I’ll sound cool if I use this abbreviation, and if anyone else doesn’t know it, I’ll get a good laugh when they try to guess what it means.” I think I’ve given several people a good laugh.

     One night, the unit secretary from ER called up and said they were calling Life Flight. I couldn’t exactly understand what she had said until she made helicopter noises. Anyway, I was supposed to call the police department because they come out and make sure the landing pad is cleared of pedestrians. So, I dutifully called the police and told them that Life Flight was on their way.

    “What’s their ETA?” the guy on the other end asked.

     “Their what?”

     “Their ETA.”

     I decided to assume that meant he wanted to know what he was supposed to do. I figured he should already know that, but I would try to help him out anyway.

     “I think you guys come and keep the landing cleared off,” I said.

    “Estimated Time of Arrival,” he clarified, probably thinking that I was a complete nut.

     “Uhh, right. I don’t know that, let me transfer you back to ER.” I was probably blushing over the phone because I do that often.

 

     Just yesterday, a guy called and wanted Sterile Processing. Okay, what in the world is that, and why would anyone want to talk to a department called that? Whatever. The point is, he wanted to talk to Sterile Processing and I had no idea what to do. Besides that, the phone had already rung back because another girl had already tried an extension for him and it didn’t work. Ahhh!

     “Is there another name for that department because we don’t have one called by that name,” I said, not realizing that we really did.

     “SPD,” he said giving me the abbreviations. Here we go again…

     “STD?” I asked, repeating what I heard. The girls next to me started to giggle.

     “No, SPD,” he said, and I quickly hit “transfer” to get rid of his annoying voice and to keep from embarrassing myself further.

     I was blushing again, which is no surprise, and I finally got rid of him by paging Sterile Processing overhead.

     The other girls in the office said they were glad for a laugh, so at least I made somebody’s day a little brighter although I embarrassed myself AGAIN.

 

     In conclusion, I would just like to see if anybody out there knows what ODOT stands for without Googling it. I recently learned that one too…

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother Dear

     It’s been proven that I’ve embarrassed myself plenty of times. I guess that just goes to reason because I’m blonde (at heart). A whole new dimension is added, however, when other people embarrass me. My mother is one of those people.

     Pop, Mom, and I stopped at a rest stop on my way to take my cosmetology boards in Grand Rapids, and I walked into the restroom first. I got into my stall and I heard someone else rustling about. It’s always good to be careful what you say in restrooms before you know who is there listening. At least that’s what I think.

     Mom walked in and said rather loudly, “Evangeline, do you need any hand sanitizer to wipe off the toilet seat?”

     I inwardly groaned. The unknown person just found out we were a family of fruitcakes. Cover blown.

    “No,” I muttered, trying to not make the situation any worse. Mom helped out with that.

     “Well, our society is so promiscuous that I don’t trust any toilet seat,” she said with conviction.

     That was it. I was definitely not coming out of my stall until the other person was gone. They couldn’t see me. They couldn’t know I existed.

     So I waited. I made sure they were gone, and then I came out and washed my hands. Mom came out as I was drying them.

     “Mom, there was another person in here!” I exclaimed, thinking she would feel as sheepish and embarrassed as I had.

     Mom shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s true.”

     So much for scolding her. (Somehow that doesn't seem to work on parents.) We talked a little longer about the rather comical situation, and then Mom left.

     As I was finishing drying my hands, I heard rustling. Someone else had been in the bathroom the entire time listening to the whole thing, unknown to my mom or myself!

     I left as quickly as possible, trying to gather any shreds of dignity that remained. (There probably weren’t enough shreds to make a decent pot holder.)

     The moral of the story is try to stay away from public restrooms at all costs, and do NOT take your mother unless you really do want to use hand sanitizer on your toilet seat.

     Love you, Mom!

 

 

    

 

 

 

Words from Above

This summer, my family and I were vacationing at a lake in Michigan called Long Lake. It was fun for all of us except my mom who doesn’t like lakes, but that’s another story.

     One sunny afternoon, I was diligently working on my tan (its harder work than you think) and reading my Bible on a lawn chair. After awhile my dad and brothers came out, and were headed to the boat for a ride. Being the very spiritual, godly person that I am, I left my Bible reading and jumped in the boat with them. (I promise I finished it later.)

     As we drifted away from the dock, the wind started blowing the pages of my Bible and Pete took note of it.

     “You’re gonna lose your place, Vange.”

     “It’s God’s way of showing me a verse He wants me to read,” I joked. “It’s special revelation.”

     Sometimes people open up their Bibles randomly and whatever verse they see first, they think that that is the verse God has for them. Sometimes it is, but as a general rule, that’s not the best way to hear from God. I have to admit that sometimes I do that, but let’s pretend I don’t. Anyways…

     I forgot about it, but when I got back, I looked at my Bible and began to read to Pete the first verse that I saw.

     “And this shall be a sign unto you, saith the Lord, that I will punish you in this place, that ye may know that my words shall surely stand against you for evil” (Jer. 44:29).

     Pete hooted with laughter. “Only you, Vange.”

     Thankfully, the Lord doesn’t always speak directly to us through randomly selected Bible verses or I may not have made it back from the lake that afternoon.

Have You Ever...

     Have you ever tried to pull up window blinds and have them come crashing down on you with the wood work as well?  

     Have you run into a door?

     Have you watched Legally Blonde and related to at least most of it?  (“Eeee! Road trip!”)

     Have you tried to secretly eat a caramel apple sucker at school by pulling off the stick and having the whole sucker stuck to the roof of your mouth?

     Have you had a client who wanted you to save discarded hair so they could use it to plant trees?

     Have you ordered Mulan from the library only to find it’s in Chinese?

     Have you hidden in your suitcase and jumped out to scare your friend’s boyfriend?

     Have you ever thought that tiki torch fluid was apple juice?  

 

     If so, you have lived a fun, fulfilled life. (At least, that's my take on it.) ;)

 

    

¿Mi Tio?

     At one point in my long life of 25 years (you can tell I just had a birthday because I’m feeling old), I spent eleven weeks in Mexico doing mission work.  I thought after having studied the Rosetta Stone program and having taken Spanish lessons from a teacher, that I would pick up on Spanish quite quickly. Not so.

     The little Mexican kids would babble on to me about something, and I would be like, “Your grandma ate a brick and then rented a llama? What?”

     Ok, it wasn’t exactly like that, but I could catch a few nouns here and there, and body language and hand motions were my friends.

     One fine evening, I went with the missionary family and Joanne (another single girl) to a birthday party of a young lady from the church. They did the usual tradition of smashing her face in her birthday cake as she tried to take a bite with no hands. That was exciting, and I still had yet to embarrass myself. It was a good night.

     Later on, Joanne and I were in a group of young people and the birthday girl introduced me to a young man.

     She said, “Es mi tio.”

     I figured Mi Tio was his name, so I said, “Mi Tio?” To make sure I pronounced it right.

     At that, everyone burst out laughing and the birthday girl was saying, “No, es MI tio. MI tio.”

     Finally, Joanne had calmed down enough to tell me that “tio” meant “uncle”.

     So, she had said, “This is my uncle.”

     I had said, “My uncle?”

     “No, MY uncle. MY uncle.”

     Of course I turned red, the uncle was amused, and every time I saw the birthday girl after that, she would give me a sly grin, and say, “Mi tio.”

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Proposal

I’ve had several requests for my proposal story, so here it is. J

    My proposal happened one night when I was working at the hospital. (Of course, the hospital is a highly romantic atmosphere.) Anyway, I needed to go into a patient’s room to have him sign paperwork, and a nurse and unit secretary warned me to duck because he might take a swing at me.

     “You better just not go in there,” the nurse finally decided after seeing my horrified expression. (I actually wasn’t horrified, it just sounds better to put that in there.)

     I went back to the business office and tried to get a family member of the patient to give consent over the phone, but they refused to do it. Arrrgh. Now, I really had to go in there. Well, if I died I would go to heaven, so the worst thing wasn’t really that bad. Heaven was gonna be great.

     I tried to get in the room several times, but nurses were always in there, and I didn’t want to disrupt seeing as how it was a rather delicate situation.

     Finally, I got in there, and asked my questions while trying to be as nice and nonthreatening as possible. I didn’t have to work too hard at that one because a 5’1” blonde woman who smiles a lot doesn’t tend to look that threatening anyway.

     I got back to my desk and realized that I forgot to have the patient sign the last paper. It’s nothing unusual for me to go back to the same patient a couple of times because I forget stuff, but I didn’t really want to see this particular patient again.

    I literally dragged my feet all the way back to his room. In fact, one of the nurses asked, “Why are you dragging your feet like that?” Just kidding! I only figuratively dragged my feet and no one said anything.

    Anyways, I don’t remember if it was before or after I tried to get a verbal signature (the events of that night are still hazy in my mind), but the patient turned to me and asked, “Will you marry me?”

     He’s not what I would have considered marriage material, but I couldn’t exactly tell him that because I didn’t want to upset him. I mean, a refusal to a question like that was no small matter, and this patient was liable to do anything.

     I smiled nicely. “Not today,” I said.

     “Tomorrow then?”

     This guy wouldn’t quit!

     If I said, “Not tomorrow,” we could keep going on like that and never stop, so I sort of laughed it off and made a hasty exit, leaving my heartsick suitor behind me.

     The moral of the story is never forget to have a patient sign a paper, and always remember that someone will marry you no matter how rotten you think you are. J

                                                                                The End