Kamikaze Seagulls and the Time I Impersonated Military Personnel (Is That A Crime?)

 I used to think that Alfred Hitchcock's horror film "The Birds" was a little far fetched. 

It's not. And apparently, he'd spent some time on South Padre Island.

Years ago, we visited South Padre, Corpus Christi, and San Antonio, Texas with family. We, along with my brother-in-law Tom's family, were there to celebrate my nephew Nathaniel's (aka Nato's) 5-year mark of being cancer-free. It was a time of gratitude, rejoicing, and... public embarrassment. 

There were several "incidents". The first happened on South Padre Island.

As we walked onto the beach, I noticed a lot of signs ominously warning DO NOT FEED THE SEAGULLS.

"Who would be stupid enough to feed seagulls?" I asked Chad.

Apparently, I would.

Because an hour or two later, Chad and my kids were down the beach playing in the surf, and I decided I was ready for lunch. I took out my 6" Subway sandwich and was talking with my sister Jen as I prepared to dig in.

Here's where various versions of WHAT HAPPENED NEXT all intersect.

According to Jen, I was holding my sandwich far out to the side of my body, gesturing with it, to make a point as I chattered.

I don't remember that. 

What I recall is that suddenly there was a SWOOOSH, and a brazen bird catapulted into my hand, taking a snatch of my sandwich. Within seconds, she had sent out some sort of Satellite Bat Signal to all 4500 of her cousins, saying, "Hey! Free Food!" Seagulls began dive bombing me in droves, aggressively brushing against my head and arm. It was worse than when Costco refreshed stock on Lysol Wipes and Toilet Paper during the Pandemic Shortage of 2020. 

Not gonna lie, it was a freaky thing to have the kamikaze bird pack waging warfare on me. In my panic, rather than just pulling the sandwich into my chest, or into the cooler, I waved my arm (and the sandwich) around frantically trying to shoo the birds, but also apparently communicating, "Here it is! Right here! See it??"

Jen and my family tell me there also was quite a bit of screaming going on at this point.

It culminated with me, in a desperate act of self preservation, finally screeching loudly, "FINE, YOU STUPID BIRDS! HAVE THE STUPID SANDWICH!" (I'm not particularly eloquent under bird attack) and throwing the seagull-pecked sandwich as far as I could. Which ended up not being very far at all. (Because apparently I'm also not a particularly good arm under bird attack.) The birds all descended like a plague of Moses and the sandwich was completely gone in seconds.

Now switching to Chad and my kids' perspective. They heard a great hullabaloo. (Sidenote... isn't that I great word? I need to find reasons to use that more in everyday sentences. Like, "so sorry I'm late for the executive meeting. There was quite a hullabaloo in the support department."). They looked down the beach and saw a huge cloud of birds. That was weird... Then they saw someone in the middle of the birds, waving their arms and screaming and throwing things. I'm told Aerin asked in shock, "Dad??!! Is that Mom???" 

Chad glanced closer, said, in a singsong voice, "Yup. That's our Mom." and then nonchalantly went back to bodysurfing. Because apparently Mom being in the middle of an Alfred Hitchcock-esque scene, complete with screaming, was just same old, same old.    

My older kids were a little more bothered than Chad that their mother was Creating a Scene and that Everyone on the Beach Was Staring at Her. 

Which ended up being the theme of that Texas trip for my young teens: "How Many Ways Can My Mother Embarrass Me In Crowded Public Places?"

They were in that early teen stage when you are absolutely certain that every person in the junior high is aware of the pimple on your nose. And having a mother who is a magnet for public humiliation was a bit of a trial for them. Especially when it meant that people were staring at them. Guilt by association. 

For instance, a few days later, the kids and I were walking along San Antonio's famous, lovely, and quite crowded River Walk. Perhaps my shoe was untied; maybe it was a moment of depth perception failure; but either way, while climbing up stairs, I suddenly found myself sprawled flat on the River Walk. I was not hurt, but I was completely down. And people tend to notice things like that. 

Aerin briefly paused, looked at the sight of me awkwardly splayed against the stairs, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Nice." Then she and Morgan walked ahead, pretending they didn't know me. Annie was young enough that she didn't mind being seen with a mother draped across the River Walk.

But what Aerin and Morgan didn't realize is that I was saving the Best for Last. 

A day later we went to Sea World with our group of fellow Nato-Celebrators. While there, we went to the Shamu the Whale show, which was held in a large arena. 

Prior to the show, I was chatting with my sister Melissa. I love to chat with Melissa. So perhaps I was a bit distracted. Melissa was sitting in front of her in-laws (which included her father-in-law, a distinguished federal judge). The announcer began the show by expressing gratitude for all of the selfless men and women protecting our freedom by serving in the military. The announcer invited everyone to stand and give these brave men and women a standing ovation.

So I stood and clapped. Because I am a Proud American and I am very grateful for the freedoms I enjoy. And I applaud the military whenever I can.

Here's where my mind just seemed to shift into super-slo-mo.

For instance, I noticed that those around me were a bit slow to rise to clap. But just thought they were taking their time.

Then, as I stood, enthusiastically clapping, I looked around the arena, and noticed there were only a dozen or so people standing besides me. "That's odd," I thought, "I had always heard Texas was a really patriotic state. Strange..." 

I really did think that. 

The spell was finally broken when Aerin, sitting four or five people from me, leaned over and hissed loudly, with horror in her voice, 

"MOM!!! 

SIT!!! 

DOWN!!!!" 

Things finally clicked, and I suddenly realized that I had misunderstood the announcer. He'd asked for the military to stand so they could be applauded. Not for the audience to stand. So I had stood among other military personnel, in a huge auditorium, clapping loudly for (supposedly) myself.

I slowly and casually slid down to my seat, trying to act like it was no big deal. Just a seventh inning stretch people, nothing to see here. The Shamu spectators around me watched this with interest.

I can only imagine what Melissa's in-laws were thinking. "Hmmmm... did you know Christy served in the military?" "I don't think she did?" "Why is she pretending to be military?" "And by the way, did you see her back at the beach with the birds?"

I honestly don't know why it took me so long to compute that I really shouldn't be standing in that crowd. It's frankly a little disturbing. 

But it is something I think about whenever people talk about "standing for what you believe" and "standing out in a crowd". Sometimes you have to stand alone. Sometimes you have to applaud yourself, because others may not. Sometimes you may feel completely different and conspicuously so in a huge stadium of people. It isn't enjoyable, but it's okay. You'll survive.

(Unless you feed the seagulls at South Padre Island.)

The Times (yes, plural) My Skirt Fell Off in Public Places

Public Service Announcement: If your skirt should suddenly fall to the floor in a public, crowded area, it is best to swiftly but quietly re-clothe, without creating any type of a disturbance. Thus minimizing the attention and the damage.

In other words, don't do what I did.

My husband Chad says I'm a default screamer. Various screams can mean (among other things):

• "Oh lookie there, it's a ____ (mouse, spider, piece of fluff that slightly resembles a spider)" 
• "Hey, by the way, just thought I'd mention, there's a car coming into our lane" 
• "Darn, I dropped/broke/spilled something"  
• "Whoa, I didn't realize that you were sitting there, what a surprise!"
•  and, occasionally, "Oops my skirt just fell to my ankles."

The first and most scarring event happened when I was in 7th grade. Awkward, gawky, and missing several teeth still (That's another story. And another therapy session.). Insecurity Through the Roof. Our stake was doing a "Film Festival" and our ward youth group was filming a skit about missionaries. On that fateful day, we were recording a scene at the Salt Lake International Airport, where we were supposed to be missionaries triumphantly returning from our amazingly successful missions.  

For my missionary attire, I had borrowed my mom's wrap-around-skirt. They were a thing at the time. But they were fairly tricky for a 12 yr old, in that you had to take the sash and put it through a hole at the top of the skirt, wrap it around your body once or twice, and then tie it. 

All went well until we were leaving the airport. As I crossed the street to go towards the parking area, I stepped on something. I looked down, and it was my skirt. 

As mentioned in the PSA above, the best course of action would have been to just quietly and very quickly take care of matters on my own. But I panicked. And in my panic, I did the Worst Possible Thing. 

I screamed. 

Even worse, I screamed, "HELP ME! HELP ME!" 

Which is the universal language for "EVERYBODY WITHIN 5 SQUARE MILES PLEASE LOOK AT ME! NOW!"

Not only did I have the mass population of the airport viewing my embarrassment, but a million times worse, it also meant that the boys my age who were in my Sunday School class were all there with a front row seat to my wardrobe malfunction. Which did not bode well for me.

Complicating the matter was that because I had stepped on the sash, thus collapsing my house-of-cards-skirt, it couldn't quickly be pulled up and retied. It was a twisted mess of maroon polyester. (#fashionweek) 

One of the YW leaders came to my rescue. She quickly assessed my trainwreck of humiliation, and shifted into Damage Containment mode. She arranged the surrounding youth into a circle, facing outward from us. She instructed me to step out of the skirt completely, then she set it aright and handed it back for me to put on, giving me tips as I did so, and then securing the bow into an extra tight double knot. Bless her.

But the damage was done.

It came up a time or two in Sunday school class.

The next time I lost my skirt (she says casually, as if everyone has multiple tales of spontaneous skirt loss), it was not quite as public and I was surrounded by a more supportive crowd. I had worn a skirt whose elastic had seen better days (most likely due to being stretched over a pregnant belly). I had a silky slip underneath. The combination of the two were disastrous. 

It was Sunday, and I was at church. After Relief Society, I stood up, and as I did so I guess I stepped on the hem of my long maxi skirt. As I straightened up, the skirt immediately and quickly slid down the length of my slip and crumpled at my feet, much like a paper wrapper being blown off a straw. It was that quick.

Once again, my fight-or-flight panic instinctually resulted in a scream. (There's gotta be a cure for that.)

There were still quite a few ladies milling about, and children coming in to fetch their mothers. I remember my friend Carlene's teenage son was in the room, among others. 

After screaming, and once again attracting as much attention as humanly possible, my next instinct was to grab my skirt, and pull it up as I quickly sat down in the nearest chair. Why did I sit? Not sure. To hide, possibly? 

But the problem was that I only got my skirt to my thighs before sitting, thus making it impossible for it to make it around my seated bum and up to my waist. So I just sat there, half slip, half skirt, panicking. 

(Note to self. And to the world. I'm obviously not razor sharp in a crisis.) 

My RS Girls recognized my paralysis, jumped into action and came to my rescue. They were THE BEST. (Shoutout to Lehi 21st!) Again, I was instructed to stand in the center while kind friends circled the wagons for privacy. Then I was able to stand up and pull my skirt the rest of the way up. I kept an iron grip on it until I got home and never wore the skirt again. 

I'd like to say clothing spontaneously falls from my body because I am so thin and willowy. But that would be a lie.

It takes a village. And it appears I am not very good at recovering from wardrobe malfunctions without the help of that village. 

While at age 12 I was simply being laughed at, three decades later we were laughing together. Therein lies the difference.  And perhaps that's why I am doing this blog. Because it's much more fun to laugh together. 

"Is That a Corn Pop You're Wearing?"

So this is about the time I was the World's Worst Guest Teacher.

I'd been invited to talk with the young women of our congregation about Eternal Marriage. Chad was to share a few thoughts too. He was the bishop of our ward at the time. 

I spent a long time thinking about and preparing for what I wanted to talk about, and how to make it interesting. But when it came time to execute, things kind of broke down. (#understatement)

It was a crazy Sunday morning, which it always was during that season of my motherhood. So I had run home during Sunday School to grab my Cute Printouts and my Interesting Visual Aids, and a large whiteboard on which I had written, in my best calligraphy, an Inspiring Quote. 

I was running late, and so rushed into the church and into the Young Women's room. They were already there, waiting, so I hurriedly set up my things and then let them get started.  

Once I stood up and began teaching, things started going downhill. Fast.

First, I realized that the oh-so-meaningful-quote I had written on the whiteboard, and then set up on an easel, had somehow rubbed up against something en route to the church, so what I had actually displayed on an easel was a few unrelated words and a giant green smear. 

I nervously laughed about displaying a smear, and then started in to the lesson. But one of the girls, Natalie, my neighbor, interrupted. She pointed to me. "What is that?" 

"What is what?"

"Is that a Corn Pop you're wearing?"

Apparently, while I was in my rush at home gathering supplies, a corn pop from the wreckage of breakfast had attached itself to my dress, and stayed there. And there it was. A edible barnacle front and center on my dress.

So I picked at it like I was an ape grooming, said, "Yup." And threw it in the general direction of the trash.

The lesson floundered a bit, but then I had an out when it was Chad's turn to talk for a bit. I needed to grab something from the library, so I determined to quietly, reverently, and inconspicuously slip out the door to the hall while he was speaking. Except instead, I quietly, reverently, and quite conspicuously slipped through the door into the large walk-in closet of the room. Because I was looking out to the classroom as I slipped through it, I didn't realize my mistake until I was standing among Girls Camp boxes and Value Color tablecloths. 

I sat there for awhile in the dark, wondering how to quietly, reverently, and inconspicuously walk back out into the room and then into the hall.  Finally, I determined it was time to come out of the closet. 

I creaked open the door. The entire room had stopped, their eyes trained on me and the door, just wondering when I was going to emerge.  I sheepishly sidled out of the closet and tried to nonchalantly saunter to the door to the hall. But the girls weren't having it. 

They laughed. I blushed, then giggled. And then the rest of the lesson was a bust. I am quite confident that no one went home with a greater appreciation for eternal marriage. But the phrase, "Is that a Corn Pop you're wearing?" was consigned to Young Women infamy.   

The Times (Yes, Plural) I Accessorized with Dead Plants

Women have been using plants to accessorize since the time of... well, Eve, apparently. 

A hibiscus over the ear. A beautiful lei. And nothing says "This is My First Date and I Have a Flower to Prove It" than a top-heavy carnation corsage, hanging awkwardly by a pearl-tipped pin. 

Everyone who knows anyone in the Fashion Industry will agree -- there are two strict rules to Accessorizing with Plants and Flowers. 

#1 Make sure to shake them out well. Because, well, bugs.

#2 If you're truly trying to Dress To Impress, it's recommended the plants not be dead.

Unfortunately, I don't actually know anyone in the Fashion Industry, so I didn't get the memo. 

My first bold statement piece occurred during my college years. The specific date blends into the haze of sleeplessness that defined those years. 

But first, a little background. As I raced through my university studies to complete my Communications/Advertising major, I was blessed, through the Tender Mercies of the Lord, to get the Best Job Ever. I worked at the University Herbarium. (Which has absolutely nothing to do with Advertising or Communications, by the way.)

The first perk of my job was being able to tell people I worked at a Herbarium. (Coolest.Name.Ever.) It just sounds so much more exotic than "student cafeteria", right? It truly was the perfect place for me, because even though I didn't have an ounce of interest in herbariuming or anything else to do with plants, I was mentored by a kind and patient boss. (Shoutout to Kaye Thorne - I love you!)  Because the rest of my college life was packed to the gills, stomped on to provide more packing space, stuff squeezed into the corners and then a bit more thrown on top and tied down precariously, the Herbarium was calm and steady and allowed me to breathe. I did basic tasks like gluing samples of dried plants with wonderful names like "Astragalus" and "Penstemon" onto sheets of paper, labeling said sheets of paper, and filing said sheets of paper. And I loved it. (When I was awake enough to realize it.)

Because the Herbarium was on campus, I would work before and after classes. So one day, after a stint at work, I was walking through the middle of BYU campus. It was autumn, and I was weary a fuzzy sky blue high-necked sweater. As I passed students on the busy sidewalk, I noticed a few whose eyes darted to my chest. Which didn't happen every day in my flat-chested world. Strange. 

Finally, one person did a complete doubletake. Which was really odd. Unlike my gorgeous roommates (shoutout to #321), I did not typically garner a lot of notice walking through campus. (My Co-Ed Motto: Pioneering the Friend Zone Before It Was a Thing.). It was unusual enough, I found myself following their gaze and looking down to my chest. 

And there it was. A large, dead, brown plant specimen, which had decided to hitchhike a ride on the front of my sweater. All the way across campus. This was not an inconspicious little flower. It had branches and sub-branches. To be honest, it looked like a large weed. I'd like to say it was an Astragalus simply because I like to say "Astragalus". But the truth is, I don't remember the name of the plant. I just remember it was large, and dead, and attached to me like Ironman's Arc Reactor. And for whatever reason, I had not noticed it there, as I walked through the museum, down the bell tower steps, across the street, and all the way across campus.

I truly hope it wasn't the Only Astragalus Of Its Kind, because now comes the confession.... I couldn't really carry it in my backpack, or in my hands, or continue to wear it to class. So I think I threw it away. (#sorryKaye)

My second known Dead Plant Accessory Fail was years later. I had evolved from a sleep-deprived, over-scheduled college co-ed to a sleep-deprived, over-scheduled mother of three. It was near Mother's Day, and I had purchased two large hanging flowering baskets for our mothers. The trip to the garden center with my youngest had been stressful. She was mischievous and busy and so darn quick. It was always a challenge to try to wrangle and corral her while doing any sort of shopping.

But we'd made it out of the garden center without me crying (#winning) and without permanent damage to any plants (at least that I was aware of), so it was a success. After that, we had errands and lessons and lots of driving that took up the entire afternoon. Came home, hurriedly started dinner,  and then my friend and visiting teacher Margaret came by.

I really, really love Margaret. She is sweet, and kind, and soft-spoken, and humble, and did I mention kind? We had a lovely visit, as always. 

About 15 minutes after she left, someone (I think it was Aerin?) said to me, "What is that on top of your head?"  

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She pointed to my head, "What in the world is that?"

I put my hand up, and felt something. It was a petunia. A wilted petunia. Not tastefully tucked behind my ear. (I always get it mixed up -- is it a flower on the left side or right side that says "Hey Baby" (as opposed to "I've Got Babies!"?) Anyway. I digress.) No, it was a large, limp, floppy petunia, riding along the crown of my head. And I guess it had been riding there since our trip to the garden center. I have absolutely no idea why it stuck. Was I wearing lots of hair spray that day? An extra dose of hair gel? For whatever reason, it stayed lodged there as King of the Hill amidst all of my running around. 

Sweet Margaret must have been wondering why in the world I was sporting a browning, drooping petunia on my head, but was too polite to casually mention, "Sooooo... I notice you have a dead petunia on your head.... Tell me, what kind of statement are you making with that?" or even "Speaking of the weather ... what's with the wilted petunia on top of your head?"

The moral of these stories is twofold. First, for heavens sake, I really need to look into mirrors more often. (That seems to be a running theme in my life.) Second, plants seem to want to attach themselves to me like barnacles to a whale. So if you ever see me exiting the restroom, and notice I am sporting a long vine of morning glory trailing from my shoe, please say something. I beg you. Because chances are, I haven't noticed.