"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.