Hippies, makeup, and cow revenge

(While this is apparently a scene from the movie "Hippie Hippie Shake," I choose to interpret it more literally as, "Run from the hippies! Ahhhh!")

Not long after I moved to Salt Lake, I went to the grocery store on a normal, average grocery run.

(Average for me means that I ran out of York Peppermint Patties, but anyway...) 

Since I was out of foundation (as in, makeup) and shampoo, I found myself standing in front of a wall of Pantene and L'Oreal, trying to make decisions. While I compared prices and ounces, a hippie turned the corner and began meandering toward me. He was scrawny, and scruffy, and — more bizarrely — hugging a bottle of Sprite. 

"Do you know where to find ingredients on makeup?" he asked. 

I thought it was an innocent question — maybe he was buying makeup for his wife who was allergic to something. So I answered accordingly.

"No, I don't. Sorry."

It was then that I discovered: When you engage hippies in conversation, you find out that they're not so innocent.

Remember that. Log it away. Learn from my mistakes.

"Did you know that most makeup brands have animal fat in them?" he demanded, grinning like a monkey. I could tell he was excited to find someone to talk to. 

"No, I didn't know that," I said, feeling the situation spiraling into weirdness.

"Yeah," he said, bouncing on his toes in glee. "Animal fat. They put animal fat in there. So when you're putting on makeup you're actually putting animal fat all over your face."

"That's interesting," I said, wondering what to do. 

Even though I clearly wasn't worried about smearing animal fat on my skin, the poor man kept talking. Since I've never been good at telling people to get lost, I finally decided just to ignore him. In choosing between browsing shampoos and getting a lecture from a Sprite-hugging hippie, it was no contest.

Him: "If you went to a Whole Foods store, you could probably find makeup that doesn't have animal fat in it."

Me: "Mmm hmmm. That's fascinating."

Him: "If you watch (some documentary) you'll never want to eat meat again."

Me: "Yep, I'm sure." 

He and I went on like this for some time before he admitted that I wasn't subscribing to his brand of nuttism.

And so, my poor hippie left, probably crying internally that he had failed to convince me of the error of my ways. It's better that he didn't know what I was REALLY thinking while he was talking:

Him: "If you watch (some documentary) you'll never want to eat meat again."

Me: "Not eat meat?! Please. Meat is delicious!"

Him: "The way they treat the animals at butcher shops, it's just disgusting!"

Me: "Luckily my grandparents butcher their own cows locally. That means my family has a whole fridge full of yummy meat!"

Him: "They put animal fat in makeup. So when you're putting on makeup you're actually putting animal fat all over your face."

Me: "If the animals are dead, they're not using it!"

(Side note: Aren't hippies supposed to be all about using what is found in nature? Animal fat on my face? At least it's natural!)

The lessons in all of this are simple:

1. Never engage a hippie in conversation. Their passion is admirable — as long as it's directed at someone else...

2. Never try to convince a girl that she shouldn't eat cows when she grew up herding them. Herding cows taught me that cows are not cute and docile — they are ugly, smelly, and stupid. If you've ever herded cows, you'll understand the vindictive pleasure I get out of eating hamburger. There's something about chasing cows through fields, stepping in cow pies, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, and trying to stop cows from running through fences or falling into rivers that changes your mental state. It's like I take revenge on all those stupid cows every time I go to McDonald's.

And revenge is sweet.

And tasty.

Things like the hippie experience happen to me all the time. Going to the grocery store is always a gamble because I never know who will accost me next. The only conclusion to this is that I must look like a sucker. 

Well...

I'll have to work on that.

The scariest night of my life: Kansas, 2004

Now, a lot of people know that my biggest fear in life isn't death or public speaking. Nope, my biggest fear is running out of gas. Why? Because I'm pretty darn small. It's not like I could singlehandedly push my car out of the middle of the road or anything... If I want an adrenaline high, I just have to let my gas light come on.

But the scariest night of my life didn't involve my car or gasoline. Nope, instead it involved these:

I know, Josh Groban and The Princess Bride don't seem like they're all that scary. But when put in the context of this:

it equals this:

In the summer of 2004 I had just finished my junior year of high school. At that time, my stake decided it would be a good idea to take 300 of our youth to Nauvoo. This was a good idea for many reasons (and a horrible idea for a bunch of other reasons).

When the appointed time came, all of us piled into seven buses and began the long trek to Illinois. I was the Laurel's president at this time, and I was also a youth leader for the voyage, so I was feeling pretty good about myself. Nothing could dampen my greatness ... except for Kansas.

The trip to Nauvoo was wonderful. We saw all the sites, got "Vocal Point" to give us a special performance, took picture of the temple at sunrise, and generally had a jolly time. After a couple of days in Nauvoo we headed to Carthage (where events transpired that I will never forget - i.e. where I formed my intense hatred for disposable cameras). Then, with a quick stop at Liberty Jail and Adam-ondi-Ahman, we began our long drive home.

As we traveled across Kansas, somehow our seven buses dropped behind schedule. This required us to drive for several hours in the dark. To my horror, as we headed toward our hotel, the sky darkened and a Midwestern storm began. It was the first step in what would become the worst night of my life.

Just for a comparison, this is what a Utah storm looks like:

And this is what a Midwestern storm looks like:

I might be exaggerating a little, but I doubt it.

Aside from running out of gas, my biggest fear in life has always been tornadoes. When visiting my grandparents in tornado-friendly Indiana, I got nervous if it was cloudy. A real storm would leave me curled up on a couch, frantically repenting of every sin I had committed — just in case. I spent entire visits praying for sunny skies; my brothers spent visits praying for tornadoes.

(Since we had never seen a tornado, it was clear who prayed harder.)

Because my grandparents lived in Tornado Alley, I became an expert on Midwestern storms. I knew exactly what to do if a tornado appeared. Whenever we stopped somewhere, I looked for storm cellars and basements. I studied techniques in hiding under overpasses. I knew all about diving into bathtubs and covering yourself in pillows. I was schooled in how utilize a ditch to avoid being sucked up. 

I knew everything — EVERYTHING — there was to know. I was prepared, you see, for within Midwestern storms lurked the dreaded tornado.

Most of the 300 people on our seven buses had never encountered a Midwestern storm, so they were pretty excited by the fact that our bus could have been struck by lightning at any time, leaving us roasted in our seats. To calm us down, one of the leaders put on The Princess Bride. Under normal circumstances this would have been a good idea. Somehow that movie has a hypnotic power that can overcome both boys and girls. In choosing between a movie and the storm, however, well... it was no contest.

As we sped across Kansas, every single person on our bus plastered themselves against the windows, oohing and ahhing the pyrotechnic display of nature's fury. Then the exclamation came:

"TORNADO!"

Whoever screamed the word probably regretted it seconds later, because all 50+ people threw themselves against the window facing the purported tornado. I imagine the original screamer was squished in the excitement. It would have served them right.

After the first cry, the bus erupted in tornado-induced euphoria. People started hyperventilating.

"I see it! There it is!"

"There's another one! There are two!"

"I see five! Five tornadoes!" 

"Five?! No way, I see fifteen! They're surrounding us!"

Panicking, I threw on my headphones and turned up my CD (ah, the ages of CDs) to its highest volume, trying to drown out the hubub. If we were going to die in an Armageddon of tornadoes, I was going to go out listening to Josh Groban. I could feel my leaders staring at me as I huddled under my blanket. They were undoubtedly worried about my mental state, having never seen their (fairly) capable youth leader reduced to a quivering mass of Jell-o.

See, I wasn't worried about dying in the plethora of tornadoes. No, instead, I was caught up in my responsibility. If, in fact, our buses were really surrounded by tornadoes, I had a duty to protect all 300 people on our trip. 

Why me? 

Well, because I was the tornado expert.

Many of the 300 people on our trip had never been out of Utah. If our buses stopped, without my knowledge, they would probably all run into the middle of the road and take pictures until the tornado sucked them up. I was imagining the scene in my mind:

Me: "Hide in the ditch!"

Them: "Look! A tornado! My mom will never believe this!" 

(Camera: Snap, snap, snap)

Me: "You're going to die!"

Them: "Eh? Did you know there's a tornado over there?"

Me: "It's coming this direction!"

Them: "Does that tornado look like it's coming closer? That'd be awesome — my camera's zoom isn't that great!"

I spent the next hour blasting Josh Groban, trying to figure out how to keep 300 people alive. If we stopped in the right place, I could fit maybe 50 under one side of the overpass, and depending on how fast they ran, a ditch would hold at least 150. If there were culverts nearby, that would help too... 

It was a crushing burden for my scrawny shoulders to accept, but I did it anyway, praying all the while. 

In the midst of all this, our caravan paused at a rest stop. Everyone else ran around taking pictures of the sky, while I dashed from bus to bus trying to find my mom. She had accompanied us on the trip but was riding on a different ward's bus. If anyone had the know-how to alleviate my tornado panic, it was my mom. She had actually been sucked up by a tornado before (okay, slight exaggeration. One had just missed her school years before, but whatevs) so she would be able to help me save everyone else.

To my horror, her bus was nowhere to be found.

So, it was back on to my bus, Josh Groban, The Princess Bride, and more panicking. 

As soon as we got to the hotel that night, my mom came running up to find me. It turned out that her bus had stopped at a different rest stop. Knowing that I would be a psychological mess, she hurried to reassure me, informing me that the storm outside — the storm which had produced more tornadoes than had ever been seen on the earth (according to my fellow youth) — was not even the type of storm that could create a tornado.

"It's not tornado weather," she informed me. "It's just a storm."

So, in the end, all of this:

was for nothing.

But The Princess Bride and Josh Groban were tarnished forever.

C'est la vie