“Relax, you get scared of talking to people too often,” he laughed back, unrolling his window as the person on the other end inquired about his order.

I had to think about that for a minute, but you know what?

He’s right.

That’s why he’s the one who’s handled the conversations for every venue manager, photographer, and any other person that is wedding related. If it doesn’t have an online order form I cross it off my wants list. Who needs flowers and cakes anyway?

Heck, I’d have made him talk to the ladies at the dress store if it hadn’t have been for the need to actually try the dress on.

So he’s totally right – I am afraid of talking to people. Which is a little surprising, considering I worked on a call floor for five months. But if I think about it, it’s not just people I fear. It’s everything.

In the shower it’s earthquakes.

In the car, it’s accidents, flying objects and flat tires. Not to mention the fear I have of winding up abandoned on dark roads at night.

At night it’s murderers. I’m positive it was thieves making that scratching noise against my window, sending me flying into bed fully clothed, texting Kevin from under the covers.

And don’t forget the ankle-grabbing monster that lives under the bed and suffers from a mean case of foot fetish.

At work it’s job loss, messing up, not accomplishing what I want.

At home it’s wedding, wedding wedding wedding!!! stuff that all needs to be done on time, which isn’t helped by my spending habits and the reoccurring nightmare where I show up late to my own wedding in flip flops and bed hair.

Fear.

I fear fear even, but I don’t know how to help it.

So when something like this happens in my own bedroom:

All I can do is cover my head and text Ashley, “the sky is falling, Chicken Little!”

Let’s not even get into the fact that I head-bang to the music and scream lyrics at the top of my lungs while he’s driving in the car. I can just hear the collective, oh, so that was you, from all of you.

Yes. That was me.

Poor Kevin.

Didn’t anyone ever tell him that girls are trouble?

(Sorry mom.)

(Thanks dad.)

What I’m not sure of is where I got this dyslexia. Some distant relative perhaps? Or maybe it was a freak gene of my own that mutated, transforming me into a word-twisting freak. Whatever the reason, it’s got to stop.

I try to stop myself, I really do, but there’s no pattern to the madness. I seem to have a knack for saying the wrong thing at the most inconvenient time. Take for example last Wednesday, when I told my boss “have a great weekend”, instead of “have a good night”. Or when I read the sign on the fridge as, “the clean will be fridged out every Friday” instead of “the fridge will be cleaned out every Friday”.

It’s a disease, I tell you.

Wanna know other things I’ve said?

• Hear ache (hearing aid)
• Three Frows (free throws)
• Eye glass (hour glass)
• Sland your ham (slam your hand)
• Bookwork (book worm)
• Cwommas (commas in quotes) “they put the cwommas in…”
• Tan of coona (can of tuna)
• Cookie Cukkers (cookie cutters)

The worst by far, however happened when Kevin and I were cooking dinner a few nights ago. He was watching the chicken to make sure it didn’t burn when his phone started ringing. I picked it up off the table, glanced at it and held it out to him.

“It’s Timmer Dunn,” I told him.

He got a weird, questioning look on his face for a split second before he bust up laughing.

“What?” I asked. I didn’t get the joke. I was still trying to figure out who would name their kid that. What a stupid name. Maybe it was a practical joke?

“Um sweetie? It’s the timer. As in, ‘Timer Done’.”

And because everything is better with a random photo:

Go ahead. I dare you to caption it.

• I was walking the strip in Vegas
• I was swimming in the ocean California
• I was busy riding rides at Universal Studios
• I was at my parents house on Thanksgiving enjoying the family company
• I am lazy.

Actually, all of the above are true. I went on vacation and took a blogging hiatus, but I didn’t tell a single soul. Because if I told somebody, then I was really taking a break and then I’d really feel guilty.

It’s an Aubrey thing, guilt.

I’m working on it.

I’ll be posting about my amazing vacation and various other things shortly, but in the mean time, I’ve been noticing a lot of conversations come across differently than they should. Miscommunication errors, if you will, and they are absolutely hilarious. One such example happened last Friday night when Kevin took me on a date to Temple Square. It was the first night they turned on the Christmas lights and the grounds were flooded with people. We made our way slowly around the Temple and noticed a single, solitary building to the north that hadn’t been lit up. It was odd really, to be standing surrounded by thousands of stranded lights on every tree and have a dark building right smack in the middle. He took a photo and texted it to his sister to see if she could tell us what the building was. We kept walking and ran into a Missionary that informed us the building was the changing and entry room for the attendees when they arrive.

“Have you been through the Temple?” he kindly inquired. I love Missionaries, they are always so friendly.

“Nope,” was our simple reply.

“Oh. Ya’ll married?” bless him, he was a conversationalist.

Another double “nope”.

“Well, do you want to be?” the old man chuckled. I blushed and pushed my hands deeper into the pockets of Kevin’s borrowed jacket, biting my lip to allow him to answer. Yes. . .let him answer, this’ll be interesting.

“. . .Possibly?” Was his reply. He gave me a questioning look and I just smiled.

I can live with possibly.

We talked with the Missionary for a few more minutes (and accidentally insulted his love of the Utes team . . .oops) and began trying to work our way through the crowd back to his car. I’d completely forgotten that he’d texted his sister until his phone started buzzing.

Where are you? Lindsay asked.

At the Salt Lake City Temple, he replied.

Why are you there? We began to realize that texting her saying that we were at the SLC Temple could have been misleading. It’s a popular engagement spot after all, what else would anyone think?

Before he could even respond Lindsay calls and asks, “Did you go to Jared?!”. I’m standing on the other side of Kevin, the side his phone isn’t on and I’m laughing because he repeats what she says.

“Jared? Who — oh! Jared, no no no, we didn’t go to Jared.” By this point I’m dying of laughter and can’t stay out of their conversation.

“Tell her we went to Shane Co.!” I rattled off between my laughing fits.

“We went to Shopko, got her something nice!”

Shopko.

Shopko.

Let me spell that out for you. S-H-O-P-K-O. I literally would have been rolling around on the ground if not for the fear of being stompled by the crowd.

“Yea because Shopko is cheaper than Wal-Mart!” I was done, that was the last I heard of their conversation before I died of laughter.

*If you are wondering what the crap the title of this blog post is, go here. It is Latin for “it does not follow”. Meaning that while we occasionally visit the Temple, we are not engaged…yet.*

IT’S MONDAY, AND I’M ALREADY HUNGRY. Is it not enough that it’s Monday? I mean, that’s a huge thing all in itself. Matter of fact, that works as answer to anything:

Aubrey what’s wrong?

It’s Monday.

How’s that spreadsheet coming (oh yea, the one that’s still LOST?!)

It’s Monday.

How’s your Grandma?

It’s Monday.

What’re you thinking?

It’s Monday.

Except this time, It’s Monday and I’m Hungry. I’m hungry and I’m on a quest – for Funions. Kevin and I were driving around the other day and for some insane reason I felt the need to blurt out of nowhere, “Whenever I find Funions, I feel like I’ve won something massive.” I clenched my fists together for added emphasis.

“. . .O. . .kay?” He asked, looking at me out the corner of his eye.

“Well, you just can’t find those anywhere, it’s like a prize. A prize of yummy goodness.”

“Eww.  Funions are sooo gross!” He proclaimed.

“WHAT?! You don’t like Funions?! You don’t like Funions.” I huffed. “You mean to tell me we’re similar in every other way but you can’t stand Funions? Well, then guess what? I hate the vinegar in Salt and Vinegar chips.” Oh yes, I went there. I hated on his favorite chips.

“Well then, I hate the onions in Funions.”

We both bust up laughing and that was the end of that discussion – he won. We agreed to disagree (and what a great first disagreement that was), and get our favorite type of chips anyway – except Chevron was lame and didn’t have either.

However, he made it up to me later when he found my stash of Easy Cheese and Wheat Thins. “Oh my goodness I love these! You’re probably mad that I found them.” Mad, no. Surprised that you like them? Yes.

I got thinking of how much my father hates Easy Cheese. He calls it “Fish Cheese” because he claims it’s so similar to the cheese bait he used while fishing as a kid. He won’t even come close to a can of Easy Cheese if you paid him.  Thinking of that got me thinking of butter. Both are so similar with how they can be processed and sold in so many different forms.

And now butter’s got me thinking about toast, and pancakes, and all the other stuff I’d like to make in the morning when I get up.

But wait.

It’s Monday.

Raincheck to Tuesday? Why yes please.