There's this long-standing argument between Best Friend Boy and me about colors.
One evening many years ago, we were watching Cast Away. Cast Away is one of the most depressing movies of all time. This is not an opinion. This is a fact.
Depressing movies either make you want to cry or punch something. This one made me want to do both--simultaneously, repetitively, and immediately. However, I didn't want to cry in front of my friends, and there was nothing satisfying enough to punch except for Etch-a-Sketch's cat that was sitting on Best Friend Boy's lap. Had I punched that cat, Best Friend Boy probably would have punched me. So I didn't punch the cat, and instead started arguing with Best Friend Boy as an acceptable substitute for outletting the feelings of extreme frustration and loneliness that losing Wilson had evoked.
We argued about the nature of perception and reality. Best Friend Boy championed reality as, well, a reality. However, I maintained that reality doesn't matter that much.
"What people think about reality, whether it's true or not, is what's important!" I told him. "Perception can change everything."
Rebuttal from Best Friend Boy.
"Think about it," I said. "If I say your shoes are purple, it doesn't matter whether they are or not. I'll still interact with them like they are purple-"
"They're white," Best Friend Boy said.
"Nope, from now on they're purple."
Best Friend Boy implied that he wouldn't be caught dead wearing purple shoes, so I told him fine, they were orange. And I've called them orange ever since. Just to prove a point.
Now, at the time I wasn't being entirely serious. I was trying to burn off some of my excess feelings and also annoy Best Friend Boy because annoying Best Friend Boy used to be one of my favorite pastimes. The part of me that was, in fact, being serious thought only of how a positive attitude can work wonders or how faith in the face of overwhelming odds ignites miracles. "Perception is more important than reality," I said, but I didn't know how true that was until now.
There are people who live in a world created by perception. Every time they see white, they say it's orange. Soon orange is all that exists for them. I could take them to the top of a snow-covered mountain, and they'd look around at the pure, glittering snow and say, "Wow, it's so orange up here!"
This happens way too often for my comfort.
The twenty-first century is awesome. And by awesome, I mean awful. But also awesome. Because the way we're able to so totally and completely delude ourselves can't help but be awesome, right?
Right?
Maybe if I perceive it that way, I'll feel better.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Back to School
It's that time of year again.
Nope, not Christmas. I wish it were Christmas, but it's not so don't start getting visions of sugar plums dancing in your heads or anything. Christmas is way better than school though, school being the thing it's actually the time of year for.
Soooo sometimes I have a bit of an attitude problem about school. Like, I really want to get a college degree, and I'm grateful I have the chance to fulfill that dream. However. I get tired of the academic posturing that goes on in college. I like people to be honest with me, and there's not a lot of honesty in the scholastic world. It makes me not very excited to be there, thus the attitude problem.
On school mornings, I hit the snooze button over and over. When I finally get up, I eat breakfast and run until five, ten minutes before my time of departure, at which point I throw on whatever and do such hair and makeup as time will allow. In short, I show up each day at school looking like a zombie. Or a hobo. Most accurately, a zombie hobo.
And then I'm like, "Nameless Utah College students! Let's be friends!"
And the students are all like, "The zombie apocalypse already?" or "Someone give that hobo a sandwich and some bus fare." Except for the hipsters, who are like, "The hobo apocalypse already?" or "Someone give that zombie a sandwich and some bus fare," because the other way is too mainstream.
It occurred to me over the summer that if I act like school is a special occasion, maybe my attitude about it will change. Plus treating it like a special occasion = putting more effort into my appearance = not looking like a zombie hobo = less sandwich handouts but more friends.
So the night before my first day of school this year, I took time to select a suitable outfit. I planned out a nice hairdo and set my alarm clock for the perfect time.
Too bad I didn't wake up until over an hour later.
The Story of How I Didn't Wake Up Until Over an Hour Later
Once upon a time aka two days before school started, I went camping. I disabled my alarm clock so that it wouldn't go off and bother Older Sister while I was gone. When I got home I set my alarm clock, forgetting that I had disabled it and that it was incapable of going off until I enabled it again. Then I lived happily ever after except not really because by the time I woke up there were only thirteen minutes until my bus left.
The End
Thirteen minutes before my bus was supposed to leave, I jolted awake. I threw on my cute clothes except without the accessories including the belt that kept my cute shirt from being two sizes too big. I brushed two and a half strokes through my hair. I smeared some makeup on my face and ran out the door, forgetting my jacket, sunscreen, and water bottle.
By the time I got to Nameless Utah College, I was cold, sunburned, and dehydrated (because this is Utah, where being cold and sunburned at the same time is totally within the realm of possibility). I went to buy myself some breakfast from the student center only to remember that I had not brought any money with me. Dejectedly, I stumbled to the ladies' restroom, where I caught sight of myself in the mirror.
I looked like a zombie hobo, but worse. Waaaay worse.
"Well," I said to myself, trying not to perpetuate my attitude problem, "at least maybe this way I'll get a sandwich."
Nope, not Christmas. I wish it were Christmas, but it's not so don't start getting visions of sugar plums dancing in your heads or anything. Christmas is way better than school though, school being the thing it's actually the time of year for.
Soooo sometimes I have a bit of an attitude problem about school. Like, I really want to get a college degree, and I'm grateful I have the chance to fulfill that dream. However. I get tired of the academic posturing that goes on in college. I like people to be honest with me, and there's not a lot of honesty in the scholastic world. It makes me not very excited to be there, thus the attitude problem.
On school mornings, I hit the snooze button over and over. When I finally get up, I eat breakfast and run until five, ten minutes before my time of departure, at which point I throw on whatever and do such hair and makeup as time will allow. In short, I show up each day at school looking like a zombie. Or a hobo. Most accurately, a zombie hobo.
And then I'm like, "Nameless Utah College students! Let's be friends!"
And the students are all like, "The zombie apocalypse already?" or "Someone give that hobo a sandwich and some bus fare." Except for the hipsters, who are like, "The hobo apocalypse already?" or "Someone give that zombie a sandwich and some bus fare," because the other way is too mainstream.
It occurred to me over the summer that if I act like school is a special occasion, maybe my attitude about it will change. Plus treating it like a special occasion = putting more effort into my appearance = not looking like a zombie hobo = less sandwich handouts but more friends.
So the night before my first day of school this year, I took time to select a suitable outfit. I planned out a nice hairdo and set my alarm clock for the perfect time.
Too bad I didn't wake up until over an hour later.
Once upon a time aka two days before school started, I went camping. I disabled my alarm clock so that it wouldn't go off and bother Older Sister while I was gone. When I got home I set my alarm clock, forgetting that I had disabled it and that it was incapable of going off until I enabled it again. Then I lived happily ever after except not really because by the time I woke up there were only thirteen minutes until my bus left.
Thirteen minutes before my bus was supposed to leave, I jolted awake. I threw on my cute clothes except without the accessories including the belt that kept my cute shirt from being two sizes too big. I brushed two and a half strokes through my hair. I smeared some makeup on my face and ran out the door, forgetting my jacket, sunscreen, and water bottle.
By the time I got to Nameless Utah College, I was cold, sunburned, and dehydrated (because this is Utah, where being cold and sunburned at the same time is totally within the realm of possibility). I went to buy myself some breakfast from the student center only to remember that I had not brought any money with me. Dejectedly, I stumbled to the ladies' restroom, where I caught sight of myself in the mirror.
I looked like a zombie hobo, but worse. Waaaay worse.
"Well," I said to myself, trying not to perpetuate my attitude problem, "at least maybe this way I'll get a sandwich."
Monday, August 26, 2013
You Wear What You Eat
Every summer, Hometown throws an international fair featuring dancers from all across the world.
I love, love, love this fair. Apart from the dancers, there are crafts and delicious food. This summer I convinced Porch to go with me.
This is the line I used to convince Porch to go with me: "It'll be a multicultural experience!" I guess it's either a good line or he just has nothing better to do, because this is the second year I've gotten him to come to the fair.
This year, after carefully studying the merchandise at every booth (wooden shoe key chains from Holland! Hibiscus-print dresses from some Polynesian Island! Silverware wind chimes made by local artists!), we decided it was time to eat. We studied the food selection even more carefully than we studied the merchandise and finally chose Thai food.
I purchased red chicken curry with bamboo, fried rice, and a spring roll. Porch got the curry and the rice and some cashew chicken. We sat down at a table beneath a tree to eat our delicious food and drink tiny free cups of water, accompanied by some unknown women and a prepubescent boy. All was well. Except for the annoyance of the wind, that is. The wind persistently snatched up our napkins and ruffled our hair. It made eating the amazing Thai food a little less enjoyable.
Just when Porch cleared his plate of almost everything except driblets of sauce, fwap! His too-light plate overturned in the wind. The cashew chicken sauce and the curry sauce and little bits of food all splattered artistically on Porch's t-shirt.
I tried not to laugh. Really I did. I succeeded, too. Mostly. At least I didn't all-out bust up like the prepubescent boy at our table did. As we excused ourselves, we could still hear his laughter and the scolding from one of the ladies, "It's not funny."
I finally busted up once we got to the parking lot. So did Porch.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I kind of want to tell this story in a blog post, but I can't think of a good way to end it. 'And then, Porch was covered with sauce!' Is that funny?
PORCH: (examining his shirt) I think there's some rice, too.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: 'And then, Porch was covered with rice!' Is that better? Rice is funny, right?
Porch never did respond to that. It was almost like he was avoiding answering the question to spare my feelings. I don't know why, though, because obviously rice is never anything but hilarious.
And then, Porch was covered with rice! The End.
See? Hilarious.
I love, love, love this fair. Apart from the dancers, there are crafts and delicious food. This summer I convinced Porch to go with me.
This is the line I used to convince Porch to go with me: "It'll be a multicultural experience!" I guess it's either a good line or he just has nothing better to do, because this is the second year I've gotten him to come to the fair.
This year, after carefully studying the merchandise at every booth (wooden shoe key chains from Holland! Hibiscus-print dresses from some Polynesian Island! Silverware wind chimes made by local artists!), we decided it was time to eat. We studied the food selection even more carefully than we studied the merchandise and finally chose Thai food.
I purchased red chicken curry with bamboo, fried rice, and a spring roll. Porch got the curry and the rice and some cashew chicken. We sat down at a table beneath a tree to eat our delicious food and drink tiny free cups of water, accompanied by some unknown women and a prepubescent boy. All was well. Except for the annoyance of the wind, that is. The wind persistently snatched up our napkins and ruffled our hair. It made eating the amazing Thai food a little less enjoyable.
Just when Porch cleared his plate of almost everything except driblets of sauce, fwap! His too-light plate overturned in the wind. The cashew chicken sauce and the curry sauce and little bits of food all splattered artistically on Porch's t-shirt.
I tried not to laugh. Really I did. I succeeded, too. Mostly. At least I didn't all-out bust up like the prepubescent boy at our table did. As we excused ourselves, we could still hear his laughter and the scolding from one of the ladies, "It's not funny."
I finally busted up once we got to the parking lot. So did Porch.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I kind of want to tell this story in a blog post, but I can't think of a good way to end it. 'And then, Porch was covered with sauce!' Is that funny?
PORCH: (examining his shirt) I think there's some rice, too.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: 'And then, Porch was covered with rice!' Is that better? Rice is funny, right?
Porch never did respond to that. It was almost like he was avoiding answering the question to spare my feelings. I don't know why, though, because obviously rice is never anything but hilarious.
And then, Porch was covered with rice! The End.
See? Hilarious.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Ask Awkward Mormon Girl
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You should write some questions for me to answer on my blog.
LITTLE SISTER: ...?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I was thinking of starting something different, like kind of an advice post. But I need questions to answer first. You should write some.
LITTLE SISTER: (noncommittal noise)
I assumed she'd forgotten all about it. The next night, however, she texted me and told me to check my iPod when I got home from hanging out with La Petite.
There were no less than thirteen messages on my iPod from Little Sister. The messages are in the italic text. My answers have been interspersed within.
Dear awkward mormon girl:
Please answer one or more of the following
How can you tell the difference between a crocodile and an alligator based on their singing voices?
Alligators have better vibrato, but crocodiles are better at belting.
What exactly is the function of a sock monkey?
Only someone very disturbed would believe that this makes a great toy.
It's terrifying. It looks like it's bleeding out of its mouth. Plus it's gray and white. The only color in a sock monkey's world is blood. And tassels.
From this I have deducted that the function of a sock monkey is to be terrifying to small children whose relatives bought them a sock monkey because they, the relatives, secretly hate kids. Here, I'll write it out for you mathematically. f(sock monkey) = terror
Do smarter people chose puffed Cheetos
Or crunchy?
Smart people don't "chose" Cheetos at all. Cheetos are almost as terrifying as sock monkeys. A sock monkey eating Cheetos is ultra terrifying. A Cheeto eating sock monkeys is worse.
Does the amount of air in the first choice make a difference in your IQ?
If you eat too many puffy Cheetos, you'll turn into an airhead. Ba-dum-ching!
*chose
*choose
Is autocorrect often annoying?
Yes. Yes it is.
No need for you to answer that one. I have the answer already. Yes. Yes it is.
Does your awkwardness interfere with the life of your remarkably intelligent, hilarious, and talented Little Sister?
You're mistaken. Baby Sister is the remarkably intelligent, hilarious, and talented one. Little Sister is the terrifying one. Neither Cheetos nor sock monkeys compare.
Thank you for your time.
You're welcome and stuff.
LATER
LITTLE SISTER: Did you get my messages?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yeah. I wish you'd asked some serious questions though.
LITTLE SISTER: Those are serious questions. Except for the one about the Cheetos. That one was a joke.
LITTLE SISTER: ...?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I was thinking of starting something different, like kind of an advice post. But I need questions to answer first. You should write some.
LITTLE SISTER: (noncommittal noise)
I assumed she'd forgotten all about it. The next night, however, she texted me and told me to check my iPod when I got home from hanging out with La Petite.
There were no less than thirteen messages on my iPod from Little Sister. The messages are in the italic text. My answers have been interspersed within.
Dear awkward mormon girl:
Please answer one or more of the following
Alligators have better vibrato, but crocodiles are better at belting.
Only someone very disturbed would believe that this makes a great toy.
It's terrifying. It looks like it's bleeding out of its mouth. Plus it's gray and white. The only color in a sock monkey's world is blood. And tassels.
From this I have deducted that the function of a sock monkey is to be terrifying to small children whose relatives bought them a sock monkey because they, the relatives, secretly hate kids. Here, I'll write it out for you mathematically. f(sock monkey) = terror
Or crunchy?
Smart people don't "chose" Cheetos at all. Cheetos are almost as terrifying as sock monkeys. A sock monkey eating Cheetos is ultra terrifying. A Cheeto eating sock monkeys is worse.
If you eat too many puffy Cheetos, you'll turn into an airhead. Ba-dum-ching!
*chose
*choose
Yes. Yes it is.
No need for you to answer that one. I have the answer already. Yes. Yes it is.
You're mistaken. Baby Sister is the remarkably intelligent, hilarious, and talented one. Little Sister is the terrifying one. Neither Cheetos nor sock monkeys compare.
Thank you for your time.
You're welcome and stuff.
LITTLE SISTER: Did you get my messages?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yeah. I wish you'd asked some serious questions though.
LITTLE SISTER: Those are serious questions. Except for the one about the Cheetos. That one was a joke.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Mayonnaise
This afternoon I was at the grocery store with Mom, Baby Sister, Little Brother, and Baby Brother. Please note that I said grocery store. Despite what Baby Brother seems to think, I do shop at other stores besides Target.
Whilst shopping, somebody said something that Baby Brother took offense at.
BABY BROTHER: You are mayonnaise!
EVERYBODY ELSE:...
BABY BROTHER: That's what I say to bullies. 'You're all mayonnaise!'
BABY BROTHER: I say it because I'm British.
BABY BROTHER: (not even trying to sound British) 'You're mayonnaise!'
...no words. I have no words.
Whilst shopping, somebody said something that Baby Brother took offense at.
BABY BROTHER: You are mayonnaise!
EVERYBODY ELSE:...
BABY BROTHER: That's what I say to bullies. 'You're all mayonnaise!'
BABY BROTHER: I say it because I'm British.
BABY BROTHER: (not even trying to sound British) 'You're mayonnaise!'
...no words. I have no words.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
I (Don't) Wanna Hold Your Hand
Baby Brother is now a year older.
First off, I just want to take a moment and show off this amazing Perry the Platypus cake that Mom and Baby Sister made for him.
Second off, I'm proud to tell you that for his birthday Baby Brother received a Perry the Playpus t-shirt, a Perry the Platypus football, a Phineas and Ferb roller coaster set, and a stuffed platypus exactly like the stuffed platypus I wanted for my birthday two years ago except I asked for a blue one and he asked for a white. Clearly Baby Brother is a man after my own heart.
Lastly, I feel the need to express how much I hate it when Baby Brother gets older. Well, perhaps hate is the wrong word. I'm happy to celebrate each new year I've spent with him. I like him almost as much as I like Phineas and Ferb and/or hobbits.
I, however, very strongly dislike some of the things that stack up with each year that passes. Baby Brother gets taller. More sarcastic. He becomes more of a brother and less of a baby.
I don't feel entirely ready for that, but the metamorphosis is as inevitable as the tide. As inevitable as the end of summer. As inevitable as everything changing when the Fire Nation attacks.
I can try to fight it, though.
When I took Baby Brother to Target to look for a birthday present, he kept not holding my hand. Even a few months ago he held my hand all the time. At Disneyland he hardly let go of it. He would just step up beside me and grab my hand, and life was good. Just weeks later, however, not only would he not grab my hand, as soon as I tried to hold his he'd twist out of it within moments.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Baby Brother. You have to hold my hand. Otherwise I might lose you in this Target. Then you'll be stuck here. Then the next time I come, I might have forgotten about you and I won't recognize you. And then you'll never get home.
BABY BROTHER: You go to Target, like, every week. You won't forget about me in a week.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Well, maybe I won't go for a few months. It could happen.
BABY BROTHER: That seems unlikely.
My pride was severely wounded because a) What kind of genius-child says "that seems unlikely" at this age? Baby Brother, that's who, and with snarkiness while he's at it and b) He still didn't want to hold my hand.
Fine, genius-child I thought. I'll just hold my own hand!
It was not a fulfilling experience.
First off, I just want to take a moment and show off this amazing Perry the Platypus cake that Mom and Baby Sister made for him.
Second off, I'm proud to tell you that for his birthday Baby Brother received a Perry the Playpus t-shirt, a Perry the Platypus football, a Phineas and Ferb roller coaster set, and a stuffed platypus exactly like the stuffed platypus I wanted for my birthday two years ago except I asked for a blue one and he asked for a white. Clearly Baby Brother is a man after my own heart.
Lastly, I feel the need to express how much I hate it when Baby Brother gets older. Well, perhaps hate is the wrong word. I'm happy to celebrate each new year I've spent with him. I like him almost as much as I like Phineas and Ferb and/or hobbits.
I, however, very strongly dislike some of the things that stack up with each year that passes. Baby Brother gets taller. More sarcastic. He becomes more of a brother and less of a baby.
I don't feel entirely ready for that, but the metamorphosis is as inevitable as the tide. As inevitable as the end of summer. As inevitable as everything changing when the Fire Nation attacks.
I can try to fight it, though.
When I took Baby Brother to Target to look for a birthday present, he kept not holding my hand. Even a few months ago he held my hand all the time. At Disneyland he hardly let go of it. He would just step up beside me and grab my hand, and life was good. Just weeks later, however, not only would he not grab my hand, as soon as I tried to hold his he'd twist out of it within moments.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Baby Brother. You have to hold my hand. Otherwise I might lose you in this Target. Then you'll be stuck here. Then the next time I come, I might have forgotten about you and I won't recognize you. And then you'll never get home.
BABY BROTHER: You go to Target, like, every week. You won't forget about me in a week.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Well, maybe I won't go for a few months. It could happen.
BABY BROTHER: That seems unlikely.
My pride was severely wounded because a) What kind of genius-child says "that seems unlikely" at this age? Baby Brother, that's who, and with snarkiness while he's at it and b) He still didn't want to hold my hand.
Fine, genius-child I thought. I'll just hold my own hand!
It was not a fulfilling experience.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Life and Yo
I've been on, like, a million and a half road trips. I've driven through brushfires and rainstorms. I've had driving-induced headaches. I've been lost in Las Vegas. I've thrown up. And I've lived through some moments of epic proportions of boredom. If boredom can come in epic proportions. I guess if boredom were epic, it wouldn't be boring.
Either way, never ask my dad about that one road trip to Reno, back when I was ten. It still rankles him to remember how Older Sister and I spit-glued gummy bears to the ceiling of the Tracer.
It's amazing how creative kids can get when boredom reaches not-actually-epic proportions.
Gummy bears aside, boredom tends to occur a lot on road trips. And often that boredom leads to misery. Misery leads to irritation. Irritation leads to anger, and anger leads to dead bodies in the trunk but a little more leg room in the backseat.
I took a day-long road trip a while back with some friends from my ward. We decided to go up north to Idaho for a day of hiking and swimming.
Alas, not long into our trip an accident occurred on the highway. Police and ambulances rushed by. Traffic came to a dead stop. Our cars were effectively parked at Mile 486, stuck in a bumper-to-bumper chain that stretched back who-knew-how-far.
The moment we realized we were stuck in traffic, I automatically braced myself. Traffic is one of the top sources of boredom on road trips.
I began to rifled through my backpack, looking for something that could be used as a weapon lest the chain of boredom progressed to anger. Hmm. Which would be more capable of inflicting damage, sunscreen or a Cosmic Brownie? I was determined to not end up very dead inside the trunk. I'd win the Boredom Games at all costs.
After a few minutes our drivers turned off the engines and we all spilled out of our vehicles to "stretch our legs." "Stretch your legs" is what they called it, but I knew they really meant "fight to the death." My Cosmic Brownie and I were ready. I kept my backpack open so that I could grab it at a moment's notice. I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Nobody was getting bored.
My traveling companions were going on walks. They were taking pictures. They were playing Frisbee with the small, excitable boy from the family in the van behind us. They were laughing and talking and generally having a good time.
At first I was surprised. Then I was incredulous. Then I just found myself feeling really, really appreciative. What could have been a very bad experience was shaping up as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. How often do you have a party in the middle of a freeway?
'Cause with traffic stopped in both lanes, people were just chilling in the literal middle of the freeway. And with a boat blasting music and complete strangers walking up to other cars to introduce themselves, it truly was becoming a party.
The longer I sat there, the more serene I felt. It really was a beautiful day. The freeway wound in a mountainous area between two slopes covered in lovely greenness. There was a stream on one side, and wildflowers everywhere, and the most perfect breeze...
We were stuck there for about an hour. Nobody ever got grumpy. Nobody ever complained.
I let this new experience seep into my pores and was wondering how this affected the nature of my existence when one of my pals approached me.
PAL: Yo, how's life?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (ponderously) Life is pretty yo.
PAL: ...and that means absolutely nothing.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: No. No, it does not.
We eventually got on the road and when we did, there were no dead bodies in the trunk. Zero. All because of the power of positive attitudes.
I do still think that, if played right, it would be possible to kill somebody with a Cosmic Brownie.
Either way, never ask my dad about that one road trip to Reno, back when I was ten. It still rankles him to remember how Older Sister and I spit-glued gummy bears to the ceiling of the Tracer.
It's amazing how creative kids can get when boredom reaches not-actually-epic proportions.
Gummy bears aside, boredom tends to occur a lot on road trips. And often that boredom leads to misery. Misery leads to irritation. Irritation leads to anger, and anger leads to dead bodies in the trunk but a little more leg room in the backseat.
I took a day-long road trip a while back with some friends from my ward. We decided to go up north to Idaho for a day of hiking and swimming.
Alas, not long into our trip an accident occurred on the highway. Police and ambulances rushed by. Traffic came to a dead stop. Our cars were effectively parked at Mile 486, stuck in a bumper-to-bumper chain that stretched back who-knew-how-far.
The moment we realized we were stuck in traffic, I automatically braced myself. Traffic is one of the top sources of boredom on road trips.
I began to rifled through my backpack, looking for something that could be used as a weapon lest the chain of boredom progressed to anger. Hmm. Which would be more capable of inflicting damage, sunscreen or a Cosmic Brownie? I was determined to not end up very dead inside the trunk. I'd win the Boredom Games at all costs.
| Behold the awesome power of the Cosmic Brownie. |
And waited.
And waited.
Nobody was getting bored.
My traveling companions were going on walks. They were taking pictures. They were playing Frisbee with the small, excitable boy from the family in the van behind us. They were laughing and talking and generally having a good time.
At first I was surprised. Then I was incredulous. Then I just found myself feeling really, really appreciative. What could have been a very bad experience was shaping up as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. How often do you have a party in the middle of a freeway?
'Cause with traffic stopped in both lanes, people were just chilling in the literal middle of the freeway. And with a boat blasting music and complete strangers walking up to other cars to introduce themselves, it truly was becoming a party.
The longer I sat there, the more serene I felt. It really was a beautiful day. The freeway wound in a mountainous area between two slopes covered in lovely greenness. There was a stream on one side, and wildflowers everywhere, and the most perfect breeze...
We were stuck there for about an hour. Nobody ever got grumpy. Nobody ever complained.
I let this new experience seep into my pores and was wondering how this affected the nature of my existence when one of my pals approached me.
PAL: Yo, how's life?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (ponderously) Life is pretty yo.
PAL: ...and that means absolutely nothing.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: No. No, it does not.
We eventually got on the road and when we did, there were no dead bodies in the trunk. Zero. All because of the power of positive attitudes.
I do still think that, if played right, it would be possible to kill somebody with a Cosmic Brownie.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
On Fish
My first goldfish died precisely one week after I brought him home from the arcade where my father had won him for me on our daddy-daughter date.
I was five. I was in love with my fish. He was beautiful, all gold and shiny. I named him Sprinkles. My dad took me out to buy a little fishbowl and some colored rocks and a sign that said Mermaid Crossing.
For six days Sprinkles lived a peaceful life in his new habitat. On the seventh day he started flailing violently and then passed away.
I cried. All. Night. Long. Nothing could console me.
PARENTS: I'm sorry, honey, this is just what happens.
FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries*
PARENTS: Maybe you can get another fish sometime.
FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries harder*
PAENTS: We're going to KSL! Won't that be fun?
FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries a river, a substantial one like the Tigris or the Mississippi*
There's a photo of me and dying Sprinkles. My entire face is blotched red but particularly my eyes look like someone poured a gallon of hydrogen peroxide in them.
KSL was where Dad worked at the time and my parents had planned an exciting tour for me and my sisters. Under normal circumstances I would have loved the tour (as a child, I loved everything except having my hair curled).
Alas, I was still very heartbroken, having witnessed the tragic death of my fish less than an hour ago.
KSL TOUR GUIDE: Here, put on this name tag for me, sweetie, okay? There! Don't you feel happy now?!
FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I will never be happy again.
I mean, really. Getting over your first love is hard. Getting over your first fish is hard. Getting over your first love that's also a fish is, like, hard-squared.
Three and a half years later, I had made enough progress that I decided to take a chance on another fish. I won it at a carnival and named it Periwinkle. Older Sister also won a goldfish and named hers Twinkle.
I watched Periwinkle with an anxious heart. At the end of the first week, she was still alive, and this cheered me greatly. She actually lived for some four months before passing away. This was not unexpected, but it hurt. I buried her under the deck in the backyard and used a Mason jar lid and a Sharpie to create a little tombstone for her.
RIP
PERIWINKLE
Twinkle died of unknown causes a year later. In a moment of morbidity, Older Sister decided to dissect him for her science fair project.
At the science fair, all the kids in my grade kept shrieking, "I know which project your sister did. Your sister cut open a fish!" SO embarrassing. It was a huge relief when the science fair was over and the remains of Twinkle's remains were safely deposited in the backyard.
RIP
TWINKLE
When I got my last goldfish a few years later, I had come to accept that death was just part of a goldfish's life. In fact, I even embraced it. I named my goldfish Van Winkle expressly for the purpose of Sharpieing his grave marker with
RIP
VAN WINKLE
If you don't get the joke, you must not be an English major.
I was five. I was in love with my fish. He was beautiful, all gold and shiny. I named him Sprinkles. My dad took me out to buy a little fishbowl and some colored rocks and a sign that said Mermaid Crossing.
For six days Sprinkles lived a peaceful life in his new habitat. On the seventh day he started flailing violently and then passed away.
I cried. All. Night. Long. Nothing could console me.
PARENTS: I'm sorry, honey, this is just what happens.
FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries*
PARENTS: Maybe you can get another fish sometime.
FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries harder*
PAENTS: We're going to KSL! Won't that be fun?
FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries a river, a substantial one like the Tigris or the Mississippi*
There's a photo of me and dying Sprinkles. My entire face is blotched red but particularly my eyes look like someone poured a gallon of hydrogen peroxide in them.
KSL was where Dad worked at the time and my parents had planned an exciting tour for me and my sisters. Under normal circumstances I would have loved the tour (as a child, I loved everything except having my hair curled).
Alas, I was still very heartbroken, having witnessed the tragic death of my fish less than an hour ago.
KSL TOUR GUIDE: Here, put on this name tag for me, sweetie, okay? There! Don't you feel happy now?!
FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I will never be happy again.
I mean, really. Getting over your first love is hard. Getting over your first fish is hard. Getting over your first love that's also a fish is, like, hard-squared.
Three and a half years later, I had made enough progress that I decided to take a chance on another fish. I won it at a carnival and named it Periwinkle. Older Sister also won a goldfish and named hers Twinkle.
I watched Periwinkle with an anxious heart. At the end of the first week, she was still alive, and this cheered me greatly. She actually lived for some four months before passing away. This was not unexpected, but it hurt. I buried her under the deck in the backyard and used a Mason jar lid and a Sharpie to create a little tombstone for her.
Twinkle died of unknown causes a year later. In a moment of morbidity, Older Sister decided to dissect him for her science fair project.
At the science fair, all the kids in my grade kept shrieking, "I know which project your sister did. Your sister cut open a fish!" SO embarrassing. It was a huge relief when the science fair was over and the remains of Twinkle's remains were safely deposited in the backyard.
When I got my last goldfish a few years later, I had come to accept that death was just part of a goldfish's life. In fact, I even embraced it. I named my goldfish Van Winkle expressly for the purpose of Sharpieing his grave marker with
If you don't get the joke, you must not be an English major.
Monday, August 5, 2013
In Which I Put Hydrogen Peroxide In My Eyes
I woke up. I went into the bathroom and proceeded to stab myself in the eye.
At least, that's what it felt like.
In reality, I placed my right contact lens over my eye and paaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiin.
Immediately my eye watered over and shut to protect itself. Which was smart in theory, but less smart in reality, because in order to remove the offending contact I had to pry my eyelid open with both hands. And the whole time I was in severe pain. And I wished I'd just stayed in bed.
Finally I removed the contact.
"What," I asked myself, "is wrong with this contact? Why is it hurting my eye?"
See, sometimes contact lenses have little rips in them, or bits of dirt, and when you put them in they irritate your eyes. However, that kind of irritation tends to be more subtle and less blinding than this excruciatingness.
"Hmmm," I said, feeling like Nancy Drew. I examined the contact with a sleuth's (left) eye. "Hmmmmmmm." But without contact lenses, I am almost completely blind, and if there was a rip or some dirt in that right contact I certainly couldn't see it.
"Well," I decided, "I'll put in my left contact so that I can see, and then I'll conduct my investigation." I placed the other contact on my left eye.
PAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIN.
Now both my eyes were injured and I didn't know why.
Roughly seventy-two percent of the threats Nancy Drew faces are acid-related. Like, there are so many books where Nancy accidentally touches or is given something coated with acid. Then her skin smarts and stings and she knows she has to get treatment right away or else bye-bye epidermis. And since she's tied up or locked away roughly half the time this happens, getting treatment is not so easy.
But she's Nancy freakin' Drew. Either she finds a way to escape or deus ex machina helps her out. And once she's no longer trapped, she's all, "Ned!" (because sometimes her sort of-boyfriend Ned Nickerson is with her)"We have to put oil on our hands! Oil counteracts acid!" And then there's some oil conveniently lying around. And they plunge their hands in it and literally save their skin. And Ned is like, "Oh Nancy. This is exactly why I love you."
1) This really does happen frequently in Nancy Drew. Sometimes Nancy or her friends are attacked by spiders or by homemade robots, but mostly it's acid.
2) I know that Nancy is only eighteen, but she should just marry Ned already instead of bouncing between him and other random college guys. You'll never find anyone else who will support you like that, Nancy. Most guys don't find a tendency to end up in acid-related danger attractive.
Just as I was deciding that someone must have put acid in my contact case and that I should go rinse my eyes with oil, I remembered that the night before I had gone to bed very late.
I could not find my bottle of contact lens solution.
So I had used my sister's.
Groping about on the counter, I found Older Sister's contact lens solution. Through pain-stung eyes, I squinted at the ingredients on the bottle.
3% hydrogen peroxide
The rest of the morning was spent in the bathroom, rinsing my eyes a thousand times and listening to Older Sister give a charming discourse about how I was the only person she knew who had the skillz (or lack thereof) to put hydrogen peroxide in not one, but both, of my own eyes.
OLDER SISTER: It has tons of warning labels on it! Why didn't you read them?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Because the labels are warnings against incorrect use. And this bottle is clearly labeled 'contact lens solution.'
OLDER SISTER: So?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Under what circumstances would anyone see something clearly labeled 'contact lens solution' and ever think that an incorrect use would be to put it on their contact lenses?
OLDER SISTER: ...I see what you mean.
At least, that's what it felt like.
In reality, I placed my right contact lens over my eye and paaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiin.
Immediately my eye watered over and shut to protect itself. Which was smart in theory, but less smart in reality, because in order to remove the offending contact I had to pry my eyelid open with both hands. And the whole time I was in severe pain. And I wished I'd just stayed in bed.
Finally I removed the contact.
"What," I asked myself, "is wrong with this contact? Why is it hurting my eye?"
See, sometimes contact lenses have little rips in them, or bits of dirt, and when you put them in they irritate your eyes. However, that kind of irritation tends to be more subtle and less blinding than this excruciatingness.
"Hmmm," I said, feeling like Nancy Drew. I examined the contact with a sleuth's (left) eye. "Hmmmmmmm." But without contact lenses, I am almost completely blind, and if there was a rip or some dirt in that right contact I certainly couldn't see it.
"Well," I decided, "I'll put in my left contact so that I can see, and then I'll conduct my investigation." I placed the other contact on my left eye.
PAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIN.
Now both my eyes were injured and I didn't know why.
Roughly seventy-two percent of the threats Nancy Drew faces are acid-related. Like, there are so many books where Nancy accidentally touches or is given something coated with acid. Then her skin smarts and stings and she knows she has to get treatment right away or else bye-bye epidermis. And since she's tied up or locked away roughly half the time this happens, getting treatment is not so easy.
But she's Nancy freakin' Drew. Either she finds a way to escape or deus ex machina helps her out. And once she's no longer trapped, she's all, "Ned!" (because sometimes her sort of-boyfriend Ned Nickerson is with her)"We have to put oil on our hands! Oil counteracts acid!" And then there's some oil conveniently lying around. And they plunge their hands in it and literally save their skin. And Ned is like, "Oh Nancy. This is exactly why I love you."
1) This really does happen frequently in Nancy Drew. Sometimes Nancy or her friends are attacked by spiders or by homemade robots, but mostly it's acid.
2) I know that Nancy is only eighteen, but she should just marry Ned already instead of bouncing between him and other random college guys. You'll never find anyone else who will support you like that, Nancy. Most guys don't find a tendency to end up in acid-related danger attractive.
Just as I was deciding that someone must have put acid in my contact case and that I should go rinse my eyes with oil, I remembered that the night before I had gone to bed very late.
I could not find my bottle of contact lens solution.
So I had used my sister's.
Groping about on the counter, I found Older Sister's contact lens solution. Through pain-stung eyes, I squinted at the ingredients on the bottle.
3% hydrogen peroxide
The rest of the morning was spent in the bathroom, rinsing my eyes a thousand times and listening to Older Sister give a charming discourse about how I was the only person she knew who had the skillz (or lack thereof) to put hydrogen peroxide in not one, but both, of my own eyes.
OLDER SISTER: It has tons of warning labels on it! Why didn't you read them?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Because the labels are warnings against incorrect use. And this bottle is clearly labeled 'contact lens solution.'
OLDER SISTER: So?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Under what circumstances would anyone see something clearly labeled 'contact lens solution' and ever think that an incorrect use would be to put it on their contact lenses?
OLDER SISTER: ...I see what you mean.