Halloween

Dude. It's, like, Halloween and it's not snowing.

For Utah, this is a small miracle.

The candy is bought, the costumes are prepared, and Baby Brother and I have hung the pumpkin lights on the stairs. Well, tried to hang the pumpkin lights on the stairs. The job is substandard at best. One of us is to blame more than the other.

...why are you looking at me?

Fun fact: Most of my Halloween costumes have been homemade. My mom used to make them for me. As I've gotten older, I've made them myself. We Obnoxiouses are the super-creative type. We can make something out of nothing. Out of paper clips. Out of lint.

A few years ago, the younger siblings and I decided to be the core cast of Avatar: The Last Airbender: Aang, Katara, Sokka, Toph, and Zuko. But not Suki, because no matter what people say, I refuse to accept Suki as a main character. SHE'S IN APPROXIMATELY TEN EPISODES, GUYS. Come on.

There were two problems with this choice. One) Have you ever seen an Avatar costume on sale at the supermarket? Yeah. Didn't think so.

The sibs and I spent $30 at Deseret Industries. We bought six or seven used pieces of clothing, cut them up/ripped them apart, and pieced them back together to make our very own, super-awesome homemade Avatar: The Last Airbender costumes. They were legit, I tell you.

The real problem was problem Two) We are three girls and two guys, whereas the cast of Avatar has three guys and two girls. Someone had to cross-dress. Guess who?

For the record, I made a very attractive Sokka.

Speaking of which, I would like to announce that this year, I will not be cross-dressing for Halloween.

This is also a small miracle. Apart from Sokka, in the past ten Halloweens, I've also dressed as Frodo Baggins and Wembley Fraggle. This year I seriously thought about being Peter Pan. But since I'm actually a girl, I suppose I should dress as a girl once in a while, too. For the occasion, I'm even going to wear makeup.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

R-E-L-I-E-F

Recently I was called as the first counselor in my singles ward's Relief Society.

Every time I hear the words "Relief Society" I sing that song from The Rescuers: "R-E-S-C-U-E, Rescue Aid Societyyyyyyyyyy." Except I sing with new lyrics that don't sound as good. "R-E-L-I-E-F, Re-elief Societyyyyyyyy."

But what can you do?

Part of the calling of the Relief Society presidency is to know and visit with all the women in the ward. The problem is, some of the women on our list haven't been to church in years. So in order to find out who they are, we have to go to their houses and knock on the door. It's kind of like tracting, except we're always looking for a specific person at a specific destination.

We do these kind of visits for two or three hours on one weeknight per week. So far, we've had lots of unanswered doors, wrong houses, and general confusion about addresses in general.

The last problem can be partially attributed to me, myself, and I. Let me tell you a shameful secret: I have minimal directional discrimination skillz. Sometimes I can't tell my right hand from my left.

It's an inconvenience when, for example, I'm looking in the mirror trying to do my hair and I have no idea which hand I need to move in order to finish the hairstyle. But when I'm trying to find an address, it becomes a much larger problem.

PERSON DRIVING: Which way?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Right.

(car turns right)

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL:...I meant left.

Not even going to tell you how often the Relief Society president and I get lost whilst trying to find addresses, but it's a lot. A lot of times.

And then tonight, this happened:

MADAM PRESIDENT: What do the numbers on those houses say?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I'm not sure...

MADAM PRESIDENT: Here, let's drive by again.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Now might be a good time to mention that I'm legally blind.

By Any Other Name

While cleaning my room I found one of my recent to-do lists. I had written my name at the top, probably out of homework habit.

I love the way my name looks. Shutterbug once wrote my name in several different ways, just for me.

But even I think it's amusing that I wrote my name on a to-do list. I mean, there's absolutely no reason for that. Unless someone else lived in my room with me and wrote the same to-do list on the same stationary in the same handwriting. In which case I would have more serious problems to worry about.

I think I'll go unnecessarily write my name on other things. Like my shoelaces. The tires of my car. Little Sister.

On Hair

I told you that I'm deathly afraid of the telephone. Well, I'm also deathly afraid of hair stylists and other such people who cut my hair.

Okay, this is why. I go into a hair salon. I wait for my turn. Maybe I thumb through a magazine.

Eventually, my name is called, I walk behind the counter, and my assigned hair stylist starts asking me questions that I don't understand.

HAIR STYLIST: What kind of haircut do you want?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...the kind where my hair gets cut?

HAIR STYLIST: How many inches do you want off? Do you like to swoop your bangs or wear them straight down? Blunt or feathery? Layers or one length? Should I thin your hair out? Should I shampoo it? Where does it naturally part? How often does it shed?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL:...I just want a haircut.

But there's no such thing as "just a haircut," so a rather exhaustive and exhausting effort to approximate my idea of "just a haircut" follows. In the end, I fake answers to most of the questions and hope for the best.

Once that torture is done, the haircutting part starts. And this part is really awkward.

Because apparently, it's not okay to just sit in silence and muse while my hair is being cut. Nope. I've got to make small talk. With someone I don't know. And there's no chance of escape until my hair is finished.

It's thirty minutes of torture, I tell you.

A few years ago, I learned to escape the majority of the awkwardness by going to the same hair stylist for every single haircut. This worked like a charm. Within a few haircuts, she learned what I like and stopped asking me confusing questions. AND I got to know her well enough that she didn't always force me to talk while she cut my hair. When we did talk, we didn't have to make small talk, but rather could ask informed questions about each other's lives.

It was a beautiful thing. Except last year she had a baby. And she QUIT. And now I'm once again at the mercy of whatever stylist I'm randomly assigned.

Just the thought strikes fear into my heart.

So I try to avoid getting haircuts as often as possible. Unfortunately, I have a lot of hair. That grows really fast. And I have to go get haircuts ALL. THE TIME. If I don't, I look like Toph Bei Fong. Or a yak.

On Wednesday, after much time apart, I finally ventured into a nearby hair salon.

The receptionist was perceptive enough to see that I was not a yak but a human being. She asked me to take a seat. I did. And I waited. And I thumbed through a magazine until I was called behind the counter to meet my assigned stylist.

HAIR STYLIST: Hi! What kind of haircut do you want?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...the kind where my hair gets cut.

Something That I Want

Last Christmas, Baby Brother and I were making lists to send to Santa. Baby Brother wrote a long list of toys that he wanted.

I wrote a long list, too. Just a list of stuff that I decided that I wanted and was now going to ask for.

It sounds like a fairly simple task, but not everybody can write a list like that. I know lots of people who struggle with indecision.

In some cases, people just plain don't know what they want. They wake up in the morning and don't know whether they want to wear the red shirt or the blue one. They can't make a decision.

In other cases, people know what they want. They definitely, absolutely want to wear the red shirt. However, they're afraid to exclude their other choices. The power of actually saying, "I like this red shirt better than the other shirts!" scares them. They won't make a decision.

In a similar but slightly different case, people know what they want but worry what will happen once they make the choice. If they choose to wear the red shirt today--well, what if a charging bull gets loose? When a charging bull is loose, it's a better idea to wear a blue shirt than a red one, right?

Maybe so. But it's not possible to know ahead of time if a charging bull is going to get loose (unless you live in Pamplona). So they won't choose the red shirt but they won't let it go, either, because they know it's the shirt they actually desire to wear. They tie their own hands and don't make a decision.

I'm not one of the above types of people. Not that I never experience indecisiveness. Of course I get indecisive. I'm human. However, I've been blessed with the trait of knowing what I want more often than not.

Nine times out of ten, I recognize when I want to wear the red shirt. I'm usually not afraid to commit to it and exclude all other possible shirts. I know that a bull might get loose, but I consider the joy of wearing the red shirt worth the risk. And if a bull does get loose, well, I get chased. Getting chased by a bull is just a part of life.

(This may be a good time to emphasize that I'm speaking metaphorically.)

The downside of being so decisive is that sometimes I choose a red shirt. But the red shirt doesn't choose me back. Or there are only blue shirts in the closet. Or a space ninja wrenches the red shirt from my hands and destroys it with lasers before I even get a chance to wear it (still speaking metaphorically). And then I can't have the red shirt. I have to try to want one of the blue shirts that I didn't choose. This doesn't always work so well.

Baby Brother is also blessed with the trait of knowing what he wants. When we finished our Christmas lists, he showed me his and told me about every toy. The ones that made his eyes light up in excitement were the high-end, really cool, really expensive ones.

"Um," I said when he was done talking.

"I know I won't get any of the expensive ones," he said quickly, his face falling. "Maybe I'll just erase them." He turned his pencil upside-down.

"No, don't." I felt a little pang. Baby Brother was too young to have his red shirt destroyed by space ninjas with lasers (metaphors. Still using 'em). "You should leave them."

"But-"

"Hey. This is just a list of stuff we want. It doesn't have to be stuff we actually get."

In the end, he left his list as it was. And he giggled his little head off when I added "a pony," "a unicorn," and "the Castello di Avio," to mine.

I don't always get the red shirt that I want. Or the expensive toys or the pony or the unicorn or the Castello di Avio. In fact, mostly I have to make do with blue shirts.

But still I let myself want that red shirt.

Because hey. You just never know.

Lost Vegas

Most people go to Vegas to party.

I go to Vegas to-

Well, to nothing. Sometimes I just happen to go to Las Vegas.

I stopped by Las Vegas twice on the way to California for high school band trips. One year Mr. Kermit, bless his heart, thought it would be fun for the tour bus to stop in Vegas really late at night/really early in the morning so we could eat at a breakfast buffet. However, a suitable place could not be found. Thus I never ate breakfast in Las Vegas really late at night/really early in the morning. Instead we ate breakfast in California. I had ice cream.

My family also usually stops by Las Vegas when we visit our grandparents, as we did the spring break of my first-grade year. On the way home, we spent an evening in this super tall Vegas hotel that had all these bright lights on the outside. Also, there were a bunch of statues of Middle Eastern-looking people out front. I assumed they were the three wisemen. Even though it wasn't Christmas. And there more than three. And I think some of them were women.

...well it seemed like a logical assumption at the time.

As soon as we got to the hotel, I had to go to the bathroom. I sat myself down on the toilet seat aaaaand the fire alarm went off.

Hurriedly I pulled my pants on. Then I grabbed my new stuffed elephant keychain even though I knew you're supposed to leave everything behind when the fire alarm goes off. However, my keychain and I had been together for all of three days and I loved it soooo much. I had to take it with me. Just like I had to take my coat, laptop, and backpack with me when the fire alarm at Nameless Utah College's student building went off last week. And like I would gather all of my Beanie Babies, books, and Harry Potter merchandise if my room ever caught on fire.

Undoubtedly I would die. But at least I would die in the presence of my beloved possessions. That is the American way.

I didn't die in the tall Vegas hotel fire (surprise!) because there was no fire. It was a false alarm. Of course we didn't learn that until after we walked down, like, a marathon's worth of stairs. X number of years later, my legs still muscle spasm at the memory.

The longest I've ever stayed in Las Vegas was a week or so for an Obnoxious family reunion. On the last night of the reunion, we had a party at a recreation center some blocks away from our hotel.

Dad got food poisoning shortly before the party. Mom, who had no idea where the rec center was but who was determined to go to the party, had him write down directions for her. Then she shepherded her five children into our Mormon Assault Vehicle. (Five children, not six, because Baby Brother was in gestation at the time. His impending arrival was the reason we'd bought the Mormon Assault Vehicle in the first place. Six kids is too many for a minivan. FYI. You can tuck that useless bit of information into the back of your brain and cherish it.)

The party was lovely. There were leis and waterslides and a snow cone machine. Soon we headed back to the hotel.

Except not really.

Because Mom took a wrong turn.

And soon we were LOST.

Mom pulled our Mormon Assault Vehicle over at a seedy gas station so she could call Dad. It was getting late. It was dark. There were strange people about.

This is a good time to explain that Older Sister has always loved theatre. In fact, she was the one who got the rest of us younger siblings involved in that particular institution.

Why does Older Sister love the theatre? Because Older Sister is dramatic.

OLDER SISTER: (to us younger siblings) Why aren't you guys more upset?

YOUNGER SIBLINGS: Should we be upset?

OLDER SISTER: Yes.

YOUNGER SIBLINGS: Why?

OLDER SISTER: BECAUSE WE'RE LOST IN THE TRASHY DANGEROUS CITY OF LAS VEGAS!

YOUNGER SIBLINGS: Gasp!

OLDER SISTER: WE ARE LOST, AND WE ARE STUCK AT THIS SEEDY GAS STATION. AND IT'S DARK. STRANGE PEOPLE ARE ABOUT.

YOUNGER SIBLINGS: Oh!

OLDER SISTER: WE ARE ONLY FIVE CHILDREN. ALONE WITH OUR PREGNANT MOTHER.

YOUNGER SIBLINGS: Aaah!

OLDER SISTER: WE ARE GOING TO DIE!!!!!!!

YOUNGER SIBLINGS: (panic)

Had my Beanie Babies and Harry Potter merchandise been in the Mormon Assault Vehicle with us, I would have immediately started amassing them.

The Case of the Missing Earrings

Older Sister's favorite earrings have not been seen since I wore them to my friend Jumpin's wedding in August.

I swear I returned them. Older Sister swears I didn't. Since this is the perfect opportunity for me to use my Nancy Drew-like sleuthing skillz (I solved the case of the missing lip gloss in kindergarten! Everyone was very impressed), Baby Brother and I have been tearing the house apart in hot pursuit.

Detective tools in use: a magnetic reachy stick I won in the invention fair in sixth grade. And our brains.

We started the search in the bathroom, the place where earrings are removed before taking a shower.

I found many things in the bathroom cupboard, including some Chinese money that I've been seeking for, like, a year. We even found a zipper Baby Sister had adapted into an earring, but not the actual earrings we were actually looking for.

Next we tried Older Sister's room.

BABY BROTHER: Yeah! This is a chance to fiddle with Older Sister's stuff!

As I poked the magnetic reachy stick into corners and drawers and examined the stuff it attracted, Baby Brother amused himself by "fiddling," as he said, with Older Sister's jewelry boxes, music boxes, and decorative boxes.

BABY BROTHER: I'm fiddling with this Fiddler on the Roof music box! Get it?

We looked for a long time, but discovered nothing except that Baby Brother likes the word "fiddle" waaaay too much.

BABY BROTHER: So do I get paid for helping with this?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: If we find the earrings I'll pay you twenty-five cents.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRK: And some fruit snacks.

We looked in my bedroom. No earrings.

I looked in the living room hutch. I found a broken beaded lanyard in a biohazard bag(?), but no earrings.

I even looked in Dad's dresser. The man has four daughters. Half of the misplaced jewelry in this house seems to end up in his top dresser drawer. Alas, the earrings are in the half that doesn't show up there.

No earrings were found. No fruit snacks were shelled out. A bribe will be purchased and given to Older Sister in a strategic manner as appeasement.

The good news is that Mom claims to have seen the earrings recently. The bad news is that they were in a plastic baggie. I did not put them in said plastic baggies. I'm too disorganized to do things like that. This was clearly the work of a professional, who has probably since absconded with the earrings.

Not even my detective skillz will be able to find them.

Home(town High)coming

According to Wikipedia, the college student's best friend, homecoming is "the tradition of welcoming back alumni of a school."

...am I the only person who feels like this was never made clear to me in high school?

Back in the day, when I still a lowly teenager at Hometown High, I was under the impression that homecoming was about me and my peers. The current students. The high school kids.

I don't know why I would have thought that. Maybe it was because the school threw a parade for us. Or maybe it was the exciting assembly about how our school spirit would help us win the football game. Not the alumni's school spirit. Ours. Or possibly it could have been the fact that the school kind-of sort-of held a semiformal homecoming dance for us.

My life is a lie.

Starting the last week of summer, Little Sister wracked her nerves over whether she'd get asked to this year's version of said semiformal homecoming dance.

Little Sister is pretty, friendly, and has many male admirers. She kept saying things like, "I probably won't get asked," even though there was no doubt in my mind that she would.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Stop saying that. You're going to get asked.

LITTLE SISTER: Well, I might not.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Stop it. You will.

LITTLE SISTER: (perks up) Do you know something?

I didn't know a thing, but I saw this as a golden opportunity.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Maaaaybe.

LITTLE SISTER: (perking down) You don't know anything, do you?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Someone's asking you, and I'm in on it. And so is Older Sister. And Mom and Dad. And Baby Brother. We're all in on it.

LITTLE SISTER: I can't tell if you're being serious.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Your friends are in on it. Everyone's in on it.

LITTLE SISTER: (on a family drive) So-and-so asked me if I'd been asked to homecoming yet.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: So-and-so is in on it.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (on a calm Sunday walk) See those small children playing in their driveway?

LITTLE SISTER: Yes...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: They're in on it too.

As I predicted, Little Sister was asked to the dance with time to spare. She was excited that she got asked, but she said that she felt really paranoid while she was waiting. I don't know why.

News Flash: My Life is Boring

I may have misled you.

You may read this blog and think, "Whoa--praying mantises, travel to Europe and Disneyland, unfortunate incidents of violence! Awkward Mormon Girl has a really exciting life!"

Let me set you straight. My life actually is pretty blah. I just don't write about the blah things. I write about my exciting adventures and not the ordinary things I do each day, such as getting the mail and reminiscing about cartoons from the 90s.

Today, for example, I watched General Conference, went to work, dropped by College City for a group project, did additional homework, and completed household chores.

After that, I ate ice cream and showed Baby Brother movies from my childhood. That's the part where I reminisced about 90s cartoons. You probably thought I was being random when I mentioned that earlier but it's actually like a biweekly activity for me.

Nothing turned out remarkably exciting, unusual, or awkward. There was a ton of other stuff I could have done, mainly more homework. Had I done that homework, though, it probably would have been just as boring as everything else.

...okay, now that I said that I'm starting to wonder if my homework would actually have been very exciting. Maybe I would have severely wounded myself with a paper cut. In which case I have mixed feelings about missing that particular event.

It's Shutdown Day

My laptop's battery is broken.

Whenever I unplug the laptop, it shuts down within about ten minutes.

It's super annoying.

That's all.

...

...

What? You thought I was going to talk about some other kind of shutdown?

Well. This is just all kinds of awkward.