Auld Lang Syne and Whatever

Not long ago, I told the Relief Society president of my ward that it seems I ruin everything I touch.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Everything I do turns to-

MADAM PRESIDENT: Ashes?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Sure. Ashes, or something else nobody likes. Like Jell-O. Green Jell-O. With carrots.

I produced a lot of green Jell-O with carrots this year.

In other words, I didn't produce much in terms of other, more metaphorically delicious things.

In other words, I failed. Failed. I failed all over the place and all over everything. And in the New Year, I plan to fail even more.

See. I figure there are statistically only so many times a person can fail. So the more I fail, the more statistically likely I am to succeed at something.

One of these days.

This is a good plan. It involves math. Your counter-argument is invalid.

In Which I Am Hilarious

Best Friend Boy commented that I often ask him deep questions through text.

Awkward Mormon Girl: I have a deep question for you.

Best Friend Boy: Okay.

Awkward Mormon Girl: Have you ever read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea?

The Gestation of Awkward Mormon Girl

Nine months tomorrow, and we're still going strong.

Now, nine months isn't the longest period of time. It's only three-quarters of a year, after all. Marriages should last longer than nine months. And so should jobs. And ideally so would a jar of Nutella.

However. Some great things can be accomplished in nine months. School years begin and end. The world completes seventy-five percent of its early rotation. And then there's babies.

In the time this blog has existed, a baby could have been conceived, gestated, and expelled from the womb into the fluorescent lighting of a hospital room. If this baby was a blog, it could have been born by now. Say whaaaat?

Also, in internet time, nine months is, like, five years. And in that light, keeping this blog up for that long is quite an impressive feat. So yay.

Peanut Butter, Rubik's Cubes, and Witchcraft

Aaand now it's time for what you've all been waiting for: another Ask Awkward Mormon Girl post!

•Creamy or crunchy peanut butter? Be honest.

Nutella.

But when Nutella-less, creamy, of course. Creamy peanut butter is the protein source of champions and high ACT scorers.

•How do you know if a guy likes you?

This is an area I have a lot of expertise in, since I am in a relationship of almost nine months.

(With a blog. But still.)

When you get to be a certain age, if a guy likes you, I think that he should just tell you.

That doesn't mean that he will. But he should. And if you like him, you should tell him too. If people would just be honest with one another, like seventy-two percent of the problems in the world would disappear overnight.

If all else fails, just, like, steal his diary or something.

•How do you lose a stalker?

Stay away from cornfields.

•How do you work without getting bored?

Find a job that you love. Because when you love something, you will never get bored of it.

Just kidding. I get bored of stuff that I love all the time. Except not hobbits. I never tire of hobbits.

What you need to do is spice up your relationship with your work.

Remember how wonderful everything was when you first got together? Recreate that old spark by dressing up for the time you spend together.

Buy small gifts for your job. Bring it chocolates and its favorite flowers.

Write nice notes for your job and put it in its sack lunches. If you don't make sack lunches for your job, now is the time to start. The more effort you put into the relationship, the more you will get out of it.

• How do you choose a present for your mom?

Don't buy her a loufa.

Thanks to everyone for submitting these questions! Now I will answer the ones I was sent by you-know-who.

Dear awkward mormon girl,
Please answer the following questions:

•Have you ever solved a rubix cube before?

A few years ago, Baby Brother purchased a Rubik's cube for me for my birthday. He often came to my room to play with it. Eventually, he broke it.

He then brought me another Rubik's cube and brought it to my room. Because I am not a genius-child like him, he knew I would not know that it was for me unless he made it very, very clear. So he put a sticky note on it that said, "To Awkward Mormon Girl from Baby Brother."

Also one that said, "New Rubix cube" because people who are not genius children can't identify objects unless they are labeled.

Now he comes to my room every day and asks me when I'm going to mix the Rubik's cube up. I don't want to mix it up because I know, from years of experience, that I will never be able to solve it, and I think it's beautiful the way it is.

Which is a long way of saying no, I have never solved a Rubik's cube. But Baby Brother probably has. In less than a minute. Simply by looking at it.

If not, please attempt to solve one during a commercial break the next time you watch t.v.

You first.

•What is your favorite type of fence? This is my go to question when I'm getting to know people, and I'm curious to know yours.

My go-to question when I'm getting to know people is "What is your blood type?" But to each their own.

I like picket fences. Because "picket" is fun to say. It's like a hobbit name or something. Picket Baggins.

•If I had 26 Cheetos and gave Tinkerbell 37 cosmic brownies, how many sour cream buckets would Rafiki leave on our doorstep?

None. But Phineas and Ferb would put half a gallon of ice cream on the roof.

•How did your attempt at the rubix cube go?

As well as my attempt to win an Oscar. Both are imaginary.

P.s. If you solve a rubix cube during commercial break, you probably didn't actually.

You know me so well.

After asking me these questions, Little Sister sent me another message on my iPod.

Little Sister: Did you get these messages? Because for some reason I'm getting them on my iPod.

Little Sister: Bad iPod.

Little Sister: Technology confuses me.

Me: Oh, I'm getting them all right.

All of a sudden, a message that I had not typed appeared on my side of the screen.

Little Sister on my account: Oooh is this sent from your account?

Me: What is this stop it.

Little Sister on her account: Woah. I'm like in two places at once!

Me: Devilry. Witchcraft.

Little Sister on my account: I'm not actually sure how I'm doing this...

Little Sister on her account: Okay goodnight hahahahha.

Me: Goodnight. Tomorrow we will burn you at the stake.

Little Sister on her account: You will think you are burning me.

Little Sister on my account: But it will actually be you. ;)

Little Sister on her account: Tehehehehhehemuahahahahahha.

Me: ...I am way more creeped out right now than I should be.

Return of the Nosebleed

I have been blitzed by nosebleeds several times since Utah's 2013 performance of the winter magic trick of transforming from the Sahara into Siberia.

Many a morning here in Hometown it's been between five and twelve degrees Fahrenheit. When the temperature finally rose above twenty, I stepped outside barefoot with no jacket, and La Petite rolled her car windows down.

This ridiculous weather has adversely affected my nose. It bleeds even more frequently than usual. My nose, that is. Not the weather. 'Cause weather doesn't bleed, you silly. Not even in Siberia.

I went to help my grandmother set up Christmas decorations in her gimonstrous house. This mostly consisted of hanging red velveteen bows from the greenery strung on the windows all year long.

Now, these bows are some twenty-five years old, and for every year of their existence they have been placed on the window greenery before Christmas and removed promptly after.

Apparently for the past twenty-five years my grandmother has been practicing witchcraft. I have zero other explanations for how she ever managed to get the bows in the greenery before her back got so bad, because I simply could not do it. Those bows would not stay where I put them.

My grandmother also desired me to pin certain parts of the greenery higher up on the wall with thumbtacks. However, the greenery was thick and the thumbtacks were tiny and the bows got in the way and I was standing on a stool, trying to force the tacks into the wall and the greenery over the thumbtacks and bows onto the greenery, sweating and snarling like a feral husky while my grandmother watched from her couch and rued the fact that roughly a quarter of my genes come from her.

And then, nosebleed.

Christmas Post!!!

What I said: "Baby Brother, do you want to go Christmas shopping with me tomorrow?"

What Baby Brother heard: "Baby Brother, do you want to go back in time and help Christopher Columbus discover America with me tomorrow? And go to Hogwarts? And lick to the center of a Tootsie pop?"

That is the only explanation I could think of for his reacting this way:


 

MOM: Baby Brother told me that you're taking him Christmas shopping. Is this true?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ... yes?

MOM: (exclamations of wondrous joy at this improbable miracle)

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: WHY IS THIS DIFFERENT FROM THE FIFTY-THREE OTHER TIMES I TOOK HIM TO TARGET THIS YEAR I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

But then, suddenly, I did.

One year my workplace had a Christmas party instead of a work meeting. The party consisted of some important work information, followed by treats and a game.

Coincidentally, our work meetings also tended to consist of work information followed by treats and games. The only real difference was that this time we called it a "Christmas party" instead of "December workplace meeting." I'm pretty sure more people came to that party than to any meeting before or since.

It's that word: "Christmas." It's like word caffeine. Attach it to something average, and it becomes the best ever. Attach it to something people don't really like, and it's suddenly appealing.

Shopping = chore.
Christmas shopping = epic journey of untold magnitude!

Listening to small children sing loudly and off-key = legal form of torture.
Elementary school Christmas recital: extreme adorableness overload and goodwill towards all mankind.

Party = a dangerous social venture resulting in untold stress.
Christmas party?! Break out the eggnog!

Okay. Let's try something.

Bills. Meh.
CHRISTMAS BILLS!!!!!

...nope. Still meh.

Self-Perception

Things have been weird lately.

A ton of people have been praising me constantly. But also a ton of people have been criticizing me without relent. (For the most part, they are well-meaning on both sides.)

If these individuals are to be believed, then I am either a person with almost no flaws or a person with almost no redeeming qualities.

I think that I am somewhere in the middle--but I believe that I have more good qualities than faults.

Believing the opposite has never gotten me anywhere.

How to Choose a Christmas Present

It's that time of year again--the time of year when everybody wants a present. Everybody. From you. For Christmas. And each has to be the exact perfect present, or else your loved ones will feel unloved and cry their eyes out and possibly develop complexes from your neglect.

Are you feeling the pressure yet? Yes? Well, prepare to unfeel that pressure, because Awkward Mormon Girl is here to help!

Here's how to choose the perfect Christmas present, in six easy steps.

1. Choose one person from your Christmas shopping list.

2. Think about everything that reminds you of that person. I mean everything. Colors that call them to mind, their usual brand of toothpaste, their aunt's middle name. Listen to music, eat food, and watch television shows that remind you of them. Once you're hopped up on sensory overload, go to your nearest retail store.

3. Run through the store like a tornado, putting everything you see that you think this person might like in your shopping cart. Except probably don't run. The manager of the retail store will throw you out. Unless you are the manager of your nearest retail store. In which case, carry on.

4. Look through the items that you chose and recognize the ones which weren't actually a good idea. Like that loufa. Nobody in the history of ever has wanted a loufa for Christmas.

5. Put back the loufa.

6. Purchase the item you think is the best fit. Take home, wrap, and give away.

And there! You've done it! You've successfully chosen a Christmas present. Repeat those six steps for each person on your list and you're guaranteed to choose a perfect present for everyone! Or you will at least not get them a loufa.

In Which a Doughnut Makes Me the Most Powerful Being in the Universe

I walked into ward prayer on Sunday night and sat next to my friend La Petite.

LA PETITE: Did you nap after church?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yes...

LA PETITE: That would explain why you're so much more mellow now than you were earlier.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What do you mean?

LA PETITE: Well...
Flashback to church
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I only slept for four hours last night.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: This morning I ate a chocolate doughnut. You know how when you eat a chocolate doughnut, you feel powerful?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I ate the chocolate doughnut, and I was like, "I am now the most powerful being in the universe."

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL (to choir pianist) Play what you wanna play. I WANNA SEE YOU BE BRAVE.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Turn to page seis.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Pagina seis.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I just decided to be bilingual.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Sporadically bilingual?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I'm going to put that on my resume.

Flash forward to ward prayer
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh. I see.

'Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving

I'm something of a rock star to children. They love me ever so much. And I love them. I want a bunch of my own someday.

Last night, my younger siblings and some of the younger cousins decided to sleep at my grandmother's house, and I decided to join them.

It's been years since I graced a cousin sleepover with my presence. I guess that's why, when I laid my sleeping bag next to little Pixie Cousin's, she got inordinately excited.

She stuck her face next to mine and gave me a beatific smile. "Now we're really close to each other!"

I don't think anyone's said that to me before. If they have, they did not sound anywhere near as happy about it as Pixie Cousin did. So I was extremely flattered/gratified, and I returned her smile willingly.

Soon everyone was settled in bed. We of course did not fall asleep right away, because what kind of a sleepover would that be? W stayed up chatting with each other instead.

"I can't fall asleep," Pixie Cousin said mid-conversation.

"Try counting sheep," I suggested.

"I'll count the lights," Pixie Cousin said, referring to the light fixtures on the ceiling. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve."

There were only six light fixtures; she'd counted them twice. I grinned into my pillow.

After a while, nature took its course, and everyone began to get a little sleepy.

"Count the lights with me," Pixie Cousin whispered as my eyelids began to sag.

No problem, I figured. She thinks there are twelve lights. It'll be quick and easy to count to twelve.

"-nine, ten, eleven, twelve," I counted with Pixie Cousin.

There was a pause. "Thirteen," she prompted me.

"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen...twenty-five, twenty-six," we counted together.

How high could she possibly count?

"-thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three--what was that?" I asked, partly because I'd heard something outside and partly to distract from the counting.

It turned out there were some loud hotshot teenagers roaming the streets. It was distracting, but not distracting enough to last.

"Thirty-three." Pixie Cousin poked my neck with four of her fingers.

We counted those six light fixtures over and over, well into the hundreds. And then we counted them again.

With each number, I grew more and more tired. At each lag in my counting, Pixie Cousin would wait patiently for me to continue. If I didn't, I'd feel her little fingers poking me and hear her high-pitched whisper, "Sixty-three." Or "twenty-one." Or whatever number we happened to be on.

Eventually, thankfully, we both fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, Pixie Cousin beamed at me as I opened my eyes.

I smiled back, remembering it was Thanksgiving. Time to count my blessings...

"Let's count the lights!"

...or, you know, light fixtures work too.

Awkward Mormon Hanukkah

Heads up, everyone: Hanukkah starts on the day before Thanksgiving this year.

Every year, my celebration of one night of Hanukkah is made possible through five easy steps.

Step One: Learn all about Jewish heritage.
Judaism is a) a religion, b) a race, c) a culture.

The title of the blog may have clued you in that I don't practice Judaism the religion. However, I'm still descended from the Jewish race. That's not changing anytime soon or, well, ever.

My parents enjoy telling us about our ancestors. My mom prefers to tell stories about all her ancestors who have lived in America since the Mayflower, but she does make concessions to the Jewishness that comes from the Obnoxious side of the family. One of those was to purchase picture books about Jews when I was a small child.

We had one picture book about Judas Maccabee. For those of you who don't know who that is, allow me to summarize the book as I recall it:

Judas Maccabee lives in some early century. Dudes come to the Jews and start destroying all their stuff. Above all, they're destroying and plundering the Jewish temple, which ticks Judas off. He decides to fight back.

Judas Maccabee organizes guerilla warfare against the dudes who are destroying their stuff. He wins.

Once the dudes are gone, the Jews try to put themselves back together. They start cleaning up the temple. They want to light their menorah, but there's only one jar of sacred oil, enough for just one day. The menorah is lit, and it miraculously stays lit for eight days. And so the celebration of Hanukkah is born. The End.

That's the story. More or less.

Step Two: Know what to eat..

1) Latkes and applesauce, as stressed by the picture book Latkes and Applesauce. The thesis of this book is that Hanukkah isn't Hanukkah unless you eat some latkes. And latkes aren't latkes unless they're eaten with applesauce. And latkes and applesauce are delicious.

2) Gold coins, dried fruit, and nuts won playing dreidel (see Step Four).

Something you should not eat on Hanukkah: Pork chops.

Granted, pork chops with latkes and applesauce are wonderful. Except I didn't even say that, because how would I know? It's not like I've ever tried that particular combination.

On Hanukkah.

Nope.

Step Three: Know what to sing.
This one's a little harder, because I don't know many Hanukkah-appropriate songs. I've solved this problem by repeatedly singing songs from Fiddler on the Roof.

I also like to sing the Hebrew portion of "There Can Be Miracles." I learned how to pronounce all the words in ninth-grade choir, and I haven't stopped singing it over and over again since (much to the dread of my family).

Step Four: Know what activities to do.
My family likes to play dreidel. It's this game with a special top (the dreidel) and a pot of candy. It's kind of like gambling except with gold coins, dried fruit, and nuts.

There are symbols on the side of the dreidel that tell you how much candy to take or give back after you've spun it. My favorite symbol is "nun" because it means exactly what it sounds like.

My blue-and-silver plastic dreidel has mysteriously gone missing. I would think that someone stole it except I can think of zero circumstances under which anyone would want to steal a dreidel.

Over the weekend, I looked online for a replacement. This turned out to be a bizarre experience.

For instance, did you know that there are dreidel Christmas tree ornaments? That seems wrong on so many levels.

Also, dreidels can be bought in packs of eight. I don't know why anyone would want eight dreidels.

Unless...oh! Oh! I've got it. Maybe they're dreidels that self-destruct after each night of Hanukkah. So you have to have eight of them. Because if you don't, you wouldn't have any more festive Hanukkah activities to do.

It all makes sense now.

Step Five: Share the joy of the holiday with everyone around you.
AWKWARD MORMON GRL: Happy Hanukkah!!!

FRIENDS: What

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It's Hanukkah. Didn't you know that? Oh right, you don't know that because you're not Jewish. I always know when it's Hanukkah. My Israelite senses tingle.

FRIENDS: Get out of our lives.

Philosophical Interlude

I now proclaim to the internet that I think I may be majoring in the wrong field.

My major is in English with an emphasis on creative writing. I love to write, and what's more I love to write creatively. What's even more, sometimes I feel like I'm good at it.

I love the potential that writing has to reach others' lives. The span of my lifetime limits my ability to personally seek out and deliver face-to-face messages to other people. If I wanted to personally seek out people and deliver them face-to-face messages. Which I don't. I'm more of an introvert than anything and I would rather be repeatedly punched in the kidneys than have to meet people I didn't previously know. And don't even get me started on phone calls.

Writing allows me to create something that can influence others' lives--cheer them, inspire them, make them laugh--without leaving the safety of my own mind or sometimes even my house.

All in all, it's a pretty good setup.

However. Recently I've noticed that I seem capable of writing one thing, and one thing alone:

Philosophy.

If I sit down to write about a clever text exchange with Best Friend Boy, my creative arteries become clogged. Instead I start to expound deeply about the nature of our friendship, or the subject matter we were texting about, or something completely unrelated such as the moral implications of the public transit system.

I didn't even know the public transit system had moral implications until I found myself writing about it. And so it goes.

I try to write about Disneyland? I have an essay about the meaning of Disneyland's existence.

I try to write about delicious food? I find myself justifying the consumption of exciting foods even though my nutritional needs could just as easily be met by boring ones.

I try to write a funny story about how weird my life is right now? I end up with this post.

Blast you, philosophy. I will never be yours. I will get my English degree no matter what. Even if my head explodes from unshared philosophical discourse. Even if I DIE.

Which would arguably happen if my head exploded from unshared philosophical discourse. But let's not think too deeply here. I'm tired of doing that.

Calling It Quits

Teenage girls think they're soooo funny, even when they're not. Especially when they're not.

Back when Viola and I were teenagers, we used to get together to write short stories. We would each start a story, write a few paragraphs, and then switch. And switch. And switch until it all came to either a fitting or rather abrupt ending, depending on how well we found we could write that day.

Another thing we did as teenagers was eat dollar frosties from Wendy's. I'm surprised that I've ended up a relatively healthy person with low blood pressure and good teeth, because we ate many a frosty back in the day. And I swear, every time they made us high. After a few spoonfuls we'd be giggling at everything.

One evening, we were writing and eating frosties at the same time. 'Twas a dangerous combination. We ended up writing a story about a guy named Septimus and a girl named Ivory who had the whole love-from-opposite-sides-of-the-tracks thing going on. Septimus had, like, twenty-five siblings (of which he was the seventh--a bit of frosty-induced cleverness on our part, no doubt) and this truly awful car that was held together with chicken wire and string or something else that lent a subtle hint that Septimus was poor.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Let's call it quits.

VIOLA:...the story?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: No! The car! Let's name it Quits!

We practically rolled on the floor laughing at this hilariousness.

When we graduated from high school and I got my laptop, the following ensued:

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Viola! I'm calling my laptop Quits!

More hilariousness. More laughter. Because aside from the punniness of the name, what could be more ironic than a spanking brand-new laptop called Quits?

Years passed. Now Quits has a battery problem.

Every time I unplug him, Quits quits.

Touché, irony. Touché.

Day of Dejection

One day you wake up late and you don't get enough breakfast and it's cold outside and it's November and by the time you get to class it's as if every disappointing, stressful, and difficult thing from the past six months is sitting on your shoulders. Weighing you down. Forcing the shape of your spine into a parenthesis and the shape of your thoughts into a circle of self-defeat.

Of course on a day like this I was working on a project for Nameless Utah College's theatre department.

Don't get me wrong. I love theatre. And I love projects, especially hands-on projects that require building stuff. As a kid, I wanted to be a construction worker. (And an artist. And a doctor. And everything else ever). When I first volunteered in the theatre department, the foreman was all, "Here are some two-by-fours and an impact gun," and then left me to figure out how to use those tools with no previous experience.

It was horrifying, but with trial and error I got it. Since then it's been fun. Now I know how to build and paints things and how to hang, cable, and gel lights. Good times.

In spite of how much I enjoy the work, I find the atmosphere in the theatre project shop to be oppressive. Depressive. My parenthesis spine slouched a little more as I kneeled on the cold floor, taping down carpets.

Except the carpets would not tape straight. I don't know why. Tape is a straight line. The edges of carpet are straight lines. But when I placed the tape on the carpet, the tape got all loopy and weird and then the carpet looked like it had this lopsided black border.

I hated the way the carpet looked, and quickly some of those feelings transferred over to myself.

Wow, awesome, Awkward Mormon Girl I thought in a mature and non-self-indulgent way. This tape job is almost as messed up as your life.

And so it went.

The end of the tape roll is stuck... just like you!

The main difference between you and this faded, ugly carpet is that the carpet is useful.

Something clever about the splinters in that piece of wood over there and your prickly personality.

FOREMAN: Oh, you're finished taping? Why don't you sweep?

So I took a dust bin and a hand broom. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled across the floor, sweeping as I went. Fragments of glass, broken screws, and dirt was everywhere.

Sweeping this dust is like sweeping up the dust of my dreams.

At this point, I just started praying. Not with my arms folded or anything, but in the back of my mind.
"I'm doing the best I can," I said. "You know I'll keep going no matter what. But I need some encouragement to remind me that I'm doing the things I'm supposed to.  Please give me something to encourage me."

Directly after sweeping, I went to the cafeteria to get some lunch. As I wandered around, looking at the options, I noticed this cute boy who's in one of my classes.

He'd never said two words to me. As I passed him, though, he looked directly at me and smiled. Widely.

I smiled back. In that moment, I felt a little less dejected. "Thanks," I prayed in my heart, "for the encouragement."

After selecting my food, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands before eating as any RN's child would.

As I stepped up to the sink, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and froze.

No wonder the boy had smiled at me. I had dirt all over my face! Apparently not all of what I'd swept up had found its way to the dustpan.

"Very funny," I said to Heavenly Father. I swear I could hear Him laughing.

Vehicular Homicide and Other Things I Try to Avoid

I was almost hit by a bike in Verona.

Well, bikes in the plural, really. The bikers would ring these little bells to warn me and my brain would be all, "Oh, a little bell. That's nice" never equating the sound with DANGER. After a couple times of my almost getting hit this girl in the group gave herself the specific assignment of yelling "AWKWARD MORMON GIRL!" every time a bike bore down on me. That got my attention.

Barely.

Then there was the time my family was in a Twenty-Fourth of July parade. We all wore pioneer clothes. Dad pulled a handcart with Little Sister and Baby Sister inside. Mom and Older Sister and I walked.

I was so excited by the experience, waving at the crowds and making my cloth doll wave too, that I wasn't paying attention. I stepped in the handcart's path. Dad pulled it over my foot.
Mom rushed to my aid. She was convinced I was maimed. (I wasn't.) She was swearing up and down and all around. Of course, the stake president was sitting with his family on that particular stretch of street.

Things got awkward.



The Beatles, crossing the street with
grace, speed, and style. A car would
never dare hit them. Not even if they
were jaywalking.

 

In spite of these near-disasters, and in spite of the fact that Mom has always been convinced that I would be hit by a car long before now (she feels that in addition to being highly distractible, I never paid enough attention to the Barney song, "Stop, Look, and Listen"), I haven't even come close. Not even when I jaywalked with the Chess Master after track... by which sentence I mean that I am a law-abiding citizen who has never jaywalked, not even as an impressionable fifteen-year-old who wanted to impress a boy she liked. Capisce?

I definitely wasn't jaywalking the other day when a car simply didn't see me.

I was using a crosswalk near Nameless Utah College. The little stick figure person on the crosswalk light shone brightly. "Place your fate in my stick figure hands," it said. "Step into the street," it said.

"Okay," I said. "I trust you, little stick figure person."

Alas, my trust was misplaced. The stick figure person didn't know that the driver of a car making a right turn wasn't paying attention.

The right-turning car came to an abrupt halt just before the crosswalk. I also halted--luckily I'd seen the car before it saw me. Had I gone any farther I would have stepped straight into its path.

An awkward impasse ensued. The car didn't move. Neither did I. 'Cause, I mean, what are the rules of etiquette in this situation? Nobody taught me the proper way to handle this in Driver's Ed. Or Pedestrian's Ed aka "Stop, Look, and Listen" (which by the way, I did actually pay attention to. Enough attention to appreciate the catchy tune, anyways).

Still no moving.

After a few seconds of this confusion, I moved forward. So did the car.

It didn't hit me...but when it braked its bumper was about to get pretty fresh with my leg. So to speak.

If crosswalks are this dangerous, then maybe I should just go back to jaywalking.

If I had ever jaywalked.

Which I haven't.

Move along, people. Nothing to see here.

Wrong Number

In the five years that I've had my phone, approximately 20.345 squared people have called me asking for Kathryn.

Some financial people have called me. Like credit people and banks.

Also, some guy who called twice saying he was very upset with Kathryn and that she'd better meet up with him "or else."

And a guy who found Kathryn's number on a Frisbee at a golf course. Kathryn was so attached to her Frisbee that she felt the need to write her number on it. And then throw it into some golf course bushes.

Then there's Ryan.

Unknown Number: hi ryan! would you mind texting me to let me kmw what time my apt is tomorrow? thank you! looking forward to seeing you!

I texted back, "I think you have the wrong number," and instantly regretted it.

a) "I think you have the wrong number." Why would I even say that? I know that my name isn't Ryan. I don't think it. If I was going to let the texter off easy, I should have just said, "You have the wrong number." But

b) Why in the world would I say "You have the wrong number" anyways? A wrong number is a golden opportunity to be ridiculous or at the very least, say something interesting.

Yesterday I got this one:

Second Unknown Number: Hi this is Tracy --- I lost your dad's phone number can you give it to me also bishop --- too

Tracy ---: I have a calling in my ward

I prepared an interesting response.

Awkward Mormon Girl: Dear Tracy ---, I regret to inform you that you have reached the wrong number. I do not know any Bishop ---. However, I could still give you my dad's phone number if you want it. My mom is never able to get him to pick up, but you may have more success. Sincerely, Not the Person You Were Trying to Reach

Awkward Mormon Girl: P.S. I also have a calling in my ward! What a coincidence.

I settled back to wait for a responses, certain I would either not get one or that I would get an equally interesting response in return, and then who knows what would happen? This could be a great chance to whet my texting wit!

My phone buzzed.

Tracy ---: Is this Brook

Well. I tried.

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.

The Nosebleed Section

Everyone in my family but me had a cold last weekend. This has caused my personal RN aka my mother to inquire after my health thusly:

MOM: How are you feeling?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Well-

MOM: You wouldn't happen to have a (dramatic pause) COLD, would you?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...no...I'm feeling fine.

MOM: Because I can get you medicine for your (dramatic pause) COLD.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I don't need any medicine. I'm not sick.

MOM: Well when you need medicine for your (dramatic pause) COLD, let me know.

On Monday morning, I was getting ready for school, minding my own business and eating the citrus fruit my mother gave me to help my non-existent cold, when my nose started to bleed.

This happens on a regular basis because my nose hates me. Usually I get nosebleeds when I'm under a lot of metaphorical pressure, literal water or air pressure, or after I've had a sinus infection (which also happens a lot because my sinuses also hate me).

Sometimes, however, I get nosebleeds for no reason, like the one I got at Etch-a-Sketch's place several weeks ago. We were just sitting on her couch, watching Fraggle Rock, when my nose started gushing like an insincere woman. I got blood all over the bathroom sink and had to pull the kitchen garbage can next to me to better dispose of the box of tissues I was going through at a rapid pace. Etch-a-Sketch and Mr. Etch-a-Sketch had bought this box of tissues with their hard-earned newlywed money. In other circumstances it probably would have lasted them the rest of the summer.

This is what happens when I leave the house. People get bankrupted.

On Monday my nose was all bleeding and it was a problem because I had to get to school. I hung out in the bathroom for a while, trying to get the nosebleed to stop with the use of many tissues and pinching but not tipping my head back because that just drains the blood into the throat and who wants to drown in their own blood? Not me.

My mother heard me sniffing from the other room. "Do you want some medicine for your...COLD?"

"I don't have a cold!" I managed to gasp-shriek between torrents. I dared to pull the tissue away from my face to check if it was working. It wasn't. A cascade of blood cascaded upon me.

Did I mention that I was wearing a white shirt?

With fifteen minutes left until I had to leave for the bus, I gave up on stopping the blood. One hand clamped firmly over my nose, I used my other hand to finish getting dressed, brush my teeth, and do my hair and makeup.

It was not a very successful venture. For one thing, it was too hard to put on my jeans one-handed, so I put on a pair of shorts instead. Socks and sneakers also proved most difficult and I slipped my feet into a pair of sandals in lieu.

The nosebleed slowed enough for me to drive to my bus stop, and soon it stopped as suddenly as it had started. I was left a wreck, with blood all over my person.

I was also left to discover that it was chilly outside. My oh-so-convenient shorts and sandals suddenly became less convenient as my knees knocked together. The temperature traveled through my feet and my legs to settle somewhere in my core.

Now I have a cold.

Half a Year Down

Yesterday was the sixth monthiversary of Awkward Mormon Girl. It was also Frodo and Bilbo Baggins' birthday. I'm not sure which of those things I should be more excited about.

Six months together, everybody. Things are getting kind of serious. In another six months, the trial period will be over and I'll decide the future of my relationship with this blog.

However. That's not until March. No point in thinking too much about it now.

One note about our first six months together: a lot of people read my blog secretly and don't tell me. I mean, that's cool. If you prefer to remain anonymous, I understand. I try to do that as much as possible myself.

On the other hand... if you want to follow the blog and leave comments and stuff too, I'd greatly appreciate that. Sometimes I feel like no one is listening. Slash reading. Even though the view count tells me otherwise.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's nice to get encouragement, and it's nice to get feedback. If you like what you see, let me know! If you don't like it, you should probably let me know, too. I can take it. Probably.

If I can't take it, I'll just sic Little Sister on you, and hey presto! Problem solved. For me, anyways.

Freudian Discourse

We're reading Freud in class now, something I've never done before.

"Oh Freud," I say to my book as I read, "poor, poor Freud." Because obviously the guy had no idea how ridiculous some of the things he said are.

You know that guy who just shows up at social events and starts talking about things no one cares about/which make everybody uncomfortable? That was probably Freud, back in the day. Like, at those early-twentieth-century Austrian dinner parties, after everyone finished their schnitzel and their spaetzle and was quite comfortable drinking Austrian tea and eating Austrian pastries, Freud would probably open his mouth and say, "About psychosexuality-" or "On the matter of the id-"

And then the butler, per his pre-party instructions, would say quite loudly, "Would any of the gentlemen care to come into the drawing room for a rousing game of Guitar Hero?" or whatever they did at early-twentieth-century Austrian parties.

When his nieces and nephews got married, they would fret over where to put Uncle Sigmund on the seating chart, because of course they were the sort of people who use place cards at wedding dinners which I think is a bit silly but some couples seem to find them necessary because they want to separate certain relatives in order to avoid an abundance of awkwardness. Now that I think of it, Freud was probably the reason place cards were invented in the first place.

Had Freud's contemporaries written children's books on how they felt about him, they probably would have written books entitled such things as No, Freud!

And Don't Let Freud Drive the Bus!

 

And If You Give a Freud Encouragement.



Sample text: "If you give a Freud encouragement, he's going to ask you some invasive psychological questions. When you answer the questions, he'll probably write a case study about you. When he's finished, he'll publish it. Then he'll want to turn his observations of your behavior into a book. He'll start writing a draft. He might get carried away and turn his observations into a universal theory that isn't sufficiently justified and may or may not involve words of Greek and vague insults towards America."

I'm learning a lot at college.

Why Scary Movies and Social Events are Pretty Much the Exact Same Thing

If you're awkward like me, watching a scary movie and attending a social event like a party or church activity are almost identical experiences.

When do I get all jumpy? When do my hands shake? At scary movies. And at social events.

In either case, I spend most of the evening petrified. Halfway through I try to convince myself to leave. After all, I only came for the popcorn.

I can't leave, though. Some dreadful force keeps me in place, forcing me to watch the protagonist of the movie undergo psychological torture/be the protagonist of my own life and undergo the psychological torture of interaction with others.

Just the thought makes me break into a cold sweat.

Once I'm finally able to shatter the terrible spell and escape, I get this feeling of self-congratulations. Like, "Well, that was utterly terrifying. More terrifying than Little Sister. But I'm really proud of myself for sticking it out."

So I metaphorically pat myself on the back. Then I try to repress the memory of what I just survived. Usually, I succeed.

I succeed so well that not long after I voluntarily subject myself to another movie or go to another party. And then it starts all over again...

Happiness Enchiladas

Let's be honest here. My life shouldn't be that hard.

My immediate family is all alive and around and relatively (ba-dum-ching!) healthy.

My friends are many, and mostly accessible, and enormously blessed at this time in their lives.

I'm going to, and haven't been kicked out of, and am almost finished with that institution of higher learning known as college. I'm healthy. I have opportunities to grow and to help others grow. I'm flourishing. I'm happy.

Despite how swimmingly it goes, for some reason my life is still challenging.

Life isn't meant to be easy. Life is meant to be hard. Seems like once we admit life is hard, it should become easy. But nope. Life is still hard.

Just now I'm facing a series of personal tasks that are all a) difficult, b) difficult and unlikely, or c) difficult and possibly impossible.

It's a bit disheartening, really.

One of the reasons I'm fond of theatre is because theatre has scripts. I learn a script, I know what's coming, I know what I'm supposed to do. It's comfortable.

In real life, I don't always know what's coming, and I don't always know what I'm supposed to do. It's the opposite of comfortable. It stretches me. And stresses me.

I'd often like to curl up in my closet and refuse to come out. Or spend the rest of my life eating Chinese takeout and watching episodes of Avatar: The Last Airbender on repeat. That would make me reasonably happy. Unfortunately, I'm not okay with reasonably happy. I want the whole happiness enchilada.

Happiness enchiladas do not come to a girl who is hyperventilating in her bedroom closet. Happiness enchiladas come to a girl who moves forward not knowing what's going to happen, but carrying the faith that she will be guided and directed and blessed every step of the way.

Bring it on.

World's Most Contrived

I broke a world record today.

What? Oh, you don't believe me? Well then, let me show it to you my way.

See, today when I got home from school I saw a pamphlet for Scholastic book orders sitting on the kitchen counter. Now, let me just say, book orders are one of the best things invented. There's nothing quite like ordering a book and then having it delivered to you all nicely shrink-wrapped a few weeks later. Then you get to take it home in your backpack and read it in one sitting. If it's Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, you end up sobbing at the foot of your bunk bed because you think that Ginny is dead and gone forever and now she and Harry will never marry and have three children.

That was a traumatic moment in my life.

Another, less-traumatic and in fact actually very awesome moment in my life was when I saw the book order pamphlet on the counter. There was this little blurb about a Guinness Book of World Record thing with space to write your own personal records.

At first I was like, "Oh, that's stupid. Writing your own personal records next to actual world records would just be depressing and show you you're a loser because you've never broken a world record."

And then I was like, "Wait. Every time someone breaks a personal record... they're doing something they've never done before."

And then I was all, "They've never done it before... which means it's never been done by them. At all."

And then I was like, "Which means it's something completely new to the world. Which makes it a WORLD RECORD!"

And THEN I was like, "Yeah! Fist bump!" And I fist bumped myself. And it was sad.

BUT. I've broken a ton of world records this week!

World Record for Number of Trips to Target by Awkward Mormon Girl: Broken!

World Record for the Most Nutella Awkward Mormon Girl Has Consumed in One Sitting: Broken!

World Record for How Many Times Awkward Mormon Girl Has Offered to Exchange Her Blood for a Passing Grade: Broken. These things happen.

World Record for How Many Times This Offer Has Been Turned Down: Broken.

World Record for How Many Times Awkward Mormon Girl Has Breathed: BROKEN! And what's more, I keep breaking it! Every few seconds!

World Record for How Many Minutes Awkward Mormon Girl Has Been Alive: Broken soooo many times. I just can't stop.

World Record for Number of Posts About World Records On This Blog: Omigosh. Totes broken. Somebody give me a prize.

Braaaains

I have been tired all week.

My family decided a week ago that we would have family prayer together every morning and every night. I pray by myself daily aka have personal prayer. Personal prayer is a time to reflect on my own relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Family prayer is about the relationship between Heavenly Father, Christ, and the family. Because there are a lot of people in my family and we're all busy, we haven't had family prayer regularly for a while. My parents proposed that if we made an effort to change that habit or rather lack thereof, we might have more harmony in our home.

Little Brother and Baby Brother share a room and are the last two kids to get up in the morning. I suggested we have prayer in their room when they wake up.

LITTLE BROTHER: I don't want to have family prayer in my room.

BABY BROTHER: But you can have it in my room!

Cue Baby Brother's personal laugh track. Not that he's not funny, because he is, but we also laugh twice as hard at everything he says because he's the youngest.

We chose 6:45 am as the ETP (Estimated Time of Prayer)for the mornings.

Unfortunately, that's not why I'm tired. I've slept through family prayer every morning but one. I hit the snooze button thinking I have time, and then I don't, and then my family prays without me. So I haven't gotten to partake of the spiritual upliftingness but I have gotten tons of sleep.

Still I'm rather exhausted. Every day I've felt like a zombie. Not a zombie hobo, though. Just a zombie.

I suppose my being tired may have something to do with the whole college thing. It's pretty intense. I fell asleep in class on Tuesday and of course it was my most important class that is taught by one of the head honchos at Nameless Utah College. I don't think he saw me, but it's still not a very good precedent.

Maybe I'll tape my eyelids open. That seems productive and not overly drastic, right? #funnyjoke #thethingsIsay #what #I'msotired

...it occurs to me that I should go to bed.

Close Encounters of the Sisterly Kind

Baby Sister and I had an argument. As a peace offering, I brought her a chocolate cake doughnut from my work meeting.

Now, this work meeting was fairly early in the morning, which meant that when I returned home Baby Sister was awake but still lying in the bunk bed she shares with Little Sister. Little Sister was seated on a chair in the corner, quite near Baby Sister but unable to see her because of the placement of their bookshelf.

I hadn't brought a doughnut for Little Sister, but I figured that as long as she didn't see me giving the doughnut to Baby Sister, she'd never know the difference.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (discreetly slips the doughnut to Baby Sister) Here.

BABY SISTER: Uh... thanks?

LITTLE SISTER: What? What is it?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (trying to use her eyes to convey the secrecy of the doughnut transfer) Nothing.

BABY SISTER: Thanks.

LITTLE SISTER: For what?

BABY SISTER: (not understanding the conveyance of the eyes) She gave me-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: -a mysterious golden orb.

LITTLE SISTER: ...a mysterious golden orb?

BABY SISTER: ...this doughnut is a mysterious gold orb?

LITTLE SISTER: You brought her a doughnut?!

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Baby Sister. She wasn't supposed to know.

BABY SISTER: Ohhhhh. Sorry.

LITTLE SISTER: Why didn't you bring me a doughnut too?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (to self) I give up. (heads for hallway)

LITTLE SISTER: (from bedroom) I TRUSTED YOU!

The Color of Things

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Behold the awesome power of the Cosmic Brownie.

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.