Either Or

A good way to get to know someone is to give them two related but different things, and then ask them which one they would prefer and why.

For example, ask them if they prefer

Paper or plastic?

Coke or Pepsi?

Star Wars or Star Trek?

Nancy Drew or the Hardy boys?

Phineas or Ferb?

Killers or killer whales?

The Beatles or beetles?

Euthanasia or youth in Asia?

Everybody knows that you don't really know someone until you ask them these questions. They must be presented to your closest friends, potential spouses, and family members (whom you may disown if you find their answers appalling).

An Actual Thing I Actually Wrote

I wrote this beauty of a screenplay about the Industrial Age for a history class in eighth grade.

WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER TAKE A STAGECOACH ON YOUR WAY HOME FROM WORK
A Somewhat Accurate Screenplay

SCENE ONE
(Camera fades from black onto scene in the McCall home. It is their son, Jamie’s, ninth birthday, and they are celebrating with cake and assorted presents. Jamie, his parents, and his two little sisters are all having a grand old time.)

NARRATOR: Jamie McCall was always a very happy boy. He had a mother, a father, and two sisters.

(cut to Jamie)

JAMIE: Oh Mother, I wish I could stay this happy forever!

NARRATOR: But it was not to be. (cut to Jamie’s father) One day, Jamie’s father died quite suddenly.

JAMIE’S FATHER: (dies)

JAMIE: (as camera cuts to him; blinking) Wow... that was quick.

JAMIE’S SISTERS: Father! No!

JAMIE: (realizes he should imitate them and does) Father! NO! (throws himself onto his father’s body, sobbing)

(cuts to next day)

JAMIE’S MOTHER: Jamie, now that your father is gone, you must be the man of the house. You will have to support us.

NARRATOR: Jamie’s family kissed him goodbye and away he went to look for work.

(Camera cuts to Jamie, who is standing in the road, looking hopelessly lost.)

(Camera cuts to a stagecoach that goes by.)

JAMIE: Excuse me, stagecoach driver. Where is a factory where I can get a job?

STAGECOACH DRIVER: Just down the road. You’ll find it.

JAMIE: Thank you.

(Camera cuts to the stagecoach as it passes down the road out of sight. The people inside of it are being jostled.)

NARRATOR: Stagecoach traveling in the early eighteen hundreds was awfully uncomfortable. Unfortunately, better methods were hard to find, and most would not start coming into use for a while.

JAMIE: Wow... that looks awfully uncomfortable...

(Camera fades into black.)

SCENE TWO
(Camera fades from black to see a slightly run-down factory building that is chugging smoke into the sky. Cut to Jamie, who knocks on the door.)

FACTORY OWNER: Yes?

JAMIE: I need a job.

FACTORY OWNER: Come right this way. (leads Jamie down a long passageway to a room full of loud, whirring machines)

NARRATOR: Early factories were quite noisy. (cut to factory owner and Jamie, standing across from each other)

FACTORY OWNER: Now, what you will have to do is-

JAMIE: What? I can’t hear you!

FACTORY OWNER: What did you just say? I didn’t hear you.

JAMIE: What?

FACTORY OWNER: Speak louder!

JAMIE: WHAT?

FACTORY OWNER: SPEAK LOUDER!

JAMIE: Huh?

FACTORY OWNER: What?

JAMIE: (opens his mouth)

FACTORY OWNER: Never mind. (turns to the factory workers) EVERYBODY TURN OFF THEIR MACHINES!

FACTORY WORKERS: (as camera cuts to them) WHAT?

FACTORY OWNER: (groans, then leads Jamie out into the hallway, shutting the door behind them)

(cut to hallway)

FACTORY OWNER: Listen, kid, all you’ve got to do is watch for threads on your machine that break. When they do, stop it and tie them back together.

JAMIE: All right. I can do that.

(camera fades into black)

SCENE THREE
(fade from black into factory workroom. Camera focuses on Jamie)

NARRATOR: So Jamie got down to work on his machine, called a spinning jenny.

JAMIE: Why a spinning jenny? Why not a spinning Nancy? A spinning Rose? A spinning Claudia?

NARRATOR: Ahem. So Jamie got down to work on his machine, called a spinning jenny.

JAMIE: Oh, sorry. (starts working)

(He scans the factory workroom, the camera showing us what he sees. Two women operate the machines across from him, their long hair tied back. To the right of Jamie’s machine a girl his age operates a machine, and on the left, a badly coughing teenage boy works slowly. Farther away, Jamie spots other workers. They are all dressed from middling to poor classes.)

(camera cuts to a close-up of Jamie’s machine. A thread snaps. Cut to Jamie)

JAMIE: (stops machine and ties thread back together, fumbling. A few minutes later, he starts it up again.) Whew! Glad that’s done.

(cut to close-up of machine; another thread snaps. Cut to Jamie)

JAMIE: (stops machine, ties it back together, restarts machine)

(cut to machine- two different threads snap. Cut to Jamie- as he reaches to stop the machine, various other threads snap too)

JAMIE: AURGHHH! All of the threads on my spinning Elizabeth are breaking!

NARRATOR: Then, something belonging to the girl on Jamie’s right got stuck in her machine.

JAMIE: Oh no! Was it her nose? Her fingers? Her hair? Is she dead? I can’t stand the sight of blood!

GIRL: (screams in agony. Camera cuts to her, writhing.) My- my- my- pet spider is DEAD!

(cut to Jamie, who looks relieved but puzzled)

JAMIE: Oh...?

(cut to girl- her long, dirty hair hangs in her face)

GIRL: Yes!

(cuts to side angle that allows us to view them both)

JAMIE: A spider...?

GIRL: Yes! He got caught in the machine. I trained him so I would have something to do when I wasn’t working.

JAMIE: Isn’t there something else you could do?

GIRL: Some other people tack pieces of paper to the frames of their machines to read while they work, but I can’t read.

JAMIE: Oh... (turns away, mumbling) What a strange place this factory is!

(fade into black)

SCENE FOUR
(fade from black)

NARRATOR: At the end of the week, Jamie received his pay and prepared to take it home to his family.

(cut to Jamie, exiting factory)

JAMIE: Won’t Mother be happy! (stops to rub his feet) My feet hurt after walking to and from work everyday. Maybe I should take a stagecoach.

(cut to road- stagecoach conveniently arrives)

JAMIE: (jumps aboard) Hang on, Mr. Stagecoach Driver, while I get my money out. I’ll pay you in a minute.

STAGECOACH DRIVER: All right, then. (cracks his whip) HI-YAH!

(cut to horses- they begin to trot quickly down the street)

(cut to Jamie as he opens his moneybag and dumps the coins into his palm to find the right amount)

(cut to the road as the stagecoach’s wheel hits a pothole)

(cut to Jamie as he goes flying from the stagecoach as it bounces)

JAMIE: AUUUUURRRGGGHHH! (hits road; his coins roll from his hand)

TRAMPS: (pick up Jamie’s coins)

JAMIE: No! Don’t! (tries to stop the tramps, to no avail)

(Camera begins to fade as we watch Jamie searching for any last coins in the mud)

NARRATOR: And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you should never take a stagecoach on your way home from work.

THE END

Roadside Assistance

The following story takes place on my most recent birthday:

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (to Madam President) Do you wanna go on a walk?

MADAM PRESIDENT: Can I take you someplace to celebrate your birthday instead?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: How can I say no to that?

MADAM PRESIDENT: Okay! I need to get gas, though. Hopefully we don't run out.

Our heroines get in Madam President's car. Four blocks later...

MADAM PRESIDENT: We're out of gas.

Undaunted, they call Madam President's sister. Awakened from her nap, the sister kindly drops off a gas can at their location.

MADAM PRESIDENT: Hmm. I've never done this before...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Nor have I.

With some apprehension, they strive to uncover the secrets of the gas can.

MADAM PRESIDENT: (using all her gas can skillz) Okay... So it opens like this...and then this thing here actually becomes the nozzle...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (stands next to Madam President and tries to make appropriately supportive comments)

MADAM PRESIDENT: I think I've got it.

She hefts the heavy gas can. Awkward Mormon Girl helps lift it to the gas tank opening. They place the nozzle inside and pour.

The gasoline does not waterfall smoothly through the nozzle and into the gas tank. It inexplicably cascades from the base of the nozzle instead. Madam President's shoes are drenched, and so are Awkward Mormon Girl's hands.

MADAM PRESIDENT: Happy birthday!

Madam President tries to flag down passing cars. After a few no-gos, a man in a truck stops and looks at our heroines questioningly.

MADAM PRESIDENT: Can you help us? We're incompetent.

Picnic

It took me seventy minutes to actually get out of bed this morning, fifteen minutes to get dressed for exercising, and at least five minutes to decide what to eat for breakfast.

OLDER SISTER: Hey Awkward Mormon Girl, Mom told me to invite you to a picnic at Baby Brother’s school.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Picnic?

Within twenty minutes, I had eaten breakfast, brushed my teeth, dressed, done my hair and assembled all necessary things.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Picnic!

I drove to the school and excitedly found Baby Brother’s classroom.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: PICNIC!

Mom and I ended up helping this lady run the parachute station. But Mom and the lady didn’t even want to crawl under the parachute pretending to be sharks. What’s up with that?

After a while, I realized that they had things well in hand. I was growing bored, and they didn’t really need me, sooo…

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Sooo… I’m gonna go find Baby Brother!

Baby Brother was glad to see me. I played stick pull with him and his classmates. Then I sat with them while they churned butter and made sure all the kids got a turn and sang a butter-churning song with them.

Then it was snack time.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Snack time!

And then singing time.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Singing time!

Then lunchtime.

MOM: We don’t actually get any food.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Wha-wha-whaaaaat?

MOM: This picnic is for the kids.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Well, yeah, but when Older Sister said I was invited to the picnic I kind of assumed we all got to participate in the actual picnic part.

Cue an identity crisis.

ME: Awkward Mormon Girl. Of course you don’t get to picnic. You’re not a child anymore.

ALSO ME: I know, but-

ME: These children are not your peers.

ALSO ME: Then who here is my peer?

ME: Those women over there.

ALSO ME: You mean those thirty- and forty-something-year-old mothers who won’t even crawl under parachutes pretending to be sharks are my peers?

ME: Yes.

ALSO ME: ...I just died a little inside.

Life is Like a Box of Chocolates

On the first day of class, the professor instructed us to get into pairs and share our names, year, and a simile that summarized the nature of life.

I was paired with a dewy-eyed girl who loved romance novels. She said that life is like a quilt because it's made up of a bunch of different pieces, all stitched together.

She smiled beatifically and waited for me to share mine.

I opened my mouth and said, "Life is like a drive-by shooting. Because one day you're just walking down the street and everything is fine, and then suddenly out of nowhere there are gunshots and you're lying on the street and you're bleeding and you're like, 'What just happened? Why am I lying on the street? Why am I bleeding?'"

My partner blinked. Her smile now seemed pasted on.

"Yeah," I concluded. "That pretty much sums up what life is like."

"Oh," my partner said. "That's interesting," and she never spoke to me again for the rest of college.

Congraduations

My graduation ceremony is forthcoming. In the past few weeks, I’ve learned that more effort is required to prepare for this single day than was necessary for all four years of my degree.

That is an exaggeration. But only a slight one.

My graduation announcements came with this little paper explaining that I had to prepare them in this incredibly formal manner. Each announcement had to have a little card and a tissue paper thingy placed inside. Then it had to be placed inside a small envelope, facing forward, and that envelope had to be placed backwards inside a mailing envelope. I could casually address the inside envelope, but not the mailing one, oh no. Each mailing envelope had to be addressed with courtesy titles and no abbreviations for state or street names. And then I had to lick that mailing envelope with my very own saliva and place an official Nameless Utah College seal on the flap.

If you’re thinking, “Well, that’s stupid. I bet nobody would have noticed if you’d just thrown those things in the envelopes and addressed them however,” well, on the one hand you’re talking sense. Who really cares about graduation announcement etiquette? Probably at least forty-seven out of fifty people on the street don’t even know there’s a certain way to place, address, and seal them.

On the other hand, however, there are always those three people who do know. I would hate to invite their scorn when what I’d really like is their congratulations.

And on a third hand, I just spent my time and toil getting this degree. I’m going to milk this graduation thing for all it’s worth. And if part of milking graduation is having to contribute to the proud tradition of useless graduation announcement etiquette, well then, I’m all for that.

Even though it took me approximately two hundred and infinity hours to assemble and address my graduation announcements.

After all that, I was informed by the explanatory paper that I had to send thank-you notes to everybody who attends the ceremony or gives me a gift. Unfortunately, only five thank-you notes were included with the graduation package, so if more than five people choose to celebrate my graduation with me, I’m in trouble.

Well. Whatever happens, at least there isn’t special graduation thank-you note etiquette.

At least, I hope not.

Discussion in a Jar

I'm in charge of arranging the lessons we have in Relief Society each Sunday.

Recently, I received a Discussion in a Jar from the stake counselor over education. Based on the title, it seemed safe to presume that the jar would contain everything I needed to facilitate a Relief Society lesson/discussion.

I opened said jar this morning and pulled out the contents of my insta-discussion piece by piece:

A package of tissues-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: In case I cry during the lesson.

-a picture of the Savior-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: For inspiration.

-two Snickers-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Chocolate is never not helpful.

-a package of Advil-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Er...for headaches?

-a permanent marker and a notepad-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I guess I could...like...take notes with these...

-and a package of thumbtacks.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I AM SO CONFUSED RIGHT NOW.

That's One Way to Do It

I walked into the laundry room to find Baby Sister sitting in front of the open clothes dryer with a Disney princess sheet wrapped around her, toga-style.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What are you doing?

BABY SISTER: Unloading the clothes dryer.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: But why are you wrapped in that sheet?

BABY SISTER: It was just SO WARM when I got it out.

Of All the Things I've Lost, I Miss My Mind the Most

I'd lost my phone.

This is most inconvenient I thought. I was sitting at the bus stop, already exhausted from school without any complications being added to my life, thank you very much. Yet complications were being added anyways.

Methodically, I began to pat down my pockets. No phone.

I rummaged in the outer section of my backpack where I kept the phone during classes. Nope.

I likewise rummaged in the inner portions of my backpack, shifting pencil cases, binders, notebooks, readable books, and the €5 umbrella I bought from a hocker in Milan and which had since become slightly squashed. No phone there.

I looked on the bench beside me and at the ground around my feet, just in case the phone had fallen without me noticing. There was not a phone in sight.

At this point, I started to worry in earnest. I'd had a cell phone for almost six years. I could barely remember what it was like to be without one--although I seemed to remember that I hadn't been able to make calls whenever I wanted or wherever I wanted and that I'd actually had to memorize people's numbers or something ridiculous like that.

The thought of having to revert to such medieval methods of telephone usage caused me to break into a cold sweat. I rummaged through the small backpack section again. This time I took care to move each individual coin, key, Band-Aid, student ID, hand sanitizer container, and random pieces of paper to be certain my coin wasn't behind it.

You know I thought this rummaging would be a lot easier with two hands.

In fact, I realized the whole time I'd been searching for my phone I'd been using only my right hand...

"And why are you canceling this dentist's appointment?" said the receptionist.

"Oh, I don't need it anymore," I said distractedly. My one-handed search had yielded nothing. Where was my phone?

"All right. Have a nice day."

"You too." I pressed the OFF button, ending the five-minute conversation.

I looked down at the phone in my left hand.

Wait a minute...

I'm Going to the Movies Alone

I was going to write a quickie post tonight, for it's been a long week and I'm exhausted and I've eaten way too much ice cream in the past seven days and basically I just want to sleep for the next fifty-something hours

However, in the complicated path through the internet I took to arrive at my blog, I stumbled across a gif that said, "I'm going to die alone."

And instantly, this "why-do-we?" blog post was born.

I could write "why-do-we?" blog posts all day. Well, okay, not all day but probably like every third post. In fact, I have one in the works right now. It's on a subject very dear to my heart.

I could write "why-do-we?" blog posts every third post because sometimes I question the things humans say and do. And today, I'm questioning why we consider "I'm going to die alone" to be the ultimate expression of how depressing loneliness is.

I don't know. I've never died, so maybe that has something to do with it. But personally, I can think of lots of things I would hate to do alone--and dying isn't one of them.

To me, any of the following would be much more depressing than having to be the only person present at my own death:

-Going to the movies alone.

-Going wedding dress shopping alone.

-Going to Father-Daughter Day at school alone.

-Going to Disneyland alone.

-Celebrating my birthday alone.

-Learning a good joke and having nobody to tell it to.

-Going to a party and having nobody to dance with.

-Having nobody to share an exciting secret with.

-Giving birth alone.

-Raising a child alone.

-Bearing a burden alone.

Depressing, right? I think so. What do you think?