Pictures of My Halloween

Showing off my costume.

 

Little Brother freaks out.
 

Heading out to trick-or-treat!
 

Little Sister wears a fashionable hat.

 

Baby Brother perpetuates Native American stereotypes.

Simply A-Maze-Ing

My singles ward went to a corn maze for an activity. I had only ever been to one very small corn maze in my life, so I decided to attend and see what all the fuss is about.

Really, though. Corn mazes make no sense when you think about it. If you want to be hopelessly lost, I'm happy to blindfold you, dump you in an alley somewhere, and tell you to go find your way home. That would be way more challenging, not to mention free. Yet something tells me you wouldn't go for that. Kind of like how some people pay lots of money to jump out of airplanes for fun but would probably be traumatized if they had to jump out of a plane in an emergency.

Humans are weird.

Well, the corn maze was a ways away from Hometown, so it was necessary to carpool.

Now I'd forgotten that it was October. That is, I knew it was the month of October but I'd forgotten that October means it will be cold. In my defense, there wasn't a cold evening all month until this evening where I planned to spend a few hours lost in a bunch of corn. Love you too, Utah weather.

Joyfully, my parents' house happened to be on the way to the corn maze. The driver of my car pool offered to swing by so I could get something warm. I ran inside, grabbed a tam o'shanter and a pair of gloves, and ran back out.

We got on the freeway. Within ten minutes, we were lost.

There was a GPS. There was a smartphone. We'd find our way eventually. I took advantage of the lull to pull on my tam o'shanter, then turn my attention to my gloves.

"I think we need to go a little farther east," the passenger was saying.

And the driver was saying, "Let's pull over and figure out where we are."

And I was asking myself, "Why are these gloves stuck together?"

Upon close inspection, I saw that the gloves were sewn together through the fingers.

"Look at this map. This road runs perpendicular-"

Sewn together with a button to secure it all.

"But we passed that long ago-"

A heart-shaped button no less.

"Let's keep going-"

I thought perhaps the gloves were sewn together for a reason, so I tried to put them on while they were still sewn. However, the fingers were too thoroughly blocked. There was nothing for it. I'd have to rip out the stitches and the button, too.

"Let's turn around-"

I'd ripped out the stitches and was pulling the gloves on when my finger pricked something. Concealed in one of the fingertips of the right glove was a jeweled pin with a bird on it.

Seldom have I ever been as confused as I was by those gloves.

"We'll get there eventually," the driver and the passenger, unaware of my deeply bewildering glove struggle, finally decided.

And they were right. We found the corn maze eventually. Someone got a paper map and we all strode in.

My ponytail was pulled jauntily to one side to accommodate my tam o'shanter. My gloves were freed of buttons and birds and were securely upon my hands. I was ready.

This is what being in the corn maze sounded like:

"I think we need to go a little farther east."

"Let's stop and figure out where we are."

"Look at this map. This path runs perpendicular-"

"But we passed that long ago-"

"Let's keep going-"

"Let's turn around-"

And I was like, "Um, guys? Does anybody else realize that this is exactly what we were doing before we got here?"

"Oh well. We'll get there eventually,"

"Just me? Carry on, then."

We Won't Grow Up

I hope you are as excited to see my Halloween costume as I am to show it to you.

First, some explanation. Every summer, my family goes camping in the mountains. And every summer, I pretend that I am Peter Pan and that my younger siblings and cousins are my Lost Boys.

I do not know how this came am about. Actually, yes I do. It was my idea.

Ever since Favorite Cousin grew up and stopped coming camping with us, I've had quite the solitary time camping. There's been no one for me to take a quiet hike and discuss Lord of the Rings, so these past few years I've been sitting among the trees reading instead.

Anyways, one camping trip I grew intolerably bored. I ambled out to the children's hideout in the woods and suggested that we play the part of Peter Pan where they build a house for Wendy. I would be Peter Pan, of course, and...

...and it hasn't stopped since. Summer after summer, it's all the same. We sing our homemade Lost Boys' medley, make beds out if grass, build a house for Wendy, and have a pine cone war with the pirates and Indians (aka our parents) before going to the Indians' camp for a victory feast (aka tinfoil dinners).

Once before the feast, I told the others that we needed to dress up. "I will put this feather in my hair," I said grandly, placing a strand of grass in my hair and then scooping up Pixie Cousin to help her back to camp.

"That's not a feather," Pixie Cousin informed me, giggling. "You cwazy, Peter Pan!"

She thought I was crazy for pretending some grass was a feather, but she had no problem believing I was an obnoxious, pre-adolescent boy who can fly. Go figure.

Anyways, this summer, in the midst of the usual Lost Boy shenanigans, Little Brother was all, "For Halloween I'll be John, Baby Brother will be Michael, Baby Sister will be Wendy, Little Sister will be Tinker Bell, and you'll be Peter Pan."

And I was like, "I'll believe it when I see it." Because Little Brother is a schemer, a dreamer, someone who thinks big but can't always deliver. I know the type because I am one.

But this year, Little Brother delivered. He put together smashing costumes for everyone. He even convinced our parents to get costumes to be Mr. and Mrs. Darling. And he and Baby Brother kept saying, "What about your costume?"

Then I realized that this was really happening. And that although I'm not Peter Pan, to these kids I might as well be. They think I can do anything and that I'll never let them down.

So I made myself a costume. Green tights, green skirt, green polo shirt. Hat, belt and shoe covers from a costume my mom bought for Little Brother once from Disneyland. The shoelace of one of my hiking boots.

And the final product:

I made this with my mad costume skillz. And now I'm excited. So very excited.

Halloween can't come soon enough.

Trick or Treat

The year I was Wembley Fraggle for Halloween, I was seventeen. Nobody outside of my family appreciated my costume, and I was considerably older than the other trick-or-treaters.

"I think," I said to myself, feeling generally uncomfortable, "that this will be my last year of trick-or-treating."

And it was. Until my younger brothers and younger sisters and I decided to dress as the cast of Avatar: The Last Airbender for Halloween.

Little Sister was Katara. Little Brother was Zuko. Baby Sister was Toph, and big-eyed Baby Brother was Aang, the avatar himself.

In assigning characters to each sibling, we came across a problem called Too Many Male Characters or Our Parents Had Twice as Many Daughters as Sons. There were three boys in the cast of Avatar and only two girls, while we were three girls and only two boys.

The moral of the story is that due to the dearth of men, I ended up being Sokka, the meat and sarcasm guy. I converted a blue dress and a shredded white dress shirt into this outfit:

More or less.

After working on our costumes like underpaid child laborers in a sweatshop, the younger siblings and I were loath to split up and diminish the recognizability factor of our costumes. Thus I chaperoned the children around the neighborhood.

They'd go to the doorstep, ring the bell, and say "Trick or treat," and collect their candy while I hung back several feet, waiting awkwardly on the lawn.

Something curious happened at most housed. The adult who answered the door would look beyond the kids and see that, under my puffy winter coat (it was a cold Halloween, and while Sokka is from the South Pole, I'm definitely not), I was wearing a costume. And I guess they either thought I was still a kid or took pity on me, because they would then say, "Don't you want some candy?"

At first I would politely say, "No thank you. I'm just chaperoning."

And then they would say, "Are you sure?"

I wasn't sure. By the time we'd gone around the block, my coat pockets were filled with candy. I gave up on adulthood, ran home to get a pillowcase, and spent the rest of the evening saying, "Trick or treat!" on every doorstep.

It was fun, but nobody outside of my family appreciated my costume (all the folks answering the door were advanced far past the Avatar age), and I was considerably older than the other trick-or-treaters.

"I think," I said to myself, feeling generally uncomfortable, "that this will be my last year of trick-or-treating."

So the next year, I swore I would leave the candy to the kids. To keep myself from being tempted, I didn't even get a costume. I got scheduled to work Halloween night, and that was fine with me.

Well, the fast food joint wasn't exactly hopping that night. I got home a little earlier than expected, just in time to commence the annual Halloween visit with my grandmother.

Once there, my mother suggested I take Baby Brother trick-or-treating around my grandmother's neighborhood. I don't remember why the rest of the kids weren't around, but they weren't. I seem to remember that Baby Brother's evening of trick-or-treating had been rather disappointing, candy-wise. Whatever the reason, I agreed to take him up and down the street.

There were only the two of us, and I couldn't very well force my tiny little brother to knock on strangers' doors alone while I stood back and supervised from a distance. So I walked right up to every door with him and said, "Trick or treat!" for him. Then I would subtly push him forward to accept his candy.

Except at every house, the person who answered the door would hand me a piece of candy, too. These were old people in a neighborhood that didn't get many trick-or-treaters, so the candy was always above-average. King-sized candy bars. Movie theatre boxes of Junior Mints. And people were just handing these treasures out to me like it was nothing, no hesitations, no questions asked.

For the first few houses, I was extremely confused. Why did people keep giving me candy like I was a trick-or-treater? I was acting very parent-ish, wasn't I? I wasn't looking longingly at the candy, was I? No! I wasn't even carrying a candy bag. I wasn't even wearing a costume...

"Oh," I said, looking down. I was still wearing my work uniform. Apparently, people thought I had dressed as a fast food employee for Halloween.

"Well," I said to myself, "whatever," and since it appeared to be my destiny to always be given candy on Halloween, I bravely accepted said destiny and also all the candy I could carry.

Finding Kathryn

"I'm not sure if I have the right number, but I think I do. I'm looking for a Kathryn Ramin or a Kathryn Atwood--she went by both names. Um, this a family member. Can you call me back at xxx-xxx-xxxx? Again, xxx-xxx-xxxx. This is California, Beverly from California calling. Can you call me back either way and let me know if I got the wrong number? This is--this is really important. Thank you very much and have a nice day. And it's 3:40 California time."

I've mentioned Kathryn before.

When I got my first phone, I was terribly excited. I mean, what's not to love about cellular phones? Making phone calls is terrifying, but nobody uses their cell to call people anyways so there was nothing to worry about. I was free to worship and adore my new phone.

Except apparently some people didn't get the memo that cell phones aren't for actually calling people. It wasn't long before a call came in.

Who could possibly be calling me? I wondered. Hardly anyone had my new number.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Is Kathryn there?" the person on the other end asked.

I told the person they had the wrong number and hung up, assuming that would be the end of it.

But it was only the beginning.

For six years, I've received urgent calls for Kathryn from various financial institutions. From people who are probably friends. From people who probably aren't.

I've gotten voice mails from a guy who said Kathryn had to meet with him "or else." I even picked up a call from a guy who'd found a Frisbee with my number on it.

"Do you want me to mail it to you?" he asked, sounding all sorts of proud of himself for going to such great lengths to safely return this lost item.

"It's not mine," I said.

"But it has this phone number on it," he said. I had a very hard time convincing him that I'd never owned a Frisbee much less lost one.

As I hung up, I thought, It's probably Kathryn's.

This has been going on for six years. It's partly annoying, partly entertaining, but overall very mysterious.

Who is Kathryn? Why did she cancel her number six years ago and never let her bank, her friends, or her Frisbee know? Is she on the lam? A technology fast? The moon?

I never thought I'd ever get any answers about Kathryn.

Then I got that voice mail from Beverly from California.

I hardly ever respond to messages for Kathryn left on my phone. My voicemail recording is very clear about what my name is. People leave me messages for someone else at their own risk. But how could I not respond to this?

Within minutes of hearing the voice message, I returned the call.

Ring ring ring. The phone was picked up.

"Is this Beverly?" I asked.

'Twas Beverly, indeed.

"You called me looking for someone named Kathryn."

The disappointment was heavy in Beverly's voice when she realized that I, clearly, was not Kathryn.

I wanted to ask why Beverly needed to find Kathryn so desperately, but I was saved the trouble of inquiring when Beverly began to tell me herself.

Beverly explained that her nephew is looking for his father, whom he's never met. Beverly hired a private investigator to find the nephew's father. Because the nephew's father is also Kathryn's father, the private investigator had turned up Kathryn's phone number and given it to Beverly.

The problem with that plan is that Kathryn's number is, of course, not Kathryn's number but mine. Which obviously was frustrating to Beverly because now how the heck is she going to find Kathryn to find her nephew's father?

And I was like, "I know how you feel. I can't find half the people on my visiting teaching list myself."

Anyways, after the conversation with Beverly, my curiosity about Kathryn was more deeply stirred. Because I fancy myself something of a detective, I got online and searched the social media sites for a likely-looking Kathryn/Katherine/Catherine Atwood-or-Ramin.

No such luck. Not even when I used key words like "Utah" or "Frisbee."

The conclusion of this story is that no one knows where the heck Kathryn is, except hopefully Kathryn herself. So I think I'll do an internet shout out right now, just in case Kathryn ever happens upon this blog.

KATHRYN! KATHRYN ATWOOD-OR-RAMIN! IF YOU READ THIS, BEVERLY FROM CALIFORNIA IS LOOKING FOR YOU. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HER LAST NAME IS. POSSIBLY HILLS. BUT YOU SHOULD CALL HER. THAT IS ALL.

*Since it's a shout-out, it has to be in all-caps to make it look like I'm shouting.

The Plan

Upon a few occasions in my life, I've received hints from guys I liked that they liked me back.

Hints are good. There's nothing wrong with hints. But if something's going to develop between two people who like each other, then hints alone will not suffice. At some point, action needs to be taken.

I don't know why human beings are so bad at this. On more than one occasion I've known of people who liked each other, who were fairly secure in their knowledge that their affections were returned, yet who never summoned up the courage to make things official. The opportunity passed them by, and none of them ended up together.

I guess everybody ever is super duper afraid of rejection. When we don't know for 100% positive that someone likes us back, we're scared to say something about it. Which is a problem when usually the only way we can know for 100% positive is by saying something.

I'm no better, I'm afraid. I try to be honest with people in my actions and say things that need to be said. Yet I, too, am often scared.

One time, I developed a brilliant plan to tell a man I was interested in him. I decided to wear my glasses instead of my contacts. Then when he said, "I like your glasses," (because of course he would) I would say, "I like you."

It was smooth. It was clever. It was kind of dorky but that's just how I roll. Best of all, it was very risk-free, comparatively speaking.

I saw the man. I was wearing my glasses. He said, "I like the glasses," as I'd known he would. It was all going according to plan.

So I said...

..."Thanks."

Alas. Are we all cowards at heart?

Disasters in Dancing

Best Friend Boy is the best dancer I know.

I used to dislike partner dancing pretty strongly. The first time a boy tried to teach me to swing dance, he stopped the lesson to specifically say, "Just relax. I'll take care of everything."

But I couldn't relax. Yeah, I have been in fourteen musicals, but I was never cast for my beautiful dancing. I'm not one of those people blessed with natural bodily awareness. I have to think really hard to get my body to do anything even vaguely resembling a dance. So to relax while dancing is hard for me.

Well, Best Friend Boy changed all that. I can usually relax when I dance with him. He's great at leading me through the dance and doing the heavy lifting (metaphorically and less metaphorically). All I have to do is smile (musical theatre habits die hard) and try not to step on my own feet.

A few months ago, Best Friend Boy and I met up at Hometown High's annual swing event.

It's always a good time, this swing event. Some people dress up quite lavishly for it.

I decided to dress in a sort of business-casual style. For footwear, I considered the merits of heels, sneakers, and flats...and chose flats.

It was good that I didn't wear heels but bad that I didn't wear sneakers. For as it turned out, the flats had no traction. The soles were, indeed, flat. As I soon discovered when Best Friend Boy twirled me over the Hometown High dance floor and I promptly fell over.

"Too fast," Best Friend Boy said, and adjusted his speed accordingly.

The rest of the night went well...until Best Friend Boy proposed we do some kicks. He taught me how. We started off slowly, and then the music went into double time.

Best Friend Boy's legs also went into double time. Not about to be outdone, I cried, "I can keep up with you!"

But my flats couldn't. As I kicked my left leg, my left shoe flew from my foot and hit a couple dancing beyond us.

Best Friend Boy, always the conscientious dance partner, ran to get my shoe while I sank to the dance floor in laughter.

It was mortifying and hilarious at the same time. I suppose we could call it mortiflarious.

Or actually, not. I really don't want to make that a thing.

Does This Blog Even Exist?

Do you know the solipsists? They live on Drury Lane. With the muffin man. Possibly. Who the heck even knows?

Solipsists are people who believe that nothing exists outside of the mind. There is no objective reality, say the solipsists. It's all inside your mind.

95% of the people who I can think of off the top of my head would say that's absurd. I'd say it is absurd and yet isn't. After all, the stickiest sticking point is that there's no way to prove a solipsist wrong. If we looked at everything around us in a manner most scientific and objective, it all supports solipsism just as much as it supports realism. There's no way to demonstrate that it exists outside of the mind.

I learned about these delightful solipsists a few days ago, and it's been messing with my mind ever since. Does the chair I'm sitting on actually exist? Does this iPod? Does this blog? Do you? Or are they merely all brain-induced sensations?

There you go. Go think on this and give yourself a ready-made migraine (or a brain-induced sensation of one). I'm going to go eat some Oreos. Supposing that Oreos actually exist. Which at this point is debatable.

Meet the Mormons

You may have heard of this movie, Meet the Mormons. If you're reading this blog and you're not LDS, will you please go see it?

What's the movie about?It's a documentary that discusses the lives of six Mormon families around the world.

Will this movie tell me more about what you Mormons believe? Yes, a little bit. More than that, it will show you what our lives are like. Spoiler alert: We all lead very different lives. The only common bond between us is the tenets of our faith.

You mean this movie won't answer my question about Church history/doctrine/practice? No, probably not. It's not that kind of movie. These people are not here to convert you or answer your questions. They're just trying to say, "Hi, I'm a Mormon. Here are some of my experiences, and here's what my current life is like. I want you to hear my story from me and not approximate it from someone else's false portrayal of Mormons."

This movie does take opportunities to clear up a few misconceptions about our doctrine. However, that is not the focal point. There's a reason the movie is called Meet the Mormons, not Mormons Tell All or Bible Bash.

I'm not comfortable with buying a ticket when the money benefits the Mormon church. That's okay. The proceeds actually go to the Red Cross.

Why should I see this movie, anyways? In my first post, I said:

...people are wondering about the LDS Church right now. They want to know what we're all about. If I'm not willing to tell people what I'm all about, then someone else will. And the things that someone else says about me and about my church--well, they might not be true or fair.

That's why I'm here. I'm here to represent.

Meet the Mormons is basically a movie version of this blog. Real Mormons telling real stories about their real lives. Except the movie is less awkward and more heartwarming. And in the movie, there are martial arts. There are no martial arts on this blog. Yet.

Anyways, go see the movie. And then come back and tell me all about it and geek out with me over the martial arts? Capisce? Good. This is a good plan.

Something Exciting

Every now and again, one of my younger siblings says something to me like, "I was searching for your blog and Google suggested its name to me!" or "You can find your blog on Google if you type in this certain combination of words!"

And I'm like, "Cool. That's great." But, remembering that every time they turn up my blog, it's on a computer or an iPod that they've used to read my one hundred and sixty-something blog posts multiple times over more than eighteen months, I have been appropriately skeptical that the blog is really that easy to find. More likely their devices just remember the blog.

Well. This morning, I was thinking about this, and I wondered what would happen if I searched for my blog on a computer that I nor anybody else had used to look for, read, or write a post for my blog.

So before starting my tasks for the day, I took thirty seconds to type into my work computer, "awkward m."

"awkward mormon girl" was immediately suggested by Google--as the third option.

Hey, that's pretty good I thought, pleased that enough people had typed the words "awkward mormon girl" into Google that it was turning up so quickly.

But let's give credit where credit is due. The people who are typing "awkward mormon girl" into Google are people like you. Nay, they are you. So here's a pat on a back and a thank you from me.

Thanks, guys. Also, it would be cool if you kept it up... ;)