In Which There Is Terror

A few years ago, my BFF Viola and I decided we would go see a scary movie together.

On the one hand, we have Viola, who hate hate hate hate hates scary movies with a passion. On the other hand, there’s me, a person who does not necessarily revel in the scary movie genre. I despise horror movies that are all about blood and guts and gore. BUT I do enjoy a clever movie of suspense or a poetically haunting ghost story. The Sixth Sense. White Noise. Wait Until Dark. I have watched all of these movies and been genuinely scared—not grossed out, but scared. I think a good scare is good for me, once in a while.

Anyways, we decided to see a movie called The Woman in Black. It was based off a book, which seemed promising to literary connoisseurs such as ourselves. It had Daniel Radcliffe in it, who will always be beloved of our generation due to his playing Harry Potter. And the poster had a photograph of children with their eyes scratched out. A ghost that scratches eyes off of photographs? Intriguing. Sign us up. We went.

Was The Woman in Black a good movie?

Yes. It was. Daniel Radcliffe was great. When his character was all, “I can’t leave this island without being terribly and stupidly brave and heroic,” I was all, “Harry, you and your saving-people thing. You never learn.” But he was really adorable as a young father.

The movie had a very interesting story. It wasn’t all gory or shock value; it was very clever and well-plotted.

Finally, there was the main attraction, the woman in black, the ghost of the story. The theatrical poster was a little misleading in this regard. The ghost didn’t scratch photographs; at least, that wasn’t its primary ghostliness. Any time someone saw it, it would force a child to kill itself. There’s nothing creepier than that if you ask me.

So yes, The Woman in Black was a good movie.

A scary movie.

Too good of a scary movie.

Afterward, Viola and I went back to my parents’ house for a spot of conversation.

VIOLA: It’s time for me to leave.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Okay.

A beat of silence.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Do you want me to walk you outside to your car?

VIOLA: YES.

We walked outside timidly, terrified that the woman in black was lurking somewhere in the dark near Viola’s Toyota.

For weeks afterward, I suffered.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What if the woman in black is on the other side of the shower curtain?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What if the woman in black appears in the mirror when I’m using the bathroom late at night?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What if the woman in black is in my closet? What if she’s in the laundry room? What if she’s at the bottom of the stairs? In the backyard? On the hallway ceiling?

I checked the book out of the library and read it. Why would I check out the book of a movie that had completely scarred me? Morbid curiosity, I suppose. Good news, though. It was nowhere near as creepy as the movie. I relaxed slightly.

Finally, some nine months after seeing the movie, I decided I was desensitized. So late on Thanksgiving night, when my little sisters said, “I’m bored. Let’s watch a movie,” I said, “I know a scary movie you might like.”

Again, morbid curiosity.

But I was desensitized, right? This movie wouldn’t scare me anymore. Well…better not take the chance. I decided to show my sisters the made-for-TV version from the 1980s, which was conveniently on Youtube and couldn’t possibly be anywhere near as scary as the remake.

We all snuggled up on the pullout bed on the downstairs couch and pulled up the movie on my laptop.

Was the original movie as terrifying as the remake? Nope.

But it was still pretty scary.

After the last scene was over, we were all kind of quiet.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Let’s just sleep here, yes?

The pullout bed was tiny. But sleeping all squished together seemed much, much safer than sleeping alone in our respective beds.

That was years ago. And yet, I’m still thoroughly disturbed. Sometimes, when I’m creeping down the dark hallway in my apartment, trying to feel for the light switch on the wall, or I’m lying awake in bed unable to sleep, I think, “What if…the woman in black?”

It sends a shiver down my spine every time.

Well, the other day, I was looking at wonderful comedic videos on Youtube when I saw a sponsored video ad for The Woman in Black 2.

It showed a very fake-looking image of a woman dressed in black with a rotting face.

I was all, “Ha. Ha ha. Nice try, people who make humorous previews for fake sequels. There’s no way this is a real thing.”

But then.

But then Wikipedia told me it was real.

I clicked on the preview because morbid curiosity.

Then I exited out after about twenty seconds because mortal terror.

Then I hyperventilated about the horribleness of more woman in black. And checked over my shoulder to see if she was there.

She wasn't.

At least, not that I saw.

I don't want to see this sequel. I would die before I saw this sequel. I am going to stay far, far away from this sequel.

I think.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Stupid morbid curiosity.

Happy Christmas, Harry.

I have super indulgent roommates, the Seamstress and Pepper, who spoil me rotten.

The Seamstress's present to me.

Ron is particularly freakin' adorable.

A Very Muppet Christmas

I mentioned before that I write a family newspaper every Christmas. Here's the main article from today's issue.

Your intrepid reporter was at a Christmas choir practice when her sisters said to her, “Want to go to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert?”

“The Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert? You mean the Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert? The Christmas one? The one we couldn’t get tickets to? The one with Santino Fontana, Broadway star and voice of Prince Hans from Frozen?”

“SANtino FonTANa,” said Older Sister Obnoxious, one of your fearless reporter’s sisters, said bossily. “Not SAHNtino FonTAHNa. He’s American, not Spanish.”

“Santino Fontana,” the reporter continued fearlessly, “and the Muppets?” Your reporter breathed that last phrase like it was as precious as the last pure oxygen in a smoker’s lounge.

“Yes,” said the sisters, “the Sesame Street Muppets. We’re going a few hours early to be in standby for tickets.”

“Count me in,” said the reporter.

“Dress warm,” said her sisters.

“Okay,” said the reporter. She went home and put on 3,000 layers of warmth. She filled her pockets with tissues (because she was getting over an illness), an umbrella, and the recording of Steve Whitmire’s heartbeat she listens to when she falls asleep at night.

“I’m so excited to be in the same room with Muppeteers,” the reporter swooned. “Especially Steve Whitmire!!!”

“I know. I’m just so intimidated at the thought,” Little Sister Obnoxious, another of the reporter’s multiple sisters, exclaimed.

Then one Bonnaby, aka the crusher of all hopes and dreams, sent your reporter a screenshot of the program from the concert. Everyone from Sesame Street would be at the concert, except…

“William Barkhurst?” your intrepid reporter said blankly. “I have never heard of this man in my life. Who is he, and what did he do with Steve Whitmire???”

There was a moment of shamed silence for the lack of getting to be near Steve Whitmire.

“Oh well,” sighed the reporter. “The other Muppeteers will still be there. And I still think it will be really cool to hear Santino Fontana sing.”

“You’re still saying it wrong!” shouted Older Sister Obnoxious, harbinger of correct nomenclature pronunciation.

Siblings four and Carrot Top, a friend of Little Sister, trooped off together to the standby line for the concert. Would they get in to the concert? they wondered as they shivered in the rain. Would they be able to be personal witnesses to the glory of Sesame Street and Santino Fontana’s voice? Or would they be forced to instead watch the broadcast of the concert on the cramped benches of a tabernacle built in the much-smaller proportions of humans from a hundred years ago?

They wondered and they wondered. It was more suspenseful than The Woman in Black.

Slowly, people from the standby line were allowed into the concert. Your reporter and her companions were about the fifth hundred people in the standby line. First three hundred were let in…then another one hundred and seventy-five…and then there was a terrible pause. Would another twenty-five people be let into the concert? Would they get to go in? Would there be snow for Christmas? Would The Legend of Korra ever reveal Suyin’s father? And would he be someone cool, like Sokka, or some lame-o? These were some questions they wondered.

The man handing out the tickets paced up and down the aisles a few times. He talked to some people and listened to his headset. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun.

Just kidding. He pulled out a fat pack of tickets.

“There are seats for you in the balcony,” he told your committed reporter as he pressed tickets into her hand and the hands of her siblings. “But you’ll have to hurry before they close the doors.”

Quick as an Energizer bunny on caffeine, they dashed across Temple Square and to the conference center. They slid into their seats just as the opening number finished and the guest stars arrived onstage.

Muppets!

And Santino Fontana.

But also Muppets.

“Gee Bert,” said Ernie, “isn’t it great to be here with Fantino Sontana?”

“It’s SANTINO FONTANA,” said Bert, Older Sister’s best friend.

“Right. Bandino Bondana.”

There had never been more love in your gallant reporter’s heart for Muppets and Muppeteers than there was at that moment.

Stealing a Car on a Snowy Evening

Whose car this is I think I know.
He’s shopping in the grocery though;
He will not see me leaving here
To drive his car out through the snow.

My parents dear must think it’s queer*
I have a new car every year.
Whenever I am home on break
Through questioning they persevere.

With plastered grins that look quite fake
They ask if there is some mistake.
I tell them I get cars quite cheap.
They say, “Well, that just takes the cake!”

I lead them through these lies like sheep.
They do not know my crimes run deep.
When they find out they’ll likely weep…
Next year I think I’ll steal a Jeep.

*The literal definition of this word being, according to Merriam-Webster, "questionable" or "suspicious."

He Is the Gift

I have to say, The Lord of the Rings is one of my favorite Christmas stories.

Now, now, my good people. Before you cry, "Foul!" and "That's not a Christmas story!" allow me to compare the story of Frodo to the story of Christ.

A humble hobbit chooses to carry a great burden for the sake of his people. He suffers all kinds of afflictions and anguish. While he ends up adored by many from other lands, most of his own people fail to recognize the sacrifice he made for him.

Sound familiar? Then try Harry Potter on for size.

Harry chooses to die for the people he loves. When he willingly lays down his life, it evokes an ancient magic that saves those he dies for. His death allows his friends to live. And then Harry comes back to life, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase "The Boy Who Lived."

I could go on. Every love story--I don't mean a romantic story but a true love story of sacrifice--is a Christmas story. It's a retelling of the story of the man that Christmas is all about. A retelling of the story of our brother, savior, lord, and king, Jesus Christ.

I'm a gift person; I told you this. And His sacrifice is the greatest gift I have ever received.

Merry Christmas.

And God bless us, everyone.

Hobbits and Hanukkah

You're surely aware that the new Hobbit movie came out this past week.

You likely aren't aware that the start of Hanukkah was that same day.

Little Sister and I went to see the movie with Favorite Cousin. I wore the cloak of Lothlorien from my Frodo Baggins Halloween costume. Favorite Cousin bought a special promotional cup for his very large soda. I liked the cup but I never drink that much soda. Especially not in movies. In fact, it just so happens that the last time I ever drank a large soda was when my dad bought me one at The Return of the King. Within an hour, I had to go to the bathroom incredibly badly but I didn't want to leave lest I miss something. I spent the rest of the movie with a burgeoning bladder. At the end of the movie, there's a scene where Frodo says goodbye to this friends at the Grey Havens. It is very emotional.

And very long.

So, no. I did not wish to drink any soda. But I did want the cup. So I purchased it along with a small portion of the chocolate-hazelnut gelato I got hooked on when I was in Italy.

Hmm I thought, eating gelato whilst holding the very expensive cup I did not plan to drink from and wearing my single hobbit costume piece in a crowded movie theatre full of people dressed like people going to a crowded movie theatre normally would be. I can't tell if this is the epitome of adulthood or a low point.

After the movie, Little Sister and I could not remember where we'd parked my car.

This wasn't momentarily forgetfulness, either. We seriously walked around the parking lot for twenty minutes, unable to remember where my car might be.

There was much confusion.

"This must be what it was like in Mirkwood," Little Sister said, referring to the previous hobbit movie. "We'll have to climb a tree to see above the cars."

"What if we can't find my car and we miss Hanukkah?" I asked.

"Maybe," Little Sister said, "we'll have a Hanukkah miracle and your phone battery will last for eight days."

Deck the Hollies

Apparently Christmas is a thing.

I mean, no duh it's a thing. It's the thingiest of things. Almost everybody knows about it. Lots of people celebrate it.I just mean…people get really intoChristmas, you know? As they should. It is the most glorious of celebrations. There are just so many ways to celebrate that it’s at once delightful and overwhelming. Everybody emphasizes something different.

My workplace is all about Christmas games and contests.

Etch-a-Sketch’s family holds a Christmas party each year in October. My impression is they feel like Christmas parties in December are overrated, and people are less swamped in October anyways.

My mom often buys a Christmas box of chocolates from our local fancy candy store. The family eats it all together, everyone taking turns in choosing a chocolate. The idea is to find the chocolate that you most desire. Many a time I’ve bitten into a chocolate I was positive was English toffee-flavored only to find it was actually coconut cream or peanut-caramel.

Lots of people especially enjoy singing Christmas songs. When Baby Brother was, well, little more than a baby, he would sing Christmas songs nonstop during the joyous season. His three favorites were “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Jingle Bells,” and “Deck the Halls.” He knew only a few lines of each song, which he would sing over and over and over again. This was particularly true of “Deck the Halls.”

Deck the hollies boughs of jollies

Baby Brother would sing.

La la la la la, la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaa

At the end of each round of “la las,” he would change the key to a higher pitch and start over. I’m sure someday Baby Brother will be the sweetest of tenors, but his prepubescent soprano could break a department-storeful of glass bulb ornaments and Christmas lights.

I like to make up a Christmas newspaper every year. When I was thirteen, I had this English teacher who had stacks and stacks of The National Geographicin his classroom. I read so many of those magazines during the fall that I decided to write an imitation article for my Christmas paper. (National Geographic articles have a very distinct style, for those who haven’t had the pleasure.) I posed it as a guest article by Velvet Darwin of The Irrational Geographic about a faraway village where they celebrate Christmas all year round or something like that. ‘Twas a thing of beauty.

But that’s not all, my friends. There are still a million and one other ways to celebrate Christmas.

Check out Pinterest, for example. Christmas crafts abound, as well as new takes on Christmas cards, gift wrapping, and traditional Christmas treats.

The other day I happened to see an interesting pin on Pinterest. It was a photo of a long slab of raw meat.

“What’s this?” I asked myself. “A recipe for a delicious marinade?” As a person who cooks only for myself, I have little interest in marinades for excessively long slabs of meat, no matter how delicious, so I scrolled on past.

Then the text at the bottom of the pin caught my eye. “Winter White Red Velvet Fudge” it proclaimed.

“There’s no way,” I said to myself. But there was a way. Some people apparently like to celebrate Christmas by making festive fudge that looks exactly raw meat.

The knife doesn't help.

A Confession

It's after Thanksgiving now sooooo I can celebrate Christmas without any grumbling from those naysayers who are always like, "Don't even mention Christmas before Thanksgiving or you're dead to me!"

I must be dead to a lot of people, because I started Christmas shopping in October. I had nine Christmas presents and all my wrapping paper purchased while my family's Thanksgiving turkey was still strutting around a barnyard.

Other people who defy the naysayers by starting to celebrate early don't usually start with shopping. They start with a little Christmas music, then maybe purchasing a seasonal Christmas treat while taking care of the last-minute Thanksgiving shopping. Then the day after Thanksgiving the tree comes up and--hey, whaddaya know? Guess it's time to get Christmas presents. Gotta put something under that tree.

What I'm trying to say is that many people feel ambivalence towards Christmas shopping. Some also get anxiety about it or just plain dislike it.

Not many people love it, but I do.

Okay, this is the part where I confess something to you.

Every now and again, some philosophical soul goes off on some rant about the commercialization of Christmas: "I mean, gifts! Really? Wanting presents on Christ's birthday is materialistic and greedy! Everyone should get one gift for Christmas. Or better yet, no gifts. They don't really mean anything, after all. Don't you agree?"

In the past, I would vaguely mumble something like, "Yeah, presents! Who needs 'em? Materialism and all that!"

But no more. I'm coming clean.

Ladies and gentlemen, gifts are my number-one language of love.

You heard me. Of all the five languages of love, gifts mean the most to me.

I've been ashamed of it ever since I realized the truth. It does seem really materialistic. Not to mention greedy and shallow.

But I've recently decided to embrace the fact that yes, presents mean something to me.

While you're still reeling from the shock that people like me exist, allow me to point out the two greatest blessings of having gifts as my love language.

The first is that it's a pretty diverse love language. Anything meaningful is a gift. Sometimes that's an actual gift, but sometimes it's something that comes from one of the other four love languages. Words of affirmation can be a gift. A quality visit from a friend who usually wouldn't come by can be a gift. An especially welcome hug or act of service can be a gift. It's the thought, effort, and the outward manifestation that someone was thinking about me are what make gifts gifts.

The second blessing is that I like to give other people presents. I take extra joy in giving other people gifts. Thus the very early Christmas shopping. Gotta start early so I have plenty of time to find something perfect for everyone!

Of course, like all love languages it has its downfalls. The first is that sometimes, yes, there's guilt for being materialistic.

The second is that if I can't think of a good gift for someone, I feel like a failure.

The third is that sometimes when I ask people I care about what they want for Christmas, they try to do me a favor and say, "You don't have to get me anything."

And then my soul cries, "WHY DON'T YOU WANT MY LOVE?"

And then I curl up in my closet and sob while they pat themselves on the back for being so considerate of me and also not materialistic.