Wanted: Polka Dot Jeans

Yes, I know I wrote about striped shorts yesterday, and now I'm writing about polka dot jeans. Apparently, all I want to write about this week is pants.

Those of you who have read my Stitch Fix posts are familiar with my desire to own polka dot jeans. In fact, apparently everyone I know constantly thinks about this. Over the weekend, I was at a baby shower for my friend Jumpin'. Shutterbug was there with Baby Shutterbug (soon to be known as Baby Shutterbug #1, since Shutterbug is expecting another bug this summer). Baby Shutterbug #1 and I got along pretty well at this shower, except for when I tried to get her to take a picture with me. Then I suddenly became horrible and terrifying and someone to escape from.

Anyways, Shutterbug had brought for Jumpin's daughter, among other things, a pair of baby-sized polka dot jeans.

SHUTTERBUG: (to me) I thought of you when I bought those!

And then, today, while I was at a movie, Snacktime texted me.

I have been wanting to mention Snacktime at various points over the past three years, but it just never happened. Snacktime is a delightful person. She was roommates with La Petite and the Seamstress before I was, and when she became engaged she and La Petite persuaded me to take her place in the apartment.

Besides being a person who found me a place to live, Snacktime apparently has an ambition to become a person who also finds me polka dot jeans. In her text, she told me that she had found "two pair of some very cute" polka dot jeans at Hometown's Deseret Industries.

So I went to Deseret Industries. I found the polka dot jeans. One pair was much too big. The other was just the tiniest bit too small. I wriggled in these too-small jeans, trying to make them fit. I told myself that I could live with the slight squeeze in my calves. But, when they slid halfway off when I tried to sit down, I had to concede that they weren't going to work.

So, in spite of my friends' and Jessica V's efforts, I still don't have any polka dot jeans. But if everyone keeps up the hard work, surely one day all of my polka dot-jean-related dreams will come true.

In Which We Deprive Teenage Boys of Shorts

My family did all of our memorial things early this weekend, so today we were free to shop.

Specifically, we went shorts shopping.

Do you know how hard it is to find shorts that actually reach the knee? A few years ago, it was not so hard. But now it's a challenge so humongous that they should probably make a Mission: Impossible movie about it.

My mom had heard about a big shorts sale at Old Navy, so she took me and my little sisters there.

What followed was a bewildering shopping experience. All of the knee-length women's shorts that I saw were in plus sizes. And conversely, all of the plus-sized shorts seemed to be knee length. Petite girls might have reasons to purchase knee-length shorts. And there very well may be plus-sized women who prefer shorter shorts. So I did not understand at all.

My sisters and I were frustrated. If only there were shorts at Old Navy that were knee-length but made for small, skinny people!

Ah, but then we remembered that such shorts did exist...in the teenage boys' section.

We looked left. We looked right. We each snatched a pair of teenage boy shorts off a table and hurried with them to the dressing rooms.

Baby Sister took a pair of turquoise shorts, while I'd selected some that were gray-and-white striped. We tried them on. We looked good. We called our mother to come see.

We asked her what she thought without telling her where we had found the shorts.

She looked at me critically and said the fit was borderline. "Is there a bigger size?"

There was not.

"Maybe you could order some online," Mom said.

Uh... "If I get them, I'm going to get them now," I said.

"Mom, they're boy shorts," Baby Sister chimed in.

"Oh," Mom said. She took a closer look. After some clear deliberation, she said that if I liked them and felt comfortable, I should get them.

Here are my new shorts. I do feel a little sorry for depriving some teenage boy of the chance to own his very own gray-and-white striped shorts. But only a little.

Turn of the Century

I took my brothers to Lagoon, Utah's 100-plus-year-old amusement park. Lagoon has some pretty old rides, like a roller coaster that has stood since time immemorial. It's technically named "the Roller Coaster" but everybody calls it "the White Roller Coaster." There's also a merry-go-round and a ride with swings that hang out over the lagoon. This swing ride is called "Turn of the Century." It has a bunch of Victorian- or Edwardian-era ladies painted on it. Which I guess is to signify the meaning of the name.

We were there at Lagoon for Baby Brother's DARE Lagoon Day. DARE is a program where they educate you about the effects of drugs and explain why drugs are a bad idea. At the end of the program, they send you to Lagoon for an afternoon—which doesn't have much to do with drugs but is a lot of fun.

The rule about DARE Lagoon Day is that it must rain. It rained on my DARE Lagoon Day. It probably rained on your DARE Lagoon Day, if you had one. And sure enough, it rained on Baby Brother's.

When it rains on DARE Lagoon Day, a fun thing to do is ride Turn of the Century and whirl gently through the rain while gazing out over the lagoon. At least, I thought so. Little Brother thought so. Baby Brother wasn't so sure, but we persuaded him.

"This is going to be the turn of the century," Little Brother said as we boarded.

It took longer than usual to get the ride started. First, everyone was seated, strapped, and checked by the operator. The operator started the ride, then stopped it because of lightning. While he called his supervisor for permission to run the ride during the lightning, most of the other kids on the ride got off. Then, when the operator announced that it was a go, they all got back on. So they then had to be seated, strapped, and checked a second time.

Little Brother kept saying things like, "Do you know how long the wait for this ride is? A century!" and "This ride hasn't been painted in a century!" The Victorian- or Edwardian-era ladies did look quite shabby.

After the initial ride, the operator said that anyone who wanted to stay on could. Baby Brother wanted to get off, but we compelled him to ride once more.

"Do you know how long this ride lasts?" Little Brother asked him.

"A century," Baby Brother half-giggled, half-sobbed.

After our second round on Turn of the Century, we got some Dippin' Dots, rode some roller coasters, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Once it grew dark, we ran back to Turn of the Century for one more ride.

"If someone sassed you on this ride, it would be the Burn of the Century," Little Brother said. Which caused us to make some increasingly terrible jokes.

"If someone ignored you on this ride, it would the Spurn of the Century."

"If you were taught on this ride, it would be the Learn of the Century."

"If this ride made butter while it was spinning, it would be the Churn of the Century."

"If a dragon guarded this ride, it would be the Wyvern of the Century."

We could give the Muppets a run for their money.

The Birthday Soda

In the Obnoxious family, we never buy sodas at restaurants. First of all, we're just not the type of people who get into soda. Soda was a rarity at my home, growing up, because who needs it? Second of all, if my parents are already spending money on a dinner out for eight people, there's no way they're going to spend an extra $15 to $25 on carbonated liquid. That would be ridiculous.

The only time of year when my parents will take me to a restaurant and let me order a soda is the time of year when I celebrate my birth. They don't just buy me a soda, either. They'll take me to whatever restaurant I choose and say those four blessed words: "Get whatever you want."

If I want appetizers, I get appetizers. If I want salad and soup, I get salad and soup. If I want dessert, I get dessert. And if I want a soda then, by golly, I get a soda.

Normally, I don't like soda that much. It tends to make me feel gross inside if I drink too much. But when it's my birthday, because being allowed to order a soda is special, I always get a Sprite when my parents take me for dinner. And on that one day a year, it tastes to me like the nectar of Olympus.

This year for my birthday, my parents took me to Olive Garden. I ordered us an appetizer plate of both calamari and seafood stuffed mushrooms. I ordered myself salad and the chicken and gnocchi soup. I ordered seafood lasagna. I ordered black tie chocolate mousse cake.

And I ordered one tall, delicious, ice-cold glass of Sprite.

With free refills.

While we ate, my parents regaled me with tales of how adorable I was as a baby. How I tried to change my own diaper as a toddler. How I was born with dark, dark hair and how, in addition to my legal name, they gave me a Hawaiian name that means "dark-haired beauty". (Imagine their surprise and dismay when I turned out a towhead.)

It was pretty much perfect. Everything was highly wonderful until the waitress came and refilled my father's water glass.

Why did I not notice what she did next?

Why was I not paying attention?

Who knows? But I didn't, and I wasn't. And the next time I took a sip of my Sprite, I discovered that the waitress had forgotten that my glass contained not water but delicious and bubbling Sprite.

She had refilled my glass with her pitcher.

The pitcher did not contain Sprite.

When next I spoke, it was in a tiny, strained voice. "She poured water into my birthday soda," I said.

"We're sorry," said my parents, with feeling. There is something profoundly sad about your parents buying you just one soda a year and having one of said sodas be diluted with water. Obviously that's not a big problem in comparison to other problems in the world. It's not even a big problem in comparison to other problems in my life. Yet the little disappointments can be the most soul-crushing.

Happily, I left Olive Garden that night with enough Americanized Italian food to eat for three straight days. And in the end, that's all that matters.

Nice People

You know what I hate? Nice people.

Ohhhkaaay. I have a terrible tendency to speak in exaggerated generalities betimes. I don't hate nice people. Like most folk, I enjoy spending time with nice people. I just dislike it when I'm trying to find out how people feel about me (ie if they have a romantic interest in me) but they're being nice. I have no patience for polite niceties. I want people to tell me if they like me. I want them to tell me if they don't like me. I don't want to play games or play it cool. I just want everyone to always say what they're thinking, and if it tears the entire fabric of society apart, I don't even care.

The End. No jokes tonight.

Update on Judith

How is Judith? Judith is doing well. She's as happy as a clam that hasn't been steamed alive.

The difference between the way I've cared for Judith and the way I cared for Tabitha is that I have done almost zero things for Judith. I don't obsess over her the way I obsessed over Tabitha. The only thing I did for Judith out of the ordinary was that I gave her a pink tulip-shaped solar light to keep her company in her pot. It was a really nice solar light...until the landlord's dog ate it.

But apparently, no-hands parenting has been really good for Judith. Free-range parenting? Whatever. Girl is thriving.

Pictures of Food I Ate in Europe

There's no trickety-trick to this post. This month marks my anniversary of that time in college that I went to Europe, and I decided to celebrate by writing a post that literally is just pictures of food that I ate when I was there.

This is spaetzle, also known as the first food I ate in Europe. This plate of spaetzle (on the right) with the meaty gravy saucy thing (on the left) was consumed at Hofbrauhaus, Munich's famous 400+-year-old beer house/restaurant.

Non-food bonus picture: When the Nazis were in power, they painted swastikas all over the ceiling at Hofbrauhaus. But instead of repainting the ceiling after the war, the management just turned the swastikas into friendly picnic blanket-print swastikas. 

This delicious plate of food also came from Munich. I don't remember the German name, but it consisted of lamb, vegetables, and rice.

Here we have sauerkraut and bratwurst, as eaten in the village near Neuschwanstein Castle in the Bavarian region. I did not care for the sauerkraut, the bratwurst, or the mashed potatoes that were clearly not made from real potatoes and had the approximate consistency of buttercream frosting.

Non-food bonus picture: A picture I snapped of Neuschwanstein Castle, better known as the castle from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and one of the inspirations for Cinderella's castle in Disney World. I much preferred the castle to the food near the castle.

I'd heard the term schnitzel before, but I had no idea that schnitzel was veal. This poorly lit picture is of a plate of schnitzel, mushrooms, and a sort of potato pancake eaten at the outdoor seating of a restaurant in Innsbruck.

Before this trip, I said that I didn't like spaghetti. But what I actually meant was that I don't like American spaghetti, because, as I discovered, real European spaghetti is delicious. Here we have a plateful of spaghetti: spaghetti Bolognese (with the red sauce), spaghetti carbonara (with the white sauce), and spaghetti with Gorgonzola cheese (whose Italian name I don't remember). If memory serves, this repast was eaten in Steinach am Brenner near the Austrian-Italian border.

I do believe this is the last meal I ate in Austria. 'Twas a most excellent mushroom ravioli.

Here's a pizza that I ate somewhere in Italy. I tried to order a normal pepperoni pizza. I did not realize that in Italian, "pepperoni" means "peppers." In any case, I didn't find the pizza to be terribly impressive, and I stuck to pasta the rest of the trip.

Salmon risotto!

Just looking at this picture practically makes my face break out. This is cheese ravioli covered in nothing but more cheese, bacon, and butter. It was delicious/disgusting.

This baby actually came from an Italian McDonald's. The trip to Mickey D's was actually worth it simply because they had such different items on the menu. This hamburger included a focaccia bun, mozzarella, and a creamy tomato sauce.

This is my favorite kind of spaghetti by far, spaghetti al cartoccio. It's spaghetti that's baked in tin foil with a little oil and seafood. The seafood in this spaghetti was nice and fresh, as I purchased it in Rio Maggiore on the coast of Italy.

Non-food bonus picture: This is Rio Maggiore, one of the five towns collectively known as the Cinque Terre. It's what I think of whenever someone says, "paradise."

Non-food bonus picture: The cross isn't really an emblem in my branch of Christianity, but I still really liked this cliffside bench and cross in Rio Maggiore. It seemed like a quiet place to commune with God.

This picture was taken in a trendy restaurant with odd lighting in Genoa. This entree consisted of noodles and cheese squished into a tiny ball that was then breaded, fried, and garnished with some kind of green leaf and a side of pesto sauce. It was tasty, but not terribly filling.

Also, when I was in Europe I ate gelato every day. I've never been sorry.

Little Brother Gets a Phone

Little Brother got his first phone! An iPhone, no less. A free iPhone, no lesser. Some people have all the luck—my first phone was a junky flip phone with a tiny screen and a number that had previously belonged to someone who may or may not have been in trouble with the law.

Anyways, on Saturday Little Brother called me from the home phone to tell me that he was getting his phone all set up. And then later that day, I got this text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: Hello?

Awkward Mormon Girl: Hello. Who is this?

Unknown Number: Your brother who is super excited to own a phone

Ah, yes. Little Brother. Obviously, I had to mess with him a little.

Awkward Mormon Girl: What? I don't have a brother.

Then I wondered if that was the nicest thing. Little Brother tends to be self-conscious, and it occurred to me that he might be mortified to think he'd been texting some stranger.

Awkward Mormon Girl: Just kidding. Hi, Little Brother!

Little Brother: Hello

Little Brother: This isn't Little Brother

Little Brother: Is this Clara?

Little Brother: Or Gertie?

Awkward Mormon Girl: Clara? No one's called me that since before the amnesia!

Awkward Mormon Girl: Although if I can remember that, then maybe I don't really have amnesia

Little Brother: Hmmm...

Little Brother: This is awkward

Awkward Mormon Girl: Excessively so.

Little Brother: Well, this was a pleasure

Little Brother: And a confusion

Awkward Mormon Girl: If you do see Little Brother, tell him to text me.

Little Brother: Okay.

Awkward Mormon Girl: Although I don't know how, since I don't [think] either of us actually knows who I am.

Awkward Mormon Girl: Or who Little Brother is.

Little Brother: If you see Gertie, tell her she has two hours to live.

Little Brother: Bye!

...this is going to be either terrifying or fun.

My Exciting Thoughts about Marvel Movies

If Marvel and I were in a relationship, and if that relationship were on Facebook, then our Facebook relationship status would be "It's Complicated."

I first heard about Marvel movies when I was in high school. In the midst of our strange and unproductive flirtationship, the Chess Master went to see the first Iron Man movie. He emailed me to tell me that it was (and I quote) "recommended by me and one of my friends who went with me."

Not that I didn't trust the Chess Master's opinion of movies...no, actually, I didn't trust his opinion of movies. I wasn't intrigued. I was all, "Iron Man? What's that about? Sounds dumb."

When I later learned that it was a superhero movie, I remained unimpressed. I've never been much for superheroes. I saw all of Christopher Nolan's Batman movies in theatres, of course, because they were good movies. But they weren't very uplifting. I didn't think much of Batman's so-called "morals."

A while later, when I heard that Disney had purchased Iron Man and associated properties (that was the first time I heard them referred to as "Marvel"), I reconsidered. If Disney was interested, then maybe I was wrong. But it was a few more years before I went to see a Marvel movie. I saw The Avengers with my cousin, and I liked it. It wasn't a movie about superheroes; it was a movie about interesting people who just happened to be superheroes.

Also, I finally found me a superhero whom I could actually wholeheartedly support. Captain America actually had values! Which maybe it says something about me that I have the same values as a guy from the 1940s. But anyways, I spent the whole movie being all, "Oh, I like this guy!" And then I told myself that I would probably watch the Captain America movies.

Except I didn't. And didn't. I watched Guardians of the Galaxy, and Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Ant-Man, but I didn't catch up with any of the individual Avengers. Until this past weekend, when I finally grabbed Little Brother and forced him to watch Captain America: The First Avenger and Captain America: Winter Soldier with me.

So what did I think? The verdicts are as follows:

Captain America: The First Avenger was a good movie. Good characters; fun times. The biggest complaint that I had was that, having seen The Avengers, I felt like the entire first Captain America movie was putting all the energy towards setting up for the first Avengers movie. I mean, The Avengers movie pretty much picks up where Captain America: The First Avenger leaves off, right down to a significant portion of the beginning taking place in Germany and old guys talking about how they bowed before Hitler so they won't bow down before Loki, la da da de da. That's not necessarily a bad thing; it's just that Captain America: The First Avenger didn't really feel like a full movie to me. It felt like the appetizer before the Avengers meal.

Nevertheless, having seen my first movie solely about Captain America, I was super excited to see Winter Soldier.

After watching Winter Soldier, my verdict is eloquently expressed by these two statements of Little Brother: "The first ten minutes of the second Captain America movie are more violent than the entire first movie," and, "The second movie is a very different sort of movie than the first movie."

I didn't think Winter Soldier was a bad movie, but I definitely did not like it as much I liked the first one. I mentioned once on this blog that it doesn't really matter what happens during a story as long as the audience likes the characters. People will stay invested in a story about buying a ham sandwich if the characters are interesting enough. In most Marvel movies, they play to that principle, but in this one, they don't. It's like instead of sitting down and saying to themselves, "Now how would these characters react to these situations?" and letting that drive the story, the writers sat down and said to themselves, "Now how many cool fight scenes can we put in this movie?" and let that drive the story. And thus, in my opinion, the emotional base of the movie really suffers. (The same thing, in my additional opinion, also happened in Age of Ultron.)

I was surprised to learn that the same team who wrote the first Captain America movie also wrote the second movie. Since there are so many Marvel movies coming out and so many writers involved, and since the tone of the second movie was so different, I assumed that the writing team for Winter Soldier was not the same team from The First Avenger. Of course, to my understanding, writers only play a small part of the tone of movies. The producers, special effects people, composers, and editors also play a hand in that. So, naturally, does the director. A lot, I should think, from my movie-going experience. It seems like the director affects the tone of the movie more than almost anything else. That may be why the tone of the Harry Potter movies fluctuates so much. Even though the same writer wrote seven out of eight of the movies, they switched directors what, three times? The difference between the tone of the first two movies and the third movie is especially notable. As a child, I was really confused by the third movie. Actually, I still am somewhat. It just seems a strange follow-up to the way Chris Columbus directed the first two movies.

Someone once told me that Alfonso Cuarón, the director for the third movie, was actually considered more of a romance movie director. So for years, I imagined him meeting with the writer and having this conversation:

CUARÓN: So who's in love?

WRITER: Huh?

CUARÓN: In this movie. Who's in love?

WRITER: No one?

CUARÓN: No one?

WRITER: No. This is Harry Potter. So, it's, you know, friendship and magic and stuff.

CUARÓN: Love is the only magic I know.

WRITER: Okay. Then I'll see if I can work in a few awkward hand-holding, side-hugging scenes.

That seemed the most reasonable way to explain how certain parts of the movie turned out. But then I found out that Cuarón isn't actually necessarily considered a romance movie director, so now I'm at a loss for an explanation. Regardless, I'm pretty sure that this conversation must have taken place:

CREW: Any requests?

CUARÓN: I would like for Hermione to become sexy, because ordinary girls are overrated. I also want her to be the only person in this movie who does anything remotely competent. I want the saturation of the film to be such that everyone looks deathly pale. And I think the best way to end the movie would be a blurred close-up of Harry's jubilant, screaming face.

CREW: You got it.

CUARÓN: Also, shrunken heads. With Jamaican accents.

CREW: ...?

CUARÓN: Best idea ever.

Anyways. Despite my disappointments in the first two Captain America movies, I'm still very excited for Civil War tomorrow. The ensemble of characters is so great, I would gladly watch a few hours of them doing nothing but purchasing ham sandwiches. I mean, fighting would be cool, too, especially since the movie is called Civil War and all. But I'd accept the ham sandwich thing, 100%.

Also, in case you were wondering...

Team Cap all the way!

We Can't Get Enough

Little Sister and I wanted to take Baby Sister on a graduation trip.

The best graduation trip of all time was the graduation trip that my grandparents gave me and Older Sister. They took us and our mom on an all-expenses-paid adventure to Hawaii for ten days to visit my aunt and cousin. But since then, my grandfather has passed away, and my grandmother's health has dwindled, and such a thing wouldn't be plausible.

We thought about taking Baby Sister to Disneyland, but she's already been there many a time. We wanted to take her on a trip that was a little less ordinary.

We thought about taking Baby Sister to Disney World, since we've only been there once. But we weren't entirely satisfied with that idea.

We thought about taking her on a Disney cruise, but the ones in the summertime were too expensive.

We thought about taking her on a normal cruise, but we weren't sure how family-friendly and fit for three women alone a non-Disney cruise would be.

We thought about taking her to San Francisco, but both Baby Sister and Little Sister were there recently on school trips.

We thought about taking her to Boston, but the real attraction of Boston is the history, and Baby Sister doesn't care that much about history.

But then Older Sister got her internship. And we thought, "Hey...what if...if we didn't have to pay for housing and could sleep on the floor at Older Sister's place...that would cut the cost significantly. And then we could take Baby Sister to...to..."

So this morning, Little Sister and I got online and bought plane tickets to LaGuardia Airport. That's right, LaGuardia. In New York City.

We're going back to New York.

The trip we took last year was meant to be a once-in-a-lifetime kind of adventure. I'd never have dreamed that I'd be going back to NYC barely a year later. But the stars have aligned, not only in terms of being able to stay with Older Sister but also in terms of timing and finances.

This trip will be half as long as the trip we took last year and about half as expensive. It won't be last spring's grand rush around the city (in fact it will be a fairly modest affair) but I'm still ever so excited.

(And, before you ask, no, the Jim Henson exhibit in the Museum of the Moving Image still isn't open. And they have no idea when it's going to be open. I'm beginning to believe that the exhibit is a myth made up to scare and/or entice people, like the Loch Ness monster or Edward Cullen. In any case, it looks like my options are a) give up, b) return to New York City yearly to continue to check if the exhibit is opened, or c) check out the Jim Henson exhibit at the Center for Puppetry Arts in Atlanta. When I go to Atlanta. Which I actually have done on layovers flying to and from the previously-mentioned trip to Disney World. I spent two or three hours there waiting for flights. The water in the drinking fountains did not taste very good.)