On Fish

My first goldfish died precisely one week after I brought him home from the arcade where my father had won him for me on our daddy-daughter date.

I was five. I was in love with my fish. He was beautiful, all gold and shiny. I named him Sprinkles. My dad took me out to buy a little fishbowl and some colored rocks and a sign that said Mermaid Crossing.

For six days Sprinkles lived a peaceful life in his new habitat. On the seventh day he started flailing violently and then passed away.

I cried. All. Night. Long. Nothing could console me.

PARENTS: I'm sorry, honey, this is just what happens.

FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries*

PARENTS: Maybe you can get another fish sometime.

FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries harder*

PAENTS: We're going to KSL! Won't that be fun?

FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: *cries a river, a substantial one like the Tigris or the Mississippi*

There's a photo of me and dying Sprinkles. My entire face is blotched red but particularly my eyes look like someone poured a gallon of hydrogen peroxide in them.

KSL was where Dad worked at the time and my parents had planned an exciting tour for me and my sisters. Under normal circumstances I would have loved the tour (as a child, I loved everything except having my hair curled).

Alas, I was still very heartbroken, having witnessed the tragic death of my fish less than an hour ago.

KSL TOUR GUIDE: Here, put on this name tag for me, sweetie, okay? There! Don't you feel happy now?!

FIVE-YEAR-OLD AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I will never be happy again.

I mean, really. Getting over your first love is hard. Getting over your first fish is hard. Getting over your first love that's also a fish is, like, hard-squared.

Three and a half years later, I had made enough progress that I decided to take a chance on another fish. I won it at a carnival and named it Periwinkle. Older Sister also won a goldfish and named hers Twinkle.

I watched Periwinkle with an anxious heart. At the end of the first week, she was still alive, and this cheered me greatly. She actually lived for some four months before passing away. This was not unexpected, but it hurt. I buried her under the deck in the backyard and used a Mason jar lid and a Sharpie to create a little tombstone for her.

RIP PERIWINKLE

Twinkle died of unknown causes a year later. In a moment of morbidity, Older Sister decided to dissect him for her science fair project.

At the science fair, all the kids in my grade kept shrieking, "I know which project your sister did. Your sister cut open a fish!" SO embarrassing. It was a huge relief when the science fair was over and the remains of Twinkle's remains were safely deposited in the backyard.

RIP TWINKLE

When I got my last goldfish a few years later, I had come to accept that death was just part of a goldfish's life. In fact, I even embraced it. I named my goldfish Van Winkle expressly for the purpose of Sharpieing his grave marker with

RIP VAN WINKLE

If you don't get the joke, you must not be an English major.

In Which I Put Hydrogen Peroxide In My Eyes

I woke up. I went into the bathroom and proceeded to stab myself in the eye.

At least, that's what it felt like.

In reality, I placed my right contact lens over my eye and paaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiin.

Immediately my eye watered over and shut to protect itself. Which was smart in theory, but less smart in reality, because in order to remove the offending contact I had to pry my eyelid open with both hands. And the whole time I was in severe pain. And I wished I'd just stayed in bed.

Finally I removed the contact.

"What," I asked myself, "is wrong with this contact? Why is it hurting my eye?"

See, sometimes contact lenses have little rips in them, or bits of dirt, and when you put them in they irritate your eyes. However, that kind of irritation tends to be more subtle and less blinding than this excruciatingness.

"Hmmm," I said, feeling like Nancy Drew. I examined the contact with a sleuth's (left) eye. "Hmmmmmmm." But without contact lenses, I am almost completely blind, and if there was a rip or some dirt in that right contact I certainly couldn't see it.

"Well," I decided, "I'll put in my left contact so that I can see, and then I'll conduct my investigation." I placed the other contact on my left eye.

PAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIN.

Now both my eyes were injured and I didn't know why.

Roughly seventy-two percent of the threats Nancy Drew faces are acid-related. Like, there are so many books where Nancy accidentally touches or is given something coated with acid. Then her skin smarts and stings and she knows she has to get treatment right away or else bye-bye epidermis. And since she's tied up or locked away roughly half the time this happens, getting treatment is not so easy.

But she's Nancy freakin' Drew. Either she finds a way to escape or deus ex machina helps her out. And once she's no longer trapped, she's all, "Ned!" (because sometimes her sort of-boyfriend Ned Nickerson is with her)"We have to put oil on our hands! Oil counteracts acid!" And then there's some oil conveniently lying around. And they plunge their hands in it and literally save their skin. And Ned is like, "Oh Nancy. This is exactly why I love you."

1) This really does happen frequently in Nancy Drew. Sometimes Nancy or her friends are attacked by spiders or by homemade robots, but mostly it's acid.

2) I know that Nancy is only eighteen, but she should just marry Ned already instead of bouncing between him and other random college guys. You'll never find anyone else who will support you like that, Nancy. Most guys don't find a tendency to end up in acid-related danger attractive.

Just as I was deciding that someone must have put acid in my contact case and that I should go rinse my eyes with oil, I remembered that the night before I had gone to bed very late.

I could not find my bottle of contact lens solution.

So I had used my sister's.

Groping about on the counter, I found Older Sister's contact lens solution. Through pain-stung eyes, I squinted at the ingredients on the bottle.

3% hydrogen peroxide

The rest of the morning was spent in the bathroom, rinsing my eyes a thousand times and listening to Older Sister give a charming discourse about how I was the only person she knew who had the skillz (or lack thereof) to put hydrogen peroxide in not one, but both, of my own eyes.

OLDER SISTER: It has tons of warning labels on it! Why didn't you read them?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Because the labels are warnings against incorrect use. And this bottle is clearly labeled 'contact lens solution.'

OLDER SISTER: So?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Under what circumstances would anyone see something clearly labeled 'contact lens solution' and ever think that an incorrect use would be to put it on their contact lenses?

OLDER SISTER: ...I see what you mean.

Fortunately

The fortune said, "You will have many friends when you need them."

"And when you don't need them, they'll be nowhere to be found," snarked Best Friend Boy, who has returned from his LDS mission to South America and who came with me to fill my habitual craving for Chinese food.

He took the other fortune cookie, the one that I hadn't selected. The fortune within complimented him on his storytelling abilities.

"I think you took the wrong one," Best Friend Boy said.

"No," I said thoughtfully, reading my fortune a second time. You will have many friends when you need them. "I don't think I did."

A while back, my pal Shutterbug started dating the future Mr. Shutterbug. She invited me and Etch-a-Sketch over to meet him. Etch-a-Sketch was soon to be engaged, and Shutterbug and her man were getting pretty serious as well.

My friends were chatting excitedly about their men. Shutterbug told us more about her relationship with her boyfriend and praised him lavishly. Etch-a-Sketch expounded upon her upcoming engagement and bemoaned the brief separation while she was at Shutterbug's and her future fiancé was at work.

"Well," I said. "My imaginary boyfriend is a doctor."

Etch-a-Sketch and Shutterbug promptly responded with, "Ohhh, awesome," and "Tell me more," and "He sounds great!"

Shutterbug's boyfriend was confused by my use of the word 'imaginary.' "So... then are you guys just not really dating yet, or-"

"____," Shutterbug addressed him in the kind of delicate voice usually reserved for discussing terminal illness, "he doesn't exist."

"Ohhhh," he said, adopting a similar tone. In that moment I was reminded of how bizarre I can be and how many friends I have in spite of that and how my friends not only put up with me but learn to adapt to my quirky personality and isn't it kind of amazing?

Believing in my imaginary boyfriends is the least of it. Best Friend Boy deserves a medal for his superhuman kindness and support. I've cried buckets of tears during heartfelt conversations with Viola. For years the Fearless One has let me ride on the coattails of her assertiveness when I can't find it within myself.

I collect true friends like other girls collect shoes. At every turn in my life where I needed someone to help me take the next step in becoming me, I found them.

I've been very fortunate. I've been very blessed. I see the hand of God in each and every friendship that I have, for how else would I be able to always find exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it? Even when I didn't know what I needed.

Even when I didn't realize I needed it.

Slowly I'm coming to terms with the fact that I can't get many places worth going on my own. Companionship is key to progress. Without it, I'd stagnate and get so frustrated I would spontaneously combust.

Thanks, everybody, for helping me avoid spontaneous combustion.

Sitting For, But Not On, Praying Mantises

Guess what I have in my room right now?!

If you guessed a whole package of birthday cake Oreos, you're wrong. 'Cause I ate the last of those yesterday.

If you guessed a hobbit, you're also wrong. Though that would be cool.

If you guessed praying mantises, you're right! I give you an A for good reading comprehension skillz. Since praying mantises are in the title and all.

There are four of them! Greenie Mantis, Rosie Mantis, Blanco Mantis, and Crimson Mantis. No, those aren't actually their real names, just names I am giving them so that they can be anonymous on this blog. I use pseudonyms to protect the innocent, the guilty, and the mantises alike. Yeah, you'd think praying mantises wouldn't need anonymity, but you just never know. Maybe they're being targeted by the Mantis Mafia.

Besides, the pseudonyms are more to protect their owner, my friend Porch. Porch is visiting his grandparents for two weeks, and he asked me to take care of his beloved pet mantises while he is gone. So I've changed the names of his praying mantises in order to obscure his identity and make him interchangeable with all the other people who own four pet praying mantises and leave them with an awkward friend whilst on vacation.

...

...

...It's foolproof I tell you.

Porch said his mantises would require (and I quote) "food, water, and lots of love."

I could do food. I could do water. And I am positively overflowing with love, so I agreed to open my home up to Greenie, Rosie, Blanco, and Crimson.

Presently, Porch arrived at my house, toting the praying mantises and spouting instructions.

PORCH: You can spray them with this spray bottle every day. That's their water.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (enthusiastically) Okay!

PORCH: You can feed them every three or four days. Here are some fly pupae.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (enthusiastically) Okay!

PORCH: You'll have to put them in your fridge.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (slightly less enthusiastically) Okay...

PORCH: By the way, there's a chance they might die while I'm gone. They're reaching the end of their life cycle.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (not enthusiastic at all) O...kay...

PORCH: Also, Greenie and Rosie might lay some eggs.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: O...

PORCH: If they do, just leave them there. They're infertile.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...kay... how do you know?

PORCH: Because when I tried to get them to mate with Crimson, they didn't do anything. And then I split them up real fast because I was afraid they'd eat him.

PORCH: If you're feeling adventurous, you can try to mate them and then if he gets eaten, just tell me he died of old age.

PORCH: I'm just kidding. Please don't actually do that.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (faintly) ...okay...

I quickly gathered the threads of my courage and screwed it to the sticking place or whatever that one William Shakespeare dude said in that one MacBeth thing.

PORCH: (on the porch) Thanks for watching them!

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (courage screwed tight to the sticking place) Pssh. They're just like children. Small... green... spiky... cannibalistic children. I'm good with children.

Indeed, I do have excellent children skillz which are easily adapted into mantis skillz.

Each day when I wake up, I turn to the mantises, who are living on my bedside table in a space I cleared for them next to my Precious Moments Mulan doll. I cheerily greet them by name, like so: "Good morning, Greenie! Good morning, Rosie! Blanco! Crimson!" as I spray them with their daily water.

Now, the praying mantises don't do much. Really they just sit in their little habitat jars, hanging out in the leaves or on the wall or on the ceiling. So for a while I wasn't sure how my daily greeting was being received, but then I figured out how to read the mantises' expressions. When they're happy to see you, they're all

When they're annoyed, they're like

When they think your jokes are lame, they're all

And when they want a cable-knit sweater, they go

Let's all just take a moment and appreciate the fact that praying mantises know what a cable-knit sweater is.

Because of my expressive guests, I've had a lot more traffic in my room than usual. As soon as the mantises were settled, my parents and siblings made pilgrimage one by one to see Porch's pet insects.

"Ooooh," they all said. "Ahhhh." And then, invariably, "What are the sponges for?"

For you see, the jar-habitats of the praying mantises are done up like so: Each has a side of the jar cut away and replaced with netting for breathing purposes, and each has a small square hole cut near the top and stopped up with a sponge.

"I'm not sure what the sponges are for," I admitted. "Porch didn't say."

Then there were the grasshoppers. When Porch brought his pets to my house, there was also a grasshopper in each jar, for the mantises to attack and eat at their leisure.

For the first few days that I had the mantises, when I checked to make sure none of them had died I would also check on the grasshoppers to see if they'd been eaten yet. No, they had not. They were just there, sitting around like the praying mantises, which was all fine and dandy except for the fact that they were TRAPPED IN A JAR WITH A PREDATOR. You'd think the grasshoppers would, like, be moving around to avoid the mantises if not actively trying to escape.

But no. No escaping. No avoiding. No moving except for the occasional hop that made a little thwack sound against the plastic of the jar.

Either those grasshoppers had come to terms with their impending deaths, or they were just really stupid.

Days went by. I sprayed the mantises, and they made various facial expressions, and the grasshoppers sat around, and when I brought back some coconut chicken kurma and naan from an Indian restaurant I put them as far away from the pupae in the fridge as possible.

Then it was feeding day, and I found myself sitting on my bedroom floor with Greenie's jar in my lap, clutching the plastic container of fly pupae in terror.

Was I scared of Greenie? Of course not.

Was I scared of the fly pupae? No. I mean, it was kind of gross and kind of freaky, but I've long resigned myself to a future filled with gross, freaky things. (One word: childbirth.)

No, the terror in me stemmed not from insects but from a sudden thunderbolt of thought.

How was I supposed to get the pupae into the jar?

They were too big to poke through the netting. The only thing I could think of would be to take the lid off the jar, which opened up a whole realm of problems. Like, all of the praying mantises were currently clinging to the underside of the lids, so how I unscrew one without accidentally hurting them? And Blanco and Crimson had wings--what if while the jar was open, they flew away? How would I catch them again? What if I couldn't catch them again? What if one of them got out and I accidentally stepped on him? Or sat on him?

These were the thoughts that had set me a-trembling.

"Okay," I said to myself, "deep breaths. Deep breaths. You can do this."

Could I? That was still unclear. Regardless, it was clear that I had to. Letting the praying mantises starve and breaking Porch's heart was definitely not an option. Therefore, the mantises must be fed.

Therefore, the lids must come off.

Therefore, we were all doomed. The mantises perhaps to be sat on. Myself perhaps to scar my friend's confidence in me for life and beyond.

It couldn't be helped. Cautiously, I unscrewed the jar.

"Come here, Greenie," I said soothingly, turning over the lid and holding out my hand to the mantis. I've held her at Porch's before, and it was pretty easy. I just had to be considerate of her feelings.

Greenie inspected my fingers but made no move towards them.

"Come here. I'm not going to hurt you." With some careful maneuvering, I managed to scoop her up. Placing my hand in the jar, I tried to gently push her off my fingers and into her home.

She crawled farther up my arm instead.

"Uh..." At first she was going quite slow. Then I nudged her in the direction I wanted her to go, which she apparently took as a cue to scurry up my arm. Because that's what she did. Greenie ran right up like she was being chased and made a beeline (mantisline?) for my sleeve.

"ACK!" My other hand shot over and fished her out before she could cozy up in my underarm. "Get out!" She squirmed. I tried to hold her in a secure yet gentle grip and moved my hand back towards the jar.

Just then, there was a small sound.

A thwack.

The grasshopper had jumped.

The grasshopper. In all of my worst-case feeding scenarios, I had forgotten to factor in the grasshopper. I'd left the jar wide open because Greenie was in my hands and she couldn't escape, but the grasshopper could.

It landed on my bedroom carpet and flicked its antennae in a self-congratulatory manner.

"No no no no no." I flailed the hand not holding Greenie at the grasshopper in an effort to recapture. I would've, too, had it not hopped away a split-second before my fingers connected.

Greenie took this opportunity to once again make a break for my sleeve.

"AUUUUUURGH." At this moment I was forced to reevaluate my life. I was trying to put fly pupae in a jar. A praying mantis wanted to take up residence in my armpit. And now I had a grasshopper loose in my bedroom.

My bedroom. A grasshopper! Loose. Invading my space and hopping all over my stuff! Not cool.

How could Porch possibly feed four praying mantises every three to four days if feeding one of them was like being in a freaking war zone?!

....ohhhhh... the sponges.

This revelation gave me the motivation I needed. Somehow I got Greenie back in the jar, screwed the lid back on, and pulled out the little sponge. I stuck four pupae in through the tiny square hole and stopped it back up again. Easy peasy, one two threesie. I fed Rosie, Blanco, and Crimson successfully and crumpled against my bed in relief, where I breathed a sigh of relief and stared aimlessly at my hair accessory box.

All was well.

That is, except for the grasshopper running around in my room. That annoying little thing could be anywhere right now...

I squinted.

...or it could be sitting just a short hop away from where I had last seen it?

I jerked upright. Yup, that was the grasshopper, just sitting on the edge of my hair accessory box. No trying to hide itself. No hopping free in my room. Just hanging out there, doing absolutely nothing.

I ran to the kitchen for a plastic bag.

"Okay," I said to myself. "Softly now." My estimation of the grasshopper's intelligence had gone up enough that I assumed it would hop away if I spooked it. After all, not only had the grasshopper been smart enough to escape from the jar, it had also had the presence of mind to immediately jump a second time when I tried to recapture it.

Then again, it had taken about three minutes of the jar being open before it had actually made a break for it. And it was still just sitting there...

The omens for my success were mixed. Like a lioness on the prowl, I noiselessly crept across my bedroom carpet.

The grasshopper was in my sight.

I poised to spring.

The grasshopper did nothing.

I pounced! Surprising grace and agility came to my aid. I slammed the plastic bag down, and looked to see-

-that the grasshopper was still sitting in the same spot. It was right under the plastic bag. It was recaptured. It didn't react in the slightest.

When I pushed the grasshopper back in Greenie's jar by way of the sponge hole, it kind of quivered. Then it jumped to a twig and sat there. Just sat. Not paying even the least bit of attention to the mantis sitting dangerously near.

"Wow, grasshopper," I said, "you really have zero survival skillz."

Sure enough, the next day the grasshopper was gone. And Greenie was all, "Omigosh, where did it go?"

There were several insect legs littering the floor of her jar.

The Neediness and the Twenty-Fourth

It's the twenty-fourth of July, and y'all know what that means!

If y'all don't know what that means, then you must not live in Utah. Here in the Beehive State, the twenty-fourth of July is affectionately known as Pioneer Day. We dress up in red, white, and blue, have parties and parades and fireworks, and talk about how great America is and how much our forefathers' actions have blessed us. It's basically the fourth of July, just three weeks later, and with more handcarts.

Hometown's carnival for the twenty-fourth is always worth dropping by. There are rides, food, games, and a concrete stage with a makeshift tarped-over auditorium where Baby Sister performed with her clogging group. She said she didn't know the numbers very well this year, but no one in the audience could tell because she's Baby Sister.

When I arrived at the carnival, I was immediately dazzled by the sounds (music and conversations and laughter), the smells (fried bread and barbeque pork sandwiches), and the sights (sparkly face paint! neon posterboard signs! glittering costumes!) And the people! Seemed like half the city was there, tons of people I knew and tons I didn't. There was a guy dressed up as a mountain man, and a guy dressed up as a suspendered pioneer, and a guy in full Native American regalia, just standing around eating nachos, headdress and all. It doesn't get much more legit than that.

"Wow," I thought, "I love this holiday!"

That was when The Neediness struck.

Immediately I felt that I should not, nay, could not be alone. Because if I was alone, then I would never stop being alone. No one would ever love me. Never. Ever.

Such is The Neediness.

Swiftly I latched myself onto the nearest family member, which so happened to be Baby Brother.

MOM: All right, kids, here are your tickets. Now, does everybody want to go on the tilt-a-whirl?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Actually, I'd rather go on the whirl-a-tilt. #hilarious #funny #joke

MOM: Oh, is that what they're calling it these days?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...never mind. #shame #nobodylaughed #neediness

#THEneediness

And oh, that Neediness grew. It grew so much I was unable to extricate myself from the gaggle of cousins and siblings, even though I really would have preferred to go on a whirl-a-tilt rather than the tilt-a-whirl. I normally love it, but the portable, rent-a-cheap-carnival version is nothing but a blot on the illustrious name of tilt-a-whirl.

Alas, The Neediness made it impossible for me to refuse to go on the tilt-a-whirl. All my companions went, and so by necessity did I.

Suffice it to say, I felt nauseated by the time the ride ended. It wasn't stomach nausea, though. It was brain nausea. It felt exactly like my mind was about to throw up. My head was scrambled--but my gut was hungry.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: So... can we get fried bread now?

No. No, we could not. That is what I gathered from the social cue of everyone ignoring me. We could, however, go to the fishing pond, if the way Baby Brother and Ginger Cousin trooped over there was any indication.

The fishing pond was a bit lacking in pondness. It was just a small booth where children forked over their carnival tickets and got a fishing pole to pull up a prize from inside the booth. Baby Brother and Ginger Cousin were determined to fish up some prizes, and The Neediness dictated that I go with them.

There were three levels of prizes. The kids wanted the most expensive. The worker asked Ginger Cousin and Baby Brother their ages, took their tickets, and dropped their poles into the booth. And lo and behold! Exciting, age-appropriate prizes appeared on the end of the fishing poles. Ginger Cousin had a whistle shaped like a bird of paradise and a vial necklace filled with multi-colored sand. Baby Brother had a soccer ball whistle and some kind of manly craft kit.

At the last moment I decided to go fishing as well. I was here, wasn't I? Why shouldn't I get a sweet prize, too? A prize could be just the thing to soothe my needy soul. Only I didn't want to spend the tickets for an expensive one, so I gave a single ticket for the cheapest.

WORKER: How old are you?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Twenty-____.

WORKER: ...twenty-____?

From the way he was acting, you'd think I was the oldest person using the fishing pond or something. And if you thought that, you'd be correct.

When I reeled in my line, attached to the end was a pink plastic pen decorated with hearts. Except half the hearts had fallen off. And it didn't seem to be able to actually produce ink.

Oh, sure I thought as I compared my prize with the kids'. Just because I'm cheap and old. The pen perfectly embodied the loneliness of my soul. I wept inside. And became even more needy.

For the rest of my time at the carnival, I passed from companionship to companionship. The younger kids. My parents. My friend and troupe member Snow Angel. I even ran into Older Sister, who has returned from her mission to the land of America South and who had come to the carnival after work with our friend Rosebud. Anyone who crossed my path, I took turns sticking to like sticking plaster.

(Sticking plaster is something I read about in British books that is never satisfactorily explained. So I don't actually know what it is. Apparently I should never spend time with any British literature whatsoever, as it seems to be a source of much confusion in my life.)

For most of the carnival, I managed to be successful in not ever being alone. Then, when I'd finally convinced Baby Sister to go with me for fried bread, the unthinkable happened.

Baby Sister left.

The consequent events are a little fuzzy. Hyperventilation was involved. Possibly seizures. How I survived on my own is unclear.

What I can remember, however, is that I ate my fried bread like a crazed, ravening thing. Consumption was the only way to make certain it, at least, would never leave me.

Treacle

IT'S JULY.

If you're not as excited about this as I am, clearly you don't know what JULY signifies each and every year.

JULY is the month when NEW Harry Potter books come out!!!!!

ISN'T THAT SO EXCITING?

(Right now you may be saying, "But Awkward Mormon Girl, there haven't been any new Harry Potter books for six years. There haven't even been any new movies for two..."

If you are saying that, I am not even listening. Because Harry Potter is forever. Because Harry Potter is MAGIC. And so, forevermore, is JULY.

Got that, bub?)

Oh, the joys of those book debuts and movie premieres. Oh, the costumes I wore. Oh, the hours I waited outside bookstores and theatres. Oh, the special wizarding food I tried and failed to make.

Okay, well, that only happened once.

BFF Viola and I were very excited for the debut of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. We decided that we would go to Barnes and Noble and wait in the midnight lines to get our very own, very new copies. Of course if we were going to do that, we had to have a big party first. A big party meaning that we would have a two-person but very exciting bash at Viola's house before our departure for Barnes and Noble by Floo powder by Portkey by car.

This party took, I kid you not, weeks to plan. Among the activity options: writing letters to J. K. Rowling, sending away for signed photos from Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint, making wands from sticks, creating our very own fanfiction, and predicting the plot twists of the new book. We dressed up in matching blue high school graduation robes aka our costumes for Luna Lovegood and Padma Patil. Quite confident in the depths of our fanaticism, Viola and I moved on to the crowning moment of our celebration: the refreshments.

The refreshments chosen for this very special JULY evening were homemade butterbeer and chocolate treacle.

"What's butterbeer?" you may ask.

To which I say, "Read Harry Potter."

"But what's treacle?" you may ask.

To which I say, "You know, it's very unclear."

Ever since I became a British book fanatic at the tender age of eight, I have been utterly bemused by treacle. Treacle appears in most British books, at least most of the ones I read, yet it's never described to the satisfaction of a small American girl. Sometimes it 's described as being something like a taffy. Sometimes it's described like a pudding. Sometimes it's described much like some kind of soft pastry--a brownie, perhaps.

Because of this, I was very confused as to treacle's nature and more than a little eager to try it. So when Viola said that she had an internet recipe for some chocolate treacle, I of course jumped at the chance to both find out what it was and consume it.

We assembled the ingredients in Viola's kitchen. What did Viola's kitchen look like? Much like any kitchen. There were lots of appliances. Some counters. A dining area housing a long table with bench seats. A sliding glass window, a wall her family later tore down but which, when it existed, had a couch squished against it, and a small TV that could be watched from just about any vantage point in the room.

(The way the kitchen looked has no bearing on the following events. It's just that my creative writing teachers always complain that I never describe the scenery of my stories and that the characters might as well be floating in outer space. To keep any reader from being misled to think that Viola and I were making treacle in outer space, I have provided you with a most thorough description of her kitchen. You're welcome.)

The first thing to be added to the treacle pot was packed brown sugar. There wasn't quite enough in the cup, but that was all right. Who needed brown sugar, anyways? Not Viola. Not me.

Viola scanned the recipe. "Okay...we need molasses..."

"Oooh, I've always wanted to try molasses!" I cried.

Before we added it to the bowl, I tasted a little.

"It tastes like horehound," I said thoughtfully.

"It smells disgusting," Viola gagged.

She turned back to the recipe. "We need butter...yuck, that's a lot of butter. People don't need to eat that much butter! We'll only put in half..."

Viola scraped an unmeasured amount of butter into the bowl. "Now salt!" She grabbed the saltshaker and shook some into the mixture.

I scanned the recipe, trying to find some other exotic thing I could taste. "Hey...it calls for unsweetened chocolate. I've always wanted to try unsweetened chocolate. Too bad we only have eight squares...there won't be any left over."

"We can just add six. I'm sure it won't make much of a difference," Viola said.

"Yeah, it probably won't," I agreed readily.

We each took a square of unsweetened chocolate and placed it in our mouths.

"It's tasteless!" I gagged.

"No...it tastes like plastic!"

We ran for the garbage can.

Having fully recovered a few minutes later, we put the pot on a stove. The brown sugar, molasses, butter, salt, and unsweetened chocolate slowly melted. Preferably it would have mixed together as it melted. I mean, that's usually what would happen. It's the naturalthing to happen. However, Viola and I had cooking skillz so incredible they ruined nature. Our presence did the opposite of inspiring ingredients to fuse.

After much coaxing, we had a runny mix with lumps of butter and unmelted chocolate throughout. Using a metal spoon, we tried to chop the chocolate up so it would melt more easily.

"I don't think it's thick enough," Viola said with concern partway through the chocolate-chopping mission. She ran to the next room to ask her mother how to thicken a recipe.

"Salt," her mother said. Into the pot an extra heaping of salt went.

Finally, we deemed the treacle to be the proper consistency, or close enough. We laid it out to set, and then when it didn't set, we stuck it in the freezer.

About an hour later Viola took the treacle out and cut it into cute little squares. We sat at the long kitchen table with the bench seats and each bit into our half-frozen, poorly-mixed, treacle full of salt and unmelted, unsweetened chunks of chocolate.

For about ten seconds we pretended the treacle was delicious. That failing quickly, we then pretended it was tolerable for two minutes. At two and a half minutes our cute squares of treacle were lying at the bottom of the trashcan. So was the rest of the batch. So was the recipe.

Alas, I still never have tasted treacle. It's on my to-do list before I die, but if I meet a tragic and untimely end before I taste treacle/actually find out what it is, feel free to, like, stick some in my coffin or something.

As for the butterbeer, we did make that correctly. The recipe called for ginger ale, butter, and butterscotch syrup heated and mixed together. I don't know whose idea that was, but it was a terrible one.

Jokes About Jokes

Q: What do you call a joke about a sprinter?
A: A running joke.

Q: What do you call a joke about a sprinter with a bad leg?
A: A lame joke.

Q: What do you call a joke about a sprinter that's lost her voice?
A: A dumb joke.

Q: What do you call a joke about a sprinter with tough skin?
A: An insensitive joke.

Q: What do you call a joke about a sprinter who's bankrupt?
A: A poor joke.

Thank you, thank you. I'm here all week.