Meeting Luna Lovegood

I wasn't sure if I would ever have a reason to go to Comic Con.

In August, I told Porch that I might go to Comic Con if certain voice actors or Muppeteers ever came but that I couldn't think of any live-action actors I cared enough about to spend the money on. I've just never been that into movie stars. For example, I would consider going to Comic Con to see Elijah Wood, but only because he did such a fantastic job voicing Wirt in Over the Garden Wall, not because he played one of the leading characters in a critically acclaimed and financially successful film adaptation of one of my favorite book series.

Just days later, I texted Porch.

Awkward Mormon Girl: Looook. Somebody that I would go to Comic Con for: [and then I sent a link to the Comic Con website but I'm not including it here because it will probably be obsolete soon]

If you read the title of the blog post, you might have an inkling of who this person was. If that inkling is any good, then it's pointing you in the direction of Evanna Lynch, Luna Lovegood herself.

Luna Lovegood is my favorite female Harry Potter character. Why? First of all, when I read through the first through fourth books as a child, I found that there weren't many blonde characters that I liked. Petunia Dursley, Dudley Dursley, Gilderoy Lockhart, Rita Skeeter, Draco Malfoy, Fleur Delacour—they weren't exactly sympathetic. I really wanted a character who looked like me but was likable. Lo and behold, the fifth book came out! And Luna was not only blonde, but dirty blonde—the kind that nobody wants to be but most people actually are. By the time the fifth book came out, the white-blonde hair of my childhood had darkened considerably and only got darker from that point. I cherished that similarity between myself and Luna.

Second of all, apart from the looks, I identified with Luna personality-wise. Over the years, a few people have told me, unprompted by me, that I remind them of the book version of Luna Lovegood because I march to the beat of my own drum and don't make decisions based on what everyone else does. And, as I've gotten older and refined aspects of my personality, I find that I, like Luna, am a little too honest and a little too intense.

Last but not least, Luna adds so much to Harry Potter. Before I read the fifth book, I couldn't imagine how another main character could possibly fit into the story. It seemed like it was too late in the game to introduce anyone very significant. I was wrong, obviously. Now when I reread, I wonder how the first four books are as good as they are without Luna.

Having sufficiently proven my love for Luna Lovegood, I have to warn you that I'm no huge Evanna Lynch fan. Not that there's anything wrong with her, personally. It's just that when I saw the first photo of her ten or eleven years ago, I was disappointed. Luna Lovegood, champion of dirty blondes, was going to be played by someone with white-blonde hair? I told Viola that I thought she looked too much like Tom Felton, that people who hadn't read the books were going to think that Luna and Draco were secretly related, and that everyone would be confused.

I believe this was the first photo of her that I saw.

When I saw the movie, I found that the variation of vague and serene that the director had chosen for Luna was not the same variation that I'd pictured in my head. However, Evanna did a really good job of portraying what they'd decided to go with. I had to respect that. And, in later years, I followed her on Twitter, and she seemed cool and everything, but I cared more about the fact that she was the face of Luna than about her personally.

After that initial text to Porch, I spent a few weeks in debate.

On the one hand, it seemed like it would be cool to meet her.

On the other hand, it would be expensive.

On the other other hand, I have money to spare.

On the other other other hand, I try to save a lot of that money for the future.

On the other other other other hand, nobody is financially reliant on me but me. I can spend my money on whatever the huckleberry I want.

On another hand, I had no one to go with.

On another another hand, Favorite Cousin showed an interest in going when asked.

Round and round I went in my decision making. Finally, two things decided the question for me.

The first is the connections game. In the connections game, you pick a person and try to connect yourself to them through association. For example, Jim Henson. Here's my connection to him: I know my grandmother. As a child, my grandmother met Walt Disney. Walt Disney worked with Julie Andrews on Mary Poppins. Julie Andrews appeared on The Muppet Show, which meant that she would have met Jim Henson. Or we could do it this way: Runner Bean and his family once appeared on Extreme Home Makeover. The host of Extreme Home Makeover, Ty Pennington, later appeared in a Sesame Street video with Count von Count. At the time, Count von Count was played by none other than the incomparable Muppeteer Jerry Nelson, who worked for years with Jim Henson. Bonus: no matter how you connect me to Jim Henson—and this may be the best part—from Jim Henson it's just one connection to my favorite Muppeteer, Steve Whitmire!!!

Now, I already had a fairly direct connection to J. K. Rowling. A classmate of mine from college has a cousin who is married to Broadway star Audra McDonald, who is playing the wardrobe in the upcoming adaptation of Beauty and the Beast. As all humans and maybe some inhumans know, Emma Watson is playing Belle in said adaptation, and obviously Emma Watson knows J. K. Rowling. So I can trace myself to J. K. Rowling easily. Yet the idea of meeting someone who was just one connection away from one of my favorite writers—well. That was even better.

And the second deciding factor? It seemed like maybe I should live a little. Meet Evanna Lynch? Why the heck not? Why not do something expensive and unnecessary and oh-so-cool every now and again? Ya know? There are so many things that I want to do with my life that I haven't been able to. I hope that they will come, in time, but I can't put off living a fun and rewarding life until then.

And thus it was decided. And thus Favorite Cousin and I bought tickets to the last day of Comic Con and to the Evanna Lynch photo op.

On the day we were going, I was bouncing off the walls. I wore my Gryffindor/Mulan t-shirt and golden teacup earrings. I'd brought my Luna Lovegood wand and a notebook to take notes at panels. I was rearing to go!

Here are some impressions of Comic Con:

1. There were so many creative costumes! I saw Pacha, Chicha, and Kuzco. I saw Disney princesses galore and Meg from Hercules. I saw Bert and Mary Poppins. I saw Finn the Human. I saw so many Avatar: The Last Airbender characters:Toph, Aang, Katara, Ty Lee, Azula, and Sokka. I saw Wirt and Greg, Astrid and Hiccup, and Schmendrick and Amalthea from The Last Unicorn.

2. Comic Con needs more pens. I usually carry a pen in my purse, but when I arrived at the convention I realized I didn't have one. Favorite Cousin and I scoured the booths, looking for pens for sale. We saw some specialty pens that cost $65, $35, but nothing at a more...reasonable price. Get rich quick scheme: bring a box of Bic pens to Comic Con, sell them for a buck apiece to people who want to take notes at the panels.

3. It was really cool to see so many famous people! I saw the girls from The Hillywood Show. They had a booth selling merchandise, and they were actually selling the merchandise themselves rather than having others do it. Favorite Cousin and I did a walk-by of Billy Boyd's autograph booth and were able to see him from afar! I tried to catch glimpses of Jeremy Shada and Jess Harnell, too, but was unable to.

Now here's the thing. I found the atmosphere at Comic Con to be very strange. Overall, it just...wasn't uplifting. I don't know why that was, because I've heard nothing but good things about it in the past. Yet the overall spiritual impression I got from Comic Con was a dark one.

When we saw Billy Boyd, I was drawn to him immediately. He just...he really stood out, and not just because he's famous. It's hard to describe, but he was really...full of light.

I had a similar experience with Evanna Lynch. We waited in line for a long time for our photo op. Favorite Cousin and I were exhausted at that point; we left shortly after, even though we'd been planning to stay longer.

Now, Evanna's photo op was running late. We always knew that we weren't going to get much of a chance to talk to her, but Favorite Cousin's experience at conventions in the past was that during a photo op, you got to shake hands and at least say hello. As we drew near to the photo area, however, the security people announced that Evanna had to catch a plane. They instructed us to dash up as soon as the flash for the photo before us went off and get into place quickly. We'd take the photo and exit immediately. No talking, no handshakes, no nothing.

As we drew closer, I studied Evanna. She was wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt and a pencil skirt. I noticed that she was even shorter than I am, and (with some amusement) that her white-blonde hair was showing dirty blonde at the roots. She looked exhausted, but she was still smiling for every picture.

It was almost time for our photo. The girl before us stepped forward swiftly. The flash went off. Favorite Cousin and I, tensed to move, started towards Evanna, but she cried, "Stop! Stop! Can we do that again? I wasn't looking at the camera."

It was a little thing, but it impressed me deeply. It told me that she really cared about her fans getting their money's worth. I was drawn to her the same way that I was drawn to Billy Boyd. Even in just a few seconds, I got the feeling that she was a good person worth admiring. Which was so strange...because I'm usually not the kind of person who takes to people instantly.

They did the photo over. Then it was our turn. We said a quick hello as we got into place for the picture. The cameraman snapped the photo; the light flashed. And I said, "Thank you!" to Evanna, and she said, "Thank you," back, and now I have an experience that I will always remember.

The photo turned out great. I was practically crying, I was so happy. Favorite Cousin seemed to share the deep thumbprint that had been pressed in my heart by the brief experience, because he, too, was nothing but giddy as we rehashed it through conversation over sushi.

Later, I went to visit Porch. I tried to explain how great Evanna was, but it was difficult. I felt like I sounded completely ridiculous; after all, I'd only been in her presence for a few seconds. However, Porch's face lit up, and he started gushing about Evanna. He'd gone to her panel the day before, and he seemed to share my sentiments exactly.

So that was my experience meeting Luna Lovegood. I'm not sorry I did it, in fact I'm very very glad, but I don't think Comic Con is going to become a regular haunt of mine. Unless Steve Whitmire comes. In which case I am going to buy all the tickets and go all the days and follow Steve Whitmire around and probably get arrested.

Sleeping on the Subway and Other Inexpensive Things to Do in NYC

Context: This post is about the third day (and second day in the city) of my second New York City trip.

"Listen to this address," Older Sister said to us when we were discussing our plans for moving our luggage from our hotel to her dorm room. "You'll never have another like it."

The address? 35 Fifth Avenue. That's where Older Sister's dorm is. Fifth Avenue in NYC has a certain prestige, so she was right. I'll never have another address like the one I had for the three days that I spent living with Older Sister.

35 Fifth Avenue, though, was more easily bragged of than reached. My younger sisters and I awoke fairly early on Thursday morning, despite having stayed up to eat dinner at Carmine's. We packed up everything we had and ventured down into the subway system of New York City.

Little Sister was pulling her suitcase and Baby Sister's. Baby Sister was carrying her pillow and pulling my suitcase. I was carrying my pillow and pulling the humongous, unwieldy suitcase. Getting that suitcase down the stairs into the subway station is an experience I'd rather not repeat. At least Little Sister and I were experienced in getting luggage into the subway station proper. After purchasing subway passes, we sent Little Sister through the turnstile first. Then we passed the suitcases to Little Sister before Baby Sister and I joined her on the other side.

The subway system was as grimy as last time but considerably more warm. Someone had warned me that July in New York City is blazing, so on a whim I'd put one of the fans that Porch had given me in my purse. Whenever we had to wait for a subway in the oppressive heat, I'd whip that puppy out and fan my sisters and myself.

After this particular subway trip, we emerged near Washington Square Park. (Getting that suitcase up the stairs and out of the subway station is another experience that I'd rather not repeat.) Then we essentially wandered around in search of 35 Fifth Avenue. I say "wandered" because Little Sister's iPhone suddenly became very confused.

Things Little Sister Said While Looking for Older Sister's Dorm:

"We need to turn around."

"I think we need to go the other way."

"What does that sign say?" (Little Sister has bad vision, but she doesn't wear contacts and she only wears glasses when driving and at movies/musicals.)

"What does that sign say?"

"Maybe we should call Older Sister."

I didn't mind any of this in the least, because we'd wandered into Greenwich Village Historic District. Or so I gathered from all the signs that read, "Greenwich Village Historic District." Every time Little Sister asked me what a sign said, I took great relish in responding by pronouncing "Greenwich" as "Grenwich." Also, the buildings were beautiful.

"I like this part of New York City a lot better," Baby Sister said as we hauled our luggage through the peaceful streets.

In the end, we found our way to 35 Fifth Avenue. Older Sister was waiting for us; she helped us get our guest passes at the front desk.

Older Sister's dorm room was tiny and cramped and had no air conditioning, and the elevator was tiny and cramped and slow, but the lobby was to die for. I began to wonder if it was a hotel right away because the architectural style of the lobby was just like the architectural style of the lobby in the hotel in the Tower of Terror ride in Disneyland's sister park, California Adventure. Sure enough, Older Sister confirmed that the building had once been a hotel. Research showed that this hotel (the Grosvenor Hotel) was built around the same time when the Tower of Terror hotel was supposed to have been built, thus the similar styles. Disney always does their research.

After dropping off our luggage at Older Sister's place, it was time for Older Sister to go to work and for my sisters and me to go to Brooklyn!

That's right, we were taking Baby Sister to Brooklyn. We would have loved to do the Slice of Brooklyn Pizza Tour again, but we were on a tight budget. Most of what we did had to be dirt cheap. That meant no tours, no museums, not even the Statue of Liberty. Instead, we were going to spend a quiet, inexpensive morning playing on the beach at Coney Island.

Here, I'll break down some of the ways we cut costs that day.

Don't:
Buy a townhouse on Fifth Avenue: $$$
Instead:
Stay on the floor of a Fifth Avenue dorm: Free!

Don't:
Sleep on a tour bus going to Coney Island: $$
Instead:
Sleep on the N Train going to Coney Island: $

(Don't worry, Mom, I made sure that the three of us were never all asleep at the same time. I dozed only when Little Sister was awake.)

Don't:
Ride rides or play games at Coney Island: $$
Instead:
Play on the beach at Coney Island: Free!

We jumped in and out of the waves and took pictures of ourselves with a selfie stick that Older Sister lent us. We also held a funeral for a dead crab that we found. I'd never been in the Atlantic Ocean before. It was considerably more tired-seeming than the Pacific Ocean, like maybe the Atlantic had seen too many tragedies and had grown weary of life. And I kept thinking about how maybe some of the water that was touching us had also touched the ruins of the Titanic.

Don't:
Eat an expensive lunch: $$ to $$$
Instead:
Split a $14 margherita pizza at the Coney Island location of Grimaldi's: $14

Although Little Sister and I also bought root beer. When we were sitting down, Baby Sister was all, "Wait, shouldn't we get something else on this pizza besides cheese?" and Little Sister and I were all, "No! This is the way that pizza was meant to be eaten." I like to think that we convinced Baby Sister to see it our way. She seemed to enjoy the pizza, at any rate.

Grimaldi's margherita pizza and fine Olde Brooklyn root beer.

Don't:
Sit down in a restaurant on Wall Street and order something so that you can use the "paying customers only" bathroom: $$
Instead:
Use the bathroom at Wall Street's Variety Cafe: Free!

On our way back from Coney Island, we suddenly decided that it might be a good use of our time to take Baby Sister to Wall Street. The only problem was that I needed to use a bathroom. Little Sister was all, "I'm sure we'll be able to find a bathroom!" However, there aren't a lot of public-type bathrooms around the city. Last year, Little Sister and Glory went to the courthouse in hopes that they would be able to use their bathrooms. In order to enter said courthouse, they had to relinquish their phones, and even after that it took them a considerable while to find the bathrooms.

I wracked my brain to think of a place on Wall Street that might have accessible bathrooms. Then I remembered the Variety Cafe, where we ate lunch last year! Because of the way it was set up, there was no way the cafeteria-style restaurant could have a "paying customers only" rule. And sure enough, I was able to use the bathroom there, no problem.

Don't:
Completely trash your family's fortune and reputation in a wild goose chase of historical clues that eventually lead you to some crypts beneath Trinity Church: Family fortune; family reputation; $$$ for gas, money, food, and gear to steal the Declaration of Independence.
Instead:
Visit Trinity Church as a tourist: Free!

There are lots of fun things to do at Trinity Church! You can stand where Queen Elizabeth II once stood. 

"In this spot stood Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II on the occasion of her gracious visit. 9 July 1976. His Royal Highness the Prince Philip stood nearby."

I find this plaque to be hilarious, first of all because the Trinity Church people marked the exact spot where the queen stood but apparently didn't care where Prince Philip was standing. Secondly, I'm amused because Trinity Church is a historical landmark of the United States of America, and the United States of America is supposed to collectively be over the whole royalty thing...at least over it enough to not devote plaques to royalty on our historical sites.

I also mentioned last year that Trinity Church has a graveyard with some very, very old graves. Apparently, when they started the graveyard they did not foresee the possibility of tourists over the next 300+ years, because the layout does not seem to have been planned accordingly. The stepping stones leading around to the other side of the graveyard included an actual horizontal gravestone. I guess that this guy was the only person buried where they wanted to put the stepping stones for tourists, so they decided to just encourage people to walk on his grave instead of finding another place for a path.

Oh, and last time we didn't get a chance to see Alexander Hamilton's grave, remember? Well now, thanks to those crazy Hamilton kids, we couldn't miss it. There were tons of flowers and wreaths and things all over it, and a big tour group was standing right near it. And part of me was all, "Hello? Did any of you even know Alexander Hamilton existed a year ago?" Because I knew all about A-Ham before it was cool. Because I'm a history hipster. (Hipstory?)

Don't:
Visit the 9/11 museum: $$ and a couple hours of your time. (At least, don't visit it if you're trying to save money. It's definitely worth visiting if you have the time and are able to spring the cash.)
Instead:
Visit the 9/11 memorials: Fifteen minutes of your time.

It was just as heartbreaking but a lot more crowded this time around. Lots of tourists were setting their bags and things on the memorial, which I was not okay with.

After our jaunt to Wall Street, it was time to get ready for Fiddler on the Roof and, after, Umami Burger. Neither of those things was exactly cheap. Umami Burger was not worth the price, but Fiddler definitely was. I love that show; it was the first musical I was ever in. Also, some of my Jewish family members lived in Russia around that time, and the musical gives me an idea of what their lives would have been like. The way they staged this production of the show made thinking about my family history easy; they had the actor playing Tevye start and end the show in modern clothes, reading from what appeared to be an ancestor's journal. Also, Older Sister kept praising the performance of Adam Kantor as Motel. He did do a really good job; when Tevye yelled at him he actually crawled under the milk cart to get away. It was glorious.

One last thing about living large in NYC on a modest budget...if you opt to sleep on the floor of someone's dorm, the dorm resident you are staying with may have a roommate. Older Sister had a roommate. At least, she said she did, but we never actually saw this roommate of hers. The roommate was supposed to be moving out over the weekend, and when we came home on Thursday night some of her stuff was gone and a half-drunk latte (at least I think it was a latte; I'm not really familiar with the coffees) was sitting on her desk. I guess she only occasionally dropped by the dorm but actually lived with her significant other.

We rolled out our pads and sleeping bags, plumped up our pillows, and settled down for a long night's sleep on a wooden floor.

It was not very comfortable, but it was very cost-efficient.

If My Life Were a Georgette Heyer Novel

The Seamstress has been lending me her Georgette Heyer novels. Georgette Heyer is a twentieth-century writer who wrote many books about the Regency and before. I never got much into Jane Austen, but I've gotten very into Georgette Heyer. Many of her heroines are far more sensible and palatable than today's average heroine. Give me Mary Challoner over Bella Swan any day! Also, on average, her books tend to be far more exciting than Jane Austen's. Most Georgette Heyer books contain a duel, an elopement, and a lady who has, through no fault of her own, come into circumstantial situations that demand she be married at once or her reputation will be ruined! Also, about half of them feature cross-dressing. All of this high adventure and drama is written with a wry hand, allowing the reader the option of not taking it too seriously. And oh, I do like books that don't take themselves too seriously!

I've been thinking that if my life were a Georgette Heyer novel, it would probably go like this: the Seamstress would be the terribly practical female character, I would be the one prone to cross-dressing, and Pepper would be the goodhearted one with a romantic streak that causes her to dream of eloping with a handsome French pirate. Instead of being our landlord's tenants, we would be the charges of him and his wife. Instead of working at our various professions, we would spend our days horseback riding and receiving visitors and our nights attending the theatre and society balls. Of course, we would all have to find love interests before the story ended.

The Seamstress would put the dashing playboy character in his place with a severe scolding. He would be outraged at first, but eventually he would realize his passionate love for her and give up his disreputable ways. They would go live in the country and be perfectly content forever.

I would be the girl whose reputation would be ruined. If my cross-dressing were not discovered, my occasional late-night walks with Porch would be. Porch would be very put out at the idea of marrying me, but surely upon hearing that I was going to marry Porch, there would be another fellow of my long-standing acquaintance who would realize suddenly that the idea of my marrying someone else made him sick with jealousy! He would offer for me, of course, and I would accept.

Pepper would be betrothed, under her family's direction, to a very boring gentleman expected to bring additional wealth and dignity to the ancient and noble House of Pepper. Pepper would fight it, tooth and nail, but in the end would embark on an elopement with the same gentleman whom she had so disdained originally.

As for the duel—well, I think that the thing that would inspire Pepper to marry the boring gentleman would be to learn that he was much more fiery than she had at first suspected. Yes, I can see it now. In my cross-dressing disguise, I would make some disparaging remark to Pepper that's fine between female friends, but the veriest of insults from a gentleman to a lady! Pepper's betrothed, much indignant, would challenge my male alter ego to a duel. Pepper's family, horrified at the scandal, would call off the engagement, but the good sir would go through with it anyways. Unfortunately, not being very good at fencing, he would perform even more horribly in the duel than my untrained self, and would be wounded. Pepper would be touched by this display of devotion to her as well as excited by the discovery of the hitherto unknown adventurous nature of her betrothed. She would decide that she would marry him after all. So, to circumvent her family's objections, they would immediately elope to Gretna Green. Because, of course, we would be living in England. Obviously.

The more I write, the more I kind of like this idea. Maybe instead of writing teen fantasy, I'll become an author by publishing Regency novels? Is there a niche for that anymore? Besides Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I mean. I'll have to look into it.

Happy Halloween!

This year for Halloween, Baby Brother and I were characters from his favorite video game.

For all intents and purposes, we looked exactly like this.

The only person who recognized us was Porch. But that's life.

More details to come!

Surprise! Or Not.

I decided that for my thirteenth birthday, I would like to have a surprise party.

I like surprises, but the problem with them is that you can't give yourself surprises. They depend solely on other people.

Well, theoretically, anyway.

In the months leading up to my birthday, I would occasionally comment on how much I liked surprise parties and, gee, wouldn't it be great to have one? I thought I was being fairly transparent about this, but I guess my mom was only catching on in some ways. Little Sister told me she and Mom had this conversation:

LITTLE SISTER: You do know Awkward Mormon Girl knows about the surprise party, right?

MOM: No, she doesn't.

LITTLE SISTER: There's a note on her rehearsal calendar from her friend Viola, asking if she can hang out on Saturday. Awkward Mormon Girl literally wrote, I can't. My parents are throwing me a surprise party in response.

MOM: If you say so, Little Sister.

LITTLE SISTER: The calendar is hanging on the kitchen bulletin board if you want to see for yourself.

MOM: I can't. I'm too busy planning this surprise party for your sister.

When my sixteenth birthday approached, I dropped hints to Viola and Little Sister that, hey, sixteen is pretty special, and wouldn't it be nice to have a surprise party to commemorate the occasion?

There was many a discussion after this manner:

VIOLA: If you had a surprise party, what would you want to eat?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Pizza is cheap and easy.

VIOLA: If you had a surprise party, would you want people to be invited by phone or through invitations in the mail?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Invitations, of course. The phone is the devil's way.

VIOLA: If you had a surprise party, who would you want to come?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You, Little Sister, Baby Sister, the Chess Master, the Fearless One, Etch-a-Sketch, Shutterbug, Best Friend Boy, and, let's see...Porch.

Porch and I had known each other for years, but he is an elusive sort of human, and he didn't spend much time with anyone, myself included. Still, if I was going to have a surprise party, I wanted him there.

I decided that the most anxious-making thing about birthday parties is not knowing what sort of present to get the birthday person. It seemed that if Porch knew exactly what to get me for my birthday, the likelihood of him coming to the party would be increased. So, during our World Civ class, I laid the foundation of an ingenious plan.

A FEW WEEKS BEFORE THE PARTY
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Wow, Porch, is that pencil you're using to do your schoolwork sparkly? That's pretty cool.

A WEEK OR SO LATER
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I wish I had a sparkly pencil like yours.

THE WEEK I ESTIMATED THE INVITATIONS WENT OUT
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: For my birthday, I'm going to ask for sparkly pencils of my very own.

Finally, the long-awaited party arrived. I went to Viola's on some fool's errand, and when I arrived...

"SURPRISE!!!" Everyone jumped out from hiding places.

Viola, Little Sister, Baby Sister, the Chess Master, the Fearless One, Etch-a-Sketch, Shutterbug, Best Friend Boy, Porch, and a quantity of pizza were all there!

Oh good I thought. This all went exactly as planned.

PORCH: Surprise! I got you these sparkly pencils for your birthday.

Give Me a Hint

We call the inability to decide "wembling." And by "we," I mean me and the fraggles. And by fraggles, I mean fraggles, the most delightful of creatures save hobbits. (Actually, I'm fairly certain that fraggles and hobbits are related somehow, because they have very similar cultures. But I digress.)

My favorite fraggle, Wembley, is so indecisive that he was named after his indecisiveness. He is so indecisive that he has difficulty choosing between two almost-identical shirts. He is so indecisive that when his best friend asks, "What do you want to do?" Wembley responds, "Can you give me a hint?"

Now, I am not an indecisive person.

I know what I want. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I just know. I was built with a homing device, it seems, that leads me to my desires like a bee to its hive or a salmon to its ancestral spawning ground.

I know what I want, unless I don't. Because after every ninety-ninth moment of decisiveness, there is one moment of indecisiveness. I am unused to indecisiveness; therefore, I do not handle it well.

So when some kind souls gave me a $50 Amazon gift card for Valentine's Day, and when I subsequently realized that I couldn't think of a single thing I truly wanted, it triggered my indecisive skillz, big-time. I have become nothing but a mass of floundering, wembling jelly.

I could get a new dress. There's this dress on Amazon that I was, indeed, eyeing a few weeks ago. But I decided to buy a different dress that was less expensive and which I could try on and buy, personally, from a physical store. To buy another dress would be overindulgence, and not the pleasant kind, but the wasteful kind.

There's this orange toaster on Amazon which I kind of like. But it seems terribly anticlimactic to spend such a thoughtful gift on a boring kitchen appliance.

I don't have many DVDs, so I could get one of those. But I did get three new movies for Christmas, and besides, I spent my last Amazon gift card on the first two seasons of Rocky and Bullwinkle. It would be better to get something different this time.

Best Friend Boy said, "Get a book." But I have so many books. Not that you can ever have too many. It's just that every time I splurge, I buy myself a book. Shouldn't I spend a gift of $50 on something I wouldn't normally be able to afford?

Porch said, "You could buy groceries." Lol no.

I need help. I need lots of help. What should I buy? In the words of Wembley Fraggle, give me a hint. Ready...go.

It's Fantastic

Little Sister brought me a decorative fan from Chinatown in San Francisco. Add this to the two fans Porch gave me this past summer, and I have a rather nice collection of fans.

A fan.

Burning Question: What is it about me that makes people want to give me fans?

Not-So-Burning Answer: My secret Asian-ness, of course.

Other Burning Question: What can I do with these fans, anyways?

Besides the obvious use of fanning myself, or wafting oxygen over a fire, or using it as a defense mechanism against the Huns, that is.

 

 

 Apart from those things, what can I do with a fan?

 

I thought long and hard about this question, and came up with a rather exhaustive list of things I can do with a fan.

 

-Watch FANtasia with it.

 

-Bring it on the bus and insist on paying its FANfare.

 

-Take it to the opera. Now it's the FANtom of the opera.

-Write a FANtasy story about it: it's FANfiction.

-Show it the segment of Zoom about how FANnee Doollee loves apples but not grapes. And puffins but not penguins. And Harry Potter but not Ron Weasley.

 

-Take it for a ride on an eleFANt.

 

-Kill its parents and make it an orFAN.

-When it whines, tell it to stop being a baby--an inFANt.

 

-Teach it to dance the FANdango.

-Buy it a nice drink of orange FANta.

 

-Put it in a little dress and tell it that it looks FANcy.

 

-Put it in a little suit and tell it that it looks FANdsome.

 

-Watch a movie together that stars Dick FAN Dyke.

 

-Bring it a fruit basket with FANteloupe and FANgerines.

 

-Throw it in the air and yell, "You can fly, Peter FAN!"

 

-Get it a religious television show. Now it's a televised EFANgelist.

 

-Recruit it for a gang and give it a gangster FANdana.

 

-Apply for a scholarship for it because it's a disadFANtaged student.

 

-Tell it to make me a FANdwich.

 

-Take it on a steep hike up a mountain and chant, "I think I FAN, I think I FAN!"

You Wear What You Eat

Every summer, Hometown throws an international fair featuring dancers from all across the world.

I love, love, love this fair. Apart from the dancers, there are crafts and delicious food. This summer I convinced Porch to go with me.

This is the line I used to convince Porch to go with me: "It'll be a multicultural experience!" I guess it's either a good line or he just has nothing better to do, because this is the second year I've gotten him to come to the fair.

This year, after carefully studying the merchandise at every booth (wooden shoe key chains from Holland! Hibiscus-print dresses from some Polynesian Island! Silverware wind chimes made by local artists!), we decided it was time to eat. We studied the food selection even more carefully than we studied the merchandise and finally chose Thai food.

I purchased red chicken curry with bamboo, fried rice, and a spring roll. Porch got the curry and the rice and some cashew chicken. We sat down at a table beneath a tree to eat our delicious food and drink tiny free cups of water, accompanied by some unknown women and a prepubescent boy. All was well. Except for the annoyance of the wind, that is. The wind persistently snatched up our napkins and ruffled our hair. It made eating the amazing Thai food a little less enjoyable.

Just when Porch cleared his plate of almost everything except driblets of sauce, fwap! His too-light plate overturned in the wind. The cashew chicken sauce and the curry sauce and little bits of food all splattered artistically on Porch's t-shirt.

I tried not to laugh. Really I did. I succeeded, too. Mostly. At least I didn't all-out bust up like the prepubescent boy at our table did. As we excused ourselves, we could still hear his laughter and the scolding from one of the ladies, "It's not funny."

I finally busted up once we got to the parking lot. So did Porch.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I kind of want to tell this story in a blog post, but I can't think of a good way to end it. 'And then, Porch was covered with sauce!' Is that funny?

PORCH: (examining his shirt) I think there's some rice, too.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: 'And then, Porch was covered with rice!' Is that better? Rice is funny, right?

Porch never did respond to that. It was almost like he was avoiding answering the question to spare my feelings. I don't know why, though, because obviously rice is never anything but hilarious.

And then, Porch was covered with rice! The End.

See? Hilarious.

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.

Straightfaced

My friend Dostoevsky once told Older Sister, "I am friends with Awkward Mormon Girl because she can say anything with a straight face."

Dostoevsky is Dostoevsky, so he can get away with saying this. It would be utterly bewildering coming from someone else. That being said, I still don't entirely understand why he considers my ability to deadpan my most friendship-worthy characteristic.

But I can say lots of things with a straight face. Which is useful, as I do theatre and specialize in comedy, but which causes me problems in nontheatrical settings.

For instance, someone might ask me something like, "Would you like some potatoes?" And I might respond, just as a bit of teasing, "I hate potatoes." I would say this in an overly sincere tone of voice and with an eyebrow quirk to show that I'm kidding. However, about ninety-eight percent of the time the someone who asked if I wanted any potatoes would say, "Oh."

I would then realize that my delivery was perfect--too perfect. Quickly I'd explain that I was just joking and that I love potatoes. Then, to prove myself, I would proceed to eat so many potatoes it would be scary.

Of the people who initially take me seriously, maybe fifty-one percent quickly realize I am kidding. Then they kind of laugh or roll their eyes or whatever. But the other forty-nine percent are like, "What?" Or, "I thought you just said you hate potatoes!" Or they simply watch my potato eating with a look that says they're very, very concerned.

It's like they've never seen anyone eat six potatoes in rapid succession before.

Potatoes, however, are the least of my problems. I've seriously offended people I care about and chased away many attractive fellows simply because sometimes nobody can tell when I'm joking, and even when I flat-out tell people that I'm joking, half of them don't believe me anyways.

(I had to write that in italics because it's super-important. To me and to you and to the well-being of the world at large and to everyone taking the AP tests about now).

I guess I can understand people thinking that I'm being serious in real life. After all, I have mad theatre skillz which of course means that everything I say in person is automatically terribly convincing. Something like that.

My writing skillz must also be terribly convincing also, because I have an additional problem: sometimes people tend to take the ridiculous things that I write seriously, too.

Back in the day, I had an English teacher named Miss Kantspell. Miss Kantspell ran the school newspaper. That was all I knew about her on the first day of school. If I had known her better, I definitely would have written about recycling when she gave us the assignment of writing a newspaper article. Recycling is a safe topic. It's serious. No one jokes about recycling. Really, no one does. I mean, if right now you tried to think of a good recycling joke you wouldn't be able to.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

See? None. No recycling jokes. Not even Google has any. Recycling is the safest topic in the world to write an article on but, alas! At my tender age, I did not realize that. Nor did I realize the danger that would have made me choose a safe topic in the first place.

What I did realize was that while I liked being published, writing an article Miss Kantspell would consider worthy of publication was not my main goal. I just wanted to write about something interesting, have fun with it, and get the grade. Making people laugh was a plus, too. I've always liked to make people laugh. Publication, however? Eh. Who cared?

Unfortunately, I had zero ideas for this interesting, A-plus-worthy, hilarious article. I went about my usual business with a bit of brainstorming tension. Then, one day before drum line- oh. Yeah. I was in drum line.

Pretty much all my nontheatre friends from school were in the band: Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, Shutterbug, Runner Bean, Porch, and all the rest. Of those, most were also in drum line. I played a bass drum and so did Etch-a-Sketch and Porch.

Best Friend Boy was the lone cymbal player. I don't think he loved playing the cymbals, but he did love the drum major hats stashed away in the band room closet. He would take them out and wear them during rehearsals until one day our director, Mr. Kermit, asked Best Friend Boy if he would please stop playing dress-up with the old marching band uniforms.

At a practice around the time he was forbidden to wear the hats, Best Friend Boy commented quite thoroughly on the setup of the band room and also scolded me for not appropriating the proper tone of voice within (sometimes I raise my voice without really meaning to. It comes with being an Obnoxious).

And just like that, I knew what I was going to write about.

I wrote it fast. That thing flew onto the page like it was alive. Satisfied, I looked it over. Right away I knew it was unfit for a newspaper. I mean, first of all, it wasn't news. Also, it was ridiculous. I was a little hesitant to turn it in because it was a bit cheeky, but I'd had teachers who rewarded me for my daring before, and I figured Miss Kantspell would be no different.

She rewarded me all right. Within a few short weeks, my article was printed up all nice in the school newspaper under the title, "Students Must Follow Band Room Rules."

The Hometown High band room is not only used for band practice. It is also a place where many students hang out before, during, and after school. What most people don't know, however, is that certain things are not allowed in the band room.

Best Friend Boy, the Hometown High School Band Council Treasurer 200*-200*, sheds a little light on the subject. "No yelling in the band room," he says, then amends, "Actually, no screaming in the band room."

Another thing not allowed in the band room is taking a nap where the trumpet players sit. At least, "I wouldn't recommend it." This limitation is for students' own good as trumpet players do tend to produce a certain amount of spit that ends up on the band room floor.

Many other things are also not allowed in the band room, apparently including but not limited to the drum line cymbal players wearing fancy drum major hats. Best Friend Boy personally does not support this rule but respects the fact that the band teacher, Mr. Kermit, has nixed it. Best Friend Boy says perhaps someday he will make a list so more people can be aware of what is and what is not allowed in the band room.

That's what it looked like, sitting in all its glory smack above Runner Bean's very much sincere piece, "The Band Plays With Power and Passion."

Miss Kantspell had not realized that the entire article was meant to be a joke. She thought this piece of ridiculousness was actually meant to be a legit piece of news. I'm writing in italics again to stress how REALLY important this is. This article cannot be taken seriously. How could anyone take this seriously?!

Miss Kantspell could, because, as I more fully learned later, Miss Kantspell was what we call "mind blind" to sarcasm, meaning that irony and humor were often lost on her.

Now, Hometown High is an oddball, as far as high schools go. The students there have always tended to be a little off-the-wall in their sense of humor, by which I mean they can laugh at anything and everything if it's delivered correctly. A ton of my classmates would normally have appreciated my article under other circumstances. But because it was printed as an apparently serious piece of news, it did not inspire laughter. Instead, it brought forth much confusion.

BEST FRIEND BOY: I saw your article. You do know that I was kidding about that band room rule stuff, right?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I was kidding too! It was a joke!

OTHER FRIENDS: That sure was an interesting article...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It was a joke!

CLASSMATES: Your article is, uh, well-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It was supposed to be a joke.

OLDER SISTER: I read your article.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: IT'S! A! JOKE! AUUUUUUUURRRGGHH! *spontaneously combusts*

The End

P.S. Miss Kantspell, if you're reading this, I didn't actually spontaneously combust. It's a joke. A JOKE. A JOKE, I TELL YOU! *DIES OF FRUSTRATION*

...

...

...

(That was also a joke.)

Sushi Problems

Remember how even though I'm European-Jewish-Slav aka ethnic white, I'm secretly also an Asian? I know this because I crave Asian food way more than I crave European, Jewish, or Slav food. And everybody who doesn't live under a rock knows that the type of food you crave aligns with your racial background. It's genetics, people. Even monks who spend all their time growing pea plants know about genetics.

One of the Asian foods I crave most often is one called sushi. There are many great things about sushi. Sushi is Japanese. It usually involves seafood. It's delicious. But. There are dreadful things about sushi, too. I have compiled a list of the ones that bother me the most.

Problem #1: You have to use chopsticks to eat sushi.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why is that a problem for someone who's secretly Asian, like you? Aren't you a chopsticks-using whiz?"

And I'm thinking, "Excuse me? Don't you know anything about genetics? Genetics clearly prove that secret Asians can't use chopsticks. When secret Asians try to use chopsticks, we look like schmendricks. Schmendrick being a Yiddish word that here means, 'more like a European-Jewish-Slav aka ethnic white than like an Asian.'" But in addition to the wrong genetics, I have other problems when it comes to chopsticks.

Once upon a time when I was in elementary school, I was unable to hold a pencil properly. Yes, that's right, I was unable to correctly use a pencil, one of the simplest utensils in the world. I don't know how I managed to accomplish this feat, but I did. In order to make it possible for me to use a pencil, my mom had to buy me this little doohickey:

Behold, the corrective pencil grip. Mine had little diagrams and stars engraved in them to guide me in proper finger placement. Eventually, I was able to hold a pencil the right way without deep thought and major confusion, but it took years of the pencil grip, the training wheels of writing instruments.

Aside from pencils, I was also unable to hold scissors properly. Sadly, there are no corrective grips for scissors, so that's something I struggle with to this day. Now you know my shameful secret: I can't fulfill the basic dexterity requirements of kindergarten. Also, I can't jump rope.

Using chopsticks is kind of like using a pencil. Or maybe more like using scissors, because there are two chopsticks in a set just like there are two blades on a scissor. Except scissor blades are attached, and chopsticks aren't. Each chopstick does something different yet works with the other in harmony. It's very confuzzling to my poor, uncomprehending fingers, who have the wrong genetics and just aren't good at this kind of thing anyways.

Problem #2: The world is divided into people who love sushi and people who are afraid of sushi.

If you don't believe me, go and watch the news. They're always covering the Great Sushi Divide. And if they're not, they should.

Whenever I talk to people about sushi, I almost always get one of two reactions: "I love sushi!" or "I've never tried it." And the people who've never tried it cite their fear of raw fish, or of seaweed, or of wasabi, and so on, all of which clump together into one big fear, the fear of sushi. Sushiphobia.

Why does it matter that like half the population suffers from sushiphobia? It matters because in the sample size of my friends, like half of them suffer from it also. So when I want to go grab some sushi, I can't just call up a bud. I have to call up one of my buds who isn't a sushiphobe, like Porch or Viola. Porch and Viola, though, aren't always available. That seriously inhibits my ability to get sushi as often as I would like.

And no, I can't go get sushi by myself. On account of The Neediness. Getting sushi while suffering from The Neediness is like putting butter on a burn: it's a terrible idea. And it just makes things worse. And what about all the mashed potatoes you could have made with that butter if you hadn't rubbed it into your skin? Bet you didn't think about that, didja?

Problem #3a: Sushi is expensive.

It's very expensive. A plate of sushi costs some serious moolah.

Now, I am more than happy to spend money on food. I love food. There are some types of food I would never get if I didn't buy it myself, of which sushi is one. However, I am less hesitant to spend that food money on, say, some coconut chicken kurma at an Indian place or some honey walnut shrimp from a Chinese one than I am to buy myself some spicy tuna or Vegas rolls at a sushi establishment. The reason?

Problem #3b: Sushi isn't very filling.

It comes in small portions. In order to get full, I'd have to spend a fortune. And I'm a college student. A fortune is something I simply don't have.

One fine summer evening, my BFF Viola and I went for sushi together.

VIOLA: (looking at menu) This is pretty expensive...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: How many pieces do you think we should get?

VIOLA: If we get three rolls, that will give us each twelve pieces. That's enough, right?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Definitely.

Talking and laughing, we ate our sushi, savoring each bite and sopping up every last bit of spicy mayo. It was truly delicious, and happily I only dropped my food, like, six times.

The check came to the equivalent of one dollar per piece of sushi.

VIOLA: It's totally worth it, though.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: For sure.

VIOLA: I feel pretty full, don't you?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh, yeah.

We paid the bill, left a tip, and drove to the nearest Arctic Circle, where we then proceeded to blow ten more dollars on shakes and value menu chicken sandwiches.

How I Chose My Institution of Higher Learning

My college is basically like High School Musical, except without the singing. Or the dancing. Or the Disney. Or the happiness.

We do, however, have a basketball court.

Almost the only reason I attend this school because they're giving me a full-ride scholarship. Also, churros.

I mean, yes, I prayed about where I should go to college and stuff, but I didn't overwhelmingly feel that I needed to go anywhere in particular. One day, my mom said, "Hey. Nameless Utah College is having an accepted students day. Let's check it out."

And we went. And Nameless Utah College wasn't any worse than any of the other colleges I'd checked out. In some ways it was better, and seeing that my first choice college wasn't really an option, and neither was my second choice, or my third, Nameless Utah College was as good a consideration as any.

So we were at this accepted students thing, I really had no idea where I was going to go, and then they served us lunch and there were churros.

I told you there were churros involved. Like, three paragraphs ago. You probably thought I was kidding. Well, I wasn't. Churros were a major factor in this decision.

But not just any churros. These were really good churros, as many as I wanted, with plenty of cinnamon and sugar and whipped cream. And I was all, "Hey. I like churros. If I go here and they give me churros, I could live with that."

I mean, I was joking, but I was also partly serious. When I didn't feel particularly compelled by any other schools, and when I realized I could live with my family and commute and not have to be homesick, and that I would hardly have to pay a cent for my education, the churros were only the icing on the cake that was Nameless Utah College.

Then I actually got here. At that point I realized how much the school and I are not suited for each other. In almost the same instant, however, for the first time I knew in my soul it was where my God wanted me to be. Anti-intuitive, I know, but that's how it went down.

So here I am, and here the school is, and though we mostly make each other miserable, in another way we really feel blessed to have one another. At least, the school likes to tell me in its happy-schlappy newletters that it thinks I'm a special snowflake. For my own part, despite my complaints I realize how good I have it--especially when the college gives me free food.

Even though I let churros influence one of my major life decisions, it has all worked out. It's a happy ending. Like the ending of a Disney movie. Maybe even High School Musical. In fact, definitely High School Musical, because both of the stories end with graduation. I mean, theoretically. I haven't actually finished college yet, and now that I think about it I'm not even sure that they graduate at the end of High School Musical 3. Even though my friend Porch was an extra in it and apparently has quite a bit of screen time, I've never seen High School Musical 3. And you know what? I'm fine with that.

Here's a picture of some churros:

Mmm. Churros.

P.S. If I ever announce that I'm marrying someone and that it's because he gives me churros, virtually slap me, all right? It's okay to let churros dictate which college you go to, but letting churros dictate who you marry is just ridiculous.