Remember how at the end of the summer I found out that I'm basically deformed? That was fun, right? Wrong. It wasn't fun. I literally cried for an hour because the sports med doctor told me that I should stop running for a month.
I mean, really? Really, sports med doctor? The nerve! It's like you got a degree in sports medicine and were being paid to figure out what was wrong with me and fix it or something.
The doc also said that I should get new running shoes (and stop running barefoot, which I'd already done—yes I run barefoot, long story, anyway—) and schedule myself some physical therapy appointments.
I didn't stop running because I was pretty sure that if I did that, I would spontaneously combust, Achilles tendon pain or no Achilles tendon pain. But I did get new running shoes, and, after some struggle, I did manage to find a time where my life schedule lined up with the physical therapy office schedule so that I could make an appointment.
Ay my first appointment, I met my physical therapist; he was nice. He asked me how my ankles felt (they felt quite good). He asked if I'd stopped running (I told him I hadn't). He examined me and concluded that while there was definitely an issue present, the sports med doc had over-exaggerated the weakness in my hips and legs.
We talked about what the goal of the physical therapy. I explained that my understanding was that the physical therapy wouldn't be corrective; there wasn't a way to fix the problem. But it could be preventive in helping me avoid and fix more issues in the future.
We decided that I would go to physical therapy for about a month and see how it went.
As we got to work stretching the muscles in my legs, the physical therapist made some observations:
1. A tangible goal for the physical therapy sessions could be getting me to be able to squat. Because, as I'd realized at the doctor's appointment, I can't squat worth...squat.
2. My ankles are very inflexible, especially the left one.
3. My calf muscles are apparently humongous.
4. I am noticeably more uncoordinated on the left side of my body than the right.
The calf muscle thing surprised me, although the inflexible and uncoordinated parts didn't. I always knew that. How could I not know that? When you're as inflexible and uncoordinated as I am, you're bound to notice. The only shock was that it was just on the one side.
Later the physical therapist also noticed that I run on my toes in such a way that definitely was not helping my Achilles tendons. He asked if the tiptoeing was because I'd done dance, and I said it was. (Yes, even as inflexible and uncoordinated as I am, I was in dance classes for 5+ years. That's how I discovered I was inflexible and uncoordinated.)
In any case, for a little over a month, I would go to the physical therapy clinic super early and meet with the physical therapist. The first few sessions, he massaged my ankles with some kind of butter to loosen them up. The first couple of times hurt but in a good way. The final time, he used a plastic scrape-y thing to perform the massage, and it hurt like the dickens. It took my full willpower not to kick him in the face. I had to send my brain to a happy place to handle the pain.
I also did exercises at the clinic. These exercises featured such delights as stretching against a wall, doing squats with an exercise ball, doing squats with a chair, putting a gigantic rubber band that smelled vaguely of chocolate around my ankles and scuttling sideways like a demented crab, and pushing off on a counter to rise up and slowly lower myself down.
I practiced these exercises every night at home. Pepper said, "Isn't the stereotype that people don't practice their physical therapy?" That sounded like a waste of money to me.
To be honest, though, it was kind of...fun. Mentally soothing, too. It was nice to feel like there was a problem in my life with an actual straightforward solution.
After doing four sessions over about five weeks, we shook hands. Physical therapy was over. My ankles were doing great. I'd conquered my Achilles tendons. Which is a nice metaphor if you think about it.
Showing posts with label spontaneous combustion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spontaneous combustion. Show all posts
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Monday, December 7, 2015
'Tis the Season to Overschedule
Every December, I have two kajillion and three things planned. There are Christmas festivities, family in town, friends on break from school, service projects to participate in, good movies coming out, and all sorts of other loveliness. When I was in public school, I had many band and choir performances. When I was in college, I had finals. And often, work picks up before the end of the year. When I worked in fast food, I used to work two or three times as many hours during December as I did during the rest of the months.
One year, a fellow asked me on a date at the end of November. And I said, "Well, let's see. The next time that I'll be free is probably... December 21st." I think he thought that I was lying, but I most certainly wasn't.
If someone asked me on a date right now, I'd have to tell them to wait until next year. 'Cause I ain't got time for that. I have so many things going on between now and the end of the year that I feel like I'm about to spontaneously combust. Everything is happening at once. It's a good thing that I don't have to schedule time to breathe, because if I did, I would die.
Overscheduling is, I should mention, often the Obnoxious way. My family tends to live at the speed of light, moving from activity to activity barely hanging on by the seat of our pants. Sometimes it's a good thing: we do get things done. Sometimes it's a little much. Or a lot much.
So far, I've managed to juggle everything really well. Except for the fact that I've become a little, shall we say, loopy. I'm here. I'm there. I'm all over the place.
Over the weekend, I identified all the potential problems in a potential relationship with this guy I don't really know but kind of think is cute. First I identified all the problems; then I solved them. And I was like, "There we go! Things will definitely work out and we can get married sometime in the next year and have seven kids." And then I started writing a journal entry explaining all of this to my posterity and whoever else is going to read my journal. And then halfway through I was like, "Wait. What? Why did I do this? I don't even know anything about this guy. What is wrong with me? Why did I spend so much time on this?" The answer is that at some point, my rational mind became overtired from being worked so hard. It stopped working the way it usually does and instead started rationalizing things that don't make sense. And that's only the beginning.
On the way home from work today, I was crying. When I walked in the door, I was angry. And about five minutes later, I was peaceful and serene and preparing a pot of beef stew. And a couple of hours later, I was being vaguely charming at family home evening. And now I'm all giddy and happy and I don't even know. While I was in the shower, I composed a Hanukkah carol of my own devising (because it's the first night of Hanukkah, goyim.) I'm giggling while I write this.
I think I am currently a little what they call, what's the word, unstable.
But oh well! There are things that must be done, and I will do them. By the grace of God, I will get through this month.
One year, a fellow asked me on a date at the end of November. And I said, "Well, let's see. The next time that I'll be free is probably... December 21st." I think he thought that I was lying, but I most certainly wasn't.
If someone asked me on a date right now, I'd have to tell them to wait until next year. 'Cause I ain't got time for that. I have so many things going on between now and the end of the year that I feel like I'm about to spontaneously combust. Everything is happening at once. It's a good thing that I don't have to schedule time to breathe, because if I did, I would die.
Overscheduling is, I should mention, often the Obnoxious way. My family tends to live at the speed of light, moving from activity to activity barely hanging on by the seat of our pants. Sometimes it's a good thing: we do get things done. Sometimes it's a little much. Or a lot much.
So far, I've managed to juggle everything really well. Except for the fact that I've become a little, shall we say, loopy. I'm here. I'm there. I'm all over the place.
Over the weekend, I identified all the potential problems in a potential relationship with this guy I don't really know but kind of think is cute. First I identified all the problems; then I solved them. And I was like, "There we go! Things will definitely work out and we can get married sometime in the next year and have seven kids." And then I started writing a journal entry explaining all of this to my posterity and whoever else is going to read my journal. And then halfway through I was like, "Wait. What? Why did I do this? I don't even know anything about this guy. What is wrong with me? Why did I spend so much time on this?" The answer is that at some point, my rational mind became overtired from being worked so hard. It stopped working the way it usually does and instead started rationalizing things that don't make sense. And that's only the beginning.
On the way home from work today, I was crying. When I walked in the door, I was angry. And about five minutes later, I was peaceful and serene and preparing a pot of beef stew. And a couple of hours later, I was being vaguely charming at family home evening. And now I'm all giddy and happy and I don't even know. While I was in the shower, I composed a Hanukkah carol of my own devising (because it's the first night of Hanukkah, goyim.) I'm giggling while I write this.
I think I am currently a little what they call, what's the word, unstable.
But oh well! There are things that must be done, and I will do them. By the grace of God, I will get through this month.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
NaNoWriMo
I decided to do NaNoWriMo this year. That's National Novel Writing Month for all you non-writers out there. It's exactly what it sounds like: the month in which everyone in the nation frantically tries to write a novel of 50,000 words in thirty days.
I've tried to do NaNoWriMo before. Viola and the Fearless One and I actually formed a kind of NaNoWriMo support group that met (one time) on my bedroom floor.
It was not a successful support group, and NaNoWriMo was not a successful endeavour. I ended up getting really stressed out that I wasn't meeting my self-set deadlines and ended up accomplishing almost nothing.
I think the most stressful thing about NaNoWriMo is that, realistically, to accomplish your goal you have to write every day. Unless you want to write, like, eight hours on three days instead. Which I cannot do. Unless I want to spontaneously combust. Which I don't.
The last time I finished a novel, I did it using a formula that someone recommended in an article that I read once. The formula is this: don't write every day. In a week, take one day for God, one day for yourself, and give the other five days to writing.
This formula worked really well for me, so I decided to use it again for NaNoWriMo. Therefore, I am doing an abridged version of NaNoWriMo, where I did not make a goal to write 50,000 words but to write one page a day, five days a week during November. I will not finish any novels, but I'll get a good start on something that I can continue to work on.
It's been awhile since I've written any fiction. The process goes something like this:
1. Write two sentences.
2. Delete two sentences.
3. Write three paragraphs.
4. Take a break.
5. Reinterpret the secondary character's motivation.
6. Rewrite one-and-a-half of the three paragraphs.
7. Say, "This is the best thing I've ever written!"
8. Eat a snack.
9. Reread what you've written.
10. Say, "This is the worst thing I've ever written!"
11. Read something else for inspiration.
12. Have brilliant idea.
13. Write seven brilliant paragraphs.
14. Discover plot hole within the seven brilliant paragraphs.
15. Contemplate suicide by jumping into plot hole.
16. Pray.
17. Cry.
18. Solve plot hole.
19. Use SAT-level word.
20. Second-guess self and wonder if you have used SAT-level word correctly.
21. Look up SAT-level word's definition just to make sure.
22. Write three more paragraphs.
23. Conduct research using Wikipedia.
24. Write another paragraph.
25. Realize you have finished your quota for the day.
26. Celebrate.
27. Remember all the other things you have to do today that you have been neglecting.
28. Cry.
And so on and so forth.
Somehow, I made it through the first week intact. Well, here's to another three weeks and then some! We'll see how it goes.
I've tried to do NaNoWriMo before. Viola and the Fearless One and I actually formed a kind of NaNoWriMo support group that met (one time) on my bedroom floor.
It was not a successful support group, and NaNoWriMo was not a successful endeavour. I ended up getting really stressed out that I wasn't meeting my self-set deadlines and ended up accomplishing almost nothing.
I think the most stressful thing about NaNoWriMo is that, realistically, to accomplish your goal you have to write every day. Unless you want to write, like, eight hours on three days instead. Which I cannot do. Unless I want to spontaneously combust. Which I don't.
The last time I finished a novel, I did it using a formula that someone recommended in an article that I read once. The formula is this: don't write every day. In a week, take one day for God, one day for yourself, and give the other five days to writing.
This formula worked really well for me, so I decided to use it again for NaNoWriMo. Therefore, I am doing an abridged version of NaNoWriMo, where I did not make a goal to write 50,000 words but to write one page a day, five days a week during November. I will not finish any novels, but I'll get a good start on something that I can continue to work on.
It's been awhile since I've written any fiction. The process goes something like this:
1. Write two sentences.
2. Delete two sentences.
3. Write three paragraphs.
4. Take a break.
5. Reinterpret the secondary character's motivation.
6. Rewrite one-and-a-half of the three paragraphs.
7. Say, "This is the best thing I've ever written!"
8. Eat a snack.
9. Reread what you've written.
10. Say, "This is the worst thing I've ever written!"
11. Read something else for inspiration.
12. Have brilliant idea.
13. Write seven brilliant paragraphs.
14. Discover plot hole within the seven brilliant paragraphs.
15. Contemplate suicide by jumping into plot hole.
16. Pray.
17. Cry.
18. Solve plot hole.
19. Use SAT-level word.
20. Second-guess self and wonder if you have used SAT-level word correctly.
21. Look up SAT-level word's definition just to make sure.
22. Write three more paragraphs.
23. Conduct research using Wikipedia.
24. Write another paragraph.
25. Realize you have finished your quota for the day.
26. Celebrate.
27. Remember all the other things you have to do today that you have been neglecting.
28. Cry.
And so on and so forth.
Somehow, I made it through the first week intact. Well, here's to another three weeks and then some! We'll see how it goes.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
My Best Friend's Wedding
A few years ago, one of Viola's other friends got married. Following the wedding, Viola and I had a conversation that went something like this:
VIOLA: So Lilac invited me and a few other friends to wait outside the temple and attend the wedding luncheon. But it was weird because her best friend wasn't there.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Really?
VIOLA: Yeah, I thought it was really weird. But then she was at the reception last night, and I asked her about it, and she said that she'd been planning to be there but she'd had a Red Eye flight the night before and this morning she decided that she was too tired.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Too tired to go to her best friend's wedding festivities???
VIOLA: I guess. (pause for emphasis) Don't do that when I get married.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Of course not! I would never miss any part of your wedding for any reason! Even the thought of missing it is preposterous! P to the R to the E to the P O S T E R etcetera!
Fast forward to this year, when the blessed day finally came. My best friend was getting married! I was soooo excited. More excited than a piece of parsley would be if parsley could get excited.
The wedding was at two. Viola had asked me to do a reading during the ceremony, so I thought it would be good for me to leave by one so I could arrive at the venue by one-thirty so that I could have plenty of time to silently practice/soak in the experience of Viola getting married/be a good best friend.
That was the plan. But then everything went wrong.
First, I was running the tiniest fraction behind in getting ready. So I ended up leaving the house at 1:05 instead of 1:00.
Then I discovered that the card for my parents' gift to Viola and her fiance was not in the bag. Belatedly I remembered my mom saying something like, "Blah blah the gift is on the hutch but the card is on the couch blah." So I took a five-or-so-minute detour to grab the card.
Now, the wedding was taking place in Work City. I know Work City well enough that I had a vague idea of the location of the venue's street, but I wasn't 100% sure. Since this was my best friend's wedding and I was taking no chances, I decided to let my recently acquired smart phone give me directions instead of relying on my own sketchy know-how.
Beautified and with the card now reunited with the gift, I zoomed towards Work City in my trusty Honda.
When I arrived in Work City, I listened carefully to my phone's directions.
PHONE: Go this way!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: This way? It's a good thing I'm using my phone, because that is not where I thought this building was at all!
A FEW MINUTES LATER
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: This is kind of a sketch part of town.
A FEW MINUTES LATER
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Why is this road closed?
A FEW MINUTES LATER
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: HELP HELP THERE AREN'T EVEN ANY BUILDINGS HERE.
By this point, it was 1:30.
I began to do everything I could think of. I reentered the address on my phone in hopes that it would give me new directions. I pulled up maps of the city and tried to find the street by zooming in. I even called Viola. She didn't answer because she was too busy getting ready to get married and having no idea that I was not going to be there to support her.
At this point, I legitimately began to be afraid that I would not make it to the wedding. Which was bad. First of all, I would miss my best friend's wedding, which as established earlier would be preposterous. But not only would I miss it, I was actually part of the ceremony! Which made things doubly bad!
I began to have a miniature panic attack. Shortness of breath! Dizziness! My hands were alternately numb and tingling! I was about three seconds away from bursting into tears, so I did what anybody would do and called on my fathers. First I prayed. Then I pulled up my Dad's number, tapped it, and hoped he would answer immediately.
DAD: Hello?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: DAD! DAD, VIOLA'S WEDDING IS IN FIFTEEN MINUTES AND MY PHONE IS CRAZY AND I CAN'T FIND THIS STREET WHERE IS IT PLEASE TELL ME YOU ALWAYS KNOW THESE THINGS!
He told me where it was. Which was exactly where I'd thought it was before I decided to let my phone guide me.
Mind dizzy, fingers tingling, I sped off as quickly as I could without breaking any laws. On the way, I scolded myself. I was a grown adult and there was no excuse for me to not know where a street in a city I drive in every day was and I should have left even earlier or at least physically gone to the building earlier that week to make sure i knew where it was and if I was late Viola would probably forgive me but I never would forgive myself.
I made excellent time to the street, but had to circle around the block to find a place to park. Finally I found a pay-to-park open air lot.
I pulled in and jumped out of the car. I skimmed the instructions on how to pay and saw that it would take me several minutes to process the payment. But the wedding was in four minutes! If I didn't pay, I could come back from the wedding only to see that my car had been fined/ticketed/towed.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: TOO BAD. DON'T EVEN CARE!
And in the most rebel act of my life, I left my car without paying and dashed to the sidewalk!
But oh no! There were two buildings that fit what I knew about the wedding venue, and I couldn't find the street address displayed on either! And they were on opposite sides of the street, so choosing the wrong one would make me multiple minutes even later! I gambled, chose the building on the other side of the street, and rushed to the crosswalk! (I luckily was not wearing high heels.)
It was two o'clock! The wedding was about to start. It might even be starting!!!
I crossed the street like a speeding bullet! Hurtled over the venue's grounds! Ran through the doors! Up the stairs!
Ring ring. I fumbled in my purse for my phone. It was Viola.
VIOLA: ...are you coming?
I sped to her side! They hadn't started yet! I was out of breath, disheveled, and possibly about to faint of anxiety, but I was there!!!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I AM SORRY SO SORRY SO SORRY!
VIOLA: Don't worry! Mr. Viola's dad isn't even here yet, so it might be a while before we get started.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Ah. All right. I'll...subdue myself...and sit down, shall I?
After that, the wedding went off without a hitch. And I made sure that when I went to the reception that evening, I was extra early.
VIOLA: So Lilac invited me and a few other friends to wait outside the temple and attend the wedding luncheon. But it was weird because her best friend wasn't there.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Really?
VIOLA: Yeah, I thought it was really weird. But then she was at the reception last night, and I asked her about it, and she said that she'd been planning to be there but she'd had a Red Eye flight the night before and this morning she decided that she was too tired.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Too tired to go to her best friend's wedding festivities???
VIOLA: I guess. (pause for emphasis) Don't do that when I get married.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Of course not! I would never miss any part of your wedding for any reason! Even the thought of missing it is preposterous! P to the R to the E to the P O S T E R etcetera!
Fast forward to this year, when the blessed day finally came. My best friend was getting married! I was soooo excited. More excited than a piece of parsley would be if parsley could get excited.
The wedding was at two. Viola had asked me to do a reading during the ceremony, so I thought it would be good for me to leave by one so I could arrive at the venue by one-thirty so that I could have plenty of time to silently practice/soak in the experience of Viola getting married/be a good best friend.
That was the plan. But then everything went wrong.
First, I was running the tiniest fraction behind in getting ready. So I ended up leaving the house at 1:05 instead of 1:00.
Then I discovered that the card for my parents' gift to Viola and her fiance was not in the bag. Belatedly I remembered my mom saying something like, "Blah blah the gift is on the hutch but the card is on the couch blah." So I took a five-or-so-minute detour to grab the card.
Now, the wedding was taking place in Work City. I know Work City well enough that I had a vague idea of the location of the venue's street, but I wasn't 100% sure. Since this was my best friend's wedding and I was taking no chances, I decided to let my recently acquired smart phone give me directions instead of relying on my own sketchy know-how.
Beautified and with the card now reunited with the gift, I zoomed towards Work City in my trusty Honda.
When I arrived in Work City, I listened carefully to my phone's directions.
PHONE: Go this way!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: This way? It's a good thing I'm using my phone, because that is not where I thought this building was at all!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: This is kind of a sketch part of town.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Why is this road closed?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: HELP HELP THERE AREN'T EVEN ANY BUILDINGS HERE.
By this point, it was 1:30.
I began to do everything I could think of. I reentered the address on my phone in hopes that it would give me new directions. I pulled up maps of the city and tried to find the street by zooming in. I even called Viola. She didn't answer because she was too busy getting ready to get married and having no idea that I was not going to be there to support her.
At this point, I legitimately began to be afraid that I would not make it to the wedding. Which was bad. First of all, I would miss my best friend's wedding, which as established earlier would be preposterous. But not only would I miss it, I was actually part of the ceremony! Which made things doubly bad!
I began to have a miniature panic attack. Shortness of breath! Dizziness! My hands were alternately numb and tingling! I was about three seconds away from bursting into tears, so I did what anybody would do and called on my fathers. First I prayed. Then I pulled up my Dad's number, tapped it, and hoped he would answer immediately.
DAD: Hello?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: DAD! DAD, VIOLA'S WEDDING IS IN FIFTEEN MINUTES AND MY PHONE IS CRAZY AND I CAN'T FIND THIS STREET WHERE IS IT PLEASE TELL ME YOU ALWAYS KNOW THESE THINGS!
He told me where it was. Which was exactly where I'd thought it was before I decided to let my phone guide me.
Mind dizzy, fingers tingling, I sped off as quickly as I could without breaking any laws. On the way, I scolded myself. I was a grown adult and there was no excuse for me to not know where a street in a city I drive in every day was and I should have left even earlier or at least physically gone to the building earlier that week to make sure i knew where it was and if I was late Viola would probably forgive me but I never would forgive myself.
I made excellent time to the street, but had to circle around the block to find a place to park. Finally I found a pay-to-park open air lot.
I pulled in and jumped out of the car. I skimmed the instructions on how to pay and saw that it would take me several minutes to process the payment. But the wedding was in four minutes! If I didn't pay, I could come back from the wedding only to see that my car had been fined/ticketed/towed.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: TOO BAD. DON'T EVEN CARE!
And in the most rebel act of my life, I left my car without paying and dashed to the sidewalk!
But oh no! There were two buildings that fit what I knew about the wedding venue, and I couldn't find the street address displayed on either! And they were on opposite sides of the street, so choosing the wrong one would make me multiple minutes even later! I gambled, chose the building on the other side of the street, and rushed to the crosswalk! (I luckily was not wearing high heels.)
It was two o'clock! The wedding was about to start. It might even be starting!!!
I crossed the street like a speeding bullet! Hurtled over the venue's grounds! Ran through the doors! Up the stairs!
Ring ring. I fumbled in my purse for my phone. It was Viola.
VIOLA: ...are you coming?
I sped to her side! They hadn't started yet! I was out of breath, disheveled, and possibly about to faint of anxiety, but I was there!!!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I AM SORRY SO SORRY SO SORRY!
VIOLA: Don't worry! Mr. Viola's dad isn't even here yet, so it might be a while before we get started.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Ah. All right. I'll...subdue myself...and sit down, shall I?
After that, the wedding went off without a hitch. And I made sure that when I went to the reception that evening, I was extra early.
Monday, March 30, 2015
The Battle of the Washing Machine
I mentioned about a month ago that I had a struggle known as the Battle of the Washing Machine to relate to you.
One night, before I started preparing fresh clams for dinner, I sorted my laundry and put the first load in the washing machine. 'Cause I'm an adult like that. And not only did I put the clothes in the machine, but I actually added soap and started, it too. Word.
The idea was that I would put a second load in while the clams were cooking, and then another after I ate/before I prepared to go to the temple.
However. I got so fascinated by the death throes of the dying clams, I forgot to put in another load of laundry. Nor did I notice that the usual washing machine noises were not issuing from the laundry room. Or laundry hall, which would be a more apt name for the extremely rectangular laundry space in my apartment.
It wasn't until after I'd finished devouring the clams that I remembered my laundry. I stepped into the laundry hall and opened up the washing machine, expecting to be greeted by clean clothes.
I was instead greeted by a washing machine full of articles of clothing floating in cold, soapy water.
First I thought, hey, maybe there's too much laundry in there, even though I've washed more laundry than this at a time. So I proceeded to pull out about half of the clothes. This was a very wet decision.
Then I restarted the washing machine and went to change into my Sunday best. When I returned, however, the washing machine had stopped again.
I pulled out some more clothes. The floor was quickly becoming very wet and very slippery, so I grabbed the towels I was planning to wash in my third load of laundry and spread them on the ground.
I changed the washing machine settings, added some more for good measure, and started it... again. And it stopped... again.
I began to wonder if something was stuck in the inner workings of the washing machine. So I plunged my arm into the icy depths of the cold water and felt around for anything that seemed out of place.
I was unpleasantly reminded that I have no idea how the mechanics of a washing machine work. Baby Brother probably knows, but I don't. What would my hand find when it touched the bottom of the washing receptacle? Spinning blades? Sharks? Grindylows?
None of the above. There was nothing interesting in the bottom of the washing machine, but there didn't seem to be anything wrong with it, either. Naturally, I restarted it once more.
Naturally, it stopped once more.
Pepper came home to find me in the laundry hall, dressed in my nice clothes and on the verge of spontaneous frustrated combustion.
Pepper was all, "Have you tried--?"
And I was all, "DON'T MOCK ME. I'VE TRIED EVERYTHING."
Like all battles, the Battle of the Washing Machine has statistics. By the time I got the washing machine to properly wash my clothes, I had racked up quite a few statistics indeed.
Number of Total Hours I Spent Tinkering with the Washing Machine: Several
Number of Gallons of Water Upon the Floor of the Laundry Hall: Enough to reenact the sinking of the Titanic.
Number of My Towels Used to Clean Up the Water: All of them. And some dish towels, and some sweaters.
Number of Times I Kicked the Rather Newish Washing Machine: More than a civilized being should.
Number of Times the Washing Machine Started Up After I Kicked It: Once.
Number of Casualties: One, namely my confidence in my ability to do laundry without turning it into a theatrical production.
One night, before I started preparing fresh clams for dinner, I sorted my laundry and put the first load in the washing machine. 'Cause I'm an adult like that. And not only did I put the clothes in the machine, but I actually added soap and started, it too. Word.
The idea was that I would put a second load in while the clams were cooking, and then another after I ate/before I prepared to go to the temple.
However. I got so fascinated by the death throes of the dying clams, I forgot to put in another load of laundry. Nor did I notice that the usual washing machine noises were not issuing from the laundry room. Or laundry hall, which would be a more apt name for the extremely rectangular laundry space in my apartment.
It wasn't until after I'd finished devouring the clams that I remembered my laundry. I stepped into the laundry hall and opened up the washing machine, expecting to be greeted by clean clothes.
I was instead greeted by a washing machine full of articles of clothing floating in cold, soapy water.
First I thought, hey, maybe there's too much laundry in there, even though I've washed more laundry than this at a time. So I proceeded to pull out about half of the clothes. This was a very wet decision.
Then I restarted the washing machine and went to change into my Sunday best. When I returned, however, the washing machine had stopped again.
I pulled out some more clothes. The floor was quickly becoming very wet and very slippery, so I grabbed the towels I was planning to wash in my third load of laundry and spread them on the ground.
I changed the washing machine settings, added some more for good measure, and started it... again. And it stopped... again.
I began to wonder if something was stuck in the inner workings of the washing machine. So I plunged my arm into the icy depths of the cold water and felt around for anything that seemed out of place.
I was unpleasantly reminded that I have no idea how the mechanics of a washing machine work. Baby Brother probably knows, but I don't. What would my hand find when it touched the bottom of the washing receptacle? Spinning blades? Sharks? Grindylows?
None of the above. There was nothing interesting in the bottom of the washing machine, but there didn't seem to be anything wrong with it, either. Naturally, I restarted it once more.
Naturally, it stopped once more.
Pepper came home to find me in the laundry hall, dressed in my nice clothes and on the verge of spontaneous frustrated combustion.
Pepper was all, "Have you tried--?"
And I was all, "DON'T MOCK ME. I'VE TRIED EVERYTHING."
Like all battles, the Battle of the Washing Machine has statistics. By the time I got the washing machine to properly wash my clothes, I had racked up quite a few statistics indeed.
Number of Total Hours I Spent Tinkering with the Washing Machine: Several
Number of Gallons of Water Upon the Floor of the Laundry Hall: Enough to reenact the sinking of the Titanic.
Number of My Towels Used to Clean Up the Water: All of them. And some dish towels, and some sweaters.
Number of Times I Kicked the Rather Newish Washing Machine: More than a civilized being should.
Number of Times the Washing Machine Started Up After I Kicked It: Once.
Number of Casualties: One, namely my confidence in my ability to do laundry without turning it into a theatrical production.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Ready or Not
It's been a busy summer.
Right now I am undergoing some major life changes (which I will expound upon further in future posts), which means that I spend approximately 24.78 hours a day coordinating said life changes and praying that I won't spontaneously combust.
The user picture on my laptop is a photo of me, Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug at our high school graduation. I uploaded that photo right before starting college and have never gotten around to changing it. Mostly I don't even notice it anymore, but as I was logging on just now I randomly rediscovered its existence.
When I randomly rediscovered the photo's existence, I remembered the day it was taken. High school graduation is another time of major life changes. When we graduated from high school, all four of us had an idea of how our lives were going to go.
All four of us were (to varying degrees) wrong.
It's a good thing we didn't know it that day--how wrong we were. Making those major life changes was scary enough when we thought we knew what we were doing. It becomes ultimately more terrifying when you realize that you don't have a clue.
It's so terrifying, in fact, that it can be paralyzing. Whenever another major life change comes along, it's tempting to stand at the precipice and ask yourself, "Am I ready for this? Am I ready for this?"
Which is fine--until the act of asking the question becomes so all-consuming that you find yourself unable to make the leap.
In the words of Lemony Snicket: "If we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives."
I don't know if I'm ready.
But here I come.
Right now I am undergoing some major life changes (which I will expound upon further in future posts), which means that I spend approximately 24.78 hours a day coordinating said life changes and praying that I won't spontaneously combust.
The user picture on my laptop is a photo of me, Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug at our high school graduation. I uploaded that photo right before starting college and have never gotten around to changing it. Mostly I don't even notice it anymore, but as I was logging on just now I randomly rediscovered its existence.
When I randomly rediscovered the photo's existence, I remembered the day it was taken. High school graduation is another time of major life changes. When we graduated from high school, all four of us had an idea of how our lives were going to go.
All four of us were (to varying degrees) wrong.
It's a good thing we didn't know it that day--how wrong we were. Making those major life changes was scary enough when we thought we knew what we were doing. It becomes ultimately more terrifying when you realize that you don't have a clue.
It's so terrifying, in fact, that it can be paralyzing. Whenever another major life change comes along, it's tempting to stand at the precipice and ask yourself, "Am I ready for this? Am I ready for this?"
Which is fine--until the act of asking the question becomes so all-consuming that you find yourself unable to make the leap.
In the words of Lemony Snicket: "If we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives."
I don't know if I'm ready.
But here I come.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
11/12
I used to love writing essays. My teachers would say, "Okay, now you have to write an essay."
And I would say, "Essay?! Whoo-hoo!"
And then I would write an essay, and I would enjoy it.
And my teachers would read it, and they would enjoy it.
And there was joy to the world. To all the boys and girls. To the fishes in the deep blue sea. And joy to you and me.
Now, however, I don't love writing essays. In fact, my feelings for essays are quite the opposite.
I would give some tragic backstory as to how this jadedness happened, except I'm not entirely sure myself. I have this impression that I quit loving essays because of some intersection of Miss Kantspell, existentialism, and getting my wisdom teeth removed. But that's just me.
Anyways, it just so happens that I'm an English major, emphasis on creative writing with a history minor and an honors degree. The point being that I write stuff. And some of that stuff is essays.
Today I had to write an essay. And by write, I mean "slog through at the approximate speed of dripping molasses." Which slogging I managed to do through a strategy that involved Pinterest, Izze soda, Rocky and Bullwinkle, children's literature, and a serious headache.
The essay is done. The headache rages on. The strange aftertaste of blackberry Izze soda lingers. Already the memories of whatever it is I just wrote are being repressed by my brain. Now I'm blogging.
Blogging, not slogging.
Now I'm snickering.
And I'm not talking about the candy bar.
If I did have a candy bar, though, I would break it into two pieces and offer you half. And you would say, "Thank you."
And I would say, "You're welcome."
And you would say, "Congratulations on blogging for eleven months straight without actually giving up or spontaneously combusting."
And I would say, "Thank you."
And you would say, "What are you going to do with this blog after the trial year is up?"
And I would say, "Well-"
And you would say, "Wait. Is this candy bar a Snickers?"
And I would say, "Why yes."
And you would say, "I'm allergic to peanuts."
And then you would have an allergic reaction.
And things would be awkward.
Well. What else is new?
And I would say, "Essay?! Whoo-hoo!"
And then I would write an essay, and I would enjoy it.
And my teachers would read it, and they would enjoy it.
And there was joy to the world. To all the boys and girls. To the fishes in the deep blue sea. And joy to you and me.
Now, however, I don't love writing essays. In fact, my feelings for essays are quite the opposite.
I would give some tragic backstory as to how this jadedness happened, except I'm not entirely sure myself. I have this impression that I quit loving essays because of some intersection of Miss Kantspell, existentialism, and getting my wisdom teeth removed. But that's just me.
Anyways, it just so happens that I'm an English major, emphasis on creative writing with a history minor and an honors degree. The point being that I write stuff. And some of that stuff is essays.
Today I had to write an essay. And by write, I mean "slog through at the approximate speed of dripping molasses." Which slogging I managed to do through a strategy that involved Pinterest, Izze soda, Rocky and Bullwinkle, children's literature, and a serious headache.
The essay is done. The headache rages on. The strange aftertaste of blackberry Izze soda lingers. Already the memories of whatever it is I just wrote are being repressed by my brain. Now I'm blogging.
Blogging, not slogging.
Now I'm snickering.
And I'm not talking about the candy bar.
If I did have a candy bar, though, I would break it into two pieces and offer you half. And you would say, "Thank you."
And I would say, "You're welcome."
And you would say, "Congratulations on blogging for eleven months straight without actually giving up or spontaneously combusting."
And I would say, "Thank you."
And you would say, "What are you going to do with this blog after the trial year is up?"
And I would say, "Well-"
And you would say, "Wait. Is this candy bar a Snickers?"
And I would say, "Why yes."
And you would say, "I'm allergic to peanuts."
And then you would have an allergic reaction.
And things would be awkward.
Well. What else is new?
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
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.
"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.
Monday, May 13, 2013
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."
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.)
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.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."
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.
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*
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.)
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Excitement and Things Like It
Excitement makes me want to throw up.
It didn't used to be that way, you know? I used to just feel good old, plain old excitement. No need to upchuck. No hyperventilating. No worries about possible spontaneous explosion. Just an emotion as frothy and as delicious as the fizz of a soda.
Nowadays, though, my excitement is inexplicably linked to the way my stomach feels. The more excited I get, the more my stomach just wants to toss back everything I ate.
Excitement isn't the only thing that makes me want to throw up. Nervousness makes me want to throw up. So does concern. So does food poisoning. So does the flu.
Sometimes I get ticked off with myself. Because although I can't always avoid getting food poisoning or the flu, I feel like I should be able to avoid getting so excited or so nervous or whatever. The scolding part of me thinks that if I was really mature, I wouldn't get so ridiculously emotional over anything.
The generous part of me, however, thinks differently. It thinks that feeling things strongly is good. It thinks that it doesn't matter how emotional I get, as long as those emotions don't cripple me or hold me back. It thinks that being mature is learning to cope with strong feelings, not avoiding them altogether. After all, feeling stuff is part of being human.
Still. Sometimes I wish I were a little less human. It might be nice, for instance, to be a sofa. I'm sure sofas never get overly excited or nervous. They probably never get the stomach flu, either.
It didn't used to be that way, you know? I used to just feel good old, plain old excitement. No need to upchuck. No hyperventilating. No worries about possible spontaneous explosion. Just an emotion as frothy and as delicious as the fizz of a soda.
Nowadays, though, my excitement is inexplicably linked to the way my stomach feels. The more excited I get, the more my stomach just wants to toss back everything I ate.
Excitement isn't the only thing that makes me want to throw up. Nervousness makes me want to throw up. So does concern. So does food poisoning. So does the flu.
Sometimes I get ticked off with myself. Because although I can't always avoid getting food poisoning or the flu, I feel like I should be able to avoid getting so excited or so nervous or whatever. The scolding part of me thinks that if I was really mature, I wouldn't get so ridiculously emotional over anything.
The generous part of me, however, thinks differently. It thinks that feeling things strongly is good. It thinks that it doesn't matter how emotional I get, as long as those emotions don't cripple me or hold me back. It thinks that being mature is learning to cope with strong feelings, not avoiding them altogether. After all, feeling stuff is part of being human.
Still. Sometimes I wish I were a little less human. It might be nice, for instance, to be a sofa. I'm sure sofas never get overly excited or nervous. They probably never get the stomach flu, either.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Everythings
My new alarm clock starts off soft and sweet, with a gentle beeping noise, but within a matter of seconds it crescendoes into a series of angry blasts.
It's like it's screaming, "OH, YOU WANNA SLEEP IN? WELL, TOO BAD!" in a Gilbert Gottfried-as-a-drill-sergeant voice. "WAKE UP! GET OUT OF BED! YOU'RE A DISGRACE TO YOUR COUNTRY, YOUR FAMILY, AND YOUR RELIGION! THE ONLY WAY TO REDEEM YOURSELF IS TO GET OUT OF BED AND DO STUFF!"
So I get out of bed and do stuff. But boy, do I have a lot of stuff to do.
A friend of mine recently wrote a blog post about what she calls "The Law of Everythings." Basically, the theory of the Law of Everythings is that life is cyclical. There will be periods of time when it seems like nothing happens, followed by booms of all the things.
And I have all the things. I'm swamped with everythings right now. School, homework, work, theatrical commitments, church callings, and integrals like eating, sleeping, exercising, reading my scriptures, writing in my journal, and interacting with friends and family.
There are literally not enough hours in my day, in my week, to allow me to complete everything I need to do. Free time is nonexistent. On my nights and on my weekends, I devolve into a panic over how behind I am and wonder why I haven't spontaneously combusted by now, what with all the pressure.
I just want it to stop I think. Something's gotta give.
Well, things have given. Or, rather, I've put in a request for less time at work until the semester's over. I finished up one of my theatre commitments this week, so that helps. But everything else simply can't give. All of it has to be done, and it has to be done now.
Today when the alarm clock went off on its tirade, I wanted to get up even less than usual, because I'd stayed up til midnight writing my history paper that was due today. And I had to write it the day before it was due because I couldn't write it the day before or the day before that or the day before that because I was doing other homework, which I could not do earlier because I was doing other homework, which I could not do earlier because I was doing other homework.
Side note: I have way too much homework.
So I stayed up late to I write and write and write that paper, even though I started it before work and didn't even watch my favorite TV show with Baby Sister. Even so, I completed it around midnight. Needless I was dead tired this morning, so I hit the snooze button three times before Gilbert Clockfried made me feel guilty enough to actually hop out of bed. I dressed, ate breakfast (sort of), did my hair (sort of), and headed off to Nameless Utah College.
When my bus arrived, I had to hustle into the library and finish the homework I didn't do last night because I used that time to write the paper. It's a vicious cycle.
Before class I also checked my email. Along with the emails about all the school events I have to go to in the next three weeks, I had correspondence about my new comedy troupe.
For three years all I wanted was to do a musical, do a musical, do a musical, because I haven't done any since before graduation and it's a gaping hole in my soul. Well, no musicals came up, but due to a surprising chain of events I was invited to join this comedy troupe, which is very successful and oh by the way, I've basically idolized them for the past five years. Being able to be one of them is a dream come true. But scary. But a dream come true. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to focus on the troupe the way I'd like to. Right now I can barely even find time to think about them, and when I do I quickly stop because I'm overwhelmed.
The email, however, reminded me that I had to think about them, because I needed to check the schedule and call about any conflicts and though the email didn't mention it I remembered I still had to write a bio for the website. However, I had to go to class just then, so that couldn't be helped. Off I rushed.
That was the beginning of my action-packed day. And throughout it all my professors were nothing but, "Remember to come to all the events for all your academic programs! Remember your papers are due in a few weeks! And finals! And you need to finish your thesis that you decided for no apparent reason to write a year earlier than required, and edit it, and think about an internship, and make sure you're on track to graduate, and edit everybody else's artistic statement work, and, oh, here's some extra homework for you! Because it's not like you don't already have more than you can physically do!"
And all day my conscience was nothing but, "Why haven't you seen your friends for weeks? Why don't you call them more? Why don't you text them? Why don't you spend more time with them? And your family? What about them?"
And then I was like, "I literally don't have time right now."
And my conscience took a line out of the alarm clock's book and said, "You're a disgrace." Except I wasn't paying attention because I was too busy snarfing down lunch before I went to institute and then finished all the artistic statement editing for my night class, but I felt justified in paying more attention to my lunch than my conscience because I knew I was going to have to stay late at school to attend a diversity event for Spanish credit, and I had no idea when I'd be able to stop for dinner.
I get exhausted just writing about it. This is a typical day in the current life of Awkward Mormon Girl. The Law of Everythings is in full force.
Having so much to do isn't easy. The other day I was complaining, both internally and vocally, about how much I have to do, how tired I feel, how I can never give each aspect of my life the attention it deserves.
"Well," something said inside me, "would you prefer to go without? Would you give up all the things you're doing for a little peace, a little quiet, a little time?"
It hit me that no, I wouldn't give it up, because in spite of all the stress and the mess and the lack of time and the worries about spontaneously combusting, I'm also getting tremendous good out of what I'm doing. I have more than my fair share of blessings, even though in some ways they have taken the guise of trials.
That Law of Everythings? Like I said, it goes in cycles. Right now I have all the blessings and all the opportunities and all the problems that come with them. Soon I may not have as many, and all the everythings will fall into somebody else's lap. Yeah, then the hard parts will be gone, but so will the good parts.
I'm going to do the best I can with my Right Now. It's not easy, but if I rely on God to help me, I know I can not only survive all the things, I will learn to enjoy them even though they stress me out. I'll be grateful for what I've been given. I'll love my everythings while they last.
It's like it's screaming, "OH, YOU WANNA SLEEP IN? WELL, TOO BAD!" in a Gilbert Gottfried-as-a-drill-sergeant voice. "WAKE UP! GET OUT OF BED! YOU'RE A DISGRACE TO YOUR COUNTRY, YOUR FAMILY, AND YOUR RELIGION! THE ONLY WAY TO REDEEM YOURSELF IS TO GET OUT OF BED AND DO STUFF!"
So I get out of bed and do stuff. But boy, do I have a lot of stuff to do.
A friend of mine recently wrote a blog post about what she calls "The Law of Everythings." Basically, the theory of the Law of Everythings is that life is cyclical. There will be periods of time when it seems like nothing happens, followed by booms of all the things.
And I have all the things. I'm swamped with everythings right now. School, homework, work, theatrical commitments, church callings, and integrals like eating, sleeping, exercising, reading my scriptures, writing in my journal, and interacting with friends and family.
There are literally not enough hours in my day, in my week, to allow me to complete everything I need to do. Free time is nonexistent. On my nights and on my weekends, I devolve into a panic over how behind I am and wonder why I haven't spontaneously combusted by now, what with all the pressure.
I just want it to stop I think. Something's gotta give.
Well, things have given. Or, rather, I've put in a request for less time at work until the semester's over. I finished up one of my theatre commitments this week, so that helps. But everything else simply can't give. All of it has to be done, and it has to be done now.
Today when the alarm clock went off on its tirade, I wanted to get up even less than usual, because I'd stayed up til midnight writing my history paper that was due today. And I had to write it the day before it was due because I couldn't write it the day before or the day before that or the day before that because I was doing other homework, which I could not do earlier because I was doing other homework, which I could not do earlier because I was doing other homework.
Side note: I have way too much homework.
So I stayed up late to I write and write and write that paper, even though I started it before work and didn't even watch my favorite TV show with Baby Sister. Even so, I completed it around midnight. Needless I was dead tired this morning, so I hit the snooze button three times before Gilbert Clockfried made me feel guilty enough to actually hop out of bed. I dressed, ate breakfast (sort of), did my hair (sort of), and headed off to Nameless Utah College.
When my bus arrived, I had to hustle into the library and finish the homework I didn't do last night because I used that time to write the paper. It's a vicious cycle.
Before class I also checked my email. Along with the emails about all the school events I have to go to in the next three weeks, I had correspondence about my new comedy troupe.
For three years all I wanted was to do a musical, do a musical, do a musical, because I haven't done any since before graduation and it's a gaping hole in my soul. Well, no musicals came up, but due to a surprising chain of events I was invited to join this comedy troupe, which is very successful and oh by the way, I've basically idolized them for the past five years. Being able to be one of them is a dream come true. But scary. But a dream come true. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to focus on the troupe the way I'd like to. Right now I can barely even find time to think about them, and when I do I quickly stop because I'm overwhelmed.
The email, however, reminded me that I had to think about them, because I needed to check the schedule and call about any conflicts and though the email didn't mention it I remembered I still had to write a bio for the website. However, I had to go to class just then, so that couldn't be helped. Off I rushed.
That was the beginning of my action-packed day. And throughout it all my professors were nothing but, "Remember to come to all the events for all your academic programs! Remember your papers are due in a few weeks! And finals! And you need to finish your thesis that you decided for no apparent reason to write a year earlier than required, and edit it, and think about an internship, and make sure you're on track to graduate, and edit everybody else's artistic statement work, and, oh, here's some extra homework for you! Because it's not like you don't already have more than you can physically do!"
And all day my conscience was nothing but, "Why haven't you seen your friends for weeks? Why don't you call them more? Why don't you text them? Why don't you spend more time with them? And your family? What about them?"
And then I was like, "I literally don't have time right now."
And my conscience took a line out of the alarm clock's book and said, "You're a disgrace." Except I wasn't paying attention because I was too busy snarfing down lunch before I went to institute and then finished all the artistic statement editing for my night class, but I felt justified in paying more attention to my lunch than my conscience because I knew I was going to have to stay late at school to attend a diversity event for Spanish credit, and I had no idea when I'd be able to stop for dinner.
I get exhausted just writing about it. This is a typical day in the current life of Awkward Mormon Girl. The Law of Everythings is in full force.
Having so much to do isn't easy. The other day I was complaining, both internally and vocally, about how much I have to do, how tired I feel, how I can never give each aspect of my life the attention it deserves.
"Well," something said inside me, "would you prefer to go without? Would you give up all the things you're doing for a little peace, a little quiet, a little time?"
It hit me that no, I wouldn't give it up, because in spite of all the stress and the mess and the lack of time and the worries about spontaneously combusting, I'm also getting tremendous good out of what I'm doing. I have more than my fair share of blessings, even though in some ways they have taken the guise of trials.
That Law of Everythings? Like I said, it goes in cycles. Right now I have all the blessings and all the opportunities and all the problems that come with them. Soon I may not have as many, and all the everythings will fall into somebody else's lap. Yeah, then the hard parts will be gone, but so will the good parts.
I'm going to do the best I can with my Right Now. It's not easy, but if I rely on God to help me, I know I can not only survive all the things, I will learn to enjoy them even though they stress me out. I'll be grateful for what I've been given. I'll love my everythings while they last.
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