When Old Satan Calls: A Tribute

Old Man Winter was right about two things: His clock was broken and his days were numbered.

He died Thursday, December 18, 2008. I went to see him in the nursing home he had checked himself into a couple of days before. Luckily he only had to stay there for about a week because the place stank of menthol and Alzheimer’s. Old Man Winter is better than that. It was different from the stench of his house: sugarcoated bastard with a hint of lemon. I think the lemon because of his dusting solution, and the bastard because of his attitude.

I talked with him for a while and the last thing he ever said to me was: “Dear, I never said any one bad thing to you. Just remember that when ol’ Satan calls” I think it might have been a threat. Actually, this is a lie, the last thing he said to me was, “see if that old lady is still in my living room. She’s been in there all damn day,” but it was the last coherent thing he said to me.

On the day of the funeral I had the flu but I went anyway, infecting all his old, old friends I’m sure in all my Anna Nicole Smith glory. It wasn’t weird seeing him in his coffin. I had seen him look deader in his chair at home. The weirdest part was seeing his estranged brother at the funeral walking around. It was old man winter. I realized it wasn’t Old Man first because the man was smiling, second because I remembered OMW was dead. His brother asked me if I was the girl Old Man had fallen in love with and I couldn’t help feeling one part sad, one part creeped out, but a larger part like one glamorous, not to mention successful, gold-digger.

The service was boring and missing a few key family members (like his only grandsons), but otherwise alright. If my body was capable of shedding tears, I might have even spent one on the day.

As I was leaving the building and before my mom asked if we should put my contact information in the guest book (for purpose of the will), I could have sworn I heard an old, crusty whisper tell me I have hands like a freak-midget for such a husky girl. But it must have just been the wind because like he said: Old Man Winter never did say one bad thing to me.

May he rest in peace, and may the clock shop not spend too much time fixing his clock.

Finding Jesus During Christmas

Yesterday my mom made me make a delivery to my grandma next door. My grandma wanted a nativity set for underneath their tree and my mom had an extra so I took it over. We set up the scene and saw that my mom had given my grandma everything but Jesus, Mary and Joseph. My mom couldn't find them but told me to tell my grandma it was fine.

It wasn't fine.

I was then commissioned by Grams to find a baby Jesus and find him fast the next day. I walked past one, two, three complete nativity sets in our living room alone when I got back home. "She's not getting any of my baby Jesuses! Those are special to me!" --nothing like my mom's Christ collecting (or hoarding) to bring in the holiday cheer.

I went to department stores, thrift stores, and discount stores. I found Jesus in a snow globe. I found him in an ornament. I even found Jesus, Mary, and Joseph rotating in a clear, plastic bubble, but I couldn't find baby Jesus in his manger, with perhaps his mother and father by his side. Not a nativity was to be found this close to Christmas.

Where did I finally find Jesus? Where most people usually lose him: couched in the greedy arms of low-discount, conspicuously consumptive, super Wal-Mart. Yes there was just one baby Jesus, one Mary and one Joesph.** A beautiful, black family just waiting for me to take them home. I bought the set and smiled a little longer at every White Anglo-Saxon Protestant for making this last-minute purchase possible.

I would also like to thank Wal-Mart for overstocking and providing our family with a darker, holier family for the foot of my grandma's Christmas tree... I would also like to thank my grandma's poor vision.

**Shepherd with staff ripped out of his porcelain hand.

BYU-Riot

I'm graduating Friday and there are just a few quirks and idiosyncrasies that I'll miss about this place. Both were coincidentally demonstrated on my way to, and then during my class this morning.

Way to class: Meek girl walking while reading Twilight. The ever-famous dragon series, Eragon was tucked under her other arm and archery arrows were coming out of her backpack.

During class: I'm grading a student's argumentative paper for my teacher about college drinking. His argument was that a national curfew should be implemented into universities nation-wide to eliminate (yes eliminate) college drinking. His sources? His parents and a bartender at Applebee's.

Where else will you find this kind of innocence?

Love Can't Pay Rent... but it Might Pay Your Heating Bill

I've never been in love (other than with term papers and old men) but I don't really feel like I need to experience it anymore with gas prices the way they are. From what I understand about love (i.e. movies, tv shows, pop culture in general) all the same feelings are there:

1. I want to sing when I think about or see the gas prices as low as they are
2. I'm planning lots of extravagant trips and vacations that probably won't happen but still make me feel giddy in the middle of the night.
3. I'm vulnerable and scared because it might go away.
4. I have no tolerance for cynics who say it's crazy and won't last.
5. Even when I try to stop it, the topic still comes up in almost every conversation I have.

So Boyz II Men may have told me by whom to swear my love, and Richard Gere may have showed me that love has no price, but gas prices, you GAVE me love... and everything (good or bad) that comes with it.

Caveat: I think it befitting that writing a blog about something I really know nothing about was explained with an analogy about which I can't truly appreciate since I don't have a car.

Caveat deux: This is my last blog about fake love. I promise.

11 1/2 Page Paper: I Love You

I realized today, the reason that I will never and can never get married while I am in school.

Tonight, after many (not that many) laborious hours in the library, I finished my 10-12 page paper for my African history class. When I printed that piece of joy and stapled it together, I realized that I have never, and probably will never love a man as much as I love that paper.

I looked at it longingly, checking my bag every so often to see if it was still there. I read and re-read its words over and over like poetry. I stared at its clean 11-point serif font with attractive footnotes at the bottom of the page and realized I was in love. Where else am I going to find that kind of love? The kind of love you blog about? The last person I blogged about was Old Man Winter (actually, another good candidate of things I might love more than potential or future mates... there I said it).

So world, if you want me to leave BYU-Idaho betrothed, my qualifications are this: 8 1/2 X 11 inches/ gender: questionable/white/Chicago-style citations. That's all I ask.

Come Join Us, The Punch is Great

Well I went to check in on Old Man Winter this afternoon. (Note *Old Man Winter is the name I have given to the 99+ year-old man I have been taking care of since my freshman year of college. We get along quite well).

After he gives me the standard, "hello's" and "you look like you've gained weight," he tells me almost simultaneously and definitely with equal severity that 1. his heart has given out and his days are numbered, and 2. his clock is broken and he needs me to call the clock shop and take it to get it fixed.

I've heard both of these before, and I have to say, time after time I am more shocked with the broken clock than the failing organs. Buy a new clock already! I suffered five minutes on the phone with the (probably just as old) clock technition, feeding lines directly from Old Man Winter's mouth. "I need this clock fixed. It doesn't matter that you are two months behind. I depend on this to tell time. I am disabled." (It is important to note here that I have considered my loss of dignity and self-respect during this job, but it pays tuition... or as I like to call it, my "body complex scholarship," and thus, so far, is somehow worth it).

So a note to all you 90 pluses out there. I feel your pain (besides the failing hearts and collapsed lungs). I know it must be hard to let go of things when everything else around you has died or doesn't care about you anymore, but embrace the 21st century! When something even looks like it might be breaking soon... buy another one! It's just the American way now, and besides, someone needs to urge the clock-tech to find a real job anyway.

Paper Cutastrophe

I have, currently, what might be considered a world-record-breaking-deep paper cut.

It happened this afternoon when I unzipped my backpack. The fluid motion of my hand somehow perfectly sliced right over the stack of apparently very crisp papers too close to the mouth of my zipper (I should have known better). Of course, I immediately went into the five stages of grief:

Pushing the flaps of skin together in denial, hoping it hadn't happened; anger at myself, my backpack and my teacher who had just given me all those papers; bargaining with God; depression at the thought of countless paper cuts I have yet to suffer before the end of my life,
And finally, acceptance that I was just going to have to continue typing with a wad of toilet paper over my middle finger making all my e's and d's hybrid we's and ds's.

But there is a sixth, unpublished stage in which you just don't really get after death of a loved one, diagnosis of cancer. The sixth stage of grief associated with a paper cut is of course post-traumatic shock. Reaching into my backpack since has been like September 12 on Times Square. Not only that, but every time my cut hurts, I have Nam flashbacks of how it happened, and there is just something inhumane about the act of a paper cut... let alone reliving it over and over.

Next time God, how about I stick my hand in a knife drawer and get some kind of gnarly, jagged
gash on my finger instead. At least then I'd have a cool scar and I wouldn't be afraid of my backpack anymore.

And we're back to step three.

Maybe she's born with it... Maybe it's teen pregnancy

So I have a theory.

These beauties, Shania Twain, Faith Hill, and my friend Shauna are all adopted. Not only are they adopted, but they were all teen pregnancies. Now why are they so superiorly attractive? Let's look at the facts.

Fact: The only thing that matters in high school is looks and status
Fact: Personalities aren't exactly developed until at least college and so looks are really the only thing anyone is going after.
Fact: The only people having sex in high school are the good-looking ones seeking anyone who may make them appear better looking or more popular for being associated with said boyfriend/girlfriend.
*inconsequent* Fact: Most of these teen babies have great voices for singing country which is really just another commentary on home-grown country chitlin' without accessible contraceptives.

THEREFORE: The teen babies are the superior, better-looking breed. Hitler had it all WRONG... when he was trying to develop the superior race, he didn't need to bother with all that complicated genocide. He just needed to promote high school sex, right?

Caveat: Any hasty generalization I have made in this post is allowed because I have a gorgeous teen-baby nephew... and I have a black cousin.

Classertations

I thought I'd class up the header a bit for the holidays. Consider it my Christmas gift to the blogging world.

You're welcome.

St. Crispin's Day in the Kitchen

Today I was making dinner (making chicken salad sandwiches from the store) with my roommate Mary in the kitchen, lamenting-as always-about graduation. I told her how I was going to miss doing work for myself: writing my own papers, reviewing my work, working on projects that would have my name on it... you know... all the selfish qualms that come with being a 22-year-old student with no family.

So, to put things in perspective Mary gave me this gem of insight, a "Band of Brothers" speech if you will:

"No. You're actually going to be making money for the work you do. Instead of coming home and wondering whether to make yourself chicken salad or Ramen; you're going to take yourself out to dinner! You're not going to live with a roommate who sticks her shoes under the fridge, (another blog for another time) you're going to live with maybe one other girl. And you can have a man in your bed every night if you damn well please!"

Now if that doesn't motivate me to find a good career, I don't know what will.

Thanks Mary

Caveat: On account of my impeccable memory for detail and the fact that I wrote every word of this down right after she said it means that it's verbatim and completely unrehearsed. The best always are.

You're Brilliant. Now Stop Talking.

This afternoon I was in a class and was lucky enough to be sitting next to a professor (whom I adore) because he was listening in on our class for the day.

At one point in the lecture, he leaned over and shared a joke with me. Panic! I was so stoked that he was speaking, much less wasting a joke on me that I forgot to listen. Worsened by the dark room and quiet audience, there was no way I was going to kill whatever special moment he had just created between us by asking him to repeat himself.

So, fight or flight kicked in and I instinctively mimicked his exact expression and mumbled something back with the same animation he had used. I didn't even use words. I literally mumbled sounds. His reaction? He genuinely laughed, nodded, and turned back in his seat, satisfied with whatever he thought I had said.

Then I realized something that I think I probably already knew, but am just now articulating. We are all so insanely in love with ourselves that we sort of just hear what we expect or want to hear unless the person is loud enough to sway our egos otherwise; which can only lead me to one conclusion: all this conversation that we have been having with people is A. just a conversation we have really had with ourselves and B. completely unnecessary.

So what happens now? I propose that we really only need to get one good impression of any person. After that, we can all just mumble to each other, and the recipient can just assume that it was probably intelligent, stupid, embarrassing, inappropriate, etc. anyway. Not only can we do this, but we pretty much do it anyway.

So. If there is one thing that anyone who may ever read this should remember about me it's that mmnb bhmmb bumnbh hhm bbbmbnh.

Ellie Mae Johnson: Immortalized

My friend Wes Joseph's dog died a couple of weeks ago. To console him I told him that legends never die. See, uplifting words are just used as substitutes for anything substantial. This is why when a waitress gets told she did a great job, she will most likely not get a great tip. People think that a nice comment is worth more than money. So do I. So does Wes. It's why I think he is calling my bluff and has now challenged my words of comfort by requesting a blog to tell her story. It's why I am here to prove that I am a better friend to Wes than he is to me. Once and for all, I will overcome 'the Disneyland incident'.

Ellie Mae Johnson, (no not Joseph because the dog kennel, like most people, cannot accept a first name as a last name, and christened her Johnson instead) was born on 4/20/99. Most likely a reincarnation of a Columbine shooter, except this time she came back with a heart that was TOO big, leading to her untimely death of 10/7/08. She is survived by her mother Sophie and her mate Cleo. She enjoyed walking until about a year and a half ago.

Ellie could not only sit, roll over and play dead, but "sitting pretty" was her expertise. She would sit pretty before every treat.

Not a masculine dog, not an intimidating dog, definitely not a hunting dog, but a loved dog nonetheless. There was no other dog more liked by or like his father Wes Joseph.

Legends never die Ellie. I have told your story.

The Results Are IN:

We've been waiting to hear who won the political debate and finally Fox and CNN have delivered unbiased, accurate results. (These percentages are actual results found on the Web sites).

CNN: Obama won 49% to 43%

FoxNews: McCain won 80% to 14% and 6% hadn't decided.

Fox went on to say that Obama didn't even show up to the debate, and in the middle of McCain's speech, God came down and delivered Osama Bin Laden to his arms... and then gave McCain back his full range of motion. It was an American miracle.

Not a Rebel, Not Yet a Leader

Last night I was feeling a bit bored and thought I could do with a scandalous movie of some sort. Age of Innocence: nothing says scandal like New York City in the Industrial Age. The back mentioned love triangle and I was sold. I watched the entire movie. No sex, no violence, no language. I was edified, uplifted, and I think my vocabulary improved. (Any movie that uses the word 'audacity' twice in one scene is sure to dig up some gems in the rest of the film.) Afterward I checked out the rating: PG! I go for scandal and I get Disney.

Story of my life you ask? Yes. It is: Chaste, not necessarily by choice. But why? Birth order. THAT'S why. I've been reading up on birth order lately and my middle child role. Apparently I get ignored but try disparately to be noticed... revert to peace-maker, blah blah blah, but I don't think I've ever been ignored or have tried to win over my parents' love. In fact, my parents' love is as easy as frequent flier miles: the more and farther away I travel, the more they love me. Which, by default, yes, does make me the current favorite. So, this whole time Alfred Adler had it wrong. It's not our PARENTS who are following the divine birth order roles. It's SCANDAL.

"Rehab? Nope, save that for the youngest--that charming rebel. Teen pregnancy? That's more of a older sister role. You? ummm you can have... Oh! we'll give successful and bossy to the oldest." See how all the things that make people interesting get skipped right over the middle children? Here I am jumping up and down and waving my arms and all Scandal tosses me is the Age of Innocence. It just makes me wonder what the rest of us are missing out on because of the birth order that so clearly determines our personalities for us.

Oh Grow Up

I'm all for a person being in touch with his/her "inner child"... whatever... but there are just a few things I think we should have conquered as adults by this point. This point being... let's say... over 15.

Throwing up: Aside from food poisoning and freak-isolated incidences (and pregnancy), I think vomiting is strictly a child's ailment. Probably from playing with too many diseased bird feathers.

Still believing that bird feathers are disease-ridden.

Stepping in dog poo: There is absolutely no excuse for this. We are adults. Use a sidewalk.*

Scabbed-over mosquito bites: Come on. Practice some self-control.

Using more pleasant euphemisms for the word 'fart.' It is what it is and your mom was lying when she said it was a swear word.

Enjoying the taste of Capri Sun: Also goes for Sunny Delight (SunnyD!)... they both make me feel like I just snacked on Chapstick.

Sprinting: Unless you are at a gym or in some kind of sophisticated race... sprinting anywhere is just a bit shameful... unless of course someone is "timing" you. *That was a test*

I like things like chicken strips just as much as the next self-respecting adult, but there comes a time and place when we just need to buckle down and order the lobster.

*Credit to Kristine for bringing this to my attention

The Truth Hurts

No one is fooling anyone with these top eight most common lies told in everyday life:  

1.  No, sorry, that was my last piece of gum.

2.  No, I did call you back.  It went straight to voicemail though.

3.  Anything followed by the comment... well that's weird! (Stuck in a tricky spot where the truth will make you callous, rude, unlikable or just plain in trouble?  Give a really crappy explanation and make up for the unbelievability by deeming it 'weird') 

4.  I'm so tired I don't even know what I'm saying.

5.  Sorry, I'm just really bad with names (I use this one ALL the time... I have an excellent memory... for memorable people... that's just me being honest.  Is that rude?  Sorry, I'm just like, really tired.)

7.  Anyone who coughs before they leave a room.  Particularly a classroom.  (An active, walking lie.)

8.  I don't mean to be rude (this is always preceded by something rude... usually intentional... double lie.)

So you keep lying, I'll keep nodding (or vice versa), and we'll both live in a consensual world of blissful deceit.  

I Just Want to Want to Have Ambition

I graduate soon, and with that apparently ensues the public's need to find out not only what I'm doing after graduation, but what I hope, (shudder) aspire, (grimace) and dream (wretch) to be and do with my new magical degree in English.  So, here's a list of the lies that form somewhere in my subconscious and somehow bubble out of my mouth.  Usually without my intentional consent.  Notice that each one starts somewhere with a degree in English, and then is tweaked and stretched by each unique person forcing imaginary dreams out of my mouth, despite my claims of really, truly, not knowing what I am going or want to do.    

**Caveat: As soon as the victim (played by me) says 'I don't know' in a conversation and the predator (most people at church and many members of my family) continues to push the questions further, this is defined as conversational rape, and I cannot be held responsible for any lie told after that.  These are all true, fake dreams that I was forced into creating in the last week or two of being at home.

1.  Writer for National Geographic's travel section.  (Aren't they all travel sections?  I don't even know.)

2.  Working at a gym in London and traveling (haha. ha.  haha.)

3.  A writer and editor for NPR. (Yeah, the entire station.  All of it.)

4.  Really... I just want to be a mom! (This one is the pepper spray to my rape allegory.  Stops any more questions immediately.  Only useful in Relief Society though.)

5.  Acquisitions editor for Random House (I've found that the multi-syllable "acquisitions" coupled with credible company "Random House" usually quiets a crowd)

6.  Grad school (followed by where and what program, followed by I don't know, followed by but if you could go anywhere and be in any program followed by Arizona State, literature.  Who knew I was even thinking about Arizona?)

And my personal favorite

7.   Working for the olympics in the 2012 games in London.

I think this conversation was over at 'what's your major.'

I Guess I'm Just That Smart

The other day my mom was talking to my five-year-old nephew about his new hermit crab, Colin.  He said some obscure fact about hermit crabs and my mom asked him where he learned so much about Colin the Crab.  He said, "I just knowed it."

No, I'm sure his dad told him, (credit stealer) but then I realized that adults do the same thing, but instead of the grammatically incorrect "I just knowed it,"  it graduates to, "I read it somewhere"  

Once you give a name to the source of all your brilliance, it's not as romantic, smart, or impressive.  If I for some reason know there are 192 nations in the United Nations and someone asks me how I know that... I'm not going to tell them it was on my cereal box that morning.  Even if I learned it in a class.  Then my genius suddenly becomes my teacher's or school's glory, and I'm just the messenger. Forget that.  I want it.  I miraculously just know that bit of information, ok?  I'm sure it was implanted in my brain after my mind was constructed by NASA.  

So no titles, no teachers,  no episodes of Grey's Anatomy.  This is how I want it:  all my friends and family thinking everything I know to have just spontaneously appeared in my brain because I read so much that I don't even remember where it was that I read it, I just know that I knowed it somehow.  

Greatest Hits

Resurrection is fun.  It's usually better the second time around because we recognized how much (dead item) was missed, and can fully appreciate it.  However high it reaches on the fun scale though, it never lasts as long.  Why?  Because after all is said and done it's old news.

I'm talking of course of Nintendo.  And anthrax.  And The Police (note the caps... I'm talking about the band)

This week I played Super Mario Brother's 3 for the first time in a while, anthrax is back in headlines, and The Police just wrapped up their reunion tour.  Yes I loved the nostalgia that came with dancing palm trees and Bowzer.  Yes I love a reincarnated bio-chemical terrorism story as much as the next girl, and no I can't get enough of teacher/student statutory rape, encapsulated in a song a beautiful song. But, I still had to blow inside the Nintendo to get it started, anthrax didn't actually kill anyone this time (boringgg), and The Police:  you guys are just old. 

So... for now I'll just stick with the new stuff, wait the appropriate amount of time for jokes about them to be funny again rolls around, and appreciate anthrax for the non-threat it ever was, and ever will be.  

When it Rains in Hell

I just wanted some toast.  My mom doesn't eat flour and my dad isn't much of a "convenience" food guy so every time I come home, I have to fish out our toaster from some hidden cabinet.  This time I had to climb to the top of the cupboard-abyss of the broom closet to get myself some delicious, crispy, I-can't-believe-it's-not-buttery toast.  This is

 what happened: 

 

Broom closet:  6'7 tall.  I measured

Maggie:  5'3 tall.  I measured!

Toaster:  Located on that top shelf.

And then THIS rained down on my head when struggling for the stow-away appliance:  Two boxes of garbbage bags, two steak knives and--worst of all--what could only be two million (kitchen floor colored) bread crumbs. This is because that godless trap door on the bottom of all toasters opened up and vomited its bile all over my head.  Needless to even think about, the youngest of all those crumbs were 4 months old:  The last time I was home.

Thanks... YOU guys.

Se7en Things to Do

They're lofty... but I've got SEVEN weeks, to accomplish SEVEN goals, and yeah... it's possible.  Thanks Clark!

1.  Re-create my own moon landing in the desert of Arizona... with Blake... because it was his idea.

2.  Become a conspiracy theorist and an idea stealer... simultaneously.

(Two birds.  One stone. Catch 22)

3.  Watch all 250 TED talks and then give a speech about it.

4.  Finally have an established relationship status on Facebook that shows up on mini-feed for all my friends to see and ask about with the aid of inquisitive (and ever-adorable) emoticons 

5.  Learn Fergies "My Humps" in American Sign Language and then teach it to all the deaf Young Women in my ward as a service project

6.  Drive around town asking as many joggers as I can find if they need a ride

7.  Memorize and entire episode of Friends and, changing only inflection of voice, communicate an entire day by only using the memorized dialogue start to finish... at work.

7b.  Get fired.

Wish me luck.

Linear Tension

It seems like in the last twenty years or so that lines of good and bad, clear and confusing, do's and don'ts have become so blurred that we don't know what is good for us anymore.

After the wall fell down and the cold war had finally come to a close, America had one, maybe two years of blissful peace.  The bad guys and the good guys became friends.  The fear of communism and nuclear holocausts had been squelched.  Why didn't it last though?  Why didn't my generation ever get to experience this?  Why didn't America--and the world--follow the universally heard sigh of relief with decades of happy peace?  Because the clear enemy had been blurred and people got scared. 

For almost fifty years, we--along with most everyone else--knew who the good guys were, and who the bad guys were.  They even had a name:  communists.  It was great.  "You stay over there under the banner of 'bad' and we'll stand over here under our banner of 'good,' we'll flex our nuclear arms at each other (that we both know we won't use) and at the end of the decade, we'll shake hands and call each other and talk about Berlin."  Those were the days.   

Now things aren't quite so easy.  With the consummation of the cold war came an identity crisis for America.  Because what is Batman without Joker?  Nothing.  He's just an overly manicured stud in a ridiculous costume rescuing attractive women from burning buildings.  Well we have firemen for that.  No one likes a good-looking hero unless he is saving the world.

Finding a Bad Guy

So we had to find a new arch nemesis and his name is terrorism, and he's about as abstract as Pollock. He doesn't have a country, or even a clear definition.  In fact, the definition of terrorism stands as "a person who terrorizes or frightens others."  So, by definition, my Professor when she told me the only way I was going to get a B in her class was to get a 100% on my final, was committing terrorism.  Well put campus on code red and invade the Ricks building.  

The point is, is that I miss the good ol' days of the cold war.  Worldwide tension that came served like a chilled drink with a side of better economics.  A world where batman is sexy and useful, but most of all, a world where the lines between good and bad are as clear as a curtain... maybe even one made out of iron or something.  

Blog Tog, Blag Tag

So... I've been "blog tagged" by my friend Jonathan. Here's the mission shall I choose to accept it: 3 joys, 3 fears, 3 goals, 3 random facts; 1 girl; 1 blog; no tomorrow.  

3 Joys:  

1. A well-placed f-word (not from me, but maybe in a movie or something)

2. Sweet, sweet revenge

3. Free laundry, otherwise known as the "on your honor" dryer in my house that runs without actually insterting quarters, but instead provides a bin where the "honesty" quarters are kept. I think I found some lint and a couple nickels in there once. (sounding pretty righteous so far. Thanks Jonathan.)

3 fears:  

1. Waking up with a dead centipede in between my fingers... again

2. That I might someday take my blog tag seriously, thus revealing my true, less-likable personality

3. That someone might make me choose between performing an interpretive dance to Vitamin C's graduation song in front of my peers or death and then that I'll choose death.

3 goals: 

1. To find a man who knows my mind as well as Google: no, that's not what I said but yes, that's what I meant.

2. To run again. At all.

3. To be the face that starts World War Three: eat your heart out Helen of Troy

3 random facts: 

1. I don't usually do the dishes unless someone is watching.  

2. When I was younger I went into business with myself selling grocery store candy bars for five dollars to my neighbors. My first client asked me what I was selling them for. I said church. He didn't buy any. I learned two lessons from this entrepreneurial experiment: a. Growing up middle-class with a thirst for tamagotchis turns children into liars and b. lying about church turns neighbors into Anti-Mormons.

aaaaaand...

3. I love Jonathan Griffith!

Free as a Caged Word

I understand the anxiety of trying to impress a person in conversation by means of an extensive vernacular. Oh how I understand. Sweaty palms, slacked jaw, numb mind. Saying a multi-syllable word with which you aren't familiar, then the gamble of questioning it out loud. Because of this stress in our lives, we have began (and by began I mean people have been doing this for centuries) to take the safe route to solve this problem by securing our words with the safety net of cliches.

Theory: If the word has been used before in a sentence, by a credible source, then at least I know that context is correct. Thus, a cliche is born.

Examples: "Sweating profusely*", "consummate a marriage", "defy gravity."

Sweating is not the only thing we do profusely. In fact, not even bleeding is enough of a breakaway. Profusely is something that is poured out, almost in excess. So, yes, I sweat profusely when I run more than half a mile, but I also apologize profusely to my roommate for running in her shirt.

Consummate: The poor word has been trapped by drunk twentysomethings in divorce court after a weekend in Vegas. "Have you consummated your marriage?" Such a beautiful word, pigeonholed by sex. I can't say I consummated my homework (meaning completed or made perfect) without some sort of unfortunate misunderstanding.

I defy anyone who may read this to find those words whose wings have been clipped by their own cliche, and imprisoned by their own idiom to free the words whose potential reaches far beyond divorce court and gym clothes.

*Thank you Blake Surratt

So Do You... Like Me?

The beautiful Summer semester of 2008 is unfortunately coming to a close. Final grades permeate our thoughts, work wants to know if we can stick out the seven week break and relationships need to be determined.

As a TA, all three of these points of stress are wrapped into one, but specifically, the latter. I love being a TA, and I'm really enjoying my "mentor teacher." He is flexible with the hours, appreciates my work, and doesn't just use me for my immaculate paragraph body either. He values my PowerPoint's. I think he really likes me.

The awkward question is inevitable, though. At some point, I am going to have to ask him if he wants me to be his TA next fall. How am I supposed to approach this? I'm an English major--my words don't work too good out loud--I thought an email would be better, but figured it would be kind of tacky. Do I lay it out there, tell him I think we are a great match, that I want this thing to last until Christmas? That's a very vulnerable position in which to put myself. What if he doesn't feel the same way? Should I move on to the more challenging, but mysterious Brother Allen, saving myself from humiliation and beating him to the punch?

I'm not the only TA suffering from this problem either. A few of the girls won't be here this fall, but are returning in the winter. How do they ask their mentor teacher to wait for them? "I understand that you need a TA while I'm gone, but will you be available for me when I get back from home?" All these questions, right at the time of finals. Of course.

If ever there were a time to have the ability to read the mind of a man.

Insert Dam(n) Joke Here, Marathon

Breakdown of the marathon:

Mile 1: Overly-joyed, overly-loud overly-white people celebrate the kick-off and first mile in one, large Mormon battalion.
Mile 2: Children lined the road and gave us high fives. For the first time in a while, I want kids. The crowd thins out
Mile 3: The twins set a pace that I follow... hard breathing gives way to chest pains, chest pains give way to side-stitches and side-stitches give way to me setting my own pace and making Jane Kristine and black and turquoise dots in the far distance.
Mile 4: Just got passed by sexy mom, not feeling too bad though.
Mile 5: It's getting pretty warm: I take off one of my shirts.
Mile 6: Sexy mom lifts up her shirt to wipe her face. I put my shirt back on.
Mile 7: Not able to have kids even if I want them anymore.
Mile 8: My arm is bleeding? How and when did that happen?
Mile 9: Just got passed by a grandma... still feeling alright. She's pretty fit.
Mile 10: There's human hope, there's eternal salvation, and then there are the mile 10 oranges I just ate.
Mile 11: Just got passed by woman twice my age and BMI.
Mile 12: For humility's sake I pick up my pace.
Mile 13: I've forgotten what walking is like.
Mile 13.2: FINISH at 2hr. 11 min. How am I ever going to accomplish anything without groups of people applauding me at every 10 minute interval?

Looks like I've peaked at 22!

Cruel Irony

Sometimes the hardest questions in life are answered by ourselves.  Sort of like when I asked, or rather, posed the theory that romance is difficult to harness, and then followed it with a public testimonial of my poor habits of hygiene... on the internet.  

I'm Flossy

I believe that people are brought together by the acknowledgement of their weaknesses. I don't think that a group of people are going to "come together" by each shouting praises of the last greatest thing they did. Well maybe some people, but not the kind of people I love to associate with. I believe that people really bond when someone reveals something they do, or don't do, that everyone else secretly does, or doesn't do and is waiting to not feel guilty about it. That one thing that everyone hates, but thinks they have to love, the one thing that probably should be done every day, but gets done perhaps once a week, or maybe even month. So...

A word on flossing: I think flossing is great. I think it perpetuates not only good dental hygiene, but also good organization, self-discipline, and self-respect. I don't floss that often. I'll leave it at that. When I floss, it's always under the intention that I will continue flossing everyday until the last day of my life. Flossing, for me however, always turns out to be an isolated incident.

I think many people are like this. In fact, I think the only person who actually flosses regularly is my Dad because he is a saint and he can't stand to lie to the dentist when he asks him if he has been flossing on a regular basis like the rest of us. "Yes I brush three times a day, yes I floss, no I don't know why my gums are bleeding right now." That's the drill. Anyway, I usually like to bring up the no-flossing thing because I think people appreciate it. However, I was with a group of "people" once and as we were sitting around the Fazoli's table, we got on the subject of flossing. I offered my one and only gem of human unification: who flosses, come clean now so we can all like each other a little better for our inadequacies.

I don't think one group of people have looked that way at another person since leprosy. Apparently I had picked the one group of four average people who floss on a daily basis and wouldn't hear of anyone behaving differently. I tried to call them out on their lies, but one of them had floss in his wallet. I immediately retreated into dentist office lie mode and didn't make anymore revelations the rest of the night.

Since, I have tried to make my self-disclosures a little more conservative and crowd-based. Sometimes it's best to do your homework beforehand, like checking the wallet of the guy with immaculate gums before becoming conversationally intimate about our habits of hygiene.

Rock, a Hard Place, and Somewhere I Don't Want to Be

Romance is (or so I am told) an abstract, beautiful enigma that drives so much of everyday decisions that it's probably damaging to everything from the construction of our homes to the destruction of our economy. Something so powerful shouldn't be abstract, though. If it decides so much of our choices, it should have some concrete explanation. Recently, I have found that a piece of it (dating and courtship), has just that: a science, and a history (chemistry and a past relationship if you will). The concrete facts of dating are not much easier a pill to swallow, however, because it is as follows:

Dating in America (or England, not picking favorites) began with the girl in charge. A man would come to the girl, on her territory (her home) and would do all the activities she chose. You know, all the greats: Her playing the piano (yawn) reading poetry aloud to him (yawn again), or perhaps, them singing a duet together (combination yawn and shudder). After she seduced him (or bored him) with her musical talent, he would propose; but only if she allowed him to do so. This is option #1.

Then a shift happened. It was the industrial age and men were at war, and women could Do It! (Rosie the Riveter shout out) and were working in the factories. When men came home from the war, the women did not want to give up her newly found position in the world, and dating became a low form of prostitution. Let me illustrate: Men made more than women in the workplace and could afford the nicer things like movies, games, and dinners. Women wanted these things because they felt entitled to them. They, however, could not afford it because their wages were exponentially lower than that of their male counterparts. Thus prostitution was born: Man buys woman an expensive dinner with his inflated masculine salary; woman repays with whatever form of sex is expected at the time. This is option #2

Today, there has been a mass rejection of both these earlier options and the single race has now produced what has been warned against, has been degraded, has been feared by General Authority and Relief Society alike: Hanging out. It is the woman no longer wanting to sing, but no longer wanting to prostitute (how dare she), and instead playing Rockband and watching movie after movie with large groups. This is option #3: Reject message of the First Presidency and never get married.

Weighing the facts and options, it seems as though the evolution of romance has caught me in a Catch 22.

Water Bottles Gross Me Out

This morning my roommate Mary gave me a water bottle from her car. Arrowhead. It was the catalyst to new found epiphany: water bottles gross me out.

1. My equilibrium was thrown off the entire way to my next class because of the weight difference from left hand to water-bottle right hand.
2. I felt like I had to drink it all because otherwise I would be wasting... water...
3. I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of class... something I haven't had to deal with since the single digits.

As soon as I got to class I realized that water bottle girls are EVERYWHERE. They pile their books on top of their desk as a small pyramid glorifying the water bottle that perches atop the stack. Most of the bottles have a disturbing moist condensation on the inside and I apologize for the word moist, but it's the most appropriate.

Sometimes the noise that water-bottle girls make as they adjust themselves in class haunts my nightmares. It's a little something like this: soft swish, soft swish, gurgle, backwash, slurp, plastic popping, popping plastic, lid screw, more gross room-temp water slurshing.

Catch-22

I think the concept of "Catch-22" is confusing to enough people that it can be used whenever you want. I like assessing a non-catch-22 situation as Catch-22 and seeing how many nods of approval I get.

Real Conversation:

Girl: This guy keeps coming in to work and hitting on me. He is gross and he keeps asking me when I work next and it's really grossing me out! (Insert racial slur here)
Me: Oh. Catch-22.
Girl: Exactly!

It's that simple.

*Note: This process is much more successful when the person isn't really interested in your input, but rather is using you as a sounding board who makes listening noises. Fair enough when you are using her as a device for personal amusement who makes unintelligent, and usually rude, statements.

Dictionary: 1.a frustrating situation in which one is trapped by contradictory regulations or conditions.

"The Gentle Giant"

Israel Kamakawiwo'ole:  For those who are not aware of this artist, you are probably just unaware that you are aware of him.  Anyone who watched commercials or movies in the 90's knows he sings the "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" ukulele rendition.  You know what I'm talking about.  He is Hawaiian, 789 pounds, gemini (classic gemini, sometimes fat, but always loveable) and unfortunately, dead.  He died in '97.  RIP.

That being said, consider the following conversation I overheard at the gym today.

(Kamakawiwo'ole's "rainbow" playing over the loud speakers)

small girl (talking to remotely attractive, but unfortunately short boy):  Oh my gosh, I love this song.  It's one of my favorites

small boy:  What?  Oh, yeah, this is a good one.

small girl:  I love this guy who sings this.  He was on American Idol last night, did you see it?  He sang this song.

small boy:  No, I guess I missed it.

small girl:  Yeah, it was really good, what is his name?  (I'm being serious...) It's something simple... Michael Johnson, Mike Jones... (It was George Michael, I saw the episode, I knew enough about this conversation to know that everything this girl was saying was wrong.)

This conversation taught me two things:  1.  Small people may be more attractive, but not necessarily more intelligent, and 2.  Don't ever claim anything is your favorite unless you know at least enough about it to know if it is dead or not.  

No, YOU CALM DOWN!

For those of us who have ever lived with girls (say... four in one room) we know that when that time comes to change while everyone else is dressed, things get pretty uncomfortable. We also know that as soon as we say, "Don't look" the first thing everyone does is look up at the announcer (aw, come on!). It's a little thing I like to call a paradoxical reactor.
And it doesn't only occur in a vulnerable, naked state either. In fact, most times I am fully clothed when I experience a paradoxical reactor. Some girls even use this device for flirting. "I'm really ticklish there! Don't do it!" I haven't figured out this perfect science yet: using PRs to my advantage; most of the time they are the bane of my orderly composure.

To illustrate: Look at the phrase, "calm down." I don't know what mother, meathead, pretentious snob, or "friend" thinks when they offer this gem of advice to anyone, but the lesson needs to be learned that the opposite happens. Whether I am overly- angry, excited, loud, happy, or worried; telling me to calm down will only inflame my anger, subdue my excitement, presumably make me get louder (shudder) and eliminate all happiness, probably from both our lives. Bottom line, I won't calm down. I have developed a flow chart to demonstrate what I mean. 

*Note:  The rate at which you tell me to calm down has a positive correlation with the rate at which I do not calm down

Damn Marathon

10 Things I might rather do than run 13.1 consecutive miles:

10.  Be Warren Jeffs' least favorite wife

9.  Floss on a regular basis

8.  Live as a "cat lady" for an entire year

7.  Pick up a bad habit, quit, then join a support group... all in under 21 days

6.  Re-do puberty

5.  Wear Listerine strips as contacts for a day

4.  Part with my inhaler

3.  Go freegan 

2.  Watch American Pie III again... with my grandma

1.  Lose at Mario Kart 

I just signed up for the Teton Dam half-marathon... wish me luck

My Ablogogies

Having friends who blog, we frequently run into blog pop quizzes don't we?  Testing our loyalty to our friends' lives and stories.  A conversation will be taking place and then, bam! "... but you already know that story, it was in my blog..."  -Oh yeah, that one, with the... hey!  Amelia Erhart!  I found her!

Or sometimes the occasional, I went to Spain last month, did you read my blog about it?  -Spain, Spain, quick say anything about Spain!  Yeah, that trip where you heard lots of Spanish. Great blog.

Usually these conversations end with me excusing myself to my dear friends that I have been busy lately and really do enjoy and read their blogs.  It also consists of me reciting previous blogs that I have read just to prove the point:  -Oh haven't caught the Spain blog yet, I've been so busy, but was it as good as your trip to Salt Lake? You know, when you lost half your money but that Mormon returned it to you, with an extra five? 

This process is similar to a pop quiz given in a class I really do love, but for some reason have missed the readings:  reasons for which 'busy-ness' is really no excuse.  

So, today, I want to send my apologies to the blogging world.  I have read all blogs I have missed and vow (because I want to, not because I feel obligated to do so) to keep updated on all of my charming, blogging friends.  Mary, I saw that you tagged me in a blog, and I intend on imminent response.  Kristine, I hope you have lots of fun in California with Jane; Jane, thank you for that misleading wedding photo of Christian and me; and Jess: I fell for the same April Fool's joke, you're in good company.  Or at least gullible, but optimistic company.  How's that for an A+ quiz?

Bragging Rights

Ahh blogging.  It's been a while since I've had time to breathe let alone blog.  Breathing: there is an interesting concept, and not one the designer of my bridesmaid's dress is all too familiar with, but that is another blog for another day, because today I get to do something most bloggers get to write about: bragging about children.  This isn't something I ever have the privilege to do, being senescent, single, and selfish with no offspring to show for my 21 almost 22 (shudder) years.  

But today I cross the bounds of the first dates vs. first steps.  I bring to you stories of my nephew's first publication.  

My sister, bored in church, wrote in large letters on her hand for her 6 year-old to read:  U R A Freak, and then showed him her hand.  He, being a good sport, gave her an elbow and quickly got to work on what would be his retaliation.  My sister reports a solid ten minutes of steady writing before the finished product.  When the paper was given back to my sister, it read, in unsteady kindergarten penmanship, "don't you wish your boyfriend was a freak like me."  I'm not sure what a mother feels when her child takes a first step, babbles the word, 'mama' for the first time, or finally graduates from rehab and comes home for the first time in three months, but I am quite convinced it's something of the pride and adoration I felt for my 6-year-old nephew Carter when he fired Pussy Cat Doll lyrics in counterattack towards my sister... all during the middle of church. 

The Londerground

I have been a participant of the world's most efficient public transport for about a month now.  I'm just a baby to this world of the some times scary, sometimes strange, underground, but I think my love for this place has finally entered my cautious heart.

I'm not sure when it happened, my appreciation for the tube, but it did.  It could have been the irony of the classical music played over loudspeakers in Brixton station where I live (notorious for it's drug solicitation and prostitution), as if to force class into the manner of the homeless, hustlers, and most unlikely: busy people who are all convinced that their schedule is more rushed, more important, and more urgent than their neighbor they are shoving out of the way to get onto the train first.  Yes, it could have been all these beautiful displays of humanity but I think it was last week on my lunch break, waiting for the train to take off when a rather large, blind man got on (heaven bless the blind people who brave the underground on a day-to-day basis).  He made his way along the mostly empty row of chairs and, of course, sat in the one already occupied by a very small Asian man.  

As this wonderful scene unfolded before my eyes, I was thinking about those times in life when one witnesses such pure, real-life comedy that it's almost a tragedy to be alone, not able to share with someone else.  This was nothing like that.  I stifled private laughter the duration of the ride and then all the way to work, and then yet again when I relayed the story to my less-bemused sister.  

Now, the mornings when I'm pressed up against hair that smells like fish, or a coat that smells like the Salvation Army, I remember that Asian man scrambling for his life, and I can think to myself how much I love the underground:  Slime, smell and smog, all laced with a laugh.

That's me, the Brilliant Intern

Today after work I had to follow my collegue to make some connections with other people in the company/industry... I wasn't really listening. Anyway, it was a series of champagne (which I kept refusing) h'our derves (which I should have kept refusing, but never did) and bloody feet because I wore the most unpractical shoes I own for the two-hour, stand on your feet event.

Anyway I took pleasure in two things (this might turn into more than two) the h'our derves (the fact that I can't figure out how to spell this stupid work should forshadow a few things.) of course, my mental mockery of boring people trying their hardest to make themselves sound intensly interesting by bragging about whatever economics they do to put me to sleep. Oh and the last thing that made me happy was that the girl I was with introduced me to everyone as 'the brilliant intern.' She would go talk to someone, say and this is the brilliant intern we have had for the last two weeks who has done some excellent work. Then they would look at my name take, take note of my name I assume, and then continue to brag/bore me to sleep. This went on for the duration of the whatever you would call it until the second to last person I was introduced to. He was french canadian, and as I waited for my grandeous introduction to conclude the French Canadian looked at me, looked at my name tag and said, 'jer name tahg iz upside down.' and then walked away.

Leave it to the French. So much for being brilliant, I would rather be an average idiot in comfortable shoes anyway.

Oops, no time for spell check, sorry!

God Bless American Lawsuits

At a bus stop today, I found appreciation for a bit of American culture once scoffed at. I was waiting patiently for bus 468 at the appropriate stop when bus 468 came, and flew right past me. I was a little annoyed, but the Brit chap behind me was livid. His exact words were, "Let's 'ope the bastard dies a long and painful death of cancer." A punishment that didn't entirely fit the crime, but me I've always had a soft spot for unproportionate consequence, so I laughed. He said something else in British gibberish I figured was a continuation of the cursings, so I laughed again. It wasn't until he asked (rather gruffly) if I spoke English that I realized I had heard the words "wife," and "wheelchair." Anyway, after clearing things up a bit I found out that his wife was in a wheelchair for the rest of her life because a bus (like the one that breezed right past me) had taken his wife's ability to walk when it didn't halt at the right bus stop. We chatted for a while on the bus and he told me how the surgeries had amounted to 25,000 pounds and they tried to sue in every way they could and never saw a penny (or a p for that matter).

I once read about a man (probably from Central Illinois because that's where I read the article) who was driving in his new RV down a highway, left the wheel unmanned to go make a pot of coffee, and wrecked the vehicle. He demaned the RV company pay for a new RV, his medical bills, and compensation for emotional trauma because it didn't tell him not to leave the wheel in the manual. He won.

Now if I were in America, I would sue this internet cafe for putting the @ sign where the apostrophe is and the apostraphe where the @ sign is on this ridiculous computer. But I guess if I were in America the @ sign would be where the apostrophe is so.... catch 22.

"You Are Being Highjacked"

Today's "Matt's Today in History Podcast" featured a man by the name of DB Cooper.  (Well that was sort of his name.  Actually his name was Dan Cooper; no one even knew if he had a middle name or not.   The media, playing snobby girl who can't remember names and doesn't use ones she doesn't care for, came up with 'DB' instead.) In 1971 this man hijacked a plane, but he did it with such style and class that it seemed more like an inconvenient detour.  He calmly had the pilot turn the plane around and was kind enough to let every passenger off the plane except, of course, for the pilot and stuartist--whom he needed, and guided the plane back into the air where he extended the detour by mere hours.  Mr. Cooper gave the pilot and stuartist careful instructions (showing his extensive research on 747's), locked them in the cockpit (with the utmost care I can only assume), and, leaving not a scratch on anyone aboard the plane, chuted out with his 200K.  They never found him.  

It makes me mourn the old days when terrorists and hijackers took modest amounts of money, were never greedy with the hostage count (keeping only those they needed) and really doing their homework.  I miss the terrorists with flare.  I miss the terrorists you could really fall in love with.  

Try to Make Me Go to Rehab and I said..... Well, OK!

My stint in rehab... it was brief but oh so informative.

I went to rehab last saturday afternoon to visit my brother and to attend a family group session that the program puts on every saturday.  My mom asked if I wanted to go and my mind flashed back to the summer nights of somewhere in between childhood innocence and teen angst when my sister and I could not get enough Jenny Jones or even sometimes Rikki Lake.  Not something I necessarily want to advertise, but a part of me nonetheless:  I cannot resist the opportunity for white trash outbursts and jeering from a (no less trashy, just less publicized) audience.   So of course I agreed, because the family sessions aren't just for our family, oh no, it's all the families of the rehab boys.  14 for the price of one!  (*Price* being the admission of my brother to rehab.... this won't be the only time I seem like a bad sister in this blog.  Sorry Johnny... no computers in rehab.)  

Unfortunately, during the meeting, we had an obnoxiously chatty counselor who didn't allow for quite enough open discussion, and only got one outburst.  Since the one outburst certainly didn't keep me occupied long enough, and since I couldn't even talk to Johnny yet, I had nothing to do but to listen to Chatty the anti-Springer.  

She was talking about drug addiction and using and all those great themes that are also draped along the corridors of "Gateway:  Teenage Reformation," via Government Issued posters.  She started addressing symptoms of addiction and when someone should start to know there is a problem (i.e. it's all the think about, it starts social, but becomes something the person does alone in his room, many people can do these things and not have a problem, some can't, etc.)  I began to realize:  Chatty may have been talking about cocaine, weed, alcohol, etc., but I was pretty sure I knew what she meant:  Series of shows on DVD.  For me it started with watching things like Grey's Anatomy and The O.C. with girlfriends.  It was social and harmless.  Then it turned into watching Heroes online because "my wisdom teeth had just been pulled and I needed it to take my mind off things."  Now, I watch Lost alone in my room before bed "because the writer's strike is making me."  Maybe my adolescent affinity for Jenny Jones created more than just a love for white trash, and white trash events.  Maybe the writer's strike isn't making me do it, maybe I have a problem.  I know now that I have been in denial about my series addiction, and I plan to do something about it.  And as soon as I finish season three of Lost, I am done.  I'm going to get clean.  I'm going to change. 

It's a good thing I learned so much about myself in rehab.  I really feel I can connect now with Charlie (the heroine addict from Lost) on a much more personal level.

A Pervert, Rabbi, and Possible Con Artist Walk Into a Bar

Ok, well not really a bar, but more like my email inbox.

One thing I have learned from trying to find lodging in London is this:

1. It's not exactly Rexburg
2. People will actually take advantage of me?!
3. Rabbis suck!

When I had to find an apartment for the first time in my life, it was in Rexburg, Idaho. I spoke with a woman named Faith with a voice like candy. (Except it's the kind of candy that comes in a sugary pouch and can only be eaten by another stick of candy... I think it's called Fun Dip: far too sweet and makes you sick after about 4 1/2 second, but candy nonetheless.)

The next time I had to find an apartment for myself is right now.

First, I got an email from a man named Alex. He was so nice. He said that I could live in his apartment for free! All I had to do was "be like a girlfriend to him." I love living with girlfriends! I mean, me and like nine of my girlfriends are all going to get a house together next summer, and it's going to be the best summer of my life! Alex: bachelor number one.

Then! I got an email from a Rabbi, he was great and lived in a lovely house with his wife and their friend Sally. I would have my own room and would share a bathroom with Sally. The Rabbi and I talked on the phone and made plans and everything. It was like I was a foster child finally being adopted by rich jews! Then he emailed me and said a cuter, younger (actually older and more stable) business man took my spot. And I had already felt I made such a connection with Sally. Rabbi: bachelor number 2

Bachelor number three comes in the form of a Con artist. There are a lot of details I won't go into, but it ends with "my phone is in the repair shop so no we can't talk to each other, but western union your money to me now." Classic Susan, always conning someone!

Anyway, I'm sure Alex and I will be very happy together. Fingers crossed I don't get sold into prostitution!!!!