Sassertations

She's Back

2010-11-16T00:02:00.000-08:00

www.sassertations.blogspot.com

With a whole new set of abandonment issues from Blogger's inexplicable deletion of version 1.0.

I'm working on it

2010-11-11T07:52:00.001-08:00

I don't know who or what murdered my blog in the night, but I'm going to fix it.

Dilemma

2010-10-13T16:48:00.000-07:00

I'm sick of my PC at work asking me if I want helpful tips, but I can't bring myself to check the "No, do not ask me again" box, because there has got to be a kinder way to tell the computer that while I appreciate him for doing his job, I'm not interested in any of his advice now or ever.

Franzonomics

2010-10-05T12:17:00.000-07:00

I like to go to dollar stores every now and then just to check out what's in there. I don't like the thought of dropping 11 dollars on olive oil when there could be a Dollar Tree somewhere distributing the same bottle, and I grossly overpay just because I didn't know or didn't remember. I like to know what's what. So a periodic revisit is the only way I can stay on top of the value of the American dollar. It's kind of like how my basis of U.S. capital knowledge relies so heavily on how frequently my friends and I quiz each other about them. Which usually relies solely on how frequently we take long hikes with nothing to talk about. Which is why hikers always win final Jeopardy. Always. And why I can never remember the capital of North Dakota in February.

So yesterday I'm taking inventory at Dollar Tree: great kitchen supplies, sub-par wrapping paper, mystery paper-grab bags that still call to me like the sirens of Titan, etc., and I don't see anything I need more than I want to wait in a line with no conveyor belt, so I leave and go to a real store.

At the real store, I fall right into the dollar-goggle trap and can't shed the idea that everything for sale is a dollar. Product quality goes up; price mentality remains at Washington. Wait a second. The only thing that saved me from buying everything in sight was being so stoked to have solved the economic crisis in a mere Monday evening. I checked my Supermarket Sweep mentality and came up with this equation: more dollar-store exposure = more real-store purchases = better economy. Dollar stores on every street corner! I call it the Dollar Tree stimulus package. I'm working on the name.

AaBbCcDdEeFfGg

2010-09-30T15:48:00.000-07:00

I understand, handwriting is an "art," and piles upon piles of notebooks filled with writing is not only cool: it's psychotic. And psychosis is cool to the power of a Bukowski novel, and dissing it is definitely not cool. So call me uncool, but give me a sans-serif typeface over my own handwriting any day.

In the past six months, I've demonstrated acceptable handwriting maybe twice. One of those times was a to-do list that I've been featuring on my monitor for three weeks. All the letters on the list turned out uniform, sheep-like, and at my mercy. Not at all common. I usually get at least one to two rogue letters per sentence who feel entitled to make themselves a couple times larger than their brothers. Reproducing the neatness of the to-do list has actually become more stressful than the list ever was in the first place, but I can't throw it out because it's too pretty, and I can't live with the inferiority complex "change oil in car" plagues me with on a daily basis.

So I just want the world to know that while I respect the Moleskin, I use an iPhone app for my to-do lists now. And I hope we can all just accept one another for it.

*I also reserve the right to keep any small, Hemingway-endorsed notepads with me at any time to make my purse the hip-sexy storage I want it to seem.

"It was cool, but I don't wanna do it again"

2010-09-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

I've kept this for over six years after seeing it in the Jacksonville Journal Courier back home, right in the middle of a great tornado season. And the story still gives me goosebumps.
Text: Bob Mulquin sips a beer while looking at his tornado-damaged shed recently in rural Franklin. Mr. Mulquin was hanging out in the shed with his cat, Tank, March 12 when the tornado hit. When one of the windows blew out, "Me and him (Tank) decided we were in trouble." He said he was picked up and thrown over the lawn mower, then thrown back across the room.

He grabbed onto a bench, but the shed had moved off its foundation and was pushing the bench. Then, "I got whacked with an aerosol can. Don't ever leave aerosol cans in front of a window. They were humming. I never knew an aerosol can could hit you that hard." Mr. Mulquin was knocked out and woke up with Tank tucked under his arm and his wife yelling out the door to see if he was OK.

"I woke up and smoked a cigarette," he said. One of the shed's walls had buckled, and the door rested on his truck's bumper. An adjacent silo was blown away. Mr. Mulquin was worried that he was going to lose his beloved shed—which is at least 67 years old—when he moved the truck, but it survived. "It was cool," he said, "but I don't wanna do it again."

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Zo

2010-09-09T15:28:00.000-07:00

I'll always appreciate my niece Zoe for the way she single-handedly has eradicated most memories of me as a child by carrying just enough of a resemblance to my photos to pass off as my own.

-Who's that loud-looking child with the patchy hair?

-I don't know, some orphan with a rash. Hey, here's a cute picture of me with flowers in my hair!

But I'll always love Zoe for crawling into my heart like a little tick refusing to leave. And I accept. She'll out-eat any adult at the dessert table, she's always brushing the hair out of her eyes, the only thing I see her do more than laugh is lie, and she calls all her stuffed animals by the same name. Except for the one that was named Kari on the tag. That one she calls Maggie.

Zoe's been working her way up the rankings as my favorite niece/nephew (we really need a gender-neutral term for this unit already) for the last five years. But five years to the day and she's done it. Happy birthday, Zoe. On the seventh. Sorry. Tuesdays and Thursdays are very easy to confuse.

CMoS

2010-08-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

I frequent the Chicago Manual of Style fairly often at work. I guess now is when I make some kind of “Bible” reference.

… I refuse.

Today, under section 5.191 for those of you following along (ok, ok I love the “work Bible” references! But I hate myself for loving it if that counts for anything.), I came across this quote that they actually were hilarious enough to include in their official, peer-reviewed guidance on "Beginning a Sentence with a Conjunction." It comes from Charles Allen Lloyd, “Next to the groundless notion that it is incorrect to end an English sentence with a preposition, perhaps the most wide-spread of the many false beliefs about the use of our language is the equally groundless notion that it is incorrect to begin one with ‘but’ or ‘and.’ As in the case of the superstition about the prepositional ending, no textbook supports it, but apparently about half of our teachers of English go out of their way to handicap their pupils by inculcating it. One cannot help wondering whether those who teach such a monstrous doctrine ever read any English themselves.”

Well ok then.

I just love the keywords, “groundless notion,” “handicap,” and “monstrous” because, Charles, you are berating me and not only do I deserve it, but I want your approval now more than ever. Take notes teacher roommates. The abuse cycle is the only way to educate.

Uncool, Staples

2010-08-05T11:24:00.000-07:00

Agreeing with my peers against any independent thought generated by my own brain to gain their approval and respect is a character flaw I'll get around to mending one of these days. But not yet.

So when Jane shared with me that she wished people would stop wishing away the season we're in to hop on the autumn bus, I was completely on board. (Watch as I brand this opinion with a "we" and make you love me forever.) I think my true identity might even agree with that. If she exists. So when I saw a "back to school sale" sign this week, well we were just sick about it. (There it is.)

Don't get me wrong, office supplies really do it for me. But it's August 5. And that's just cruel. It reminded me of how much I hate this commercial. The kids' dark circles under their eyes, the heartless Uncle Joey-like father my nightmares inform me is going to be my husband some day, the fact that Staples and I share a birthyear, and then the abuse of office supply packaging when he just dumps single pencils into the cart. Stop it! I hate to do this to you, but misery loves company:

Delirium

2010-07-17T14:02:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a run that was probably too long and too hot, but worth it in the end when on the sidewalk during my last stretch, I saw a gummy worm that my brain simultaneously told me was both a green and red gummy worm, and also slithering across the cement toward my feet. And for three and a half seconds, I was just as mentally handicapped as any schizophrenic Sunday dinner-guest. Or any member of the cast of Felicity. Either way, it was awesome. And I giggled the rest of the way home.

On an unrelated, or quite possibly more related than any of us could know, note, I saw the movie Inception last night and, my word, I recommend it with my entire heart and all three levels of my subconscious.

Pride Sockets

2010-07-12T15:26:00.000-07:00

I got my wisdom teeth out last week. In the beginning, the entire experience was even better than the first, which I only recently stopped raving about.

I got the nausea, pain medication, and strict liquid diet that made my sister's well-maintained high school eating disorder look like an Asian hot dog eating contest.
An ex-lover of mine dropped off a TV, a Netflix account, and one more denial to my offer for marriage. But are you sure you're sure? Either way my entertainment was set, and the amount of Jell-O I planned to put away would have turned Bill Cosby's urine lime-flavored.

Internally I started to scoff at every story I had heard thus far about the "nightmare" of adult wisdom teeth recovery. This is the best! Again! I started getting cocky about my graceful recovery. I was too busy praising my doctor (and myself) when he called for what a good team we make, that I didn't listen to any advice he had to give. Plus, at one point Jane told me I was a champion, which carried my kid sister ego all the way through a couple of straws and up to last night when I woke up with a pain shooting down my right jaw.

So I'm trying to clear the air publicly to fight off whatever pounding I feel beneath my gums right now. It could be a blood clot. But I think it's the sting of pride.

I blame no one for this but myself,* and I swear on every pudding cup in my fridge I will have more sympathy for the next wisdom tooth patient who shares their "horror story," just as long as I wake up in the morning the champion Jane thought I was on Thursday.

*Except for the "dental hygienist" soliciting her advice at a party I prematurely attended night of my surgery. No, Popsicles aren't fine, and you're bad at your job. I respect you, but I also blame you a little.

Is this for a grade?

2010-06-28T16:58:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was one of the best communicators I knew. It wasn’t because I had finally realized how to have a fluid conversation that wasn’t in the written form quite yet, and my word it certainly wasn’t because I had mastered the wink by any means, but it was because I finally had some answers to the “what’s new with you?” question.

I’ve had problems with this question for quite some time. It reminds me of Mrs. Ash’s “journal time” in the fourth grade, where our prompt was to write a letter to our teacher telling her about our week, and being as creative as we’d like. My first prompt consisted of a story about me starring me and began with truth but somehow ended in my brutal death. Some kids got a whole page written back to them from Mrs. Ash. I got a giant red question mark. I learned at an early age that to respond to this “tell me about your week/life/what is new with you” confrontation, we must not lie (I’d never), we must not be too self-indulgent (Maggie who?), and we can get close, but we must not die at the end (dead giveaway). (There is also the off-chance that some people are just filling silence with stock questions, and teachers just want a quiet hour in the middle of the day, but the optimist in me refuses both.)

A couple of weeks ago, my current-events storm for this question was the most perfect:

-I had been robbed. (“Well our house was broken into and all my property and sense of security was stolen, but let’s not talk about me, I want to hear about you.”)

-I saw two moose on a hike. (Always a crowd pleaser.)

-I had some of the best homeless attention of my life. (“I didn’t know angels could walk.” Oh bearded man (or woman), you shouldn’t have.)

But lately, the most I have to come up with is that Jane made some great waffles yesterday morning and shared, and I’m getting my bottom wisdom teeth out next Thursday. But everyone always crams advice down my throat with this last one, and I’ve already been through the process once. I know how to cope. A season of Heroes and Vicodine.

So here’s to hoping something goes terribly wrong with my wisdom teeth operation (yes, operation) and I finally have something to say to people again that isn’t old news, me news, or false news because if I’m going to cut anything, it’s going to be the truth. And it’s going to be obvious. You’ve been warned.

Your URL Is Showing

2010-06-25T08:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve recently come across this Web site that allows the user to enter text or a URL/blog into its search bar, and it will generate this word cloud of most used words in that site. I figured my blog cloud would be filled with words like, grocery store, homeless people, twins, and probably I. Instead, the biggest, most used words were Christmas, Maggie (when do I use the third person? Gross.), ago (why?), Jane (but not Kristine?), comments, receptionist, and chocolate. Nightmare! I was right on the self-centered thing, but dead wrong on everything else.

I don’t even know myself.

And Kristine, I love you. Kristine. Kristine. Kristine. That should do it.

Speaking of word clouds, some days I worry that I'll never find a man who loves me this much:

http://thedailywh.at/post/501152060/ugliest-tattoo-of-the-day-who-says-romance-is

But now I know exactly how to design that Old Man Winter tattoo I've been dreaming about.

Burgled!

2010-05-26T10:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, sometime between 9 a.m., and 4 p.m. (or as I see it: Sometime between oatmeal o’clcok and pre-dinner grapefruit o’clock), our house was broken into. Viotlated. Robbed. Smashed. Wrecked. BLED ON. Panty raided.

My roommates’ laptop, laptop, and camera were stolen, and my laptop and tv had been taken. My underwear was strewn all across my floor, and at first I was flattered. But then after some heavy detective reasoning, and after finding an ugly earring on my floor, I deduced that the little pilferer in my room had been a tiny female. And then I just felt judged.

But then I felt flattered again when I heard Kristine describe my untouched and unscathed bike as being worth $2,000. I didn’t correct her. It is a beautiful bike…

My only fear from this experience is that I have become so critical of our thieves for being so sloppy (an earring?? Blood on my bed?? Come on, O.J.!) that I’ve given far too much thought on how to do it right. And no good can come of that.

But just for the record, I’d at least have a trademark. And that trademark would be stealing all the pencils in the house. And all those pencils would be kept in an unlocked safe in my house to confuse future burglars. And none of this would be disclosed on a public blog.

Touched by an Angel

2010-05-21T14:09:00.000-07:00

To say I'm a poor driver is an understatement. To suggest my license poses a threat to humanity is a little more like it.

It's been about four months since my last fender-bender, so this quarter's run-in was due and came this morning around 9:00 a.m. I told my brother Gentzy about the wreck as soon as I got in to work. Without missing a beat he said, "Consistency is good. Predictability is comforting."

After slamming into the back of the Honda on State Street (100 percent my fault), three things shot out of my purse:

1. Lip gloss
2. Mascara
3. My cell phone

Great. Now I'm 16. I didn't even know that stuff was in there. (Lie.)

After hiding my teen-bop contraband, I cautiously got out of the car, waiting for the verbal spanking of a lifetime. I saw the driver turn around in his seat and check on a little person in the back.

Great. Now I'm a baby-killer.

The man got out of his car, waring a jean shirt, classic Levi's, hair down to his waist and a giant, "don't worry be happy" smile. This angel, brought to me on a cloud of denim and patchouli, not only assured me several times that no harm had been done, but patiently waited for me to find my policy number while his gorgeous, biracial (great. Now I'm racist) three-year-old bounced in and out of the car, no car seat to be seen.

We exchanged information, and as I drove away, I saw him raise an arm out of the corner of my eye.

Great. The middle finger.

Nope. A giant, nice-to-meet you wave. And then he floated away. Back to God.

As for his policy number? Well Gentzy and I have our suspicions of it actually being the date of the Apocalypse, slipped to me as a warning. But you'll have to wait for 2012: The Squeakual to find out for sure.

Pi

2010-04-30T23:26:00.000-07:00

Because I bill my time at work, and each hour is accounted for, I’ve begun to look at my life a little bit differently. At work, my job (and thus worth) is broken into percentages of projects. Which is great for the time sheet. But abusive to my social life.

Like being gunshy to commit 40% of my free time Monday to a luau, or trying to finally figure out which twin I love more by the higher percentage of appearances I make on their blogs.

I didn’t really realize I was doing this until yesterday at work when I dropped one of my almonds into my heater at work. Before my life was ruled by pie charts, I would have said “see ya almond” and maybe thrown another one in there just to keep it company. But because I remembered I had ten almonds, and because that almond was now 10% of my bag, which is a considerable slice on the pie chart, I had to retrieve and devour it and probably lose 50% of my friends if she saw.

In a completely unrelated note, I’m 100% positive re-reading Harry Potter is once again making me a better person. I’ll leave you with this nugget of brilliance from J.K. Rowling:

“There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them." —pg 179

What a Web

2010-04-06T10:14:00.000-07:00

I got into this (Stuff You Missed in History Class podcast). But then quickly got out of it because I could hear the sound the speaker's mouth made every time she opened it to speak. And that sound makes me feel weird. And I think it's avoidable. Plus most of the stuff they talk about, a majority probably had learned in history class. So catch 22*, moving on.

But in the podcast on the Pazzi family (sucker for a mafia tale), they used the word nepotism, which I actually hadn't learned in history class. Or any class. So I looked it up. Nepotism: favoritism shown or patronage granted to relatives. I think I should have known that. Thanks, Illinois educational system**.

When I got home that night, my friend Brandon was over and I asked him why he's never taken a job with his cousin. He said because that would be nepotism. Of course it would be.

Oh word Gods, you are just hysterical sometimes.

Nepotism: Pay it forward.

* I give this term three years before no one actually knows what it means anymore and it becomes a wild card. This is me doing my part.
**49/50. Thanks, Mississippi.

It Happens

2010-03-22T18:10:00.000-07:00

I think the same censor that is supposed to exist in my mind to keep me from excitedly talking*

about subjects on which I'm completely uneducated** was removed at the same time as the censor that is supposed to stop me from doing the Martha Washington every time I see water.

It gets ugly. Really ugly.

Phoenix was fun, though.

*Preaching, instructing, suggesting, etc.

**Health care bill, how to get a job, general life advice

Photo by Jane Metcalf

Not Since Roe v. Wade

2010-03-03T22:39:00.000-08:00

My roommates and I moved into a new house.

We love it.

There's only about two things gross about the house: a smashed/dead fly stuck to our blinds* in the kitchen, and a used Tasmanian devil band-aid on the basement** stairs. The band-aid was left when the bona fide pervert who delivered our washer and dryer tumbled down the stairs with the dryer crushing him from behind. He only left us with three things: an overall sense of insecurity, a beautiful mental image he illustrated me of how he and I would die together once we were married, and that band-aid.

Anyway, there's a pretty steep wager about which will last longer: the fly or the taz. band-aid, and to be honest my money has got to be on the band-aid because that might have been the closest thing to an engagement ring I'll ever get and to believe it is going to be swept away in a matter of months, well that's just both unromantic and pessimistic, and I am anything but either.

*Of our bay window

**Finished basement

Some News

2010-02-17T23:20:00.000-08:00

Good news: I did not hit a Jaguar in the grocery store parking lot.

Bad news: I did hit a Suburban in the grocery store parking lot.

Best news: It's beginning to seem that people are about as likely to take the time to get a quote on a scratched bumper as they are to burn you a cd or email you that picture they took. And to that I say, cheers.

Can I Get an Amen?

2010-02-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

So I missed this, but sincerely planned on participating because it was a great idea, and because I won Livi's Valentine's Day giveaway last year, but to not let a list go to waste, here is a list of things that make me happy*.

Running. I've always had a thing for abusive relationships.

Homeless people. Unfortunately not in the 'I want to help them' kind of way, but in a, 'I like when they tell me I'm pretty' kind of way. Although either result in me handing out cash so I feel that my intent here is irrelevant.

My heater under my desk at work. Sometimes I turn it on full blast and put it on my lap like a puppy.

Twins. Call me a sucker for symmetry. (Important note: not a fetish thing...it's not!).

Good grammar. Ahhhh syntax.

Fine cheeses. as a footnote to this entry, I also enjoy both giving and receiving compliments on at the checkout on cheese selection. If a customer is going to pay over 10 dollars for something the size of a small toy car, it should be congratulated. Unless of course that "something" comes in a zip lock bag, and the "chekcout" is on a street corner**. Cocaine never calls for celebration. This message brought ot you by your older, judgmental sister, Maggie.

And last but not least, well-harnessed efficiency. Now there's an art.

Franz out.

*A six minute YouTube video is a prison sentence.

**Verifying that cocaine is actually bought and sold in zip lock bags and on street corners would have required at least a couple of awkward phone conversations at best, so we're just going to have to take what I'm pretty sure about marijuana, and marry it with clips I might have seen on movies.

Thanks, Livi!

S is for Chick*

2010-01-20T19:33:00.000-08:00

Today I went to the DMV to secure my spot among the mighty fine league of Utah drivers. When I first moved here I thought my Idaho plates gave me an excuse for being such a poor driver. Then I realized it gave Utah an excuse to resent me even more. Plus it was bad PR for Idaho. And I felt bad about that. I encountered my first problem with the bearded woman at the desk after asking for new plates.

Do you have a title?

-What's that.

Ok... do you have registration?

-Is this it?

That's an advertisment

-Is this it?

That's a police warning... Do you have a full name?

-Margaret Augusta Franz

...data entry... Would you like Centennial or Life Elevated plates?

-Life elevated please! Never skied a day in my life.

I think it was the Augusta that got her in the end. Here's to hoping that Utah fellowship brings me better luck and more love on the road.

* Title of the blog comes from my friend Chris Jones who said this the first time he saw my Toyota S.

I'll Have a Blue Collar Christmas

2009-12-14T23:04:00.001-08:00

Yesterday morning at work, my boss asked if I would take the day to deliver the rest of our firm's Christmas gifts to clients around the area. I thought I'd tell him I'd first have to tie up some loose ends, finish some work and make a couple of calls. But instead I did an internal double fist pump and skipped out the door.

I pictured the rest of the day waltzing in and out of Salt Lake's finest lobbies, being greeted by sweet receptionists I only dream of resembling, while they shower me with chocolate, gratitude and compliments on my yellow coat. What I neglected to realize, however, was that most of our "clients" are inventors, and most of their "offices" are factories. The receptionists weren't exactly "sweet" and I think my yellow coat hurt their eyes. They typically ranged from warehouse wives dressed entirely in gray sweats to teen-aged daughters (or more wives) of foremen. My gifts didn't phase them. But I still tried.

"I brought you a gift!"
--blank stare
"It's for Christmas!"
--blank stare
"Christmas is a holiday season celebrating happiness"
--blank stare
"Happiness is.... Ok, well I'll go move my car so your trucks can get in."
"Thank you."

There it is.

It went on like this for the most part of the day. I got pretty good at handling their indifference, and by the end of the day I began to love my industrial sisters throughout the valley. No chocolate, no receptionist voice, strictly business. It makes sense for them really. If you take time to smile, someone could lose an arm! This sentiment carried me all the way down the road, through a red light and into the heart of Layton City's police chief as he asked me if I was from around there. "No of course not, I went to college, see my vibrantly-colored coat? But I love these people." As Officer Terry left my car with a company christmas gift, and I left Layton City with a verbal warning, I thought I might even have seen a twinkle in his eye, but then again, it was happy hour in Layton City, so I guess I'll never know for sure...

Giveaway

2009-11-11T13:20:00.000-08:00

I like winning things. I also like falling into categories of people I abhor (i.e. monopolizing and applying generic, innate human qualities to one's own personal personality traits. I'm Maggie, I like free stuff and being happy.)

Nonetheless, I've been in the business of winning things for most of my life. I usually shoot for things I know I can win. Like a compliment from a homeless person. Or a 'drawing' that turns out to be a 'sign-up'. A win's a win.

When I was 11, I entered my name into a box for free glamour shots 23 times (the number of times time would allow it took for my mom to finish her grocery shopping.) I was 11 and this was before I knew pre-pubescent photo documentation was a bad idea. So I 'won' a free glamour shot, along with all the other gals who signed up*.

I still pine to win things and enter into every blog give away I can get my paws on. It hasn't been working so I'm doing a little karma experiment. I'm giving away a 5x7 photo of this: my glamour shot of 11-year-old winner Maggie.

(Don't worry it's not the original. That still remains in a drawer locked away for my husband's work desk as the only photo I will ever allow him to show his friends/co-workers of me. If that doesn't work out, Dad, it's all yours). All you have to do is leave a comment with your email address, or email me directly at maggieafranz@gmail.com. I'll draw the winner in a week. Or two. Or however many it takes for a member of the Wright family to enter. Or Bradshaw family. Or Franz family (I won't hold my breath).

You can only enter once... Wes... Rachel... everyone...

*I'd like to think that my mom 'won' Mother of the Year when she dropped me off at the Holiday Inn with my best friend, Carmen, two overweight waitresses and a photographer in a room with no beds and a box of feathered boas.

Dear Jane

2009-11-08T10:58:00.000-08:00

Ditto

Love,

Kristine and Maggie

Halloween, Where are You?

2009-10-28T12:06:00.000-07:00

I don't especially appreciate being made a fool by anyone or anything, especially a calendar and its annual tricks it plays on me. I try to outsmart time by preping myself well in advance for changes of years, ages and holidays.

This year, in the spirit of unintentional self-sabotage, I went into overdrive and began missing timely landmarks altogether. By the time my 23rd birthday came, I had been telling people and myself I was 23 for so long to get used to the idea, I thought I had turned 24. I'm still trying to get over that one. I'm 23, I'm 23, I'm 24. Oops.

Since my character requires me to continually make the same mistakes over, I have been telling myself it is Christmas season for so long to be sure I not miss it when it actually comes, I keep forgetting to acknowledge Halloween at all. (Put the light sabers on clearance already!)

But since my dad's character requires him to solve all my (and the world's) problems before I even tell him about them*, he sent me this photo from his phone of his and my mom's afternoon walk today (bless them):

If my mom's purple shirt, black sleeves, and orange cardi don't put me in the spirit of All Hallow's Eve**, then nothing will. But don't worry Dad, it does. Happy Halloween.

... it's 2010, it's 2010, it's 2010.

*See also complexes for which I will find myself single at 40.

**Thanks for teaching me about this, Hocus Pocus

Hold the Phone

2009-10-21T22:31:00.000-07:00

Wednesday just got a little better.

Found out that it is (was...) this girl's birthday today (yesterday):

Happy Birthday Rachel Cook! (Am I too late?)

1.May we never meet in person (...again.... because I think that happened once) lest you find out how boring I actually am.

2.May you teach me some day how to glow like that in all of my pictures.

3.May people who read this think we have a creepy online relationship.

4.May your fears about number three be eased because I'll just tell my mom it's not true

5.Most importantly, may this year be as glowy and poised as the last seem to have been!

Thanks for reading, Rachel, and happy birthday!

I like Your 'Socks'

2009-10-21T12:41:00.000-07:00

I'm sort of having a love affair with each day of the week for totally different reasons, and no, I don't think they know about each other. But more on that later.

Wednesdays particularly weaken my knees because instead of going for a run on my lunch break, I go to the oasis of groceries: Smith's Marketplace. I love it here at this time of day because there are two groups of shoppers and two groups only: those who are on their lunch break, and those who are on their life-at-the-retirement-home break. Or as I like to call them: cadavers on Rascals.

The dynamic causes a ferocious climate around the store due to agendas. Group A would like to get out as soon as possible to move on with life, and group B (for obvious reasons) would not. And can not.

I'm indifferent because my main objective at Smith's is just to eat as many grapes as I can before they are weighed and paid for at the counter. But I feel as though I will be forced to choose sooner or later, and I'm afraid I'll have to turn my back on my fellow lunch-breakers. Because the last thing a lunch-breaker said to me was, "excuse me" so she could better be heard when barking, "hurry up, Buddy!" to Cute Corpse counting his dollar bills at check-out; and the last thing one of the cadavers said to me was, "I like your socks!" And I love it when old people refer to things like tights as things like socks. It's just endearing.

Sorry lunch-breakers. I respect you for your efficiency, but I'll probably be hanging in the incontinence section deliberating patterned tights and the ethics of eating candy out of the bulk bins for the next hour.

**Illustration/photograph by an ex-lover of mine. You don't mind, do you sweetheart?

Dear John(ny)

2009-10-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

I was four years old when my parents told me they were expecting their next and last baby. I remember being so repulsed by the whole idea that I swore off completely all the making out I had been doing with my three-year-old neighbor, Michael. Lest I find myself wrapped up in the same kind of "trouble."*

It wasn't a good start for Johnny. Before he was even born he had already robbed me of both my befitting role as youngest, and my pre-mature sex life. Thus the resentment roller coaster was born. On October 12, 1990 (1991?).

Resentment waned and morphed into amusement when he picked up the endearing habit of putting socks into his pants as a tail and growling at strangers in the grocery store. In third grade I wrote a poem about it and entered it into the young author's competition. When I lost, it was time for my muse to become the object of my resentment again. (Had I kept my rightful role of youngest, we'd know that blaming others for my personal rejection is just an unavoidable character flaw obtained from my birth order.)

Resentment probably flared back up again at 15 when he started dating a girl named Maggie born on June 16 (hey that's me!), but then burned back off again when he managed to be the only teenager in this decade to get arressted for stealing music by taking a CD from Best Buy in the greatest age of online music piracy. Since, my winning approval has been sealed by similarly cute little stunts I just can't help but h-e-a-r-t.

It's been a significant stretch since I've last resented the little compact disc, birth order bandit, and perhaps I'm adult enough to say Johnny, two thumbs up. Welcome to adulthood. If you weren't already there. Again, I'm not sure.

*I think finding out you're pregnant at four and 40 are probably equally as horrifying... And insulting to nature.

Let's Stay Together

2009-10-05T22:27:00.000-07:00

I find it appropriate that my love for my new Costco membership also comes in bulk and can't be found at Wal-mart.

They even use my preferred type of photograph: B&W, heavily pixilated. You know me so well...

This is the beginning of something that matters.

Friend, Best

2009-09-21T18:20:00.000-07:00

Wesley David Joseph.

3 First names
2 Much fun
1 New job.

My friend Wes just got a job at AIG*. We're all really proud of him. He pix texted me later to show me his new grown up name badge. In last-name-first fashion It read: Wesley, Joseph. But that's ok. When you have a different first name for 42% of the week, it's hard to keep track of which one is supposed to go last.

You may have three first names, Wesley David, but you're one step closer to moving out of your parents' house.

Congrats!

**Wes, they should have lots of great liturature and advice for you on corporate bailouts and the new stimulus package!

It's Cool

2009-09-08T09:18:00.000-07:00

It's cool when someone holds the door open for you on the elevator.

It's even cooler when someone asks for your floor, and then pushes the button for you.

It's the coolest when someone remembers your floor from sharing the elvator maybe once or twice with you and pushes the button accordingly. 'Five, right?' Magic.

Floor Two Lady, you are the coolest. I don't even care that you don't take the stairs like you probably should.

For a Limited Time Only

2009-09-02T12:04:00.000-07:00

Today at lunch I saw a homeless gal exhibiting a sign that read:

"Need help, this month ONLY"

Maybe it was the endorphins from my run, or maybe my fatal fondness for both homeless culture and Billly Mays, but whatever the case I found this extremely irrisistable.

I didn't have any cash on me and had Kryptonite not been playing*, I would have found it difficult not to unstrap my ipod and throw it to her; not because I believe she would/could reform herself, but because I love a limited time offer, because I have a weak spot for the homeless and homeless-inspired fashion, and because yeah, September can be kind of hard!

Homeless gal, A+ in advertising. Looking good in those Addidas pants, too.

*Three Doors Down, I hate myself so much for loving you and your appropriately titled hit, but you truly are the inhaler to my asthmatic runs.

Did I Do That?

2009-08-28T08:53:00.000-07:00

I like social experiments just as much as the next person, (probably the reason for my twin-fetish season), so this "broken-toy experiment" caught my eye this morning during my daily perusal of the news.*

Researchers put a toddler (usually two) into a room and gave him a toy, warning him to be very careful with it. The toy is engineered to break as soon as the child picks it up, causing the little guy to think he disobediently destroyed the object. Mean. But scientifically invaluable. What would usually follow is "surprise [in the child], a mild discomfort, a sheepish look, and attempts to repair the toy." Breakthrough! The test suggests that in the second year, humans have already developed a basic springboard of morals to prepare themselves for a life of breaking things, discomfort, sheep and trying to fix problems with the effectiveness of chubby, underdeveloped fingers and limited dexterity.

I think the parallels between researcher and cell phone distributors needn't be drawn here. And the sheepish look we all get on our faces when we realize we can't Ctrl+Z a text mis-fire, (no, no, it was about you, not to you.) And cue mild discomfort.

*A 30 second look at NYTimes.com, giving me the pseudo-confidence I need to face the day full of political questions and mini current events quizzes. "Did you see that angry guy with the turban in the news today?" "Yeah, he looked angry."

**Shauna, these asterisks are for you.

Hot Box of Jokes

2009-08-13T09:53:00.001-07:00

It turns out the single 20-somethings are so competitively average, that desperation drives us to resort to the obvious, extreme, and sometimes dangerous.

Last night a group of us co-ed average 20s crammed into an old elevator after a party. There were mirrors, weight capacity warnings, and it was hot so the air was ripe with typical single-20s humor.

Problems arose, though, when no jokes were really hitting a home run. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe too many 20s were talking at once. Or maybe t

he 1500 weight capacity was just too obvious to make a fat joke about the skinny guy, but someone got desperate and pushed the emergency stop button.

We halted. Waited. It didn’t start again. No one would admit to the execution of the push, but we were all guilty of joking about it. In theory, we all pushed the button that night. We pushed it when it stopped and we kept pushing it when

we continued to make procreation (guilty) and irrational fear jokes about our predicament. Just for a little attention, and maybe to push ahead of our own banality. In fact I probably push that button on a daily basis.

I’m just glad, though, that I got to experience a quasi-disaster and assess the awesome roles** of hero, fixer, and comic relief as we had to work togeth

er to pry the box down to safety and jump to our escape.

So I am convinced, now more than ever, that if I am to die in my twenties it will surely be the punch line to a joke. I just hope it’s a better one than the emergency stop.

**A big thanks to Jane for asking me what the probability was of us dying in that elevator. All of the sudden I was the statistician of the tragedy. I only apologize for being the worst disaster-movie-professor-called-to-the-scene-to-assess-damage ever when I said two percent with reassuring confidence. It actually turns out that's a lot. We have about a two percent chance of dying while skydiving, riding a motorcycle, or hiking Mt. Timp. Not standing still in an elevator for five extra minutes. Sorry Jane. You were the cute girl by the way. So was your doppelganger.

I Want that Flow

2009-07-17T08:02:00.000-07:00

There have been times in my life when I have wished I were more... exotic.

In third grade, Nina: hip, bossy, glorious and black, just had a way with people that I don't think I will ever be able to harness. She would often come up to one of the girls, sass coming out of her ears, and ask, "You got a boyfriend?" If the answer was yes* she would continue, "Well drop the zero and get with the hero." I never knew what that meant. I don't think Nina ever knew what that meant. But if I'd had a boyfriend, he'd be gone yesterday.

This morning the same yearning came listening to Obama tell the NAACP that underprivileged teens may face more challenges than the wealthy population, but it was no reason to "get bad grades! Cut class! [or] Drop out of school!" I was all of the sudden transported to a dilapidated porch swing, fanning myself from the heat of life, struggling to get by, abandoning my dreams of becoming a rapper/baller to pursue America's dream for me of becoming a teacher, and loving me for it.

I decided that whether it be Nina Making single ladies out of us all, or Obama making me a scientist/doctor/teacher, I want in. Most of the time. Or at the very least I want Nina's approval of my boyfriend, and Obama to tell me I've got flow.

*Amendment to previous wish: There have been times in my life when I have wished I were more... exotic and had a boyfriend.

6 Cakes

2009-07-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

Our neighbors, we'll call them... Bob and Janet*... have enchanted me from day one. Not only do they spend 40% of their time here, smoking,

but 40% in the backyard enjoying life, and 20% doing heaven knows what inside that house I sometimes dream about touring, but usually never want to see for fear it will ruin the fantasy I have imagined for them in there. I hope that some day I can enjoy life as much as the two of them and only need a cigarette, a dog, and American Idol to be happy.

Yesterday I made cupcakes for them for being so fantastic, and for six cupcakes, Tom gave me:

1 Big hug
2 Trips from the front of the house to bring in our trash cans
3 offers to give us his old microwave (which he is getting rid of because apparently its popcorn capabilities have recently diminished)
4 minutes of his time, anytime, to come over and make popcorn on his new microwave
5 Invitations to his Fourth of July barbecue
and 6 ''you're awesome''s.

(Tom repeats himself a lot when he's drunk)... (Tom is always drunk).

I may be more in love with our neighbors at this point than I will ever be capable of loving a family of my own. And I think the common man would agree if he had been called awesome six times in under six minutes for six sub-par cupcakes left on his door step.

*I just realized that's the only time I used the psuedonym for my all-American neighbors, but it just doesn't seem right to not use their real and befitting names.

Havasupai: The Outcome

2009-06-28T21:55:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of things that I won't do again because they almost killed me the first time, but Havasupai is not one of them.

In fact, there are a lot of things that drunk Indians, rabies-ridden guard dogs, and ten miles of feces might keep me from, but not the Shangri-la where I spent my weekend. I felt like Pocahontas off the drugs and with more logical camping gear.

On the way down, I wasn't too convinced. My Tomogatchi kept me about as alive as our "protective Havasupai native rangers" might have: by falling asleep within the first five minutes of the hike only to remain completely unconscious for the hardest part of the trek, dozing in his own defecation like the undignified bastard he turned out to be.

I didn't need him though; the few days spent in Supai were so marvelous, I would pass up the following trips just to go back:

1. New Zealand (actual country, or glorified movie set? I'm dying to find out... just like everyone else)
2. Time travel
3. The moon
4. Kolob
5. The Swiss Family Robinson tree house
6. My own wedding

Havasupai: the Prediction

2009-06-23T23:01:00.000-07:00

My roommates, some scattered friends and I are headed to this paradise to hike this weekend. It's ten miles down, ten up, over three days. Here are my predictions:

Things that will surely kill me:
1. Packing in 15 minutes while talking (undoubtedly loudly) on the phone. (See also, things that will surely lose friends and influence roommates to move)
2. Eating half my trail mix while packing my lunch just now.
3. Prioritizing survival just beneath proving a skinwalkers' ability to show up on film.
4. My inability to ration.
5. Draining my Camel Pak for funzies within the first hour because the nostalgia of drinking out of a super soaker it provides is just too blissful to resist.

Things that will surely save my life:
1. Carb loading since Saturday, just in case.
2. The Tamagotchi my friend Rachel sent me for my 23rd birthday circa 1999 from a garage sale. (Original box, original Wal-Mart price tag for $14.00, original dream come true after years of settling for Nano babies and Giga pets). When he eats, I eat, and If I die, he dies.

So my chances of survival are about two to five. Which is also 40%. Which is also the amount of americans born in the 80s who own or have owned a Tamagatchi. Which is also me as of a week ago, so I'm pretty confident about the whole thing. Wish me luck!

I Always Knew I Liked You

2009-06-23T07:59:00.000-07:00

‘If you tell a funny story at the dinner table in front of 10 people, nine will laugh, and one will say: that’s not true. I’ve always hated that person’

--David Sedaris

Here's to You, Roomates

2009-06-07T20:47:00.000-07:00

All of my roommates are gone for various reasons this weekend, leaving me alone with my own thoughts. Here is what I've come up with.

1. NO ONE did romance like the early 90s
2. NO ONE did the loose braid/wispy bang combo like Meg Ryan.

Thank you 90s. Thank you Sleepless in Seattle. And thank you roommates, for leaving me alone, but not so alone with your fantastic collections of 90s romance DVDs. You were missed, but your legends lived on in our living room.

Oh and happy birthday. In advanced, thanks for not letting me wear a braid and over-sized blazer to work this week. You girls are the best.

House Centipede in my House

2009-05-31T22:14:00.000-07:00

Came home to this little monster waiting for us in our apartment tonight. It was a little more horrifying than owning a hamster and a little less horrifying than the time I woke up with a millipede carcass draped in between my ring and middle finger (but very much the same kind of horrifying.)

At first we were intrigued, then it moved. We (my room mates and I) screamed like ethnic mourners and killed it with an oblong bike lock: something that may have been more logically used on a human intruder. It took several blows. And a lot of emotion.

Just when I think I'm a rational, self-respecting adult, nature gives me 100 wriggling, screaming reasons why I am anything but.

I Hate Myself for Loving You

2009-05-12T21:13:00.000-07:00

I may judge a man for the things he likes, but I will loathe myself for the things I love.

For instance, I sort of hate myself for how much I love Titanic. I also hate myself for not loving Flight of the Conchords. It's probably so I can beat everyone else to the punch of hating me (because I'll always forgive myself, but I know that people like my brother may never find it in his heart to forgive this kind of crime).

But most of all, I hate myself for loving, so much, the ironic, hilarious statement T's. Tonight I went to the laundromat and saw a large man, daughter in tow, with a shirt on that said "STOP SNITCH'N!" across a stop sign, and I had to laugh because, sir you are YELLING at me and we've never met.

But this isn't the first time I've appreciated and adored these shirts. And I hate that.

I hate that you are a grown man wearing a shirt that says, "Sister for sale..." and that I love it.

I hate that I wonder how many times a week you wear that "Warn a Brother" shirt because I know it's more than one and I hope it's more than five.

I hate that I want to know what you were thinking when you bought your shirt. If you laughed, or if (and I hope) you looked at it and thought, 'yeah... people do need to stop snitch'n, and I need to let them know that... one to five times a week.'

But most of all I hate that I don't hate it, not a little bit, not even at all.

Neverland

2009-04-28T21:50:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking past a crowd of popular homeless people when one stopped and proposed to me. I pretended like I didn't care, and he pretended like he was actually asking for a dollar, you know, that old game of cat and mouse, but ever since then there has been this tension on the corner of 1st and 3rd. You know, I walk past and see him... looking at me... looking at him.

I know what you're thinking, me... a lawyer, with him... a peasant??? But if there is anything this pseudo relationship has taught me is that romanticism is alive, and if you don't believe me, believe the coast of Somalia who has resurrected not only treasure and adventure but PIRACY. Just leave it to this guy, (who is suing pirates) to take the days of yore and pervert it with 21st century disgrace like lawsuits and "emotional trauma." It's pirates. The only emotion that should be felt is sheer elation to have been chosen at all.

I just think that more people should adopt old this romanticism into their lives. Maybe fall in love with a homeless man... or pirate your next lawsuit... I don't know for sure, but it might just make everyone a little bit happier.

Road Trip

2009-04-26T22:37:00.001-07:00

There is probably a lesson to be learned with every experience in life right? A road trip certainly is not exempt from this force-fed life maxim. Here are a few gems I got from driving from California back to Salt Lake:

1. Turns out I don't know all the lyrics to Aretha's "I Will Survive." I did not see that one coming.

2. Not knowing lyrics does not stop me from being so desperate for a match that I'm not only a couple seconds behind the song, but also shouting nonsense from the top of my lungs.

3. 6 bran muffins is a lot.

4. 1 hour > 10 hours, when that hour wasn't accounted for in the itinerary. Thanks Mountain Standard time.

5. Nothing makes me think deeper about life than a GPS on a road trip. The parallels are almost limitless

Photo

My Stimulus Package

2009-04-23T22:47:00.000-07:00

My parents did a pretty good job of convincing us when we were kids that we didn't have money for luxuries, so don't ask. It was a pretty good strategy, except when the lack of money never showed fruition and thus, 'poverty' is left to be deduced and determined by the child according to what the family doesn't have, and when your aunt owns a health food store, that's most things in the kitchen that the rest of the world has no trouble affording/consuming. Thus a list of 'luxuries' was conceptualized in my head: (Most of this list came from the comparison of my house, to my one childhood-stock friend Carmen's house, whose mother was single and working but bought kid food, so must have been rich.)

-White bread- rich people food
-PAM- rich people convenience (this led to what I like to refer to as the PAM upset of '04 in college when I started buying groceries myself for the first time and saw PAM for a dollar something and bought four of them because I figured they were on sale for what could only be at least 95% off.
-Automatic transmissions- rich people transportation
Hamburger Helper- Rich people don't have time to cook... and Carmen's mom loved HH...

And then I began thinking... I, or my parents, have had the answer to the "recession" (which I still think a ploy set by the national HR union) this whole time!

It's not about giving new home owners a healthy tax break, and it's not about paying teachers more... sorry all my roommates... it's about tricking the nation into thinking things like Ford Focuses and Crystal Light are the finer things in life. When they get to the checkout and see the cheap price, we just have to tell them it's 95% off. Aren't you a lucky shopper!

True or False??

2009-04-09T21:38:00.000-07:00

-Routines or "schedules" are just a set-up for causing your own worst day.

In the spirit of the kind of dinner conversationalist I am: let me answer my own question with my own story.

I always have a beverage at 11 a.m. at work. It's a little routine I've formed. Today, I forgot my drink, and my morale suddenly took a devastating turn ranging somewhere in between waking up 3 minutes before your alarm and the Trail of Tears.

I imagine my co-worker's conversation to go something like this:

"What's wrong with the receptionist?"

"Don't know, she's usually on a Splenda high and really likable at this hour."

"Well give her some chocolate, she's starting to lose us business."

Now I have to figure the best way to schedule in a time to de-schedule my schedule.
*My Friend Shauna said I should have more pictures on my blog. Is this what you were talking about Shauna?

;)

2009-03-26T22:30:00.000-07:00

I think winkers are sexy, confident, and collected. And being winked at is just about as good as getting proposed to... and almost as intimate. (I've never experienced this first had but I frequent Temple Square in Salt Lake City on my lunch break and thus have become very familiar with the process.) Oh... you're winking at me? You chose me out of this room full of humans to make such a personal connection with and to share a secret and a joke? I DO.

So as an ultimate goal to up my sex appeal I've been trying to transform myself into a winker lately. The cool thing I've learned about being a winker is that they are no respecter of persons. You can practice anywhere on anything... which can't be said about most intimate interactions. So I took this gig to work.

Except it was here that I learned trying to transform into a winker overnight is like trying to transform yourself into a habitual swearer overnight. You just end up mixing your words around and looking like an idiot. Son of a damn! Or you do this:

My married, sweet co-worker mentioned that he was overly warm in our office, and asked if I shared his discomfort. I didn't and told him... but then I felt bad for making him feel like the overweight "always warmer than the average worker" guy, so I tried to compensate by telling him that maybe it was because he was wearing pants, and I was wearing a skirt.

"Ya know, good ventilation."

I guess some part of me thought this was a good time to practice my wink (which by the way was still really slow and mechanical), when really what I should have been considering were the implications of my up-my-skirt reference alone was grounds for at least some form of sexual harassment fines. The wink could do nothing but lead to either some kind of soft lay-off or a restraining order.

So it may actually be the winking that is a result of the sexy, calm, and collectedness, instead of the other way around. But maybe now I can start winning friends and influencing people with my new habitual swearing I'm thinking about picking up.

Put the Chocolate Down and No One Gets Hurt!

2009-03-20T23:07:00.000-07:00

My biggest fear when I took my job as a receptionist... okay legal assistant... ok I'm a lawyer... was that I would turn into one of those awful front-desk ladies with two divorces and a chocolate fetish... and just in case the boss needed help with gift ideas for secretary's day... she reminds him with clever stickers bordering the form letters calendar at the office:

"Chocoholic!"
"If it ain't chocolate, it ain't breakfast!"
"Chocolate: Here today... gone today"
Or, my favorite,
"Forget love! I'd rather fall in chocolate!" Well guess what. That's exactly what's going to happen. Because of that sticker.

Well I ran into an interesting situation last week. We had a large basket full of chocolate poker chips as a part of a promotional for the firm. The chocolate was about as tempting to me as chili in July but other people didn't seem to mind and the goodies went FAST. Although to break the ice when co-workers come up for more chocolate, they'll inevitably make a chocolate joke about the diminishing pile... to which I always find myself playing along, "I know, it's like they're CALLING to me!" "... oh is it choc. o'clock again already?" "I'll be with you in a second... I just have to take this chocolate." They LOVE it.

So in a couple of days I had inadvertently become the self-proclaimed choco-crazed receptionist I hate, short of only a few stickers and probably a couple of bra sizes. But I still hadn't eaten any chocolate. I realized then that I've been resenting the wrong person this whole time. It's not the crazy lady in the office who loves chocolate... she doesn't even LIKE chocolate; it's the crazy PEOPLE in the office who LOVE a chocolate joke. It probably started with a basket of candy after a trade show, and ended with a new sticker for the 'receptionist' at every holiday because "she LOVES chocolate," and I'm sure THAT all began with a poor receptionist at some sticker making factory whose boss thinks she, and every other society-created, chocoholic receptionist nation-wide only need an hourly wage and some cocoa reinforcement to keep her a happy and productive worker... or better yet... human being.

Trick-or-Swag

2009-03-12T22:11:00.000-07:00

The law firm I work for has been out of town at a business expo/trade show for the last few days. While there, I realized something horrifying about myself. On a horror scale it was a little more horrifying than when I found out (about a couple of months ago) that college degrees don't automatically qualify every American for an income of at least $40,000 a year; and a little less horrifying than the time I came home on break and realized that my brother's and my tooth brushes were the same color. The horror that has come to my attention is that I have not progressed in maturity or personality since pre-pubescence trick-or-treating and here's why.

The similarities between trick-or-treating and trade show swag grabbing are unparalleled. It starts with the child (me) visiting the home (booth next door), with the one sole purpose of scoring free anything.

"what do you do?"
"I'm a receptionist"
"Oh great, hey we have really good credit programs for low-income households"
"Thanks, can I have a tiny Snickers?"
"Sure, here's my card"

But as we know getting free things like Snickers doesn't satisfy that bug inside of all of us to get free stuff, it just wakes it up. So I move on, and get a little more swag savy the longer I'm there.

"Who are you with?"
"I'm a legal assistant with an IP firm, these stress releivers are free right? Thanks, see you around."

Business card: averted. Eye contact: avoided.

The next thing I know I'm an "IP Attorney" hula hooping my self-respect away in a contest in the middle of an aisle with professional businessmen trying to make their way around my over-zealous swivels. All for a tacky wind chime branded with "Corporate Alliance: Because Business is about Relationships."

So, just when I think I have grown up and reached adulthood, life takes me to a business expo to show me that I'm no better than an awkward stage nine-year-old on Halloween. Except I tell more lies.

Was This a Good Idea?

2009-03-08T22:52:00.000-07:00

I recently spent a few days at home for a friend’s wedding. Other than providing me with an over-abundance of confidence that is sure to backfire on me in the next 24 hours, home imparted an insight into my childish behavior masked by the adult utilities of a better vocabulary and my Mac. Let me explain.

My sister and I were sitting on her couch when we needed something so commissioned my equi-motivated five-year-old nephew to run up and get it for us (why else do people have children?). He wanted to go get it about as bad as we did, until we made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We used every child’s kryptonite by challenging his self-proclaimed speed. “Owen, show Maggie how fast you are, she doesn’t believe it. We’ll time you.” What a sucker. Or so I thought, until I realized I’ve been falling for the exact same thing the past few months.

The first night I got home my grandpa was in the hospital because of a broken hip, but due to psychosis and morphine, he was incoherent and had to be watched 24/7 so he didn’t yank out his catheter, or other vital/painful tubes. Now I’m not one to jump at a chance to serve a man who isn’t capable of praising/recognizing my god-like charity. And I’m definitely not one to eagerly be on my grandpa’s catheter duty. Until I heard this, “Maggie, this could make a great blog.”

“That’s true,” I thought, “There are probably at least three, maybe four people who would want to read about that,” and by 3 a.m. I was fighting just to get out of there without seeing my grandpa naked.

This isn’t the only time this has happened either. My brother called me the other day with a proposal: “I served a mission with this guy. He’s 30, he’s a total tool, womanizer, douche bag, etc. I want you to go out with him though. I think it could be a really good blog.” Still waiting for that call.

Give a ride to my dad’s life-long charity-case former prisoner? Absolutely.

So not only is my ego more inflamed than a five-year-old’s whose speed has been questioned, but has turned me to the three most demeaning and inappropriate professions in America: Prostitution, cab driver, and CNA. And the worst of these is CNA.

Not a Walker, Not Yet a Shirtless Jogger

2009-02-22T09:35:00.000-08:00

Living near a park, I have come to find that there are two types of female runners in the world. Those who wear clothing when they run, and those who wear their sports bras. I won't ever be one of the just-bra girls, but who knows, maybe they are the ones confident enough to tell bosses to give them raises or men to marry them. Maybe I'm missing out. But I think I'll take my chances.

The other day I saw a girl running in a sports bra, but she didn't have a great body. It wasn't terrible, but it was pale and nonathletic, and my first response when I saw her was concern! It took me a while to figure out she was running for recreation, and then I realized something else about these shirtless joggers: there is a flawless math equation for determining the attractiveness of a woman by using the amount of time it takes an onlooker to realize that the girl is running by choice, and not out of danger.

It goes something a little like this: seconds it takes for recognition to set in + number of running indicator accessories (i.e. iPod, running shoes, numbered marathon tag, etc.)= attractiveness of lady.

So this pale girl I saw yesterday probably took me about 2 seconds to realize she wasn't in danger. She had on running shoes and an iPod, so she was probably a 4 on this average-girl scale of averageness. The scale starts somewhere at a 1, which isn't terrible but ends somewhere around 10, which does of course get a reaction somewhat close to "Someone call the police! This girl has just been raped, has barely escaped with her bra, and is running for her life!" And it's this response that has kept me from ever picking up this drafty habit. Until then, I'll keep envying zeros, offering rides to fives and up and in the mean time jog with my shirt on.

Blockbusted

2009-02-20T08:27:00.000-08:00

Recently I've found a little help draining my debit card (or as I like to call it: my gift card to the world--makes it not so embarrassing when it declines at the register). My two spending comrades ended up being Blockbuster and a scam artist from Craigslist. I guess I had somehow tried to rent a movie on Blockbuster.com and ended up becoming a member for six months (at 20 dollars a month) without realizing it. And on Craigslist, I was trying to get a job and signed up for a "free" credit report per request of my "future employer," to make sure I was honest (oh an ironic artist), Well the Craigslist scam ended up taking about 20 dollars a month from my debit card for about 2 months without me realizing it.

I started to think about both these crooks and realized that Blockbuster was far more maddening than the con artist (I mean he is an artist). They both stole the same cash from me, but Blockbuster didn't even need to be creative about it. And maybe with the Craigslist guy, I helped someone go to college. Then I realized that there are a lot of "deeds" that are condemned just because society has deemed them to be, but there are far worse things out there. Like blockbuster. Or my inability to be anorexic. Let me explain.

Recently anorexia has become a societal worry among stars, teenagers, etc. And the poor crowd is getting such a bad rep. Well the only thing that distinguishes me from an anorexic is sheer will power. Every day I wake up with the promise to myself of a full-fledged eating disorder. About the time I shower I'm already making excuses to my friends and their inevitable worries about my emaciation. About the time I head down to the kitchen is when I let myself down. This if far more abusive than any star/teenager ever thought about being.

It's like these corporate guys who are embezzling funds from their corporation. What? A million dollars over 4 years? Put him in tights and he's Robin Hood... put him in a business suit and he's in jail. All I'm saying is maybe we should give a little more credit to those who are actually working for their crime--unlike Blockbuster. Because the last time I checked, conning, embezzling, and starving ALL take time, dedication, and conviction and those are all things that I for one, applaud.

Go For the Bronze

2009-02-15T00:33:00.000-08:00

Last year when I ran a marathon (ok half... ok I still haven't gotten over those glory days) I was listening to the post-marathon conversations at the park where we finished. One guy had been asked his time, but had to admit to this crowd of runners that he started passing out around mile 20 and had to be shuttled back to the park. Yes, he had run 7 miles farther than I had. Yes he had a bigger goal than I had... but he still seemed less accomplished.

This lesson has been echoed in my current job:...{text deleted... only available for a limited time... call it the early bird special}... I started to realize: success isn't measured by what you've achieved really... it's more about how low you've set your standards.

I've tried to apply this new life maxim to my dating life and have thus been spending more and more time at the West-end Wal-Mart... a little farther away but worth the low prices and high self-esteem. Let me explain. This particular Wal-Mart caters to those with fewer limbs, teeth, and coherent English phrases than most. In other words: I'm the West-End Walt-Mart goddess. I walk in with a full set of teeth and I'm getting stares and words of affection in all different languages. One guy told me I had nice shoes... to which I had to reply, "Thanks, you have a really nice tube in your neck," but didn't because I think leaving a compliment with nothing but a smile always leaves 'em wanting a little more.

So with these low expectations and even lower dreams, I know I'll be the most confident, athletic, successful girl of my (uncommonly low) dreams. And if you don't believe me, maybe you'll believe three very wise black men. Or two very stupid white girls who taught me that going for the gold gets you nothing but broken knee caps or a warrent for your arrest.

Kick Me!

2009-02-04T15:40:00.000-08:00

I've only been in Utah a week and so far my experience has depended heavily on impressions I've been making (due to interviewing, meeting new people, etc.). Thus, I have taken a more careful notice of the way other people have been impressing me.

Case one: A girl at church had curled her hair in typical Utah fashion and was dressed nice, etc. All credibility was lost as soon as she turned around to reveal one thick, straight piece of hair that had missed her curling iron. And here I thought your hair curled naturally in orderly little curls like that!

Case two: I was driving on the freeway behind a car who had his blinker on for 7.2 miles. (I know the exact mileage because of my trusty GPS*) He may have been a smart man, who knows, but I wouldn't hire him after flashing 7.2 miles of his own unrecognized carelessness.

Case three: I was driving past a group of elementary school kids today and while none of them had signs on their backs, it just reminded me of those horrid 'kick me,' 'I'm a loser' or 'I'm HIV positive' signs that kids paste to some poor child's shirt, and I realized: there's nothing worse/more humiliating than that. Not even being yelled and cursed at 37 times (caution OBSCENE amounts of swearing in this link) by a mega superstar during the production of Terminator...Christian Bale.

So when trying to make a good impression on a potential friend, job, or lover, my experience/recommendation is this: Before you check your make-up, mind, or heart, check your back. Because it's not what's on the outside or the inside, but what's behind you that really counts.

*There is no chance I will love any of my future children more than my GPS... Caveat: maybe when they're babies and toddlers, or adults, but definitely not during the 'awkward' phases.

Forgive Me

2009-01-27T14:00:00.000-08:00

If you know me in real life, here are a list of lies that I probably will or have told you....um...sorry about that.

Lie: I have a job
Truth: I've had interviews, a couple emails, and a potential Craigslist identity theft scare. I have no job.
Truth 2: I'll probably still tell you I have a job... even if I'm sure you have read this.

Lie: I just booked a flight to Utah
Truth: I booked a flight to Utah Jan. 19th. Got antsy, booked one for Jan 13th. Got nervous, moved it back to Jan 19th, Got nervous when the "doctor"* told me I had a herniated disc, canceled the flight. Booked a flight February 11th, after my surgery. Got antsy, canceled surgery, booked a flight for Jan. 29th.

Lie: I need surgery on my back
Truth: The surgery was just to get rid of my pain...which is partially legitimate but void because the decision on surgery was also based on another attempt to postpone my real life experience. Also known as unemployment, also known as bills.

Lie: Turns out I don't need surgery on my back
Truth: This lie was more like restitution for the previous lie. Again, the no surgery was really based on my restless desire to live with fun, symmetrical friends again.

Lie: Of course I don't care what my friends think of my life!
Lie 2: I've really got things figured out.
Truth: Read this post again.

Again... my apologies. If you're really angry you can email me at my new work address. I'll get it to you as soon as the tech guy, Sean, gets back from his vacation in Palm Springs... it could be a while. Sean loves Palm Springs! Ugh, tech guys.

*I don't think there's anything quite as condescending as quotation marks. Old Man Winter used them all the time. Bless that man's soul.

Colder than a Convict

2009-01-19T17:20:00.000-08:00

When your father is a saint, sometimes it's cool because karma has a way of spilling out onto his demon seed for doing nothing at all. And I mean nothing. But then again, sometimes you end up giving rides home from Springfield to ex-cons.

Today my dad and I went 30 minutes from home to return a kitchen aid to a store in Springfield. Well on the way over we got a call from Tracy, the four-time prisoner of the state penitentiary** who used to go to our church. Tracy has been using my dad's altruistic heart for 11 years for help. This afternoon Tracy asked my dad if he could come to Springfield to give him a ride to Jacksonville to see some "friends." Well we just happened to be in the area heading that way. Lucky us.

We picked him up from work where he is a waiter (no not a dishwasher. I asked.) My dad says due to his anti-social personality disorder, he makes a great waiter. Which is weird because I would say because of his anti-social personality disorder, he would make a great murderer, but I guess I'm just a glass half empty kind of girl.

Anyway, as I'm in the passenger seat, listening to Tracy's stories, I got a rude awakening. He was telling us about the flaggers who stand outside Wal-Mart for $7.25 an hour. Yeah, I've seen them. Looks like the kind of job that would be fitting for Tracy. Go on. I assumed he was going to tell us he filled out an application, but what he did was get that guy some hot chocolate on the coldest day of the year. The guy told him no one had ever done that for him before. Well, after I had successfully judged everyone inside and outside the car (my dad for being too nice, Tracy for being a criminal (ok that one was actually deserved), the flaggers for looking like criminals, etc.), I realized that I was sitting in the car with a saint and a crook, but still managed to be the most insensitive person in the vehicle.

So alright, I'm more cold-hearted than a sociopath on parole, but what I'm hoping is that Karma is a little bit like my GPS. All it knows is that Tracy was in Springfield. The car I was in picked him up, and then the car I was in dropped Tracy off in Jacksonville. Good deed: attained. I also hope that the Jacksonville Police Department is a little less like my GPS. Accomplice in major drug deal: averted.

*Being the optimistic person he is, my dad said he hoped I wasn't too bothered and that maybe I could get a blog out of the experience. I said maybe but I didn't pay attention very well. He said that I could just make up what I don't remember because it's what I "usually do, right?" Great, now I'm cold-hearted and the saint thinks I'm a liar.

**For purpose of this blog, I asked my dad how many times Tracy has been to jail. He said 'four times. Wait, jail or prison? He's been to the county jail a number of times. He's been to prison four.' Well. I wouldn't want to be inaccurate.

Torture Me

2009-01-14T09:07:00.000-08:00

I have this herniated disc in my back. I usually tell people it's from running a half marathon in June (and I usually leave off the half), but it's probably just because I ate something wrong and twisted. Whatever the case, I've been seeing the chiropractor for a few weeks now to try and correct it before surgery.

I've never been to a chiropractor before, but I've only heard success stories so I was optimistic. However, today it dawned on me why the success rate is so high.

I've been seeing similarities for a while between the chiropractor's office, and torture scenes I've seen on movies. I go in to a room, get electroshock treatment, and then go to another room to see the doctor who asks me lots of questions I don't have the answers to:
"how did you do this?"
"A marathon"
"You can't herniate a disc from running"
"I don't know then."
"More electroshock."

Except that all of these "torture" devices feel really good. It's not that they are torturing me, but they are torturing me in reverse. It's genius. I think they're ahead of the Chinese on this one. And it must be great for business.

When I first came in they asked me my pain level. I said 9. They said on a scale of 1 to 10. Oh. 9.5 then. My leg doesn't feel any better now, but it's like every time they torture me in reverse and ask me what level of pain I'm in they are saying, "we are doing all this nice stuff for you and you don't feel just a little better? Not even a little?" So these days I say my pain is a two and hop up on the massage table. I think they're catching on though because today I got the best treatment of my life: the hydrotable. It was like being water boarded by an angel.

They may threaten me with love, candy and big spine-cracking bear hugs from the doctor... but I'm holding out with the "I feel better" because I know they've got the big guns in the back: Dr. oh so sexy (and single) VanFleet, the surgeon I see on Friday; and I feel like if I'm really insistent that my back/leg still hurts, I might just get that doctor/torture love affair I've been dreaming of since the explosion of popular "sexy doctor" shows on tv.

The Greatest Sacrifice

2009-01-06T22:15:00.000-08:00

Some might say that giving birth and raising a child is the most selfless thing a woman can do in this life. But I think something is getting overlooked here. A friend of mine from London (who is Australian) came to visit me in "Chicago" where I'm from for a few days. I understand that childbirth might be hard, but hostesses are certainly not getting enough credit for being a top competitor on the selfless scale.

You think you are losing sleep because of your newborn? Well try pretending like you're not the kind of American who sleeps until ten. How's that for a disrupted schedule?

Not to mention my social life. Maybe it's hard for new mothers to be able to spend time with their husbands but I have texts to answer! Very important texts from men who don't call or come around so I depend on these texts to provide me with false hope and potential emotionally abusive relationships (fingers crossed). And the life I am in charge of doesn't nap. I had to send the Aussie to find Velveeta cheese in the Super Wal-Mart buying me a guaranteed 15 minutes to squeeze in a few texts (God bless over-sized American warehouse shopping and foreign-to-Europeans synthetic cheese).

Don't get me wrong, I love my guest as much as any postpartum depressed mother "loves" her newborn, but I would like some credit for my selfless sacrifices. Sure diapers are expensive but so is driving back and forth to the airport.

So go ahead, mothers of the world, soak up all the martyrdom while "giving life," I'll just be over here, the silent American ambassador, making peace with the world by driving to Chicago for the third time this week.

When Old Satan Calls: A Tribute

2008-12-25T21:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-19T07:20:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-10T09:26:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-08T19:38:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-02T22:56:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-25T23:34:00.000-08:00

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.

OMW and me... summer '06. My word he's RADIANT....

Paper Cutastrophe

2008-11-19T22:56:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-17T17:32:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-13T21:59:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-12T18:36:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-10-24T17:38:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-20T15:55:00.000-07:00

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:

2008-10-09T17:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-05T13:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-24T21:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-08T23:21:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-26T21:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-20T12:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-08T17:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T19:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-31T00:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-13T16:36:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-03T16:27:00.001-07:00

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?

2008-06-23T15:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-18T22:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-17T16:21:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-11T12:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-09T17:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-28T19:37:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-26T10:47:00.000-07:00

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"

2008-05-22T22:33:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-05-16T09:33:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-17T14:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-15T21:21:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

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

2008-02-27T11:49:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-02-19T10:21:00.001-08:00

God Bless American Lawsuits

2008-02-18T10:39:00.001-08:00

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"

2008-02-04T20:21:00.000-08:00

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.