Mrs G told us to split up into three groups. "You guys have one hour," she said. "In your group, come up with a creative way to present the idea of Valentine's Day to the rest of us."
I was group up with Kam, Rika, and Amanda. As the lone male in our group, Kam instantly came up with an idea.
"Let's have a foursome."
"Or..."
"Not like a real foursome. Like, a foursome of rhetoric."
He grabbed a pen and started jotting down notes while the other girls and I read over his shoulder. "It's Valentine's, and as you see, the thing these ladies love is me..." it began. What formed over the next twenty minutes was basically an ode to Kam's own awesome masculinity. The other girls and I were each given a couple of lines to recite, and with a half-hour left to go we finished planning our presentation and just started chatting.
The clock ticked by, and eventually Mrs G asked another group to start. I'm sure they did something amusing, but I can't remember what it is. The second group was likewise forgettable. As they were finishing up, though, I looked around and realized Kam wasn't in the room.
Mrs G called our group up. "We need just a minute, I think Kam's in the bathroom," I said.
"No, I'm here, go ahead and start," came a muffled voice. All eyes turned toward a large orange cabinet in the back of the room, one that normally housed textbooks but was presently empty except, apparently, for Kam.
"Kam, what are you doing?"
"Trust me, just go up front and I'll join you. It'll be awesome."
With confused looks at each other, the other girls and I took our places at the front of the classroom. Everyone else looked just as perplexed as I felt as I said my first line. "What's the matter, Amanda?"
"Oh, it's Valentine's Day," she moaned. "I hate Valentine's Day."
"Me, too," chimed in Rika. "If only I had the perfect boyfriend."
*Dramatic collective sigh.*
"It's Valentine's, and as you see," came Kam's muffled voice from the cabinet, "the thing these ladies love-"
The cabinet door swung open and Kam stepped out, looking quite dashing in a red tie.
Also his tighty-whities.
Also one sock.
Three guesses where the other sock was.
"- is me."
He sashayed up to the front of the room, whipped around, and just took a moment to let us all admire him and his near-nakedness. Then we finished the poem, the three girls taking turns stroking various parts of Kam's body as he rhymed about how perfect he was.
We were Vanna White, and his body was covered in vowels.
This was hardly the first time Kam had stripped down during class, and it wouldn't be the last. But it was by far the funniest.
A few years later, up at the U, I decided to pop into the food court between classes for quick bite. It was lunchtime, and the room was crowded. I finally spotted what appeared to be an empty table next to a pillar, but as I walked around to it I realized there was some guy sitting there.
Too tired and hungry to search for an alternative, I boldy (for me) asked if I could take the empty seat across from him. He said sure. He continued eating and reading his book, and I started on my sandwich. About three minutes later we both realized that we were sitting across from someone we knew.
"Kam?"
"I thought that was you, but I didn't think you recognized me!"
We got to chatting, catching up on the highlights of each other's lives since we parted in high school. We shared a few laughs, reminisced a bit, had some fun. He flattered me by saying he still occasionally thought about some story I had written back in our LitMag days, and I told him that every now and then a poem he wrote called "Chair" would pop into my head and make me chuckle.
It was a good time, and highly unfortunate that we each had to rush out to our respective classes after only about a half-hour. We said good-bye without making false promises that we would get together soon, because I think we both knew our impromptu lunch date was a chance encounter that wasn't likely to repeat.
It wasn't until I was walking to class later that I realized it was Valentine's Day.
Showing posts with label True Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label True Stories. Show all posts
2.14.2010
1.18.2010
Big Chief
I took a deep breath before opening the door. I knew that the others were waiting for me, and that the moment I walked over the threshold all eyes would be on me.
I thought I knew how most of them would react, but I wasn't sure. This could go over badly.
Very badly.
I looked back at Steph and Mindy. They had ridden in the car with me, and so knew what I was about to tell the others - what I had to tell the others. With a slight nod Steph assured me that they'd back me up. With no compelling reason to put it off any longer, I turned the handle and entered my apartment. Half a dozen people stopped half a dozen coversations and whipped around to face me.
"Hey."
"What happened?"
"You saw what happened. I got pulled over." I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and swung it around so I could sit and face everyone sprawled over the living room couches. Steph took a seat next to me. Mindy stayed back, eyes on the floor, and leaned against the wall by the entryway.
"Yeah, but for what?" asked Kiki. "We were in the car right behind you - you'd barely made it out of the parking lot before the cop turned his lights on."
A few hours earlier, the boys had announced that they were making a Denny's run and asked if any of us wanted to come along. It was well after midnight, and the truck-stop Denny's in Salina, a 45 minute drive away, was the nearest restaurant that would be open that late. Though most of us weren't big fans of the food, it was something of a tradition to make the long drive through the desert to fill up on rubbery pancakes in the wee hours.
We piled into three separate cars and caravaned through the darkness along the twisting highway, stopping for the occasional herd of deer or sagebrush pile that blocked our path. The restaurant was mostly empty, except for a few truck drivers and another group of college kids whose evening had thus far progressed much the same as our own. By the time we finished eating, our guts full of conversation and laughter and imitation maple syrup, our energy levels were shot through the roof.
Later we piled back into our cars to make the long drive home. Candice led the way, Kiki brought up the rear, and I drove between them.
When the cop pulled me over, Kiki rushed around and up ahead to catch up to Candice so they could pull off to the side and wait for me. Candice and her companions were too busy rocking out to the music blasting from her car stereos to notice his flashing lights in her rearview for almost two miles, so by the time the other two cars pulled over they were much to far away to see what was happening back at my car.
(Very few of us owned cell phones at the time, and those that did never bothered to bring them on road trips. There was no reception outside of town until you got all the way north to Nephi.)
As Kiki explained this to me back at the apartment, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded half-sheet of paper.
"So after we waited for a while we decided to come back here and wait for you," Kiki finished. "You took forever. What happened? Why'd he pull you over?"
"Well, it wasn't so much because of me," I said, "as it was because of us."
"Us? Who?"
"Us. All of us. Because of the statue."
Next door to Denny's was a Sinclair gas station. Like so many others, this one featured a six-foot high brontosaurus in the yard. Part of the Late Night Denny's Run tradition included climbing on this little dinosaur for a picture.
This particular Sinclair station, however, went the extra mile. In addition to the dinosaur, there was a 14-foot bronze statue of a Native American on a pedastal, wielding a tomahawk and wearing a loincloth.
"No way."
"Yes, way."
"I don't believe you. He pulled you over because we were climbing on the statue?"
"He pulled me over because he thought I was driving drunk. He was in the parking lot across the street, saw us all scaling Big Chief, and figured we must all be plastered out of our minds."
Kiki and the others just stared at me. I had a history of telling tall tales, and they were all wary of my stories. None of them were eager to swallow this one, until Lynne spoke up.
"She's telling the truth. I can tell."
"No, she's not," Kiki said.
"I've lived with her for two years, Kiki. I know her better than you. I can tell when she's lying," Lynne insisted.
"I'm not lying to you. He made me get out of the car and walk the line and everything. Had to take a breath-a-lizer. That's why it took so long," I said.
Kiki looked to Steph for confirmation. She nodded. He turned to Mindy, who was still staring at the ground, silent.
"Min?"
She didn't say a word, just kind of shrugged.
"They made us all do it," I said quietly.
The others instantly understood. No wonder Mindy was so quiet - how embarrassing for someone to think that we'd be drinking! We hardly looked like the kind of people who would drink. We were good Mormon kids, smart, about to graduate from junior college! Most of us weren't even of age yet. For someone to think that we would be so devious as to drink alcohol was insulting.
"But obviously you weren't drunk, so it was fine."
"Well..."
I dropped the folded piece of paper on the tabletop. Kiki reached out to pick it up. He opened it carefully and skimmed over it. I took a deep breath before blurting out the bad news.
"We have to pay a fine. For disturbing the peace and vandalism."
"WHAT?" Some of the others leapt from the couches and crowded close to see the ticket in Kiki's hand for themselves.
"Where does it say that?"
"She's lying."
"If she was lying, why'd she get the ticket?"
"I dunno, speeding?"
"We were pulling out of a parking lot; there's no way she could have been speeding."
I let them all argue for a minute, then decided I had to speak up. "Guys," I said, "the way I see it we have two options. We can either fight it or pay it. But since graduation is in a couple of days, and we'll have to go all the way to Salina to see a judge to fight it, it'd be at least a two hour drive for any of us. And we don't really have a reason to fight it, as we were climbing on the statue.
"So our other option is to pay it. Since it's in my name, I'll send the check if everyone just gives me cash for their share."
Everyone nodded in agreement. Almost.
"I'm not paying anything," Candice said.
"What? Why not?"
She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and rolled her eyes, as if the answer should be obvious. "I didn't climb Big Chief."
"Yes you did, we all did!"
"No, I just leaned against the base. I'm not paying."
"Don't be a jerk."
"I'm not being a jerk! I'm just not going to pay a fine for climbing on a statue when I didn't do it."
The conversation continued for a while longer. By now, dawn was approaching and our late night pancake buzz was nearly worn off. Mindy had long ago slipped off to her room to go to bed, without adding a word to the discussion. I glanced at Steph. Through a long yawn she gave me a look that clearly said, "That's enough, do it already."
"Guys?"
Once again, all eyes were on me. I took a deep breath.
"Gotcha."
"I hate you."
"I knew you were lying," Kiki claimed.
"You lying sack of crap."
I laughed. "You guys totally fell for it! Come on, I had to have one last good one before we all graduated and moved away."
"So what'd you get the ticket for?"
"He pulled me over because he thought I'd run the stop sign. I told him that wasn't me, it was Candice in the car in front of me. Since our cars are both white and it was dark, he must've gotten mixed up. But my insurance expired last week, and I don't have the new card. It was mailed to my parents' house, and since I was going back there in a few days I hadn't bothered to have them forward it to me. So I got a ticket for not having proof of insurance."
Most of them laughed along with me now. "Good one."
"I don't know why I ever believe a word you say."
"I really thought you were telling the truth!"
"Well," said Candice, "it's a good thing I wasn't going to pay my part of the fine."
I thought I knew how most of them would react, but I wasn't sure. This could go over badly.
Very badly.
I looked back at Steph and Mindy. They had ridden in the car with me, and so knew what I was about to tell the others - what I had to tell the others. With a slight nod Steph assured me that they'd back me up. With no compelling reason to put it off any longer, I turned the handle and entered my apartment. Half a dozen people stopped half a dozen coversations and whipped around to face me.
"Hey."
"What happened?"
"You saw what happened. I got pulled over." I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and swung it around so I could sit and face everyone sprawled over the living room couches. Steph took a seat next to me. Mindy stayed back, eyes on the floor, and leaned against the wall by the entryway.
"Yeah, but for what?" asked Kiki. "We were in the car right behind you - you'd barely made it out of the parking lot before the cop turned his lights on."
A few hours earlier, the boys had announced that they were making a Denny's run and asked if any of us wanted to come along. It was well after midnight, and the truck-stop Denny's in Salina, a 45 minute drive away, was the nearest restaurant that would be open that late. Though most of us weren't big fans of the food, it was something of a tradition to make the long drive through the desert to fill up on rubbery pancakes in the wee hours.
We piled into three separate cars and caravaned through the darkness along the twisting highway, stopping for the occasional herd of deer or sagebrush pile that blocked our path. The restaurant was mostly empty, except for a few truck drivers and another group of college kids whose evening had thus far progressed much the same as our own. By the time we finished eating, our guts full of conversation and laughter and imitation maple syrup, our energy levels were shot through the roof.
Later we piled back into our cars to make the long drive home. Candice led the way, Kiki brought up the rear, and I drove between them.
When the cop pulled me over, Kiki rushed around and up ahead to catch up to Candice so they could pull off to the side and wait for me. Candice and her companions were too busy rocking out to the music blasting from her car stereos to notice his flashing lights in her rearview for almost two miles, so by the time the other two cars pulled over they were much to far away to see what was happening back at my car.
(Very few of us owned cell phones at the time, and those that did never bothered to bring them on road trips. There was no reception outside of town until you got all the way north to Nephi.)
As Kiki explained this to me back at the apartment, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded half-sheet of paper.
"So after we waited for a while we decided to come back here and wait for you," Kiki finished. "You took forever. What happened? Why'd he pull you over?"
"Well, it wasn't so much because of me," I said, "as it was because of us."
"Us? Who?"
"Us. All of us. Because of the statue."
Next door to Denny's was a Sinclair gas station. Like so many others, this one featured a six-foot high brontosaurus in the yard. Part of the Late Night Denny's Run tradition included climbing on this little dinosaur for a picture.
This particular Sinclair station, however, went the extra mile. In addition to the dinosaur, there was a 14-foot bronze statue of a Native American on a pedastal, wielding a tomahawk and wearing a loincloth.
"No way."
"Yes, way."
"I don't believe you. He pulled you over because we were climbing on the statue?"
"He pulled me over because he thought I was driving drunk. He was in the parking lot across the street, saw us all scaling Big Chief, and figured we must all be plastered out of our minds."
Kiki and the others just stared at me. I had a history of telling tall tales, and they were all wary of my stories. None of them were eager to swallow this one, until Lynne spoke up.
"She's telling the truth. I can tell."
"No, she's not," Kiki said.
"I've lived with her for two years, Kiki. I know her better than you. I can tell when she's lying," Lynne insisted.
"I'm not lying to you. He made me get out of the car and walk the line and everything. Had to take a breath-a-lizer. That's why it took so long," I said.
Kiki looked to Steph for confirmation. She nodded. He turned to Mindy, who was still staring at the ground, silent.
"Min?"
She didn't say a word, just kind of shrugged.
"They made us all do it," I said quietly.
The others instantly understood. No wonder Mindy was so quiet - how embarrassing for someone to think that we'd be drinking! We hardly looked like the kind of people who would drink. We were good Mormon kids, smart, about to graduate from junior college! Most of us weren't even of age yet. For someone to think that we would be so devious as to drink alcohol was insulting.
"But obviously you weren't drunk, so it was fine."
"Well..."
I dropped the folded piece of paper on the tabletop. Kiki reached out to pick it up. He opened it carefully and skimmed over it. I took a deep breath before blurting out the bad news.
"We have to pay a fine. For disturbing the peace and vandalism."
"WHAT?" Some of the others leapt from the couches and crowded close to see the ticket in Kiki's hand for themselves.
"Where does it say that?"
"She's lying."
"If she was lying, why'd she get the ticket?"
"I dunno, speeding?"
"We were pulling out of a parking lot; there's no way she could have been speeding."
I let them all argue for a minute, then decided I had to speak up. "Guys," I said, "the way I see it we have two options. We can either fight it or pay it. But since graduation is in a couple of days, and we'll have to go all the way to Salina to see a judge to fight it, it'd be at least a two hour drive for any of us. And we don't really have a reason to fight it, as we were climbing on the statue.
"So our other option is to pay it. Since it's in my name, I'll send the check if everyone just gives me cash for their share."
Everyone nodded in agreement. Almost.
"I'm not paying anything," Candice said.
"What? Why not?"
She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and rolled her eyes, as if the answer should be obvious. "I didn't climb Big Chief."
"Yes you did, we all did!"
"No, I just leaned against the base. I'm not paying."
"Don't be a jerk."
"I'm not being a jerk! I'm just not going to pay a fine for climbing on a statue when I didn't do it."
The conversation continued for a while longer. By now, dawn was approaching and our late night pancake buzz was nearly worn off. Mindy had long ago slipped off to her room to go to bed, without adding a word to the discussion. I glanced at Steph. Through a long yawn she gave me a look that clearly said, "That's enough, do it already."
"Guys?"
Once again, all eyes were on me. I took a deep breath.
"Gotcha."
"I hate you."
"I knew you were lying," Kiki claimed.
"You lying sack of crap."
I laughed. "You guys totally fell for it! Come on, I had to have one last good one before we all graduated and moved away."
"So what'd you get the ticket for?"
"He pulled me over because he thought I'd run the stop sign. I told him that wasn't me, it was Candice in the car in front of me. Since our cars are both white and it was dark, he must've gotten mixed up. But my insurance expired last week, and I don't have the new card. It was mailed to my parents' house, and since I was going back there in a few days I hadn't bothered to have them forward it to me. So I got a ticket for not having proof of insurance."
Most of them laughed along with me now. "Good one."
"I don't know why I ever believe a word you say."
"I really thought you were telling the truth!"
"Well," said Candice, "it's a good thing I wasn't going to pay my part of the fine."
1.06.2010
Habla Espanol
I've always wanted to learn another language.
For years I lied to myself (and others) and said that I just didn't have much of an aptitude for it. But I no longer believe that's true. I took French in the 8th grade and still remember enough that I just scored an 80% on the online French grammar test I took.
Proof:
I took this class thirteen years ago, for one school year - during half of which Mme. Trelease was out on maternity leave and we had a substitute. So clearly my powers of retention are greater than a goldfish.
So then why do I not know how to speak French? Or Japanese, which I took for two years in high school and another in college? Why am I only marginally able to communicate in ASL despite four semesters of it?
I'll tell you why.
Because I am lazy.
La...
...zy.
A few years ago I was living in an apartment and befriended some of the boys who lived downstairs. They all spoke Spanish, and often used it when talking to each other.
One day I was down there when one of the roommates, Chad, stormed in. His usually cheerful disposition was hidden beneath a dark cloud of seething rage. One of the other roommates noticed, and carefully phrased a question so as to not upset him further.
"Dude?"
Chad opened his mouth to spout off something when he noticed me sitting on the couch. He clamped his jaw shut and muttered, "Nothing."
"Dude. What?"
With a long glance in my direction while he decided whether or not I should be privy to this information, Chad took a deep breath.
"Bienvenidos y rojor el taquitos rancheros de que pasa Casey un ustados unidos chica de frijoles y pollo mos caliente!" he said.
Or something like that.
I had no idea what he was saying. But I did distinctly hear the words "Casey" and "chica." And I, being well aware of the drama going on between our other neighbor Casey, Casey's girlfriend, and Chad, was able to figure out the basics.
Chad's roommates switched into "comforting bro mode."
"Dude..."
"Get over it," I chimed in. "Casey's just a jackass and not worth your trouble."
Jaws dropped and eyes leapt to me. The boys were aghast, as if I'd somehow stumbled into their secret world. "You understood me?" Chad asked.
"Yes, Chad, I speak Spanish."
(p.s. No, I don't.)
For several months, however, I was able to deceive all of them into thinking I was fluent in Spanish without every speaking a word of it. Every time they started having a conversation in Spanish, I'd nod my head or laugh along or roll my eyes and they thought I knew what they were talking about.
I don't understand Spanish, but I do understand body cues.
Also, I'm really good at lying.
I don't really know why I get such satisfaction out of knowing I pulled off a good lie. But I do. And I've managed some winners in the past. But this blog is all about the truth, so whenever I tell a story about a lie I told I'll label it "Less Than True."
So now you know.
Glad we got that out of the way.
For years I lied to myself (and others) and said that I just didn't have much of an aptitude for it. But I no longer believe that's true. I took French in the 8th grade and still remember enough that I just scored an 80% on the online French grammar test I took.
Proof:
I took this class thirteen years ago, for one school year - during half of which Mme. Trelease was out on maternity leave and we had a substitute. So clearly my powers of retention are greater than a goldfish.
So then why do I not know how to speak French? Or Japanese, which I took for two years in high school and another in college? Why am I only marginally able to communicate in ASL despite four semesters of it?
I'll tell you why.
Because I am lazy.
La...
...zy.
A few years ago I was living in an apartment and befriended some of the boys who lived downstairs. They all spoke Spanish, and often used it when talking to each other.
One day I was down there when one of the roommates, Chad, stormed in. His usually cheerful disposition was hidden beneath a dark cloud of seething rage. One of the other roommates noticed, and carefully phrased a question so as to not upset him further.
"Dude?"
Chad opened his mouth to spout off something when he noticed me sitting on the couch. He clamped his jaw shut and muttered, "Nothing."
"Dude. What?"
With a long glance in my direction while he decided whether or not I should be privy to this information, Chad took a deep breath.
"Bienvenidos y rojor el taquitos rancheros de que pasa Casey un ustados unidos chica de frijoles y pollo mos caliente!" he said.
Or something like that.
I had no idea what he was saying. But I did distinctly hear the words "Casey" and "chica." And I, being well aware of the drama going on between our other neighbor Casey, Casey's girlfriend, and Chad, was able to figure out the basics.
Chad's roommates switched into "comforting bro mode."
"Dude..."
"Get over it," I chimed in. "Casey's just a jackass and not worth your trouble."
Jaws dropped and eyes leapt to me. The boys were aghast, as if I'd somehow stumbled into their secret world. "You understood me?" Chad asked.
"Yes, Chad, I speak Spanish."
(p.s. No, I don't.)
For several months, however, I was able to deceive all of them into thinking I was fluent in Spanish without every speaking a word of it. Every time they started having a conversation in Spanish, I'd nod my head or laugh along or roll my eyes and they thought I knew what they were talking about.
I don't understand Spanish, but I do understand body cues.
Also, I'm really good at lying.
I don't really know why I get such satisfaction out of knowing I pulled off a good lie. But I do. And I've managed some winners in the past. But this blog is all about the truth, so whenever I tell a story about a lie I told I'll label it "Less Than True."
So now you know.
Glad we got that out of the way.
12.29.2009
I Don't Hoe-Down.
I told you it would be another post.
You thought I was lying.
Jerk.
Have a little faith in me.
For years my friend Jen tried to get me to go hoe-downing with her. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of a hoe-down, it is basically a social activity where people either pair up (sometimes with people they know, sometimes with strangers) and attempt not to trip over each other, or stand in large groups and perform awkwardly synchronized movements involving, but not limited to, foot stamping and/or hand clapping and/or hip swinging and/or grapevines in a large room, all while country music plays loudly.
I have a lot of problems with this.
Jen: "Do you want to hang out with Mandy and me tonight?"
Me: "Depends. What are you doing?"
Jen: "Well, there's a Country Sw-"
Me: "I don't hoe-down."
Jen: "It's not a hoe-down."
Me: "Will there be at least 5 people there wearing cowboy boots?"
Jen: "Probably."
Me: "That's a hoe-down."
I spent my first two college years in a tiny town in central Utah. It was in the middle of nowhere. The closest Wendy's was a 45 minute drive away, by which time it was only another 15 minutes to a real restaurant so it seemed pointless to stop at Wendy's anyway. I actually quite liked the fact that there was nothing to do - it lent itself perfectly to my I'd-rather-stay-in-and-watch-a-movie lifestyle.
But every Wednesday, the whole town would gather at the dance hall above the pizza parlour for its weekly hoe-down. And, as that was the only source of entertainment if the three movie screens in town weren't hosting any new features, I attended a couple of times.
I even took a class that taught you how to do some of the turns and things.
Don't judge me.
I needed the PE credit.
So the six class sessions and the two or three times I went "just for fun" have all been filed away in my brain in the drawer marked, "Time I Will Never Get Back."
We all have our regrets.
Several years after I graduated from that school and moved out of that town, I ran into an old friend I'd met there. His name was Stumpy Joe.
He'd picked that nickname for himself.
Seriously.
Stumpy and I didn't have a lot of time to catch up right then, so we exchanged email addresses. A few days later I had an email from him that told me a bit about what he had been up to the last few years. At the bottom there was a post script that left me completely confused.
p.s. Remember that time at country swing when I dropped you on your head? I still feel bad about it.
I remembered the hoe-down where I danced with Stumpy. I remembered how awkwardly he tried to lead me, and I remembered how we discovered two people with unnaturally short arms (hence the "Stumpy" moniker - what did you think it meant?) will have a hard time with a pretzel turn.
BUT I DID NOT REMEMBER BEING DROPPED ON MY HEAD.
This worried me.
Had he dropped me so hard that I had amnesia?!
One of these days I'm going to say to her, "Jen, don't tell lies. There were no cute boys there."
And Jen will say, "How would you know? You weren't there."
And I'll say, "Of course I was there. Did you forget?"
And when I explain to her that hoe-downs cause amnesia, she'll finally give up trying to get me to go. And then I'll tell her that she owes me twenty bucks.
You thought I was lying.
Jerk.
Have a little faith in me.
For years my friend Jen tried to get me to go hoe-downing with her. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of a hoe-down, it is basically a social activity where people either pair up (sometimes with people they know, sometimes with strangers) and attempt not to trip over each other, or stand in large groups and perform awkwardly synchronized movements involving, but not limited to, foot stamping and/or hand clapping and/or hip swinging and/or grapevines in a large room, all while country music plays loudly.
I have a lot of problems with this.
- Problem #1 - Social Activity
- Problem #2 - Groups of People
- Problem #3 - Pairing up with Strangers
- Problem #4 - Strangers with Sweaty Hands Touching My Body
- Problem #5 - Performing Awkwardly Synchronized Movements
- Problem #6 - Foot Stamping
- Problem #7 - Hand Clapping
- Problem #8 - Strangers' Sweat Flicking Into My Face During the Foot Stamping and/or Hand Clapping
- Problem #9 - Grapevines
- Problem #10 - Country Music
Jen: "Do you want to hang out with Mandy and me tonight?"
Me: "Depends. What are you doing?"
Jen: "Well, there's a Country Sw-"
Me: "I don't hoe-down."
Jen: "It's not a hoe-down."
Me: "Will there be at least 5 people there wearing cowboy boots?"
Jen: "Probably."
Me: "That's a hoe-down."
I spent my first two college years in a tiny town in central Utah. It was in the middle of nowhere. The closest Wendy's was a 45 minute drive away, by which time it was only another 15 minutes to a real restaurant so it seemed pointless to stop at Wendy's anyway. I actually quite liked the fact that there was nothing to do - it lent itself perfectly to my I'd-rather-stay-in-and-watch-a-movie lifestyle.
But every Wednesday, the whole town would gather at the dance hall above the pizza parlour for its weekly hoe-down. And, as that was the only source of entertainment if the three movie screens in town weren't hosting any new features, I attended a couple of times.
I even took a class that taught you how to do some of the turns and things.
Don't judge me.
I needed the PE credit.
So the six class sessions and the two or three times I went "just for fun" have all been filed away in my brain in the drawer marked, "Time I Will Never Get Back."
We all have our regrets.
Several years after I graduated from that school and moved out of that town, I ran into an old friend I'd met there. His name was Stumpy Joe.
He'd picked that nickname for himself.
Seriously.
Stumpy and I didn't have a lot of time to catch up right then, so we exchanged email addresses. A few days later I had an email from him that told me a bit about what he had been up to the last few years. At the bottom there was a post script that left me completely confused.
p.s. Remember that time at country swing when I dropped you on your head? I still feel bad about it.
I remembered the hoe-down where I danced with Stumpy. I remembered how awkwardly he tried to lead me, and I remembered how we discovered two people with unnaturally short arms (hence the "Stumpy" moniker - what did you think it meant?) will have a hard time with a pretzel turn.
BUT I DID NOT REMEMBER BEING DROPPED ON MY HEAD.
This worried me.
Had he dropped me so hard that I had amnesia?!
- Problem #11 - Hoe-downs cause amnesia.
One of these days I'm going to say to her, "Jen, don't tell lies. There were no cute boys there."
And Jen will say, "How would you know? You weren't there."
And I'll say, "Of course I was there. Did you forget?"
And when I explain to her that hoe-downs cause amnesia, she'll finally give up trying to get me to go. And then I'll tell her that she owes me twenty bucks.
12.22.2009
Really?
I watched a bemused smirk settle on Dan's face as Jim studied him carefully.
"You're never going to guess," Dan said.
"Yes, I will." Jim cocked his head slightly to the side, as if looking at Dan from that angle might help him solve the puzzle. "You're... not an atheist."
Dan refused to reveal any sign of confirmation or contradiction. Not a single muscle in his face gave way to even the slightest twitch. He was enjoying this.
As was I.
I don't know if it was actual curiosity or just boredom that led Jim to start his little game, but as the members of our screenwriting class gathered around the table a few minutes before class was to start, he had blurted out, "I want to try something." Then he proceeded to go around the room and try to guess everyone's religion.
A couple of them were easy - Chris, for example, was writing his screenplay for the class about his experience with Judaism in the valley of the Great SL,UT. Everyone knew that Amir was Muslim. A lot of the other students in the class weren't religious at all. But Jim was stuck on Dan, and understandably so.
Mostly because Dan was being purposefully difficult, and Jim knew it. It wasn't a matter of figuring out Dan's belief system so much as figuring out what Dan would claim as his belief system. And, as Dan was a highly creative individual with a deeply twisted sense of humor, the possibilities were endless.
Time was running out, and a big part of me hoped that Jim wouldn't be able to crack Dan before our teacher decided to start class. I was up next, and I didn't want my religion brought to the attention of everyone else in the room.
It's not that I was afraid of being judged by the other students, not at all. I knew that not one of them would care one way or the other. But part of me had always felt kind of ashamed to admit that I was a Mormon.
And then I was ashamed to feel ashamed, and ashamed that I felt ashamed that I was ashamed, and it was a vicious cycle.
Growing up in the SLC suburbs, most people I encountered just assumed I was Mormon. After all, I was a "good" kid. I didn't drink or sleep around, or have weird piercings. In the Morridor, it's often assumed that anyone who appears to have high morals must be a Mormon, and that those poor non-members stuck out like sore thumbs. I was guilty of that attitude myself - I remember being surprised to learn that my high school friend was not a member after knowing her for several months.
"I give up," Jim conceded. "What are you?"
Dan smiled. "I worship the Great Sun God Balthu'ul. Every morning I drink copious amounts of wine and sacrifice small animals in his name. Praise Balthu'ul!"
Everyone laughed. Jim rolled his eyes and then turned his attention on me.
"Well, at least Kristen's easy," he said.
"Spread that around, won't you?" I replied.
Jim looked me in the eye, pointed to me, and declared, "ATHIEST!"
I was shocked. I had thought that my Mormon roots were as clear as day. I mean, the most sinful thing I had ever done in front of any of my classmates was swear a bit. I didn't think it could be any more obvious if I was wearing a sweater with flashing lights that read CTR!
"No."
Jim looked surprised. "Really?"
"Really."
"Agnostic, then."
"Well... no, not really."
At this point, Jennifer caught my eye and smiled. She was the only openly Mormon student in the class, and often brought up her religious beliefs in our discussions. When she gave me that smile, I knew that she knew. I felt marked.
Dan opted to help Jim with his query. "Are you a Buddhist?"
"What? No."
"Presbyterian?" Chris joined in.
"Baptist?"
"Lutheran?"
People!, I thought. We live in SALT LAKE CITY. Come ON.
Finally I admitted, "I'm... Mormon."
"Really?" Jim asked.
"Really."
"Yeah, but... are you really?"
I thought about that on the way home that night. Was I really a Mormon? I felt so proud of the fact that my peers had been surprised, even shocked by my admission. They hadn't known, hadn't pigeonholed me, and I felt a great sense of relief about that. If I was so pleased by the fact that people thought I wasn't LDS, rather than proud of the fact that I was, than was I? Really?
That was the start of a journey that would take me a couple of years to finish, where I made it a goal to find out what, if anything, I believed about the church. It was the start of my quest to figure out: was I really a Mormon?
"You're never going to guess," Dan said.
"Yes, I will." Jim cocked his head slightly to the side, as if looking at Dan from that angle might help him solve the puzzle. "You're... not an atheist."
Dan refused to reveal any sign of confirmation or contradiction. Not a single muscle in his face gave way to even the slightest twitch. He was enjoying this.
As was I.
I don't know if it was actual curiosity or just boredom that led Jim to start his little game, but as the members of our screenwriting class gathered around the table a few minutes before class was to start, he had blurted out, "I want to try something." Then he proceeded to go around the room and try to guess everyone's religion.
A couple of them were easy - Chris, for example, was writing his screenplay for the class about his experience with Judaism in the valley of the Great SL,UT. Everyone knew that Amir was Muslim. A lot of the other students in the class weren't religious at all. But Jim was stuck on Dan, and understandably so.
Mostly because Dan was being purposefully difficult, and Jim knew it. It wasn't a matter of figuring out Dan's belief system so much as figuring out what Dan would claim as his belief system. And, as Dan was a highly creative individual with a deeply twisted sense of humor, the possibilities were endless.
Time was running out, and a big part of me hoped that Jim wouldn't be able to crack Dan before our teacher decided to start class. I was up next, and I didn't want my religion brought to the attention of everyone else in the room.
It's not that I was afraid of being judged by the other students, not at all. I knew that not one of them would care one way or the other. But part of me had always felt kind of ashamed to admit that I was a Mormon.
And then I was ashamed to feel ashamed, and ashamed that I felt ashamed that I was ashamed, and it was a vicious cycle.
Growing up in the SLC suburbs, most people I encountered just assumed I was Mormon. After all, I was a "good" kid. I didn't drink or sleep around, or have weird piercings. In the Morridor, it's often assumed that anyone who appears to have high morals must be a Mormon, and that those poor non-members stuck out like sore thumbs. I was guilty of that attitude myself - I remember being surprised to learn that my high school friend was not a member after knowing her for several months.
"I give up," Jim conceded. "What are you?"
Dan smiled. "I worship the Great Sun God Balthu'ul. Every morning I drink copious amounts of wine and sacrifice small animals in his name. Praise Balthu'ul!"
Everyone laughed. Jim rolled his eyes and then turned his attention on me.
"Well, at least Kristen's easy," he said.
"Spread that around, won't you?" I replied.
Jim looked me in the eye, pointed to me, and declared, "ATHIEST!"
I was shocked. I had thought that my Mormon roots were as clear as day. I mean, the most sinful thing I had ever done in front of any of my classmates was swear a bit. I didn't think it could be any more obvious if I was wearing a sweater with flashing lights that read CTR!
"No."
Jim looked surprised. "Really?"
"Really."
"Agnostic, then."
"Well... no, not really."
At this point, Jennifer caught my eye and smiled. She was the only openly Mormon student in the class, and often brought up her religious beliefs in our discussions. When she gave me that smile, I knew that she knew. I felt marked.
Dan opted to help Jim with his query. "Are you a Buddhist?"
"What? No."
"Presbyterian?" Chris joined in.
"Baptist?"
"Lutheran?"
People!, I thought. We live in SALT LAKE CITY. Come ON.
Finally I admitted, "I'm... Mormon."
"Really?" Jim asked.
"Really."
"Yeah, but... are you really?"
I thought about that on the way home that night. Was I really a Mormon? I felt so proud of the fact that my peers had been surprised, even shocked by my admission. They hadn't known, hadn't pigeonholed me, and I felt a great sense of relief about that. If I was so pleased by the fact that people thought I wasn't LDS, rather than proud of the fact that I was, than was I? Really?
That was the start of a journey that would take me a couple of years to finish, where I made it a goal to find out what, if anything, I believed about the church. It was the start of my quest to figure out: was I really a Mormon?
12.15.2009
12.14.2009
Humans Are Awesome
I once had a friend who was dating a guy I didn't like very much. I tried not to let on how annoying I thought he was. After all, she was a big girl, a smart girl, and if she wanted to date the douchebag that was her prerogative. So I never came right out and told her that I thought her boyfriend was a tool.
But I told a few other people.
A lot of people, actually.
Pretty much anyone who would listen.
One day, a few months after she'd started seeing him, she told me that he had instigated a DTR. He started it off by telling her that if she wanted to date other people he was okay with it, but that he was only going to date her.
I know.
Seriously.
I know.
"Was I supposed to say that I didn't want to date other people?" she asked me. "Because I didn't say that. I said he should date other people, too."
"How did he take that?" I asked.
"I don't know. He kept saying things that didn't make sense. Things I think he thought were profound or something but they really just weren't applicable. And I was really tired."
"Weren't applicable? Like what? 'Hey, you know how the polar ice caps are melting? Also, I think you're swell'?"
"Almost that random," she said. "Just stuff about humans and stuff."
She gave me a minute to pick myself up off the ground, wipe the tears of mirth from my eyes, and regain my breath before moving on. Oh, God, please bless that one day I'll be dating a guy who feels it necessary to supplement our deep, meaningful conversations with tidbits like, "You know what's really cool about human beings? They have thumbs!"
So now this friend of mine has decided that it's high time to end things with this guy who talks about humans and stuff. And it takes every ounce of self control I have to not say to her, "I told you so!"
Or, rather, "I totally would have told you so except I didn't want to offend you by telling you what a weird loser your boyfriend was, but if I hadn't had such high regard for your feelings I totally would have told you so!"
Maybe next time she'll listen.
But I told a few other people.
A lot of people, actually.
Pretty much anyone who would listen.
One day, a few months after she'd started seeing him, she told me that he had instigated a DTR. He started it off by telling her that if she wanted to date other people he was okay with it, but that he was only going to date her.
I know.
Seriously.
I know.
"Was I supposed to say that I didn't want to date other people?" she asked me. "Because I didn't say that. I said he should date other people, too."
"How did he take that?" I asked.
"I don't know. He kept saying things that didn't make sense. Things I think he thought were profound or something but they really just weren't applicable. And I was really tired."
"Weren't applicable? Like what? 'Hey, you know how the polar ice caps are melting? Also, I think you're swell'?"
"Almost that random," she said. "Just stuff about humans and stuff."
She gave me a minute to pick myself up off the ground, wipe the tears of mirth from my eyes, and regain my breath before moving on. Oh, God, please bless that one day I'll be dating a guy who feels it necessary to supplement our deep, meaningful conversations with tidbits like, "You know what's really cool about human beings? They have thumbs!"
So now this friend of mine has decided that it's high time to end things with this guy who talks about humans and stuff. And it takes every ounce of self control I have to not say to her, "I told you so!"
Or, rather, "I totally would have told you so except I didn't want to offend you by telling you what a weird loser your boyfriend was, but if I hadn't had such high regard for your feelings I totally would have told you so!"
Maybe next time she'll listen.
12.08.2009
12.05.2009
Foul Play
My very first real job was with the SL County Parks and Recreation department as a referee for their junior soccer league. I was 15, and had never played soccer aside from playground pickup games.
I did not then, nor do I now, know the rules of soccer.
That's not entirely accurate. I know some of the rules. For example, I know that the ball has to stay within the lines on the outside of the field or it's out of bounds. And I know that when the ball goes in the net it's a goal.
But that's about it.
It was easy enough to fake it when I was reffing for the three-year-olds. Every thirteen seconds I'd have to blow the whistle because the ball went out of bounds. They almost never scored goals, and at that age they didn't keep track of points, anyway. I spent a lot of my time on the field tying the kids' shoes.
The seven-year-olds, however, were a different breed. The kids themselves still didn't quite understand the game and were just in it for the fun of running around on grass and kicking a ball. But the parents... the parents were out for blood.
It usually took them until about two minutes into the game to realize that I had no idea what I was doing.
"Come on, ref! What're you doing?" they'd scream from the sidelines, fists clenched, faces red.
"I wish I knew!" I'd think.
"Stay off the field!" I'd say.
I'm pretty sure that's a rule.
One day, one parent was particularly upset. I can hardly blame her.
I mean, I've seen Jurassic Park. I know that a butterfly flaps its wings in Peking and in Central Park you get rain instead of sunshine. Seemingly tiny, insignificant events can create absolute catastrophe.
So when I, a poorly-trained teenager with a plastic whistle, carelessly called a foul on her precious little child when he merely kicked an opponent in the back of the knee, I must have opened Pandora's box. Because that child had a foul called against him, because the other team got a penalty kick, because that penalty kick was missed and the game resumed, that woman's kid would not grow up to become President of the United States.
Also, that woman would not be able to see the end of her son's soccer game, because I kicked her off the field for rushing out me and screaming.
It's all my fault. I can see that now.
I'm sorry, America.
When soccer season ended and the Parks and Rec department released the work schedule for basketball referees, I wasn't on it. I still don't know if I was fired or just overlooked.
I did not then, nor do I now, know the rules of soccer.
That's not entirely accurate. I know some of the rules. For example, I know that the ball has to stay within the lines on the outside of the field or it's out of bounds. And I know that when the ball goes in the net it's a goal.
But that's about it.
It was easy enough to fake it when I was reffing for the three-year-olds. Every thirteen seconds I'd have to blow the whistle because the ball went out of bounds. They almost never scored goals, and at that age they didn't keep track of points, anyway. I spent a lot of my time on the field tying the kids' shoes.
The seven-year-olds, however, were a different breed. The kids themselves still didn't quite understand the game and were just in it for the fun of running around on grass and kicking a ball. But the parents... the parents were out for blood.
It usually took them until about two minutes into the game to realize that I had no idea what I was doing.
"Come on, ref! What're you doing?" they'd scream from the sidelines, fists clenched, faces red.
"I wish I knew!" I'd think.
"Stay off the field!" I'd say.
I'm pretty sure that's a rule.
One day, one parent was particularly upset. I can hardly blame her.
I mean, I've seen Jurassic Park. I know that a butterfly flaps its wings in Peking and in Central Park you get rain instead of sunshine. Seemingly tiny, insignificant events can create absolute catastrophe.
So when I, a poorly-trained teenager with a plastic whistle, carelessly called a foul on her precious little child when he merely kicked an opponent in the back of the knee, I must have opened Pandora's box. Because that child had a foul called against him, because the other team got a penalty kick, because that penalty kick was missed and the game resumed, that woman's kid would not grow up to become President of the United States.
Also, that woman would not be able to see the end of her son's soccer game, because I kicked her off the field for rushing out me and screaming.
It's all my fault. I can see that now.
I'm sorry, America.
When soccer season ended and the Parks and Rec department released the work schedule for basketball referees, I wasn't on it. I still don't know if I was fired or just overlooked.
12.04.2009
In Which Our Heroine is the Girl All the Boys Want... to Talk To About Their Feelings
In the seventh grade I had a crush on a boy. Let's call him Tim.
Tim and I were buddies. I think we went bowling together once. Not on a 'date', of course, because dating before your sixteenth birthday is essentially like taking a hawksaw to your Corral of Mor-al.
But that's another post.
So Tim and I were friends, which was Step 2 in the Kristen Crush Creator 2000. The KCC has adapted and changed a bit as I've gotten older. It's become a bit more specific, new boundaries have been established. But during my early tween years, when boys were exciting or something, there was very little to the KCC2000:
Step 1: be male.
Step 2: be my friend.
Step 3: be funny.
Step 4: be more attractive than a used sock.
Step 4 was optional.
Tim flew through all four steps fairly early in the school year. And I was pretty convinced that I had also passed through the Tim Crush Creator Beta. He talked to me, he smiled at me; he was obviously under my spell.
Then one day I got an email from Tim.
kristen - hey. random questoin for you. do you thikn if i ask marie out she'l say yes?
And so it began. My transformation into....
See my super awesome eye mask that keeps my feelings for you artfully disguised?
Tim and I were buddies. I think we went bowling together once. Not on a 'date', of course, because dating before your sixteenth birthday is essentially like taking a hawksaw to your Corral of Mor-al.
But that's another post.
So Tim and I were friends, which was Step 2 in the Kristen Crush Creator 2000. The KCC has adapted and changed a bit as I've gotten older. It's become a bit more specific, new boundaries have been established. But during my early tween years, when boys were exciting or something, there was very little to the KCC2000:
Step 1: be male.
Step 2: be my friend.
Step 3: be funny.
Step 4: be more attractive than a used sock.
Step 4 was optional.
Tim flew through all four steps fairly early in the school year. And I was pretty convinced that I had also passed through the Tim Crush Creator Beta. He talked to me, he smiled at me; he was obviously under my spell.
Then one day I got an email from Tim.
kristen - hey. random questoin for you. do you thikn if i ask marie out she'l say yes?
And so it began. My transformation into....
BEST FRIEND GIRL!!!
See my super awesome eye mask that keeps my feelings for you artfully disguised?
See my wicked cool defensive cape that I can use to protect me from all the hurtful things you unknowingly say?
See the mega-fast rocket boots that help me rush to your aid every time you have a problem with some other girl you like?!
Tim was the first boy I liked who asked me to help him get another girl. But he would not be the last. I could never predict when the calls would come. On cold nights in cars, around my kitchen table eating nachos, on the way home from a date - suddenly the boy I was with would blurt out, "Can I talk to you about something?" and I knew.
Oh, yes, I knew.
Though I have participated in many of these conversations, and they all vary slightly, every single one follows this basic script.
Boy: "You're great, you know that?"
Me: "Oh, I know." (thinking, "And so it begins.")
Boy: "I mean, seriously. You're awesome. You're a good friend."
Me: "Pass the salsa, please."
Boy: "Can I ask you something?"
Me: "Sure."
Boy: (hesitates) "It's... well... I know I can talk to you because you're not like a girl. I mean, you're a girl-"
Me: "Very observant of you."
Boy: "But you know what I mean. You're like a girl who's a guy. I mean, I don't think of you like a girl. I think of you like a friend. But you are a girl, so you can probably help me. You know [insert girl's name here]?"
Me: "The girl from your [English class/apartment building/softball team/other]? What about her?"
But I knew what about her.
Oh, yes, I knew what.
I have helped guys I liked come up with pickup lines for other girls, plan fun date ideas for other girls, even pick out engagement rings for other girls. I have listened to guys I liked bitch about how much girls suck, whine about how much girls confuse them, natter lovingly on and on about the adorable things girls did. The things they were too afraid to say to other girls and too proud to say to other boys, they said to me. Because I am Best Friend Girl, and my powers are unrivaled.
Also, because I'm a ginormous wimp.
When Tim emailed me about Marie, I replied with some bullshit answer about how I thought she had a big crush on this other guy named Matthew, but I'd totally ask her if she thought Tim was cute. Then I pressed hard return. A lot.
A lot.
When I finally felt like I had left a sufficient space, I typed up a post script.
p.s. Tim, I like you. I've liked you all year.
What I didn't realize was that when Tim replied to my email assuring him that I'd find out if he was cuter than Matthew, all those hundreds of hard returns I pressed would turn into these:
>
These stupid little >s had it out for me. A long line of them led Tim to the confession I thought I'd hidden.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
p.s. Tim, I like you. I've liked you all year.
My friendship with Tim was essentially destroyed. Years later, when it was becoming hard for me to remember why we weren't friends, I'd bump into him out in public somewhere and Tim would mutter a quiet "hey" and shuffle away without making eye contact.
Maybe he thought I hadn't ever gotten over that seventh grade crush. In which case he is a moron.
But regardless, I didn't want what happened with Tim to happen again. So in later years, whenever I was with a boy I liked and he started hemming and hawing and asking if he could talk to me about something, I knew that I wouldn't let on how I felt.
After all, Clark Kent doesn't exactly go around all willy-nilly telling everyone he meets that he's Superman, now does he?
Tim was the first boy I liked who asked me to help him get another girl. But he would not be the last. I could never predict when the calls would come. On cold nights in cars, around my kitchen table eating nachos, on the way home from a date - suddenly the boy I was with would blurt out, "Can I talk to you about something?" and I knew.
Oh, yes, I knew.
Though I have participated in many of these conversations, and they all vary slightly, every single one follows this basic script.
Boy: "You're great, you know that?"
Me: "Oh, I know." (thinking, "And so it begins.")
Boy: "I mean, seriously. You're awesome. You're a good friend."
Me: "Pass the salsa, please."
Boy: "Can I ask you something?"
Me: "Sure."
Boy: (hesitates) "It's... well... I know I can talk to you because you're not like a girl. I mean, you're a girl-"
Me: "Very observant of you."
Boy: "But you know what I mean. You're like a girl who's a guy. I mean, I don't think of you like a girl. I think of you like a friend. But you are a girl, so you can probably help me. You know [insert girl's name here]?"
Me: "The girl from your [English class/apartment building/softball team/other]? What about her?"
But I knew what about her.
Oh, yes, I knew what.
I have helped guys I liked come up with pickup lines for other girls, plan fun date ideas for other girls, even pick out engagement rings for other girls. I have listened to guys I liked bitch about how much girls suck, whine about how much girls confuse them, natter lovingly on and on about the adorable things girls did. The things they were too afraid to say to other girls and too proud to say to other boys, they said to me. Because I am Best Friend Girl, and my powers are unrivaled.
Also, because I'm a ginormous wimp.
When Tim emailed me about Marie, I replied with some bullshit answer about how I thought she had a big crush on this other guy named Matthew, but I'd totally ask her if she thought Tim was cute. Then I pressed hard return. A lot.
A lot.
When I finally felt like I had left a sufficient space, I typed up a post script.
p.s. Tim, I like you. I've liked you all year.
What I didn't realize was that when Tim replied to my email assuring him that I'd find out if he was cuter than Matthew, all those hundreds of hard returns I pressed would turn into these:
>
These stupid little >s had it out for me. A long line of them led Tim to the confession I thought I'd hidden.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
p.s. Tim, I like you. I've liked you all year.
My friendship with Tim was essentially destroyed. Years later, when it was becoming hard for me to remember why we weren't friends, I'd bump into him out in public somewhere and Tim would mutter a quiet "hey" and shuffle away without making eye contact.
Maybe he thought I hadn't ever gotten over that seventh grade crush. In which case he is a moron.
But regardless, I didn't want what happened with Tim to happen again. So in later years, whenever I was with a boy I liked and he started hemming and hawing and asking if he could talk to me about something, I knew that I wouldn't let on how I felt.
After all, Clark Kent doesn't exactly go around all willy-nilly telling everyone he meets that he's Superman, now does he?
12.01.2009
11.20.2009
Dreams
"I had the weirdest dream last night," Chloe said.
"Oooh, tell me!" I said. I love weird dreams.
Back in high school I took a psychology class with my friend Melissa. We spent the majority of our class time bitching about how bored we were, but then one day we started a section on dream analysis.
Melissa told me a dream she had during her history class earlier that morning.
I have never fallen asleep during a history class. Chemistry class dreams, however, were some of my most pleasant.
Melissa dreamed that she was in her history class, not sleeping, and there was a golden spoon lying on the desk. She attempted to pick it up, but try as she might, she simply could not pull the spoon from the desk. It was like it was crazy-glued on. Then the golden spoon suddenly tarnished.
Off the top of my head I instantly came up with an interpretation. "What it means," I explained, "is that when you and the boy you're crushing on spooned the other night, it seemed perfect at the time. But now you're realizing that no relationship is ever going to come out of it. He's never going to actually be your 'boyfriend', so an occasional session of spooning is the most you're going to get. And suddenly, it doesn't seem so perfect anymore."
I know.
I know.
I totally kicked that dream's ass.
So ever since then I've been fascinated with hearing other people's weird dreams to see if I can interpret them. I hardly ever remember my own weird dreams (except one, but that'll be a different post). So when Chloe said, "I had the weirdest dream last night," I was all set to wow her with my dream-interpreting skills.
After doing a few basic stretches in preparation for blowing her away - never underestimate the importance of stretching to prevent injury - I invited Chloe to recount her dream. "I like to interpret other people's dreams. Tell me," I said.
"Well, it was really weird. I dreamed that I was a zombie."
"Ooh, zombies!" said my inner nerd.
"Ooh, zombies!" said I.
My inner nerd and I need to work on not speaking simultaneously.
"Okay, so, I was a zombie," Chloe said. "There was this thing stuck in the back of my head, which is how they were controlling me."
I know.
I thought the exact same thing.
But let her finish.
"So I'd be normal most of the time, but every now and then I'd turn into the zombie. Then I'd be running around doing this" (insert hand gesture that looks something like a squirrel eating an acorn) "and eating rocks."
I know.
I know.
"There was a group of us, and we were all friends. We knew when the" (bizarre hand gesture again) "was about to start, so we had to strap ourselves down so we wouldn't hurt each other. So what do you think it means?"
"I think it means you have absolutely no idea what a zombie is."
"Oooh, tell me!" I said. I love weird dreams.
Back in high school I took a psychology class with my friend Melissa. We spent the majority of our class time bitching about how bored we were, but then one day we started a section on dream analysis.
Melissa told me a dream she had during her history class earlier that morning.
I have never fallen asleep during a history class. Chemistry class dreams, however, were some of my most pleasant.
Melissa dreamed that she was in her history class, not sleeping, and there was a golden spoon lying on the desk. She attempted to pick it up, but try as she might, she simply could not pull the spoon from the desk. It was like it was crazy-glued on. Then the golden spoon suddenly tarnished.
Off the top of my head I instantly came up with an interpretation. "What it means," I explained, "is that when you and the boy you're crushing on spooned the other night, it seemed perfect at the time. But now you're realizing that no relationship is ever going to come out of it. He's never going to actually be your 'boyfriend', so an occasional session of spooning is the most you're going to get. And suddenly, it doesn't seem so perfect anymore."
I know.
I know.
I totally kicked that dream's ass.
So ever since then I've been fascinated with hearing other people's weird dreams to see if I can interpret them. I hardly ever remember my own weird dreams (except one, but that'll be a different post). So when Chloe said, "I had the weirdest dream last night," I was all set to wow her with my dream-interpreting skills.
After doing a few basic stretches in preparation for blowing her away - never underestimate the importance of stretching to prevent injury - I invited Chloe to recount her dream. "I like to interpret other people's dreams. Tell me," I said.
"Well, it was really weird. I dreamed that I was a zombie."
"Ooh, zombies!" said my inner nerd.
"Ooh, zombies!" said I.
My inner nerd and I need to work on not speaking simultaneously.
"Okay, so, I was a zombie," Chloe said. "There was this thing stuck in the back of my head, which is how they were controlling me."
I know.
I thought the exact same thing.
But let her finish.
"So I'd be normal most of the time, but every now and then I'd turn into the zombie. Then I'd be running around doing this" (insert hand gesture that looks something like a squirrel eating an acorn) "and eating rocks."
I know.
I know.
"There was a group of us, and we were all friends. We knew when the" (bizarre hand gesture again) "was about to start, so we had to strap ourselves down so we wouldn't hurt each other. So what do you think it means?"
"I think it means you have absolutely no idea what a zombie is."
11.19.2009
Rant
I just overheard a conversation between two coworkers. Let's call them Nancy and Chuck.
Not to protect their identities, I just enjoy fake names.
It's one of my quirks.
Chuck and I have never been particularly close, but he often stops to chat with Nancy, who sits near me. Chuck and his girlfriend have been engaged for several months, and so every few days he and Nancy discuss the various drama that comes with an impending wedding. And I eavesdrop when I have nothing better to do.
Which is most of the time.
My job is boring.
Anyway, last week the big issue with Chuck's wedding was that his parents don't much care for his fiancee. This resulted in the wedding being pushed back yet again while the involved parties attempt to reconcile their differences. So, last week Chuck was telling Nancy that they didn't know yet when exactly when their wedding would be, and it was stressing him out.
Today, Chuck mentioned that his weekend plans included moving some of his things to the house that he and his fiancee would occupy once they got married. Perplexed, Nancy asked why he was moving so soon if the wedding wouldn't be for months.
"Well, we're getting married a week from Saturday," Chuck explained.
Perk! went my ears.
"Why?" went Nancy.
"Because the girl's pregnant," went my instinct.
"She's pregnant," whispered Chuck.
Now I've never been that big on gossip, particularly office gossip. This can be attributed to the fact that most of the time I just don't give a damn about other people.
Except you.
I love you.
But Chuck is one of those sweet, innocent, round-faced, super good LDS kids like so many others I grew up around, and I have a wicked soft spot for hearing stories about how these kids react to their own transgressions.
Call it a research project, if you will.
I'm convinced that there is a large number of LDS people who, much like the Me of Years Past, feel completely out of place within their religion and culture but are just too completely absorbed in it to do anything. And hearing stories about good people who do things the church considers "bad", like having sex with their fiancee, sometimes makes me feel validated in this belief.
There will be more about that in later posts.
Moving on.
Nancy moved forward without so much as a blink. "How far along is she? When did it happen?" (As a side note, I love Nancy's straightforwardness. The woman could get anyone to tell her their deepest, darkest secrets just because of the completely bold and badass way in which she asks questions.)
"A couple weeks ago. And maybe about a month before that," Chuck responded.
"Where?"
"At my house." Chuck lives with his parents.
"What did your parents say?" Nancy asked.
"They still don't want me to marry her. They said it's not too late to get out of it," Chuck admitted, his voice staying remarkably even considering the weight of his words. "But it's really their fault."
SCREEEEEECH! Mental brakes. Pop it in reverse. What was that, Chuck?
"But it's really their fault."
Please, Chuck, please. Explain to Nancy how exactly you having sex with your fiancee and getting her pregnant is your parents' fault, before I lose all self-control and look straight at you so you know I've been intently listening this whole time.
Chuck delivered.
"They would leave us alone all the time," he explained to Nancy. "Like, they'd leave us in the family room and they'd be in another room down the hall."
It's moments like these that make me wish I were a sassy black Southern woman so that I could effectively and convincingly pull off a, "Honeychild, please!" So please take a moment to imagine me as a sassy black Southern woman, waving my finger at Chuck and saying, "Honeychild, please!"
Did you picture it?
Was I wearing a headscarf?
You racist.
Chuck, it is not, in any conceivable way, your parents' fault that you two had sex. Unless Moms and Poppsy dimmed the lights, popped on some Marvin Gaye and REMOVED ALL OF YOUR CLOTHING before leaving the two of you alone, their absence from the family room did not cause you to knock up your girlfriend.
Not to protect their identities, I just enjoy fake names.
It's one of my quirks.
Chuck and I have never been particularly close, but he often stops to chat with Nancy, who sits near me. Chuck and his girlfriend have been engaged for several months, and so every few days he and Nancy discuss the various drama that comes with an impending wedding. And I eavesdrop when I have nothing better to do.
Which is most of the time.
My job is boring.
Anyway, last week the big issue with Chuck's wedding was that his parents don't much care for his fiancee. This resulted in the wedding being pushed back yet again while the involved parties attempt to reconcile their differences. So, last week Chuck was telling Nancy that they didn't know yet when exactly when their wedding would be, and it was stressing him out.
Today, Chuck mentioned that his weekend plans included moving some of his things to the house that he and his fiancee would occupy once they got married. Perplexed, Nancy asked why he was moving so soon if the wedding wouldn't be for months.
"Well, we're getting married a week from Saturday," Chuck explained.
Perk! went my ears.
"Why?" went Nancy.
"Because the girl's pregnant," went my instinct.
"She's pregnant," whispered Chuck.
Now I've never been that big on gossip, particularly office gossip. This can be attributed to the fact that most of the time I just don't give a damn about other people.
Except you.
I love you.
But Chuck is one of those sweet, innocent, round-faced, super good LDS kids like so many others I grew up around, and I have a wicked soft spot for hearing stories about how these kids react to their own transgressions.
Call it a research project, if you will.
I'm convinced that there is a large number of LDS people who, much like the Me of Years Past, feel completely out of place within their religion and culture but are just too completely absorbed in it to do anything. And hearing stories about good people who do things the church considers "bad", like having sex with their fiancee, sometimes makes me feel validated in this belief.
There will be more about that in later posts.
Moving on.
Nancy moved forward without so much as a blink. "How far along is she? When did it happen?" (As a side note, I love Nancy's straightforwardness. The woman could get anyone to tell her their deepest, darkest secrets just because of the completely bold and badass way in which she asks questions.)
"A couple weeks ago. And maybe about a month before that," Chuck responded.
"Where?"
"At my house." Chuck lives with his parents.
"What did your parents say?" Nancy asked.
"They still don't want me to marry her. They said it's not too late to get out of it," Chuck admitted, his voice staying remarkably even considering the weight of his words. "But it's really their fault."
SCREEEEEECH! Mental brakes. Pop it in reverse. What was that, Chuck?
"But it's really their fault."
Please, Chuck, please. Explain to Nancy how exactly you having sex with your fiancee and getting her pregnant is your parents' fault, before I lose all self-control and look straight at you so you know I've been intently listening this whole time.
Chuck delivered.
"They would leave us alone all the time," he explained to Nancy. "Like, they'd leave us in the family room and they'd be in another room down the hall."
It's moments like these that make me wish I were a sassy black Southern woman so that I could effectively and convincingly pull off a, "Honeychild, please!" So please take a moment to imagine me as a sassy black Southern woman, waving my finger at Chuck and saying, "Honeychild, please!"
Did you picture it?
Was I wearing a headscarf?
You racist.
Chuck, it is not, in any conceivable way, your parents' fault that you two had sex. Unless Moms and Poppsy dimmed the lights, popped on some Marvin Gaye and REMOVED ALL OF YOUR CLOTHING before leaving the two of you alone, their absence from the family room did not cause you to knock up your girlfriend.
Sadly, this idea that two kids having sex is somehow the fault of their parents is an idea I have heard many times before. In all those "chastity lectures" of my adolescence, we were told that it was dangerous to be left all alone with a member of the opposite sex. Especially at night.
"The Holy Ghost goes home at midnight."
The basic lesson that came out of this is that we, as a human race, are completely unable to control our sexual urges. Once the lights go out and the chaperones head to the kitchen for a snack, our libidos will strangle our common sense by the throat. We have absolutely no say in the matter.
Now, I know that sexual desires can be overwhelming. But I also am a strong believer in self-fulfilling prophecies. Telling eager young virgins that the moment they find themselves alone with someone they're attracted to the devil will take over is the surest way to make it happen. It's like a placebo effect in reverse.
Then you end up with people like Chuck, who refuse to take responsibility for their own actions. "It's really their fault. My parents. They would leave us alone all the time."
Now, I am not taking a stance on either side of the abstinence before marriage issue. I am a firm believer that what's right for some is not right for all.
But I am taking a stance on the holding-yourself-accountable issue.
Seriously.
I have to wonder if Chuck and his fiancee had decided that because it was his parents' fault they had sex, they were still "worthy" of an LDS temple marriage. If last week the marriage plans he discussed with Nancy still involved the temple, but he and his fiancee got it on weeks before, were they more than willing to go through the temple ceremony "unworthily"?
I am no longer LDS. I don't believe having sex with someone makes you unworthy of God's love. I frankly couldn't care less who has sex and when and whether they do it with rings on their fingers.
But I do believe that if you voluntarily belong to an organization, you should respect that organization enough to obey their rules. In the LDS world, that means not going to the temple unless your local religious leaders deem you free from sin and worthy of entering.
If you don't care enough about your church to abide by its most basic rules, then why the hell do you continue to voluntarily belong to it?
I am insanely curious as to how many couples like Chuck and his fiancee fool their families and friends by going through the LDS temple wedding even though they've slept together prior to the ceremony.
How many of them convince themselves that it's okay with God because it's their parents' fault for leaving them alone?
That's a statistic I doubt the church would publish in any of their family-themed pamphlets.
Chuck, it's not my business if you have sex. It's not my business whether or not if you believe in the church you belong to. The decisions you make affect you and you alone.
But for God's sake, man. Admit that it's you who is making them.
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