I had an accident...

Seriously. I had an accident. And I'm a road sign, apparently. I don't know how it happened, but now I'm not sure what to do about it. Keep reading for more information.

So today, I was bored of Rexburg. Having exhausted all of my "sit around and do nothing" patience yesterday on a How I Met Your Mother marathon, I decided to drive thirty or so minutes away to the closest town of any size, Idaho Falls.

My motivations were simple. 1. Get out of Rexburg. 2. Spend some time alone with my music. 3. Go to the bank to cash that tax return and 4. Buy some stuff for a Halloween costume at Target.

Now, as you may or may not remember, I worked in the Target Bakery for several months about a year ago. Right around this past may, I was dating a guy and trying to figure out a way to move back up to Rexburg so we didn't have to do long distance. As part of this, I put in a request to transfer to the store in Idaho Falls. They never got back to me, and I got a killer nanny job for some fantastic kids in Colorado, broke up with the boyfriend, and ended up having the most ridiculous summer ever.

Right around July, THREE full months later, the Idaho Falls Target calls and asks if I'm still looking for employment with them. I told them I would be returning in September, and I would love a job. They said they'd set up some interviews and would be calling me the following day. They never called. I called them and they never answered or called me back.

Needless to say, the rejection hurt. I thought we had a good relationship going! What we had was special, and I thought they wanted me! My pain turned bitter, I declared every man a jerk, swore off of dating forever, and became a lonely alcoholic. Wait, just kidding, that's a different story.

 To finish this long sidenote, when I came up to school, I realized I didn't want to work at Target EVER AGAIN. So I didn't go in and apply.  I was happily unemployed, and planned on staying that way all semester.

Back to today. 

I went to the bank, and discovered that there was more money in my account than expected, and after doing a small happy dance in my seat, I drove across the parking lot to Target. As always, I ended up spending significantly more money than I intended there, and so I asked the lady to scan my employee discount card just in case it still worked. It didn't. So she asks, "How long has it been since you've been a team member?"

To which I explained that I had been on a leave of absence, but they might have terminated me, since I was trying to transfer to that target but never got an interview. And before I could explain that I was glad for it, since not having a job made sure that I could focus on my schoolwork, she turns to the people in line behind me and says "Hold on a second."

She proceeds to walk towards the Guest Services counter, beckoning me to follow with two short finger curls. I followed, unsure about what was going on. Mystery employee grabs a phone, dials a number, and then says the following:

"Hey Kristy, it's MysteryEmployee. I have a woman here from a target in Colorado who says she's trying to transfer  [which I wasn't] and is here for an interview [which I definitely wasn't]. (Turns to me) what's your name? (Back into the phone) Emily. Yup. Okay. See you soon!" She hung up the phone, turns to me and says "Okay, she'll be right out. I'll wait with you until she gets here!"

At this point, I was standing around like a dog when you throw a blanket over it, entirely unsure of what was going on and not sure how to get out. I was incredibly confused and bewildered by the speed of events. So instead of telling MysteryEmployee that I actually wasn't looking for a job and I had just come to buy some stuffs and had been making polite conversation, I ended up talking to her about something stupid like snow or Black Friday. Before I knew it, two women come out of the back with a folder on which my name was written (Creepy, much?). One introduces herself to me as the lady who had spoken to me on the phone months before and then never called me back. (I bravely held back the tears of a rejection that still stung.) The other was a manager of some kind, and immediately ushered me into the back room, where I found myself in an interview, answering the question "Why do you want to work at Target?"

Now, I should have said, "Actually, I don't. I have no idea how this happened, five minutes ago I was just trying to buy some Halloween stuff and then drive home, I don't want this job. Please don't make me work here again. Whimper."

But the problem is that I was in an interview. These people were under the impression that I had gone there for the express purpose of having an interview and getting hired -- despite the fact that I hadn't showered today, was wearing my oldest jeans with no fewer than three giant holes in the upper-inner-thigh, and had on little to no makeup to hide my lack of sleep the night before. This confused me, so I found myself saying this:

"Um... It's a really good company? (Lie.) I really liked the atmosphere? (Mild lie) and...my coworkers? (More or less not a lie) and how Target treats its employees? (HUGE lie.)"

Ignoring the fact that I had responded with the most uncertainty possible, my interviewer just wrote it down (sans-question marks) and proceeded to the next question. Three minutes later, I was told to go to Food Ave and await my second interview.

So I stumbled dizzily towards the plastic chairs and popcorn smell of the familiar food avenue, pretty certain at this point that I was in a weird dream. Until the second interviewer came out, who was actually just the HR lady from earlier. The second interview went like this:
"Who was the HR person at your store? What was your store number? What time can you get here every day?"

And then she had a verbal debate with herself about whether or not she should put me on the schedule she was making for tomorrow, and which training session I should go to, and how she could figure out how to let me skip the training, since I've already been trained. I was silent and dazed the whole time. I'm beginning to suspect I may have been drugged.

We finished the interview with her saying "Okay, I'll call you tomorrow and we'll get you started as soon as we can! See ya!" To which I responded with something like, "Thanks so much! Have a great day!" And stumbled outside (after trying to go out the "in" doors and feeling stupid,) highly confused and unsure about how that had happened.

As I stood there, blinking and shivering in the wind, I realized the full gravity of what had happened. I had gone to Target to buy ONE THING. I ended up checking out with four items, and within ten minutes, I had accidentally gotten a job that I didn't ask for and didn't really want. I felt kind of like a kid who had been caught peeing her pants at school. Except I was the one who caught myself. My rational self (that knew I wasn't looking for a job, and thinks it would be a bad idea) was standing over my confused, people-pleasing, high-achieving self and frowning, unsure of how to handle the little menace and what she did.

So now the question is this: Do I take the job and drive 35 minutes to work every day for minimum or close to mininum wage, or do I not take the job and give up the extra income? (Which I could DEFINITELY use, by the way.)

Let me know what you think! Or don't. But please do, because comments make me disproportionately happy in comparison with the amount of energy it takes you.  

Also, I linked to some (okay, one) other post in this one, you can tell because some (okay, one) phrase is a different color. You can read it if you want. It's kind of related and might even be interesting, because it talks about my early perspective of working at Target. Plus it'll open in a new window! Bonus! Kaybye!

The First of the Worst

SPOILER ALERT: the date went nothing like this. And my biceps aren't nearly as well-defined as hers.

My first date in college was a little bit of a disaster, to be honest. I had met the guy randomly, when he overheard me saying something about my hometown in Colorado, promptly turned around and yelled across the thirty feet of sidewalk and frightened freshmen between us, "I'M A RANCH KID, TOO!"

At which point me (and my other two ranch-kid friends) walked up to him and had an awkward conversation. You know, the kind that goes like "So... Where did you go to high school? Oh, do you know so-and-so who also went there? No? Well... Colorado's great, huh?" It was awkward, but we eventually discovered that he was kind-of friends with my friend's cousin who had taken my other friend on a date once. Or something like that.

Anyway, to give you a little description, this kid was pretty tall (compared to me at least, which means he very well could have been very short, but he had at least 6 inches on me), had a baby face, those glasses that every four-eyed kid's mom buys them when they're about seven that are just round glass with super thin wire frames -- the kind that she thinks will keep you from getting bullied because they're as invisible and unobtrusive as possible, but actually make you look even more nerdy and style-less. He also was wearing carpenter jeans. Some day, I'll explain the myriad problems with carpenter jeans. Until then, you could just read this post about Nice Guys, because it mentions them, briefly.

But I digress. This kid ended up getting my number in the most sneaky way I've ever encountered. I was telling him about how I lived in Colorado my whole life, yet had never been skiing or snowboarding. He goes "Well, I can teach you to snowboard!" To which I responded "That would be rad!" And he goes "Here, take my number and you can call me if you ever want to go."

Sensing the seriousness of this predicament -- that this kid in whom I was not interested at all was trying to arrange an actual hang out and/or date -- I hesitantly took his number, fully intending on never using it. Then the kid goes, "Now call me so we can make sure its right."

"Nah, that's cool. I'm sure it's good," I say, hopefully, reciting it back to him.
"Seriously, my phone is weird and sometimes if you don't call me right now it won't even come through when you want to call me later," he earnestly stated.
Ignoring the obviously nonsensical reasoning behind this, I called him. Then he saved my number into his phone. That sneaky boy.

A week later he called me and asked me on a date. It was going to be a group date, to a haunted house and then ice cream. Given my one-date rule, I agreed to go. After he picked me up for the date, we walked to the boys' dorms to meet the rest of the group. Upon entering the lounge, we discovered that no one else was there. Just us, and some random kid. So we played ping pong for like 40 minutes, our awkward getting-to-know-you questions (and ensuing awkward silences) punctuated by the sound of the ball hitting the table, paddle, and wall/floor behind me.

40 minutes later, people start to show up. I quickly discover that this isn't just a group date, it's a mass date, with 5 couples. What's even better, is that no one knew anyone. Seriously, it was like this: My date knew one guy, who knew one girl, who knew another guy, who didn't know anyone and so invited a random person to join the date. And then they all brought their respective prey dates. That's a recipe for disaster.

The next ingredient to an awful date full of awkward freshmen who barely know each other is planning on going to a haunted house in a town 30 minutes away, but not planning on how to actually get there. Turns out only one of the 10 people on the date had a vehicle. And it was a truck. Luckily, in Idaho there's a law that if all of the seatbelts are used, you can have as many extra people in the car as you can fit and it's legal. Unfortunately, we were in Idaho and it was October, so once the sun goes down, the temperature drops to about Antarctica. So we weren't riding in the bed. Luckily, the truck had a cab with back seats. Unfortunately, trucks with backseats aren't actually meant for people, despite the 5 seatbelts. We all know they realistically fit 3 people and maybe a dog. Maybe.

Undeterred by the obvious lack of space and comfort, the boys decided to continue with the plan anyway. So we all piled into the truck. And immediately fell out. So we tried again. Thankfully we all grew up in a time where Tetris was the best pastime available, so we used those tricks and managed to flip, angle and drop us all into a position in the truck which was at least not excruciatingly painful. So, there I was, laying across 4 men (none of whom included my date), trying to ignore the smell that comes with 5 teenage boys -- their natural scent overriding the stench of the cheap cologne they applied with too much enthusiasm, and 5 teenage girls -- and all of their accompanying hair-products, deodorants, perfumes, and scented face glitter.

Thankfully, I had just met all of these people, so the lack of personal space, and the fact that I had no idea where I was touching who, or who was touching me where, definitely made the situation bearable. Or the exact opposite of bearable, with a little bit of nauseating on top.

So we finally get to the haunted house, called Dr. Slaughter's, where they learn it's cash only. Rather than pile everyone back into the truck to find an ATM, the ever-so gallant men decided to go look for one. They didn't want to subject us frail and delicate womenfolk to walking around the dangerous (read: ridiculously safe) streets in Idaho Falls at night, so they left us huddled together like penguins, shivering next to the bloody clown with a chainsaw.

38 minutes of incredibly fake compliments and crappy girl jokes later, our dates return, cash in hand. We go through the line, where the girls are preemptively screaming at nothing to get their vocal chords warmed up. The men feel manly letting their dates cling to their arms. My date is disappointed because I missed the class in girl-school that taught us how to tease our hair and pretend to be scared because it's "cute". (Actually, I missed most of the classes in girl-school. Thank goodness Pinterest was invented to fill in the gaps in my femininity.)

Once we get in the haunted house, I am not scared. They did a really good job, and there were lots of cool, jumpy moments, but I was too busy having disdain for the other girls to let myself be scared. It was also using a considerable amount of my concentration to keep switching my jacket to the arm on whichever side my date was standing to avoid his fumbling attempts at touching me and/or holding my hand. Yeah, I'm a jerk, I know. We all know that the only reason guys bring girls to haunted houses is because they want to feel manly and brave and have the girls cling to them like their lives depend on it. But I wasn't about to touch this kid, I didn't even know him for heaven's sake! And he was wearing carpenter jeans! And was bristling with insecurities! And I was a huge jerk!

 There was one point where, desperate for physical contact, my date led me to this section of the house where it was a long maze of hallways with long strips of white fabric hung from the ceiling every 4 or 5 inches -- meaning it was easy to get lost and disoriented. At this point, he turned to me and goes "You should probably hold my hand through this so you don't get lost." Then, being the nice, considerate girl huge jerk that I am, I looked at him, go "Oh, yeah, okay....." then turn around like I'm looking for something and nonchalantly lose myself in the maze of mummy wrap.

15 minutes later I made it out, where he is waiting with an "I told you so" look on his face. I act cute and girly and tell him how I got lost and couldn't find him, while touching his arm where a bicep belongs. His hurt masculinity is calmed. I quickly go back to not touching him.

After the haunted house, we went to get ice cream. Which meant Tetrising ourselves back into the truck. This time my date ended up underneath my calves. And then we got lost. At ice cream, we quickly discover that none of the boys are particularly good at conversation, and the girls are all pretty boring. So I start being flirty with everyone to try and get people to loosen up a bit. This leads to all the boys hitting on me with cheesy lines and the girls fake-laughing to try and get their dates' attention back while their resentment for me steadily mounts. Jealousy becomes apparent. My date isn't very good at pick-up lines. 

Once we all cram our way back into the truck for a third time (my date now under my shoulders, where I can see all the bats in the cave) we had been on the date for about 5 hours, which is crazy long for any first date, let alone one in which no one was particularly enjoying themselves.

 For some reason, everyone ignores the fact that they're not having fun, and end up going back to one kid's house to watch Sherlock Holmes. I had never seen it, and I still haven't really, because I spent pretty much the entire movie avoiding my date's stumbling attempts to cuddle with me. Luckily, I had perfected the "don't touch me" position way back in high school, which makes it virtually impossible for a boy to cuddle with you. The guy who was hosting the movie kept going back into his room to bring out some random toy or gadget to impress us all with. These included a rifle, a police baton, one of the lasers that is so powerful you can see it from like 4 miles away, nun chucks and a machete. I began to fear for my safety.

At the end of the movie (which I'm pretty sure is at least twice the length of a normal movie), my date wanted to walk home. Which was like 4 miles. In the 30 degree weather. I said "heck no! And convinced the guy with the truck to drop us off at my apartment, where an obvious party was happening. My date expects to be invited in. I have zero desire to spend any more time with him, given how this torturous date was now bordering on 8 hours in length, so I say something about going to bed and send him home with an awkward side-hug to remember me by.

He texted me the next day to thank me for a great date and suggest we do it again sometime. I don't remember if I ever answered

Cawledge

Oh, hey there Blogland. Long time no see! You look well. How's the family? The children? The weather? Oh, who am I kidding? We all know that I'm really here to talk about myself, not you. So let's get right to it.

Once upon a time, I went to college. I was a cute little baby-faced 18 year old full of smiles and hidden anxiety. Everyone had told me, "College is great because you can really just be whoever you want to be! It's a fresh start!" And I believed them. The problem was, I wasn't sure exactly who I wanted to be. Should I be the indie-art girl? The nerdy book-lover? the super social one? The dedicated to school one? The mysterious, quiet one? I didn't know, but I knew that I had very few friends going to Rexburg with me, so I would have to choose someone to be. Some person to become with this supposed "fresh slate" I was given.

Hopefully you all know where this comes from. But if you don't, it's from X-Men First Class. This character is Darwin, or Morph, because he adapts to survive. There's this awesome scene where he actually dies, but he morphs into like a gazillion things first, and that's what I picture when I talk about my silly "trying to create a new me" phase in college. Trying to morph to fit these imagined situations in my head, and as a result, not being able to actually be anything.

The few days before leaving I was packing my stuff, like most college kids do.  Quite literally everything I chose was deliberated over with the idea that all of the people I met would be looking at each shirt I wore, each bobby-pin, each picture on my wall, and formulating an opinion about me based on their opinions of that. Even my pajama shirts were subjected to this weird judgement. "I'll bring this shirt because it shows I was involved in high school, so they'll know I'm social. I'll bring this one because it says "Party Hero" on the back and that will make me seem fun. I'll bring this one because it's an EFY shirt and they'll know I also like spiritual things..." Etc etc etc... It was ridiculous I tell you. Not to mention gave me ridiculous amounts of stress.

Everything I did was based on this idea that I could choose who I wanted to be. That I could become an entirely new person and "start fresh" at college. Now, I hope everyone knows that this is a ridiculous lie that people tell you just to make you excited for school. Of course you can't change your personality with the ease of flipping over a coin. You can't go back and cleanse your persona of 18 years of trauma and damage and personality-shaping experiences simply because you move to a new place and don't know anyone. It didn't help, of course, that there were about 17 "New Emily's" that I wanted to become, and I didn't know which one to choose. So my first few days at school were full of a lot of posturing, of saying things that would help whatever supposed "new me" I was choosing to be that hour. I wanted people to know that I was artsy and creative, but not weird. I wanted to be super social, but not annoying. Spiritually strong and grounded but not "Molly Mormon". Smart and introspective, but also adventurous and fun. I don't know if you were keeping track, but that's a lot of things for any one person to become, especially overnight. Needless to say, I made a lot of weird first-impressions on people. Which I didn't find out about until 3 or 4 months later, when the effort of trying to write on this "new slate" had made me lazy and I was finally able to relax, stop trying so hard, and just be.

My room-roommate, Kaylin, who later became one of my best friends, thought that I was super quiet and weird and only wanted to sit in my room and listen to John Mayer and that I didn't like to have fun or smile or laugh.

Another roommate, Jaide, who also later became one of my best friends, thought I hated her and was super mean.

One kid thought I was ridiculously pushy and annoying, because I kept asking him if he remembered my name. (Why? I have no clue. I was just so stressed out about creating a new me.)

Several people thought I was incredibly negative because all I could talk about was how great Colorado was, and how different (read: better) it was (is) than Idaho. (Sub-conscious home-sickness? Probably. Definitely. But let's be real, Colorado is the best place on earth, so how can you blame me?)

Others were under the impression that I was bipolar, crazy, weird, and even twins.

And the list goes on. But I'm already embarrassed enough, so I'll stop there.

I know, it's shocking that I even made friends that semester, what with being the most ridiculously fake and insecure person alive. I'm surprised too, no worries. Let's add to this stress the fact that I had never lived on my own before, had no idea that baking every other day would make me fat, and was in a really weird time of personal, emotional and spiritual change and wandering. Basically, I was a huge mess. Luckily, I hid it pretty well, so hopefully most people just thought I was this weird, eccentric, super-freak, as opposed to a weird, eccentric, super-freak on the verge of a complete emotional, spiritual and mental break down. Actually, I even hid that from myself, and I didn't realize what a mess I was until almost a year later, when I was much more stable and normal and way less of a super-freak.

I don't remember where I was going with this post, to be honest. Actually, this is not at all what I was intending to write about, but I'll go with it. So let's make a list, because I like lists.

How Not to be a Super-Freak Your First Semester of College

1. Accept that there is no such thing as a "clean slate," or "fresh start." That sounds depressing, but it's actually a very good thing. We are the sum total of our experiences, whether good or bad, and if a sudden life change like, maybe, moving 800 miles away to college, could suddenly erase all of that, you would be wandering around like drunk person in a laser tag zone. Totally disoriented, overwhelmed, and bumping into walls like nobody's business. You would have no sense of self, direction, or idea how to relate to other people. Believe me, I tried it, it didn't work. (The clean-slate thing, not the drunk laser tagging, although I have played laser tag with drunk people, and that's actually super funny.)
2. Wear things because you want to, not because you think it'll give other people a certain impression of you. Because it will end up with you wearing something absurd, like sweatpants with a dressy top and curled hair because you think that will make people know that you can be casual and cute at the same time but really they'll just think you suck at getting dressed.
3. People don't need to know every aspect of your personality all at once. This was my main problem, I think. I was paranoid that people would get the wrong impression of me, so I tried to give them every impression of me at the same time, which is silly and confusing. So here's the thing, I get it. You're multi-faceted and interesting and there is oh so much more beneath the surface for you. But don't try and shove all of that amazingness down people's throats the first time you meet, mmmk?
4. Eating dessert every 2 days will make you fat. Your jeans don't fit anymore? Yes, it's because you're growing, but ladies if you're in college, chances are you stopped growing upwardsw like 2 years go, and the only way you're growing now is outwards. That's not a good thing. Hit the gym and hide the baking products.
5. Relax. This is what I was not good at. I was super stressed about making friends and having a good impression on everyone, so I was pretty much incapable of actually being myself. That stress manifested itself in me being unable to stress properly about my schoolwork and ended up with me watching a gazillion hours of netflix and like 4 seasons of Chuck in as many days.
6. Sitting in a cute pose and looking hot will not make boys come talk to you. I don't care if you're the cutest girl ever, if you sit by yourself, without talking to anyone, you're not going to get asked on any dates. My first semester, I thought that looking cute was enough to get attention from guys, but the problem is this: The guy/girl ratio at BYU-I is about 3:1. Three girls to every one guy. And you know what? Chances are at least one of those girls is cuter than you, and the other girl is out there starting conversations and being more awesome than you. So in reality, looking cute really is not enough. Stop lying to yourself and go start some conversations and make friends. My first semester, I went on 2 dates. Just two. Both of them were weird. My second semester, once I started making friends and talking to people (and not being a super-freak) I was going on an average of 2 dates a week. That's a big difference.
7. People don't really care about you. Again, this sounds bad, but hear me out. People do care. I care. Someone cares. Don't go jump off a bridge, please. What I mean by this, however, is that people are way too concerned with their own lives to pay attention to what you wear, how you decorate your room, or how many times you've done your hair the same way this week. Even if they do notice those things, they definitely don't care enough to start making conjectures about you based on that. So relax, do your hair how you want it, wear what makes you comfortable because you like it, not because it says something about you. Say what you want to say because you want to, not because it'll make something think a certain way about you. Once you realize this, you can relax and be yourself and then you'll have infinitely more fun. I promise.

Okay, Blogtopia. It's been a nice reunion. Good to catch up with you. I'm tired of writing now, so I'm going to go do anything other than stay here. I'll try to write more frequently, I promise. Just cut me some slack, because I'm back in school and trying hard to not be a super-freak. Plus my romantic life is more ridiculous than a Spanish soap-opera at the moment. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime... 12 months from now. Next time I'll write a funny story. Kaybye!

Evil Villain Sweat

I don't even know how to start this post because I am so distraught. (Warning: approaching is a First World Problem) The other day, I saw a box of Lucky Charms cereal in my cupboard. I don't even really like Lucky Charms, but we never ever ever have sugar cereal, so when we do I eat copious amounts of it even if it's kind of gross like Lucky Charms. Anyway, I saw the box and got hit instantly with a craving for cereal. However, I was working. I had brought my nanny kids to my house for the day, and if I starting eating pure sugar soaked in milk, they would want some too. But I am selfish and didn't want to share I didn't want to give them sugar because it's bad for them and would ruin their appetites and I'mthebestnannyever. So I decided the Lucky Charms would have to wait until after work.

So later, after roughly 12 hours of anticipation, I am seriously looking forward to my cereal. I get the box out while talking to my mom about the pros and cons of Lucky Charms marshmallows. I pour a huge bowl, while still talking to my mom about it. I get a spoon. I crush the box and start heading toward the fridge when my mom turns around, looks at my bowl, and goes, "Oh, we're out of milk."

And with those five words, my whole world crashed to the floor. Or maybe it was just my spoon. Regardless, I was upset.

Maybe now would be a good time to explain something about myself to you. Growing up, we always had about 5 gallons of milk in the fridge at any given time. We usually drank a big glass of milk for every meal, and all through high school my breakfasts consisted solely of Carnation Instant Breakfast, which is just chocolate milk with extra vitamins. So when we ran out of milk, it meant I didn't have breakfast that day, which is always a harrowing experience.

That mentality followed me into my first year at college.  When I ran out of milk, it didn't matter if my cupboard was completely full of nutella, bread, puppy chow, noodles, soup and myriad other edible items. It didn't matter if the fridge was full of eggs and leftovers. When I ran out of milk, I thought that I had also run out of food. I became convinced that I had nothing to eat and would definitely starve unless I immediately went to the store and bought some 2%. The two semesters when I didn't have a car made that pretty rough, however. I would sometimes have to last for hours, even days, existing on whatever measly crumbs I could find until I could find a ride to the store and bring home that gallon of milk. Once it was sitting comfortably in the fridge, my food cupboard was suddenly full to abundance with decadent meals like Rice-A-Roni and PB&J, and I could eat to my heart's content. It was always an emotional experience.

My cupboard without milk

My cupboard with milk.
Meaning I would immediately eat myself into a food coma. Which is maybe why I gained so much weight at school.

But back to the Lucky Charms. My world/spoon had just crashed to the floor, because my mom told me we didn't have any milk. I opened the fridge just to see for myself, and sure enough, no cow milk to be found. But then I saw it. Sitting right against the edge of the fridge, where the real milk was supposed to be... Two boxes of rice milk.

Ordinarily I would have gagged and walked away, but I was so excited for my Lucky Charms, plus the picture on it looked so creamy and thick and milk-ish. And it was now organic! Surely a substitute milk wouldn't make much difference, especially not if it's just there to moisten the cereal a bit, right? Wrong. Listen close, blogland: rice milk is probably what they serve in Hell, just to give people a little hope of tasting real milk and then crush them by what a ridiculously bad substitute it is. Rice milk is the stuff of nightmares. It tastes like I imagine the sweat of true evil villains would taste like. Which is definitely a gross thing to imagine, let alone have to drink. I don't even know why we had it in the fridge, or why anyone anywhere would drink some and think "Yum! This is definitely as good as real milk, I'll continue buying it!"

And what's worse is that I still really really wanted my cereal. So I tried to muscle through it. I tried to focus only on the taste of the crunchy marshmallows and soggy frosted shapes, while ignoring the all at once too-sweet and incredibly bitter taste of the imposter milk. I even made it through about half of my bowl before raising my white flag of shame and dumping it down the drain, hopes and dreams completely obliterated.

The next morning, joy of joys, I discovered that somehow four gallons of real milk had appeared in the night. Probably a gift from the milk-fairy, who surely felt bad about my terrible experience with pure milkish evil the night before. I breathed a sigh of relief until I saw, right next to it, [insert scary music here] two cartons of Almond Milk. Someone in my house clearly has it out for me. I will find you, imposter milk buyer, and I when I find you, I will question you. And after I question you, I will complain about your poor choice in "milk".

UPDATE: I think it deserves to be noted that not all imposter milk tastes like the sweat of villains. Chocolate Soy Milk is essentially liquified candy mixed with crack. Also, I just realized this is basically just like my Netflix post, except with milk. Sorry for the unintentional repetitiveness, sub-par substitutes just really upset me, apparently. Kaybye.

Accidental Rejection Syndrome

I alluded to something in this post. Something I'm not proud of, but will share with you in more detail because it's a serious issue that needs to be brought to light. Alright, here it goes. I'm just going to say it. No big deal. Just spit it out. The truth is...

I have a serious case of Accidental Rejection Syndrome, or ARS. ARS is a highly infectious and dangerous syndrome that anyone can be infected with, at any time. I have yet to find a cure.

For me, it all starts with my atrociously bad cell phone communication skills. I simply suck at responding to messages, answering phone calls, or even knowing where my phone is most of the time. I know, people my age are supposed to be glued to our phones, thumbs flying and messages going in and out every .5 second on the... half second. But somehow, when all the mothers of my generation were eating whatever they ate to turn all my peers into techno-communication freaks, my mom was busy chasing my four older siblings and drinking lemonade. Which, as it turns out, does not turn people into techno-comm freaks. So now I have a deficiency. Thanks, Mom.

Sometimes, when I'm at a party or something of the sort, I start talking to people. Sometimes "people" ends up being a guy around my age (and by that I mean between 2 and 7 years older than me), who knows no one that I know, and vice-versa. We will call him RandomPartyGuy. Sometimes, after a conversation of some length, RandomPartyGuy says something along the lines of "Hey, let me get your number, and we'll go dirtbiking/snowboarding/paintballing/on a date." So I give him my number. Sometimes I'm excited about it because he's not ugly at all. All of these sometimes end up happening at the same time about once every month or two. And then the following happens:


Boy texts me either that night or the next day:

"Hey, this is RandomPartyGuy. It was great meeting you!"

I respond a few hours later:

"Oh hi, RandomPartyGuy! I'm glad you texted me! It was great talking to you the other night!"

He responds immediately:

"Yea I would be crazy not to text you! You were super fun & adventurous! Two great qualities & I'm sure you have soo many more!"

 (That may or may not be, but definitely is an exact quote. Note the proper spelling, punctuation and capitalization. Also, the compliments. Totally swoon-worthy, yes? Yes.)

I then read the text, note the cuteness, have a brief internal debate over whether or not to be creeped out. Usually I decide he's not a weirdo and start formulating a sassy response, but end up getting distracted and put my phone down instead.

Thirteen hours later, I remember I was having a conversation with guy who wants to take me on a fun adventure. Go back through my messages, and realize it's been a ridiculous amount of time since he texted me. Have a brief moment of guilt. Decide to text him back and explain that the place in my brain where phone-communication skills should be is occupied instead by the title font and cover design of almost every book or movie I've ever seen. Except I don't give him that much detail. Mostly I just explain that I suck at communication.

Thirty minutes later, he responds and tells me he forgives me, and he sucks too sometimes. Tells me good news about his dirtbike related injuries. I respond in record time. Seriously, only like, two minutes. He responds quickly as well. (this puts our total up to a whopping six text messages in 24 hours or so. Going strong... for me.)

Three days later (today), I realize I never answered RandomPartyGuy, and I can tell by the lack of him texting me to re-start the conversation that he feels completely rejected and kind of offended and has already written me off even though I totally would have been interested in getting to know him better and was even pretty excited about it. I am just incapable of showing that interest by spending the second it takes to respond in a normal period of time. Like any normal girl, not afflicted with ARS, would. 

Approximately 3-6 weeks later, essentially the same situation will happen, but with a new RandomPartyGuy. (I will never hear back from the other one). And then three to nine weeks after that, the Accidental Rejector (me) will probably have unwittingly struck again, leaving another RandomPartyGuy confused and offended. This cycle has been happening with varying frequency, (excluding a few months when I was in a relationship) for the past two years or so. I simply can't help it, Blogland. I have a sickness. Accidental Rejection Syndrome is a real and under-represented problem facing many of America's youth who have no real problems to worry about. If you, or someone you know has suffered from ARS, I want to let you know that you are not alone. I can't promise that it will get easier or better, but I can promise you I have hope that it maybe will, eventually.

Men, if you're reading this, please take this as encouragement and consider that maybe the girl you think is ignoring you is actually, like me, simply incapable of having the brainpower and attention span necessary to maintain extended textual communication. Text her again, I bet she'd like it.

Women, if you're reading this and thinking it sounds strangely familiar, learn from my mistakes. Go through your phone right now and respond to all the people you have so rudely ignored. Throw the guys a bone. Maybe they'll bring it back, if they're not too wounded.

Last but certainly not least, I want to send a shout-out to the RandomPartyGuys that I may have personally infected with ARS. I'm sorry. Please don't feel rejected. I really (probably) was interested in getting to know you and going on a date. You are (probably) a super cool guy. I just (actually) suck, sometimes. I promise, it's not you, it's me. Really.

The Time I Moved Into a Horror Story (Part One)

 Once upon a time I lived in the suburbs of Denver, Colorado. I was content in my own little sheltered, combined bubbles of mormonism and upper-middle class suburbia, where we never locked our doors, left our bikes out in the yard without fear and I often went walking by myself far too late at night. I lived in the same house for 15 years. After being at school for about 10 months, I heard from my sister that my parents were thinking seriously abut moving.

Here's the deal: my family has been trying to move for as long as I can remember. My parents would decide every few months that our house was too circular, or too small, or too close to the neighbors, and we would start stopping at every "for sale" sign we saw and picking up fliers. We would take family drives into the mountains to look at random houses with tons of acreage for sale. After a while, I stopped getting excited over the possibility of a four-story house, or a library, or a room with a window seat in it (okay, that's a lie. I will always love window seats.) I stopped looking forward to maybe moving because it simply never happened. There was always something wrong with every house we looked at, and so we stayed where we were, in our circularly laid-out house with a backyard that the neighbors could see right into. Needless to say, when my sister told me our parents were looking at a house, I didn't bother getting excited about it.

And then she told me that my parents had actually bought a property. I was amazed and weirded-out. What? My parents are actually moving? After years and years of talking about it, it's actually happening? Then I hear we were moving from our neighborhood, about 30 minutes outside of Denver, comfortably located in the center of quite truly anything you could ever want or need, to Larkspur. The smallest town ever, about an hour and fifteen minutes outside of Denver. We had some good family friends who had moved out there a few years before, and I had always thought they lived SO ridiculously far away.

Let me tell you about Larkspur, friends.

I stole this picture off the internet. I don't even know if it's a real sign, because I'm pretty sure I've never seen it, and there's only really one or two roads leading in or out of the town, so if it were real, you'd think I would have seen it, right?

Larkspur's population is about 190 people, and the amount of land area is a whopping 1.56 square miles.
 Larkspur has a total of one point five roads. Along the one road you will find: a gas station, two pizza places, two bars, a Mexican restaurant, a salon, a park, a trailer park, and a huge fire station. We have no stoplights, and a single stop sign. The speed limit is 25 MPH, and at that speed it takes approximately 160 seconds to get from one end of town to the other, including the stop sign.

There is technically another road, that intersects with the main road, but the only real reason that road exists is to cross the train tracks and provide access to the Renaissance festival which takes place there every weekend all summer. Yup. The Renaissance festival. Which explains why we have so many food places (and bars), for a remote little town with very few people.

Now, why Larkspur? My parents had found a fantastic deal on a house with 6 acres, about three or six miles outside of the actual "town." My dad has always wanted land, and so they were pretty excited about it. What I didn't know, however, was that they had gotten a great deal on the house because the previous owner had blown it up. Apparently he had gotten foreclosed on, which made him angry, and so he accidentally let his RV roll straight into the gas line in the kitchen... making a huge explosion.

So this was my first impression of the house... Needless to say I was super excited.

Doesn't this just say "welcome home"?

So we bought the house, and started fixing it up, and improving it greatly. It took a long time, and a lot of effort.

Child Labor Laws are for fools.

The property is settled in a beautiful valley, with a mountain to our backs, a view of red rocks down one side, and horses running through fields on the other. Needless to say, it was picturesque. We routinely would find deer running or grazing on our land. It was like a real-life fairy tale. Until things got scary.

Along with the property came several... structures. They included a chicken house, a goat barn, a garage, a barn, a shed, a pig roaster, and a grotto (According to wikipedia: A grotto is any type of natural or artificial cave that is associated with modern, historic or prehistoric use by humans). So basically it was a man cave. But we'll get back to the grotto in a minute. Actually, it's probably going to have it's own post, it's so bizarre. The other structures were all pretty normal, aside from some weird graffiti on the shed:

It says "Democrat Republican Liar" but all the letters are crossed out and marked over.

The grotto and pig roaster, from the outside.

A close up of the grotto's entryway...

So that's what the grotto looks like. Note the beer bottles around the edge. Behind each one of them is carved a name in the concrete. Sticking out of the sun is a concrete mold of the position the Pope holds his hand when he blesses people (or something along those lines) There are also random concrete faces, possibly of saints, and a little spanish dancer/fighter man. Now, if all of that isn't weird enough, wait until we take this tour inside the man-cave, because that's where things start to get really weird.

To Be Continued...

Something about Pinterest! Er... I mean... Exercise?

Have you ever been on Pinterest? It's actually a really cool concept for those of us who browse the internet in the same way that boys browse for hot girls on the first Sunday in a YSA student ward -- taking note of sites (or sights... see what I did there?) of interest and trying to remember where and how we found them so they can be returned to at a later date when we have more time to more fully explore what the girl/website has to offer. Yeah, I did just compare my gender to soulless internet webpages. No, wanna-be feminists, I don't feel bad about it, so just hush and keep reading.

Anyway, Pinterest. The concept is awesome. As you're browsing the internet and you come across something interesting, you can "Pin" it to an online pinboard, which you can categorize, and then return to it later. It's actually exactly like the bookmarks feature on every browser, except it's way more visual and has turned into this huge social media network. Whenever your friends pin something, you can see it, comment, like, or re-pin it to one of your own boards. You can also browse pins by category or just see everything that anyone in pin-land has pinned lately. And basically, it's really addicting.

This is what my page looked like this morning. Lots of exercisey things that my friends pinned. The picture makes it look crappy, but believe, me, Pinterest is fun. Do it and you're cool!

I avoided getting an account for a long time because it seemed weird fad-ish and I didn't want to be one of "those" girls. I don't even know what made those girls "those" girls, as opposed to other girls. So my good friend Danielle (who you can read about here.) was obsessed with it and, along with other girls I didn't know so well, encouraged me to join the club. And they were cool and so I did. Yes, mom, I would (and have) jump(ed) off a cliff just because my friends were doing it... but don't worry, there was always water at the bottom and I never died. Yet.

And it's true, Pinterest is fun and addicting and interesting and you can learn lots of new recipes and tips and crafts there. It's also evil. Because in addition to being all those great things, it's become this weird world where girls go to plan weddings they'll never afford with men who only exist in pornographic yet inexplicably super-popular fiction novels and there's a whole bunch of legal issues (where basically when you "pin" a copyrighted image, you're using it without permission of the rights-holder and it's kind of too complicated to explain in a parenthetic statement but is actually on pretty shaky legal grounds). But all of that is besides the point. WAAAAY besides the point actually. Because If we're going to be honest, during the last few paragraphs while I was writing, I was wondering what the main point of this post was because I could not for the life of me remember where I had intended all of this Pinterest stuff to end up, but I just now remembered and it's not about how Pinterest is evil or maybe not-so legally solid or even a breeding-grounds for immaturity. It's not even about Pinterest, really. It was supposed to be about exercise.

One of the really popular things on Pinterest is nicknamed "thinspiration," and it's where girls will pin exercise plans, healthy meals, and pictures of motivational statements or quotes put over pictures of really skinny or fit girls to help inspire them to lose weight. For a while it was getting kind of pro-eating disorder, but I think they've curbed it into the right direction.

Pictures like this are alllll over the place.

But anyway, I have been a mild browser of Pinterest for a few months, and just like when you first jump into a lake with a wetsuit on, at first I didn't feel the effects of the thinspiration messages. Then, after being fully submerged in the water of Pinterest for a while, it started to seep in. It was slow and it was cold and foreign. I would look at the pictures and read the quotes and think, that's nice. It would be nice to be a mega-babe like that, good for that random, half-naked girl. And then I would keep eating nachos in my bed while I watched Netflix. Then, over time, the messages and the motivation and inspiration fully seeped into my wetsuit, and my natural body heat warmed the messages up, and all the sudden it didn't feel so foreign. And so it sunk in. And I started to get motivated to work for that mega-babe body. So I thought, hey, I'll start working out. Those pins make it seem so easy and fulfilling.

So I would go into my closet and find my running shoes in the back of my closet. I would spend a lot of time putting my hair up in a ponytail. I put on running pants, a sports bra and athletic top. I filled up a water bottle. Dragged the treadmill out from the storage room, put it in front of the tv, grabbed my ipod, downloaded new "exercise" music, put in my headphones, turned on "Toddlers and Tiaras" and (now a good 45 minutes after I began the process) proceeded to stretch, walk a warm-up lap, and then run at a comfortable 5 ish miles an hour. And it felt fantastic. My brain started a slideshow of the motivational pins I had seen. I pictured my future super-toned, super-hot body and ran a little faster.

And then I remembered why I don't run. Why? you ask. Because, Blogland, running sucks. After like 120 seconds on the treadmill I remembered that with every slap of my shoes against the moving belt, I hated my life a little bit more. That every time my ponytail would swing across my shoulders, the burning in my legs, chest, lungs, butt and even shoulders (who runs with their shoulders???) would get worse. And for some weird reason, my feet always fall asleep when I run. And I would try and wiggle my toes and then I would think, "Wow, this really sucks." And for a while, I would push through it, because my pride made me. So i would run for like 15 minutes. Then do some yoga to cool down. Then take a shower and feel kind of good about myself. And then the next day, I would do the same cycle. For like four days, it goes like that. Then on the fifth day, I have no more motivation. Zero percent of me wants to go run on that treadmill of death. Who needs a super-toned body and a killer butt? Not me. Who needs a huge bowl of ice cream topped with brownies and hot fudge? This girl!

Want.

And so then I eat like a pig for a month without exercising at all (another thing for which pinterest is great: showing you how to bake anything with Nutella, as well as make any unhealthy, ridiculously delicious dish you could think of) so I would gain a little weight, then get re-motivated to lose the extra pounds by pinteresting and running. Which lasts for five days, makes me remember it sucks and I hate it, and I stop. Then I eat like a pig, gain weight, Pinterest.... And it continues, in an endless, crazy cycle. So right now I'm in the "I'm gonna get super fit and super hot" phase of the cycle. Yesterday I ran outside for a change, and it was really nice. I didn't even hate it and my feet didn't even fall asleep. And then I got lost and ended up on a WAY longer run than I had intended, and then I kind of hated it.

So here's what I'm looking for: lasting motivation to develop a healthier, more active lifestyle. Motivation that's stronger than my love for baking and eating things that are ridiculously unhealthy. Pinterest didn't work. I did one whole day of P90X and hated it, so that didn't work either. Any ideas, blogland? I'm open to anything that doesn't involve a pole and "breaking stereotypes". But I would prefer it's cheap to free. Without the cheap option... so basically just free is what I'm looking for.

But listen, this has been a really long, un-interesting post, so I'm going to go. Good job if you read this far. Feel free to comment, even if it's just to say "hey, I read to the last paragraph!" I'll give you a medal, because you would totally deserve it. Except I won't really give you one, but you can imagine. Anyway, my yoga pants are currently guilting me to do some pilates or something. I'll do like 3 crunches. And maybe even throw in a pushup! Who knows? I'm all thinspired!  But look forward to a post about how I moved into a horror story. Or about my first date in college, whichever I feel like writing next. Kaybye!

Baker Emily?

When I was a kid, I was really into being the best. When teachers gave me a homework assignment, I would think "Mine's going to be the best." and so I worked really hard and turned regular answers on tests into short stories and wrote 15 page essays on John Glenn.

Also when I was a kid, I was homeschooled. But only during the fourth grade. I might write more details about it another day, but all you need to know is that in Colorado, when you are homeschooled, you are required to do 4 hours a day. Or something like that. Unfortunately for me, that left me with like 4 hours of the day to to spare, during which my friends were all at school so I couldn't play with them, my siblings were all at school so I couldn't annoy them, and Facebook, Pinterest, and Hulu didn't exist for me to be addicted to. So I decided to fill the time by becoming a housewife. I didn't like cleaning and I wasn't tall enough to reach the stove though, so basically all that left me with was wearing dresses and baking. And since I wanted to be the best at it, I went all out.

In my head I was a mix between the mom on those fifties' posters and cinderella, slaving away at chores all day (but only the ones I wanted to do, that didn't involve any cleaning products or putting things away) with little thanks, but doing it with grace and poise and singing to my mouse-friends as I went. I loved what I thought was the poetic beauty in it.

I wanted to be this. But cuter

So on the first day of my new persona, I got out the little red-checked apron my grandma had made me, stuck a wooden spoon it it, and proceeded to bake brownies. By scratch. With a whisk. I followed the recipe with exactness, ate a lot of the batter, stuck it in the stove, and thirty to forty minutes later, a perfect pan of brownies was ready. Since I was a housewife in my head, I needed children to cater to. Conveniently (for them) I had four older siblings who would eventually be coming home from school, which meant I had to make after-school snacks for them. So i put powdered sugar on the brownies, cut them up, laid them on a tray and waited for them to get home. Three hours later, my "little ones" (who were all at least 4 years older than me) came home from school, and wasn't I the proud mamma? Drying my (already dry) hands on a dishtowel, I greeted them with a little pyramid of brownies. Which they devoured, and RAVED about. "Emily, you're the best brownie baker ever!" "These are FANTASTIC" etc, etc, etc. Needless to say, I was overjoyed and so ridiculously proud. I was the best.

And so started my love affair with desserts and baking. I quickly began to try more adventurous treats, like crepes and flan. I tried making cookies once but they turned out gross so I decided that all cookies sucked and I hated them, so I didn't bake any for like 4 years. Seriously. But anyway this idea that I was the best baker ever followed me around for years. My first year at college we hosted "Sunday Night Dessert" where we made truffles and crepes and all kinds of delicious things. My sister, Amber, and I even made my dad's famous cinnamon rolls once. They took all day and night and turned out great. I still rarely made cookies but I became Amber and Lucas' baking slave, where they would just text me and say "Come make us waffle iron brownies." And I would do it. Mostly because they let me use their washer and dryer, but also because I love to bake.

Amber and I, the day we made cinnamon rolls. We're baking pros.

So the other night, Amber and her husband Lucas came over, and since our family gatherings aren't complete without at least one dessert (we have been known to make up to three in one night). We decided to make oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. (And by "we decided" I mean that Amber decided and then said "EMILY! Aren't you coming?" to which I said "ughh... I guess.") So Amber and I went upstairs and started mixing the dough.

It was one of those nights when everything was hilarious, and we quickly became pretty hyper. It all started when the microwave (and by that, I mean me) accidentally melted the butter instead of softening it. I wanted to throw it out and try again, but Amber dumped it in the mixer, laughing that it would be fine. Shortly thereafter, Amber stopped measuring ingredients altogether -- just dumping them in the mixer and hoping it was the right amount. Which apparently usually works for her. I accidentally added twice the amount of Nutmeg the recipe called for, and almost added some obscure, chili-powder esque spice instead of cinnamon. Since the flour hadn't been measured, we tasted the dough and decided we needed more. More got added... much more. So we balanced it out by adding more milk. And then more spices. And then more brown sugar. And we laughed our faces off the entire night.

By the time we forced ourselves to stop, the cookie dough was thick and gluey, and somehow, despite the copious amount of spices we added, had very little taste. As a joke, Amber got a big spoonful of the stuff and took some down to Lucas with an innocent, "I brought you some cookie dough, baby!" Lucas, who was in the middle of killing aliens/Germans/zombies with Eli on the x-box, thanked her, and ate it. No reaction. "What do you think?" she asked.

"It's really good, baby!" he said. Best husband ever?

My mom started to realize something was wrong. "What did you do to it?" she asked.

So we got her some. She ate it and goes, "It tastes.... like paste. It's really gross... Seriously bad cookie dough... How did you even DO that?" Best mom ever.

So we threw away the dough. Thanks to the oats and the strange brown color, it looked exactly like a ton of puke, sitting on top of the kitchen trash. So much for being the best baker ever, huh? All I had to show for my skills was a trashcan full of throw-up, a kitchen covered in flour, and a belly full of paste pretending to be dough, and I'm very seriously considering the possibility that 4th grade me was right to declare that cookies suck and to stop making them altogether. Even though (properly made) oatmeal chocolate chip cookie dough is the most delicious substance on the planet. Sorry, fourth grade me, I've failed you. On the bright side, all the laughing was probably a great workout.

Showers Make Blogging Hard. (An entirely unsatisfactory post that starts in many places and ends nowhere at all)

I'm supposed to be preparing a Relief Society lesson right now. But I don't want to. I also should be showering, in preparation for the YSA barbeque tonight, but I got sunburned pretty badly yesterday and so showering has become a long, tedious, very painful experience that I am just not quite up to right now. So instead, I watched 1.5 hours of So You Think You Can Dance, ate too much food, didn't clean my room, and now I'm sitting on my bed watching the torrential rain outside my window and listening to the thunder boom over my Christina Perri. How poetic. And perfect weather for a barbeque, right? Here's an unrelated picture of a cool license plate I saw the other day:

Every time we plan an awesome YSA activity, the Colorado weather comes in just to show us who's really in charge here. A field day was cancelled due to rain. We went white water rafting down the Royal Gorge recently and we drove 2 hours through one of the worst rainstorms to get there. We plan an awesome "welcome to summer" BBQ and the sky is gray, sunless and dumping the entire contents of the Pacific ocean on us. We just want to have some fun in good weather... is that too much to ask? But oh well. Even a cold, rainy barbeque is better than no barbeque!

In case you couldn't tell, I have no subject for this blog. So let's talk about my life. As usual. Which actually begs the question of whether my generation is incredibly insecure or incredibly narcissistic, given our insatiable need to have our opinions, lives and duck-faced pictures constantly seen and validated by our friends or strangers through various social networks. Honestly? My vote is insecurity (maybe with a healthy dose of peer-based narcissism.) Constant effort to be validated and feel like we're not ignored. We have an inability to be completely at peace with and confident in ourselves, so we seek that confidence through strangers. We're pretty needy, I think.

So let's talk about insecurity, and the repercussions of it. Being pretty new to the non-school ward YSA world, my observations are going to be unfairly biased and lacking the perspective that comes with experience. But I'll share them anyway because I want to. And this is my blog. So grab some salt to chew on while you read.

It has come to my attention that the Young Single Adult wards are absolutely bristling with insecurity. Particularly with female insecurities. The Mormon culture is very family-centric, and the young mormon culture is very marriage-centric, which gives many YSA the feeling that simply because they are in a YSA ward they are unsuccessful. Inherently failing just by being a Young Single Adult. So the single's wards, while being ridiculously fun and laid back, also have this weird under-the-surface broiling tension and competition. Like the slightly metallic aftertaste of salt-water. It's not noticeable at first, when you're overwhelmed with the strong taste of salt (or the bizarre culture of single mormonland) but after a while you are able to distinguish a subtle undertone of metal (or highly pressurized, insecurity-based competition.)  Everyone is competing to find their place in life and make a niche for themselves in the ward, while simeoultaneously doing everything they can to stand-out so they can find someone (anyone) and leave it.

In the rush to find a significant other -- we all end up playing this ridiculous game of musical chairs. Everyone running around looking desperately for a seat, momentarily losing our control and not noticing who we bulldoze over, the friendships we ruin, or how ridiculous we look while we rush for even just a chance at what we (think we) want.

..................

Soo.... I originally wrote that like a week and a half ago, and there was supposed to be more, but I got cut off by looking at the time and realizing I really HAD to go face the shower of fire otherwise I would be late to pick up the guy I was taking to the barbeque. Turns out I was late anyway because my car needed oil and the oil cap wouldn't come off and there was no one home and I live in Larkspur so I just panicked for a minute, lamenting my lack of usable musculature (I don't even know if that's a real word. Or if I used it right. But it sounds good, so I'm leaving it.) for a good five minutes until I decided to just tell my car to suck it up and not explode while I drove 30 minutes to the aforementioned guy's house and made him take the oil cap off for me (using tools, because he's a man. Naturally.) The car survived. The Barbeque was good. The lesson went well.

 Also, I probably have more to add the the abruptly ending monologue about insecurities/competition in the YSA world, but it takes way more brain power than I'm willing to invest right now to properly work through my thoughts, rid them of mean comments and write them in a way that makes a little bit of sense. So I won't. But I might someday, in which case I don't want to totally re-write it all, but I also hate having drafts sitting around my "posts" page, so I'll publish it and maybe link back to it should I ever decide to open that particular can of worms again. Feel free to post your thoughts on the subject.

I should also add two things. One, I make it sound like I'm husband hunting. Let me assure you that I am not. I have big things (think; getting involved in a rad non-profit which could eventually lead to living in Mexico, saving Mayans) coming up that I need to do and I have every intention of doing those things without a rock on my finger.

Number two:  Since I wrote this, I have determined (through talking about it with various men) that most, if not all, of the competition aspect is only felt and participated in by the women. Most (all) of the guys I talked to said they didn't feel at all like the YSA wards are a competition. I attribute that to the fact that there are roughly 2-3 girls for every guy, on average, in active young single Mormonland. I would also like to add that it's not an outright competition, this isn't Mean Girls. It's just a barely distinguishable hint of competition that most girls aren't even aware they're smelling, let alone acting upon, until they find themselves scratching their best-friend's crushes back during Sacrament meeting, starting a huge turf war, and secretly loving the drama (which of course they hate...... right?)

Turns out it's not that hard to invest the brainpower to write about this. But we find ourselves (me, you and the maybe 2.5 other people who have read this far) at another awkward moment where if I don't leave my computer immediately to go take a shower (no sunburn this time, thank goodness), I will be late for yet another YSA barbeque. Which will be followed by a motorcycle ride through downtown Denver to enjoy the lights of the city and ignore the homeless people (sorry, Urban Campers) and drug addicts shooting up in alleys. So really, I have to go. The shower awaits, yet again. I've been putting it off for at least 3 hours now, because showering (and the subsequent getting-ready)  is a long process, this time followed by an even longer process because I should probably try and look good for the YSA thing and the aforementioned drug-addicts. So here I go. For real this time. Kaybye!

While this is not the motorcycle I will be riding on, I saw this in a Red Robin parking lot and realized this is probably the motorcycle that Chuck Norris would ride, it's so awesome. So feel free to imagine me on this bike, with tassled chaps and maybe a trucker hat. Or an Indian feather and braids. Or all of the above.

Why Netflix is the Worst

Note: Prepare yourself for a lot of run-on sentences, Blogland. Sorry, I just don't feel like editing tonight... But know that I do love you, reader, despite my rudeness in posting a ridiculously bad story riddled with extra-long and hard to understand sentences.

Once upon a time, I lived in Rexburg and had lots of awesome friends that lived within a 1 mile radius of my apartment. The thing about going to BYU-I is that there's an Honor Code. It's basically a list of rules that you have to sign before you can actually enroll at the school. Lots of people hate the Honor Code with a fiery passion. They get frustrated and gesture wildly while forcefully explaining the many negatives of it to their friends who all feel the same. They write English essays about why it sucks and turn them in, feeling like they've successfully "stuck it to the man." And then the small spark of passion that inspired the essay dies within the student as the paper sits on a desk for three days, is half-heartedly graded by a student teacher, and given back (at which point the student has wasted all of their energy and passion on writing the essay, feels satisfied, and forgets about the terrible injustices of the system until the next passionate conversation.)

But all of that is beside the point.

Prior to attending the school, I was pretty sure I would hate the Honor Code. Growing up, I can't really think of any concrete rules we had, and as a combined result of my parent's natural lax style and my older siblings getting married, my mom getting cancer, etc, I spent the majority of my high school years with very little parental attention. Because of this, I had ridiculous amounts of freedom. I had no curfew, rarely told my parents where I was, and spent 90% of my time roaming the streets of middle-class suburbia with my group of righteous, sheltered, Mormon friends fellow hoodlums. However, despite my expectations, I really didn't have a problem with the decreased freedom that came along with going to a private church college. I happily followed all of the rules, including the curfew,  for the first... semester and a half.

As my year at school progressed, I started breaking curfew every now and then, not exactly intentionally, but kind of. We didn't need much of a reason to stay out past midnight. Once Brett and i snuck into an under-construction building and explored the apartments and tractors and stuff at 1:00 am. Once Alyssa and I filled a hot guy's car with balloons and covered it with sticky notes... Many times we stayed up late playing Super Smash Bros. on the N64. So basically, I broke curfew because...

Make sense? Now all of that was a very roundabout and mostly irrelevant way to bring up a particular night of curfew-breakage, and more accurately, why Netflix is the worst.

 Usually my fellow rebels were my good friends Brett and Tom, and occasionally Steve. One night, probably around midnight, we decided that we wanted to watch a movie. Not just any movie, but Easy A. Now, both Brett and I had seen it on Netflix instant streaming just a day or two before, so the four of us traipsed over to Brett's house to watch it.

Mildly interesting sidenote: There was an awkward minute when we first walked in where one of Brett's roommates, who had previously (very recently) taken me on a few dates and with whom I had had one of those unsatisfactory "ending" of things (namely, where he kept inviting me to do things and I kept not being able to go, and then the inviting stopped because he felt I was avoiding him, when in reality I was just busy, but I wasn't too upset about it, anyway. So the talking stopped abruptly and I made no effort to restart it, meaning we hadn't talked in a few days... which doesn't properly express the awkwardness, but it was there. Like a faint smell in the air -- one where you can't tell if you're actually smelling it or if you're just going crazy) Anyway, the roommate was cuddling with some girl on the couch watching some man-movie or another, so Tom, Brett, Steve and I just kinda sat there till their movie ended and roommate took miscellaneous girl home, which just added another layer of awkwardness to the situation. I'll write a post to more properly explain later. But that's not the point. The point is Easy A. I mean Netflix.

Rather excitedly, the three of us got ready to watch the movie. (which, if my memory serves me right, somehow included microwaving hot dogs and eating them without plates, bread or buns... but that could have been another time.) So Netflix opens, and we begin scrolling through the "New Arrivals" list, and to our horror, Easy A was nowhere to be found. So we did a search. And sure enough, it was gone. Only available as a disk (which, as everyone knows, is a stupid conspiracy to keep all the good movies away from college students bumming off their parent's account). Overflowing with dissappointment, but unwilling to let our rebellious curfew-breakage be cut short, we proceeded to do pretty much nothing, which included leaving the lights off. We sat there in darkness and talked for a bit, Tom fell asleep in a chair and Brett and Steve and I laid on the floor and fought our own tiredness as the last manifestation of our dying will to intentionally break curfew. I fell asleep. Apparently I talked in my sleep as well, much the boys' amusement. But the point is that our night was ruined by Netflix.

Now fast forward a year or so, and you'll arrive at the present. I was feeling pretty sick tonight, so I decided to ditch the barbeque and night-hike I was supposed to attend, and I really just wanted to lay in my bed and watch a movie. Hulu proved to be unhelpful, so I moved to Netflix and perused their ridiculously pitiful selection of third-rate movies mixed occasionally (hallelujah!) with one that had actually been released in theaters. Unable to find one to fit my fancy, I went to the "just for kids" section, to see what they had there. After passing over a dozen or so made-for-TV Disney Channel movies, I found it. Puss in Boots. I had only seen the first half of it, and what I had seen was hilariously witty and entertaining. I clicked the cover photo with great anticipation. While I waited for it to load and the beginning credits to run, I went to other tabs on my browser. It wasn't long before I realized, through half-listening to the music, that the opening scene was ridiculously long, set to crappy, slow music and showing wayyy too many credits. When finally the music stopped and the movie started, I was horrified to hear terrible fake voices (picture Keanu Reeves trying to sound cartoonish... or being good at varying the tone of his voice...or acting. That's how bad it was.) I clicked to my netflix tab and discovered some really crappy, unfinished style animation to accompany (half a second behind) the crappy voices currently tearing apart my ear drums. What is going on? I asked myself.  I navigated back to the movie page to discover, to my horror, this:

A sneaky off-brand Puss in Boots! How dare they! That wasn't at all what I had wanted. I had wanted Antonio Banderas, not William Shatner. Dreamworks Animation magic, not... whatever guy animated this in his basement. Sneaky Netflix. But I should have known, after all, it had happened to me a few months ago with Kung Fu Panda. Behold, blogland, the sneakery!

Chop Kick Panda? REALLY? With Fists of Fury? I have no words. Off-brand breakfast cereals blatantly copying the national brand, I can handle. But off-brand kids' movies? That's too much.

But never fear, Blogtopia, I have learned my lesson. Never trust Netflix, because when you do, your night gets ruined and you either end up falling asleep and sleep-talking to a bunch of boys, OR alone on a Friday night eating nachos in your bed while writing a blog that wanders off-topic with hopeless frequency but is supposed to be about how Netflix is run by a bunch of sneaky counterfeiters and they ruined your night. Twice. I could have been at a barbeque and on a night-hike, Netflix, but thanks to you I'm sweeping nacho crumbs out of my sheets instead.