Read the following string of emails to see how I effect social change.
From: Cicada
Sent: Friday, April 21, 2006 8:40 AM
To: vending@byu.edu
Subject: melted twix
The vending machine in the KMC has been a little too warm lately. When we buy Twix, they come melted onto the wrapper. Then eating Twix in the workplace becomes unprofessional for two reasons:
1) You get melty chocolate all over your hands and you have to lick it off.
2) You have to lick off the remaining chocolate on the wrapper to feel you’re getting your money’s worth.
The melty Twix problem is a new phenomenon, but we have been experiencing it consistently over the past couple of weeks.
If you could do anything to regulate the inside temperature of your machine, we would appreciate it! Otherwise, we’re going to have to stop buying Twix and other chocolate items in the vending machine.
From: BYU Vending
Sent: Friday, April 21, 2006 9:07 AM
To: Cicada
Subject: RE: melted twix
I’m on my way to check the offending machine and twix it or not, get the machine in a good mood for all of you.
Thanks for the heads up,
Bob, BYU Vending
From: Cicada
Sent: Friday, April 28, 2006 10:44 AM
To: BYU Vending
Subject: RE: melted twix
Bob,
I’m currently licking my fingers from my last Twix and my typing skills have been significantly diminished. Melted Twix are not good for productivity. Not only do they lower morale, they also impair our ability to perform our jobs because we cannot do our jobs with chocolate on our fingers. Did you find anything wrong with the machine when you came to look at it last week? The Twix are still melty!
Cicada, BYU Independent Study
From: BYU Vending
Sent: Friday, April 21, 2006 10:53 AM
To: Cicada
Subject: RE: melted twix
I’m on my way to relieve the pain and suffering. I have a bid into purchasing to replace the machine, so bear with us, Please I beg of you.!!!!!!!!!!!
Bob
A half hour later, I saw a coworker pointing me out to a man wearing a BYU Vending polo shirt. He came to me with a box of Twix as a peace offering, explaining that he'd pull the vending machine away from the wall now (and hope that temporarily solves the problem) and see if he can replace it in about a month. Effected change never tasted so sweet!
Is that your final answer?
I had an interesting bird watching final yesterday. It was my final final. The first half of the test was a bird-identification test. The teacher or his TA gave away almost every answer. He'd hold up a dead, stuffed bird and ask what kind of bird it was. Here are some samples. See if you can get them right:
1. This was the first bird that Noah sent out from the ark. [Holds up a very large black bird.] Noah sent a raven out before sending a dove. A raven. Question 1: Name this bird.
2. [Holds up a large raptor (bird of prey).] Some people would describe this hawk as having a red tail. Name this bird.
3. Name this goldfinch. [Holds up an American goldfinch. Puts down the goldfinch, goes to the piano, plays America the Beautiful.]
4. [Holds up a bird that no one's ever seen before.] This is a dipper. [Talks for ten minutes on why dippers are so cool.] Dipper. The answer is dipper. Write down dipper.
5. Name this bird. Oh. It's not on the list of birds you have to know? Well, it's a snowy egret. Name this bird.
6. Name this duck. Don't be fooled. There's something distinctive about this duck. [The duck has a huge bill, so I know it's a shoveler.]
7. [Holds up a new duck.] Name four ducks this is not. Just four ducks that this duck is not. What are four ducks this is not? [He's seriously asking the class now.] I say "Mallard." He responds, "Correct. This duck is not a mallard. This duck is also not a shoveler--" [Here, he points to the duck that he showed in number 6.] "This duck is not a wood duck or a gadwall."
8. [Holds up a meadowlark.] You can find this bird in meadows.
9. Everybody, look up "kingfisher" in your books. Kingfisher. Look at that bird. Isn't that a great bird? [Holds up a bird that is not a kingfisher.] What is this bird? [A student says, "It's not a kingfisher." He says, "No, this bird is not a kingfisher." Student says, "Why did you just show us a kingfisher." He says, "Because the kingfisher's a cool bird."]
So yeah. When it comes right down to it, I'm glad I didn't study too hard for that test. The second part of the test was an essay response to "Why is it so easy to love bears?" I wrote this story and then wrote a few biological reasons they're cool, and started to be very conscious of the fact that the Daltoncrew was waiting in their car outside to take me to the Blog Party, so I brought the essay to a hasty conclusion with the sentence, "They are dangerously cuddly creatures that are just lovable."
And then I gave thanks that I'm not graduating today, because I really don't want that to be the last sentence of my college career.
1. This was the first bird that Noah sent out from the ark. [Holds up a very large black bird.] Noah sent a raven out before sending a dove. A raven. Question 1: Name this bird.
2. [Holds up a large raptor (bird of prey).] Some people would describe this hawk as having a red tail. Name this bird.
3. Name this goldfinch. [Holds up an American goldfinch. Puts down the goldfinch, goes to the piano, plays America the Beautiful.]
4. [Holds up a bird that no one's ever seen before.] This is a dipper. [Talks for ten minutes on why dippers are so cool.] Dipper. The answer is dipper. Write down dipper.
5. Name this bird. Oh. It's not on the list of birds you have to know? Well, it's a snowy egret. Name this bird.
6. Name this duck. Don't be fooled. There's something distinctive about this duck. [The duck has a huge bill, so I know it's a shoveler.]
7. [Holds up a new duck.] Name four ducks this is not. Just four ducks that this duck is not. What are four ducks this is not? [He's seriously asking the class now.] I say "Mallard." He responds, "Correct. This duck is not a mallard. This duck is also not a shoveler--" [Here, he points to the duck that he showed in number 6.] "This duck is not a wood duck or a gadwall."
8. [Holds up a meadowlark.] You can find this bird in meadows.
9. Everybody, look up "kingfisher" in your books. Kingfisher. Look at that bird. Isn't that a great bird? [Holds up a bird that is not a kingfisher.] What is this bird? [A student says, "It's not a kingfisher." He says, "No, this bird is not a kingfisher." Student says, "Why did you just show us a kingfisher." He says, "Because the kingfisher's a cool bird."]
So yeah. When it comes right down to it, I'm glad I didn't study too hard for that test. The second part of the test was an essay response to "Why is it so easy to love bears?" I wrote this story and then wrote a few biological reasons they're cool, and started to be very conscious of the fact that the Daltoncrew was waiting in their car outside to take me to the Blog Party, so I brought the essay to a hasty conclusion with the sentence, "They are dangerously cuddly creatures that are just lovable."
And then I gave thanks that I'm not graduating today, because I really don't want that to be the last sentence of my college career.
The Blog Police
I called my mom as soon as I finished my penultimate final today because I had to share my euphoria with someone. I gushed, and told her all sorts of details about every final I've taken so far this semester. I told her that I had one more and I'd be finished tonight. She asked if I'd call her after I was a "free woman." I told her yes, but maybe that wouldn't be tonight. I said I had a blog party to go to.
"Oh, a blog party," she said. "So you don't blog anymore but you go to parties?"
So I miss one day (Tuesday) in the middle of finals week and suddenly according to my mother, I'm a non-blogger? She has such high, high expectations of me...
"Oh, a blog party," she said. "So you don't blog anymore but you go to parties?"
So I miss one day (Tuesday) in the middle of finals week and suddenly according to my mother, I'm a non-blogger? She has such high, high expectations of me...
Move over Betty Crocker
(Alternatively titled as "Ack! My Mouth is on Fire!")
I went grocery shopping last week. What that means is that I actually food in my house. This is something of a new phenomenon. Yesterday, I decided to bake bread, because of course, when one should be studying for finals and finishing up projects, one's natural inclination is to bake bread.
So I baked two loaves. Then I thought about how great Daltongirl thinks she is just because she can make a good sandwich. I had none of her ingredients, but what I did is I cut two slices off one loaf as soon as it came out of the oven. They were each about 1.5 inches thick. Then, I smeared one with peanut butter and the other with Nutella. Then I put bananas in the middle. By the end of my eating experience, I had peanut butter and nutella on my nose, cheeks, and chin. And banana in my eyebrow. And I decided that my sandwich was way better than Daltongirl's.
Lately I've been craving egg salad sandwiches. I don't know why. I've also been craving devilled eggs. So just now, I went to the kitchen, cut another couple of slices off my loaf, and got out a couple hard-boiled eggs. I also grabbed my mayonnaise, only to discover that it expired months ago (I always thought that mayo was something that didn't expire like ketchup or mustard). So I had to improvise. I looked up devilled eggs in a cookbook and found out that you use mustard powder. So I put a little mustard powder in the smooshed up eggs. And then I tasted them, and I could hardly taste anything. So I dumped in a bunch more mustard powder. I still felt it was missing something, so I shook in a bunch of dill weed. Then I spread my egg mixture between my slices of homemade bread.
To make a useless story short, it's disgusting. And my mouth is on fire---way too much mustard. So I think I'm going to have to throw out (or up) the whole effort. And ride my bike to Daltongirl's house or something.
I went grocery shopping last week. What that means is that I actually food in my house. This is something of a new phenomenon. Yesterday, I decided to bake bread, because of course, when one should be studying for finals and finishing up projects, one's natural inclination is to bake bread.
So I baked two loaves. Then I thought about how great Daltongirl thinks she is just because she can make a good sandwich. I had none of her ingredients, but what I did is I cut two slices off one loaf as soon as it came out of the oven. They were each about 1.5 inches thick. Then, I smeared one with peanut butter and the other with Nutella. Then I put bananas in the middle. By the end of my eating experience, I had peanut butter and nutella on my nose, cheeks, and chin. And banana in my eyebrow. And I decided that my sandwich was way better than Daltongirl's.
Lately I've been craving egg salad sandwiches. I don't know why. I've also been craving devilled eggs. So just now, I went to the kitchen, cut another couple of slices off my loaf, and got out a couple hard-boiled eggs. I also grabbed my mayonnaise, only to discover that it expired months ago (I always thought that mayo was something that didn't expire like ketchup or mustard). So I had to improvise. I looked up devilled eggs in a cookbook and found out that you use mustard powder. So I put a little mustard powder in the smooshed up eggs. And then I tasted them, and I could hardly taste anything. So I dumped in a bunch more mustard powder. I still felt it was missing something, so I shook in a bunch of dill weed. Then I spread my egg mixture between my slices of homemade bread.
To make a useless story short, it's disgusting. And my mouth is on fire---way too much mustard. So I think I'm going to have to throw out (or up) the whole effort. And ride my bike to Daltongirl's house or something.
Don't Be Nice
[Before I get to the point of this post, I need to gush about the fact that I just submitted my majorest project of the semester and it feels so good to have that done! Not only that, but I completed it on time with one minute to spare. I had thought it would be impossible.]
So as I went to submit my assignment today, I rode up to campus by bike. I noticed a cyclist traveling south on 7th East. He was a Serious Cyclist. I know that because he was wearing spandex. He needed to make a left-hand turn at an intersection. He was in the left lane waiting at a red light. When the light turned green, he pulled into the intersection to wait to make his left turn. The first car of the opposing traffic went through the intersection. The next car---the one that had the right of way---stopped and waved the cyclist through. The cyclist shook his head and waved the car through. This continued until the car finally went through the intersection as it should have in the first place.
It really bugs me to see cars break traffic rules to be nice. It bugs me because a lot of the time, they're making the roads more dangerous. Take Ambrosia's last car accident for example. She needed to turn left out of a parking lot. She needed to clear two lanes of traffic to get to the right side of the road. A car in the nearer lane of traffic saw that she had obviously been waiting for a while to get out of the parking lot, so it stopped to let her through. Ambrosia went through and was hit by a car in the next lane of traffic. Now, Ambrosia will be the first to admit that she shouldn't have gone through. But I'm just as ready to lynch the stupid car driver who thought it was a good idea to stop and let a car through when he/she couldn't control traffic in the next lane.
This is a common situation when I take the bus from work to school. My bus stop is across a four-lane highway. Usually, I clear the first two lanes, walk (or run) to the suicide land, and then clear the next two lanes before crossing the rest of the way. Often, a car in the nearer lane of traffic will stop to let me walk across. I shake my head and wave them to keep going. They become more insistent, waving me to cross the street...
...and meanwhile, cars in the lane left of them are whizzing past at body-splattering speeds!
And the people in the car waving me to cross start to get angry that I'm not taking advantage of their kindness. And so I start walking away from the street altogether to communicate to the people that there's no way that I'm going to cross in front of them. And then they flip me off and drive off in a bad mood.
So a message to all the drivers out there: Don't break traffic rules to be nice. Also, I hate you.
So as I went to submit my assignment today, I rode up to campus by bike. I noticed a cyclist traveling south on 7th East. He was a Serious Cyclist. I know that because he was wearing spandex. He needed to make a left-hand turn at an intersection. He was in the left lane waiting at a red light. When the light turned green, he pulled into the intersection to wait to make his left turn. The first car of the opposing traffic went through the intersection. The next car---the one that had the right of way---stopped and waved the cyclist through. The cyclist shook his head and waved the car through. This continued until the car finally went through the intersection as it should have in the first place.
It really bugs me to see cars break traffic rules to be nice. It bugs me because a lot of the time, they're making the roads more dangerous. Take Ambrosia's last car accident for example. She needed to turn left out of a parking lot. She needed to clear two lanes of traffic to get to the right side of the road. A car in the nearer lane of traffic saw that she had obviously been waiting for a while to get out of the parking lot, so it stopped to let her through. Ambrosia went through and was hit by a car in the next lane of traffic. Now, Ambrosia will be the first to admit that she shouldn't have gone through. But I'm just as ready to lynch the stupid car driver who thought it was a good idea to stop and let a car through when he/she couldn't control traffic in the next lane.
This is a common situation when I take the bus from work to school. My bus stop is across a four-lane highway. Usually, I clear the first two lanes, walk (or run) to the suicide land, and then clear the next two lanes before crossing the rest of the way. Often, a car in the nearer lane of traffic will stop to let me walk across. I shake my head and wave them to keep going. They become more insistent, waving me to cross the street...
...and meanwhile, cars in the lane left of them are whizzing past at body-splattering speeds!
And the people in the car waving me to cross start to get angry that I'm not taking advantage of their kindness. And so I start walking away from the street altogether to communicate to the people that there's no way that I'm going to cross in front of them. And then they flip me off and drive off in a bad mood.
So a message to all the drivers out there: Don't break traffic rules to be nice. Also, I hate you.
The One
Recently I bumped into an old friend on campus. We both were buying food to eat during the twenty minutes before we had class. We took our food and went to the lawn outside the library and took advantage of the time to catch up. She's dating someone. I'm dating someone. And in our discussion of past, present, and future, she asked me if I believe in the One Person Theory---that there is One Person out there who you're supposed to marry.
I think that the One Person Theory is comfortable on many levels. You date, you discover your significant other is not The One, you break up, and you continue your quest for The One. You look forward to the day when your soul connects with the soul of another person and you know that he is The One. It's comforting to think that there's someone out there who you're destined to be with. Comforting to think that no matter what you do, destiny will guide you toward Your One. Comforting to think that after you find and marry Your One, you will know for the rest of your life that you made the right decision because you found the only person in the world who you were meant to be with.
And it's comforting especially as an LDS person, who believes that the marriage decision is an eternal decision. Isn't it nice to know that you're going to spend eternity with the person who was created to complement you perfectly in every way?
The trouble is, I don't believe in The One Theory. (Don't get me wrong---I also don't actually believe that any righteous man and any righteous woman can marry and make a marriage work. Righteousness, though an important factor, is not the only factor to consider.) And not believing in The One Theory seems to put a lot more pressure on individuals to make a right decision. Not the right decision. A right decision. All of the responsibility is shifted from destiny to the individual.
I explained to her that there couldn't possibly be A One out there for everyone because people do make mistakes in marriage. And a mistake in marriage made by two people affects two other people. Who then are unable to marry their "One" and who therefore marry someone else's One, thereby leaving other unclaimed Ones to go out and steal other Ones. Basically, just two people making the wrong choice increases everyone else's chance of making the wrong choice.
Call me unromantic. Then again, I'm willing to bet that most of you out there also don't believe in The One Theory. So call me unromantic, but call me normal.
I think that the One Person Theory is comfortable on many levels. You date, you discover your significant other is not The One, you break up, and you continue your quest for The One. You look forward to the day when your soul connects with the soul of another person and you know that he is The One. It's comforting to think that there's someone out there who you're destined to be with. Comforting to think that no matter what you do, destiny will guide you toward Your One. Comforting to think that after you find and marry Your One, you will know for the rest of your life that you made the right decision because you found the only person in the world who you were meant to be with.
And it's comforting especially as an LDS person, who believes that the marriage decision is an eternal decision. Isn't it nice to know that you're going to spend eternity with the person who was created to complement you perfectly in every way?
The trouble is, I don't believe in The One Theory. (Don't get me wrong---I also don't actually believe that any righteous man and any righteous woman can marry and make a marriage work. Righteousness, though an important factor, is not the only factor to consider.) And not believing in The One Theory seems to put a lot more pressure on individuals to make a right decision. Not the right decision. A right decision. All of the responsibility is shifted from destiny to the individual.
I explained to her that there couldn't possibly be A One out there for everyone because people do make mistakes in marriage. And a mistake in marriage made by two people affects two other people. Who then are unable to marry their "One" and who therefore marry someone else's One, thereby leaving other unclaimed Ones to go out and steal other Ones. Basically, just two people making the wrong choice increases everyone else's chance of making the wrong choice.
Call me unromantic. Then again, I'm willing to bet that most of you out there also don't believe in The One Theory. So call me unromantic, but call me normal.
How could I say no?
Tonight there was a knock on my door. I opened it up and a man named B-Money introduced himself to me and shook my hand. He had something to sell.
He told me all about the discount card he was selling---not the Starving Student Card (which I've used in the past) but the "Elite" card. He let me know that Starving Student Cards can sell for up to $25 (I bought mine last year for $15 and used the hell out of it for a year) but he was selling this card for a mere $7. Of course... it expires in September 2006, so I won't be getting the card for the whole year. So my stalling strategy was to take the card and look at it, so that I could at least give him a chance.
And as I was reading the card, seeing nothing that really interested me, it occurred to me that I had just raised his hopes by actually looking at the card. So my rejection was going to be even more painful. And then I started doing the math, because I do happen to be a coupon user, and if I could save more than $7 by using the card, then it was worth it to buy it. But then I came out with the best rejection ever:
"I'm sorry," I said, "but I have no cash and no checks." (The check part was a lie in that I have checks but not a lie in that I refuse to use them for anything but things that must be paid by check, like tuition and tithing.) He countered with the fact that he would sell it to me for whatever money I had in the house.
And at that point, I no longer could say no. I brought out my wallet that contained three crisp $1 bills that I've been saving to pay for the Comedy Sportz show I'm going to tomorrow night. And then I gathered all the change that I have lying around the house. In total, it was about $3.75. And he took the money. And then I felt bad that I was getting the card for so little. But he said that if I had friends who were interested in having the card, I could give them his phone number and they could buy a card from him. So in an effort to relieve my conscience, I'm going to pimp his card. Contact me if you want his number (I wouldn't be so mean as to just randomly post his number on the internet).
Here is a list of businesses offering discounts who are currently out of business. Correct me if I'm wrong.
Here's what's actually good on the card:
He told me all about the discount card he was selling---not the Starving Student Card (which I've used in the past) but the "Elite" card. He let me know that Starving Student Cards can sell for up to $25 (I bought mine last year for $15 and used the hell out of it for a year) but he was selling this card for a mere $7. Of course... it expires in September 2006, so I won't be getting the card for the whole year. So my stalling strategy was to take the card and look at it, so that I could at least give him a chance.
And as I was reading the card, seeing nothing that really interested me, it occurred to me that I had just raised his hopes by actually looking at the card. So my rejection was going to be even more painful. And then I started doing the math, because I do happen to be a coupon user, and if I could save more than $7 by using the card, then it was worth it to buy it. But then I came out with the best rejection ever:
"I'm sorry," I said, "but I have no cash and no checks." (The check part was a lie in that I have checks but not a lie in that I refuse to use them for anything but things that must be paid by check, like tuition and tithing.) He countered with the fact that he would sell it to me for whatever money I had in the house.
And at that point, I no longer could say no. I brought out my wallet that contained three crisp $1 bills that I've been saving to pay for the Comedy Sportz show I'm going to tomorrow night. And then I gathered all the change that I have lying around the house. In total, it was about $3.75. And he took the money. And then I felt bad that I was getting the card for so little. But he said that if I had friends who were interested in having the card, I could give them his phone number and they could buy a card from him. So in an effort to relieve my conscience, I'm going to pimp his card. Contact me if you want his number (I wouldn't be so mean as to just randomly post his number on the internet).
Here is a list of businesses offering discounts who are currently out of business. Correct me if I'm wrong.
- Cafe del Sol
- Buona Vita
- Tony Romas
Here's what's actually good on the card:
- BonLosee free hair cut
- Clean Flicks free 3-month membership
- JDawg's 2 hot dogs and a drink for $5 (I don't know what his regular prices are, so maybe this actually sucks.)
- McGrath's fish house: FREE appetizer and FREE dessert with purchase of 2 entrees (and you get FOUR of these!)... oh wait... I'm dating a man who doesn't like sea food. Crap.
- Glazies Donuts: Buy one dozen get one dozen glazed free
- Smart Cookie Company: Third Wheel Special: Buy two cookie sandwiches, get one free
- Comedy Sportz: Buy one admission get one free (basically this is what redeems the card entirely for me)
- Muse Music: Buy one admission get one free
- University Mall Cinema: Buy one admission get one free (When the dollar theatre is not enough... now, even cheaper!)
My Brush with the Law
The other day, my mom suggested that I write a blog entry about the time that I got in trouble with the law. This was surprising to me because the last time we talked about it (when it actually happened) she didn't seem to have a sense of humor about it. Apparently six years have changed her outlook somewhat.First, let me explain that we drove a big white suburban when I was in high school. It had running boards and sometimes my parents would have us all stand on the running boards on the outside of the suburban, hanging on through windows, as they drove. I remember one particular time that my dad did this---he drove past my friends and me as we were walking home from the store and he offered us a ride on the outside of the vehicle. We accepted and rode the several blocks home. Near the end, he started to joke around a bit by stopping suddenly and accelerating just as suddenly. I fell off the suburban and remember distinctly hearing the 7-Up bottles I had been carrying burst on impact. Only I found out about twenty minutes later that they hadn't burst at all and the noise I heard was actually my head on impact.
Apparently my parents decided at that point never to allow people to ride on the outside of the suburban again. They should have told us kids that.
I worked at Wendy's during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at BYU. One night, The Boy came to pick me up after my shift. It was about 1:00 a.m. I had a friend, Jen, who was waiting for a ride with me. I invited her to hop on the outside of the suburban with me for a quick ride around the block. She did. And unfortunately, we found the longest, largest block in my whole entire city. I swear. It never ended. We were stuck on a large street with no place to turn off. As soon as we found a street to turn onto, we turned and got off of the car. And about two seconds later, the police pulled up behind us.
So the officer (he was alone) started lecturing us about reckless driving. He was trying to decide what the appropriate punishment for us would be and indicated that he could permanently revoke The Boy's driver's license. He brought us all into the back of his cruiser. Jen was crying. The officer talked about telling our parents about what had happened. Jen said, "Please! Not that! Please! I'll pay anything!"
The cop got really mad and said, "NEVER offer a bribe to a police officer!"
I spoke up in Jen's defense: "Sir, I think that she meant that she'd rather pay a ticket than have her parents find out."
Then the officer started to talk about tickets, saying that he could give us each a $90 ticket. I told him that I'd been working all summer to save for college, and I'd be losing half the money on the American exchange and that I couldn't possibly afford a $90 ticket.
His final solution was that he would take our information. And he would give us his information. And he would expect a phone call from my father (Jen got off with no punishment) in the morning, telling him that we had told him everything that had happened. If he didn't receive this phone call, he'd use our information to issue us tickets.
We went home and as I mentioned, my parents had no sense of humor about the situation. They were pretty mad about it. I'll admit, I thought it was interesting that they'd be so mad about us doing something that they had done on a regular basis. But whatever.
Possibly the best part of this story was The Boy's and my punishments. The Boy was grounded for a week. They said that he was responsible for what had happened because he was the driver. My punishment? My punishment was the guilt that I would obviously feel knowing that my brother was punished for carrying out my idea while I received no official punishment.
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Too bad I had no conscience.
Ah, nuts!
On Saturday, I mentioned to The Boy that it seemed I had something stuck in the back of my throat. I referred him to Th.'s post on food that gets stuck in the back of the throat and said that maybe it was something like that.
On Sunday, I noticed that I could still feel it, but no amount of coughing or gargling would make it go away.
This morning, I could still feel it. So I looked at the back of my mouth in the mirror. I couldn't see anything. I got a flashlight. Now, I'm not intimately familiar with the back of my mouth, but it seemed to me that the half where there was the "irritation" looked different from the other half. So I started poking at it in the hopes of getting at whatever might be stuck back there.
I didn't find anything, but the area definitely felt worse after that. I started to wonder if it wasn't actually something stuck back there---maybe there was some gaping hole that didn't hurt for some reason. It was probably cancer.
I called my mom in the morning to ask her about it and she told me to make a doctor's appointment. I talked to my sister-in-law about it briefly and she suggested it was something wrong with my tonsils. And then I had glorious visions of emergency surgery preventing me from finishing any projects or doing any final exams. It was great.
I went to the BYU Health Clinic before noon. I explained to the doctor that I didn't feel like there was anything wrong---it felt more like there was something stuck back there---but it was getting worse for some reason.
Doctor: Have you been feeling ill lately?
Cicada: No.
Doctor: Any mucous?
Cicada: No. [I'm starting to feel really stupid and hyperchondriackish at this point]
Doctor: Sore throat or a cough?
Cicada: No.
So he looked in my ears and then he stuck a tongue depressor in my mouth and had me say ahhhhh. He peered in and said that everything looked normal. Which was surprising to me because this morning, it looked to me like half of the back of my throat was different from the other half.
I told him that I could still feel that something was wrong back there.
So he pulled out a big yellow flashlight and stuck in the tongue depressor again. After a couple pokes to the back of my throat, he pulled out the tongue depressor. And there was a little nut on it. And that was it. A nut had gotten stuck in the back of my throat.
So in the end, I had the opportunity to pay $10 to feel stupid and embarrassed today. Well, and to have someone else remove the nut that was stuck in the back of my throat. And that being gone is a relief!
On Sunday, I noticed that I could still feel it, but no amount of coughing or gargling would make it go away.
This morning, I could still feel it. So I looked at the back of my mouth in the mirror. I couldn't see anything. I got a flashlight. Now, I'm not intimately familiar with the back of my mouth, but it seemed to me that the half where there was the "irritation" looked different from the other half. So I started poking at it in the hopes of getting at whatever might be stuck back there.
I didn't find anything, but the area definitely felt worse after that. I started to wonder if it wasn't actually something stuck back there---maybe there was some gaping hole that didn't hurt for some reason. It was probably cancer.
I called my mom in the morning to ask her about it and she told me to make a doctor's appointment. I talked to my sister-in-law about it briefly and she suggested it was something wrong with my tonsils. And then I had glorious visions of emergency surgery preventing me from finishing any projects or doing any final exams. It was great.
I went to the BYU Health Clinic before noon. I explained to the doctor that I didn't feel like there was anything wrong---it felt more like there was something stuck back there---but it was getting worse for some reason.
Doctor: Have you been feeling ill lately?
Cicada: No.
Doctor: Any mucous?
Cicada: No. [I'm starting to feel really stupid and hyperchondriackish at this point]
Doctor: Sore throat or a cough?
Cicada: No.
So he looked in my ears and then he stuck a tongue depressor in my mouth and had me say ahhhhh. He peered in and said that everything looked normal. Which was surprising to me because this morning, it looked to me like half of the back of my throat was different from the other half.
I told him that I could still feel that something was wrong back there.
So he pulled out a big yellow flashlight and stuck in the tongue depressor again. After a couple pokes to the back of my throat, he pulled out the tongue depressor. And there was a little nut on it. And that was it. A nut had gotten stuck in the back of my throat.
So in the end, I had the opportunity to pay $10 to feel stupid and embarrassed today. Well, and to have someone else remove the nut that was stuck in the back of my throat. And that being gone is a relief!
My body is amazing.
No, seriously. It amazes me.
Today as I was walking home from work, I was walking down a long flight of outdoor stairs (by the bell tower) and text messaging Kit at the same time. Walking down stairs and text messaging may be as dangerous as cutting Redlaw off in traffic (while she's talking on the phone). Without actually thinking (and that's the point here), I thought that I had reached the last step and expected my next step to fall on even ground.
But I misjudged, so I started to fall. Before I had the chance to complete the thought, "ohcrapmylaptopwillfallandthescreenwillcrack
andIwillhavenomorecomputer," my body had corrected the fall and recovered itself. And I was left with an embarrassed smirk on my face as well as a sore (strained neck), a strained groin, a strained back, strained thighs, and a hand that hurt where it smacked into the other hand and the cell phone. Really, it only took about 0.5 seconds for me to use and strain muscles in all those areas of my body.
And I think it's cool. That's all. Just cool. We probably almost fall more than we actually fall. And there's all sorts of body parts involved that just correct our mistake almost instantly. Sure, we have to deal with sore necks, backs, groins, thighs, and hands, but at least we don't have to deal with broken computers.
So in honor of my amazing body, and to compensate for the fact that some people are letting the ball drop on the poem of the day, I'll write an ode to my body.
My Body Magnificent
Although it may be pudgy and a little wee bit round
(on account of eating fudgy), I'll admit that I have found
I truly love my flabby figure with its curves (and curves and curves)
though I plan to reconfigure it. (And that's what it deserves).
I'll take it to the gym more oft, I'll walk it up the stairs.
With time it will become less soft (with time and lots of prayers).
I'll fill it up with healthful meals, go easy on the fudge.
Will that improve my sex appeal? Well, you can be the judge.
Today as I was walking home from work, I was walking down a long flight of outdoor stairs (by the bell tower) and text messaging Kit at the same time. Walking down stairs and text messaging may be as dangerous as cutting Redlaw off in traffic (while she's talking on the phone). Without actually thinking (and that's the point here), I thought that I had reached the last step and expected my next step to fall on even ground.
But I misjudged, so I started to fall. Before I had the chance to complete the thought, "ohcrapmylaptopwillfallandthescreenwillcrack
andIwillhavenomorecomputer," my body had corrected the fall and recovered itself. And I was left with an embarrassed smirk on my face as well as a sore (strained neck), a strained groin, a strained back, strained thighs, and a hand that hurt where it smacked into the other hand and the cell phone. Really, it only took about 0.5 seconds for me to use and strain muscles in all those areas of my body.
And I think it's cool. That's all. Just cool. We probably almost fall more than we actually fall. And there's all sorts of body parts involved that just correct our mistake almost instantly. Sure, we have to deal with sore necks, backs, groins, thighs, and hands, but at least we don't have to deal with broken computers.
So in honor of my amazing body, and to compensate for the fact that some people are letting the ball drop on the poem of the day, I'll write an ode to my body.
My Body Magnificent
Although it may be pudgy and a little wee bit round
(on account of eating fudgy), I'll admit that I have found
I truly love my flabby figure with its curves (and curves and curves)
though I plan to reconfigure it. (And that's what it deserves).
I'll take it to the gym more oft, I'll walk it up the stairs.
With time it will become less soft (with time and lots of prayers).
I'll fill it up with healthful meals, go easy on the fudge.
Will that improve my sex appeal? Well, you can be the judge.
Dream a Little Dream for Me
During my freshman year, my RA dared me to walk up to a good friend of hers who I had never met and ask him to go to Preference with me. Because I was young and immature and because I knew that he'd find out immediately it was a joke, I did it. It was awkward for him for a moment while he explained that he already had a date, and then he saw my RA laughing at him and we all had a good laugh. I never talked to him again.
About a month later, I had a dream about him. It was one of the most vivid dreams I have ever had. He asked me to prom (we didn't have prom where I grew up in Canada, so this was my first prom). We went to prom together and it was, hands down, the best night of my life. Everything was magical. At the end of the night, we went back to his house, which was a mansion. We were up in his room, lying on his bed (nothing funny, I promise---just lying there and talking) and he asked me if I knew why he had invited me to prom.
"No, I don't," I said.
"I asked you to prom"---here he hesitated---"because I actually hate you."
I was shocked but he continued. "I just thought that maybe if I gave you a chance and went to prom with you, maybe if I got to know you better, I wouldn't hate you anymore. But I still do. I still hate you very much!"
I can remember running out of his room crying, running down the spiral marble staircase of his mansion, my beautiful dress fluttering. I can remember hearing his mother calling out from somewhere in the house, asking if everything was okay...
... and I remember waking up. And laughing. Because that was a ridiculous dream.
But as I said, it was vivid and realistic. So realistic in fact, that any time I saw that guy for the rest of the time he was at BYU, I'd think, "He hates me! He hates me!" It would make me uncomfortable to see him because the memory of our prom night seemed so real.
But the fact remained that he and I didn't know each other beyond our 30-second interaction during my freshman year.
It is normal that we have dreams about random people---people we've never met, people we knew in preschool, people we know only by name or reputation. It is normal that we have truly bizarre and sometimes uncomfortable dreams about these people. I have kissed at least two teachers in my dreams. I have walked in on a professor having sex with his wife in the living room in my dreams. I have kissed (female) roommates in my dreams. I have fought with The Boy in my dreams. The fact is, we have random dreams about random people.
Do we remember that random people have random dreams about us?
It's funny to think about it. But maybe my neighborhood grocer is avoiding eye contact because in his dream last night I peed on his produce.
About a month later, I had a dream about him. It was one of the most vivid dreams I have ever had. He asked me to prom (we didn't have prom where I grew up in Canada, so this was my first prom). We went to prom together and it was, hands down, the best night of my life. Everything was magical. At the end of the night, we went back to his house, which was a mansion. We were up in his room, lying on his bed (nothing funny, I promise---just lying there and talking) and he asked me if I knew why he had invited me to prom.
"No, I don't," I said.
"I asked you to prom"---here he hesitated---"because I actually hate you."
I was shocked but he continued. "I just thought that maybe if I gave you a chance and went to prom with you, maybe if I got to know you better, I wouldn't hate you anymore. But I still do. I still hate you very much!"
I can remember running out of his room crying, running down the spiral marble staircase of his mansion, my beautiful dress fluttering. I can remember hearing his mother calling out from somewhere in the house, asking if everything was okay...
... and I remember waking up. And laughing. Because that was a ridiculous dream.
But as I said, it was vivid and realistic. So realistic in fact, that any time I saw that guy for the rest of the time he was at BYU, I'd think, "He hates me! He hates me!" It would make me uncomfortable to see him because the memory of our prom night seemed so real.
But the fact remained that he and I didn't know each other beyond our 30-second interaction during my freshman year.
It is normal that we have dreams about random people---people we've never met, people we knew in preschool, people we know only by name or reputation. It is normal that we have truly bizarre and sometimes uncomfortable dreams about these people. I have kissed at least two teachers in my dreams. I have walked in on a professor having sex with his wife in the living room in my dreams. I have kissed (female) roommates in my dreams. I have fought with The Boy in my dreams. The fact is, we have random dreams about random people.
Do we remember that random people have random dreams about us?
It's funny to think about it. But maybe my neighborhood grocer is avoiding eye contact because in his dream last night I peed on his produce.
Fishing with Rice
So I promised that I'd tell the story about squirrel fishing with Rice. And that I'd explain why she's called Rice. I'll do so, but don't forget to scroll down and read my post Plugs for Blogs, because I don't want my precious friends to be forgotten.
To give away a bit of Rice's identity, I'm going to admit that her last name is Rogers. I think it's a common enough last name not to get her in trouble (for animal rights violations) on the Internet. Rice's family has a wonderful recipe called Rogers Rice. It was one of the first things I learned about her and one of the first things that made me love her. And believe me---if you got a taste of Rogers Rice, you would want more, too.
I was getting to know Rice in the days before cell phones or caller ID or something---all I know is that I was able to successfully prank call her twice. The first time was a random announcement that her horse was dead (which was funny because she had no horse). The second time, she received a call from Betty Crocker:
Me: Yes, may I please speak to Rice Rogers?
Rice: This is Rice.
Me: Hello, Ms. Rogers. This is Karen from Betty Crocker Inc. It has come to our attention that you have been preparing and sharing a recipe you call "Rogers Rice." Is that correct?
Rice: Yes, that is correct.
Me: Well, Ms. Rogers, it juts so happens that we at Betty Crocker hold the copyright on that recipe and if you do not stop passing out the recipe, we will have to press charges.
Okay, so she figured out it was me. I thought I was very convincing.
Another random fact you should know about Rice that has nothing to do with squirrel fishing is that she hates dairy. I don't understand it. How can anyone not like cheese or ice cream? One day at a Pie Night, I had brought a lemon merengue pie but still had to prepare the merengue. So I had two little egg whites in a small cup. When Rice asked me what was in the cup, Captain Fabuloso and I quickly informed her that it was a non-dairy drink that we brought for her that she simply had to try. So she tried it and then spat the egg whites back into the cup, and then I got mad at her for ruining my merengue. And then El Senor grabbed the "non-dairy drink" that she had spat in and he drank the whole thing down. And I was relieved that my eggs were unwasted. (Here, I'd insert a joke about my eggs being wasted every month as I hurtle toward spinsterhood, but that might gross you all out more than the idea of El Senor drinking egg whites, and none of you would take me seriously anyway because you'd all say something like, "Oh you have a boyfriend. You can't complain.")
Squirrel Fishing
Alright, alright. This is what you all wanted to hear anyway. Before my mission, Rice moved out to the DC area, where I was also living with my parents. She had no friends and I had no friends, so we'd get together and try to find things to do that were new and interesting. One day, we made an unforgettable trip to Historic Ellicott City. We thought it was going to be fun. Instead, we just hit antique shop after antique shop, and really, you can only take so much of that. Another day, in listing ideas of activities, somehow "turtle fishing" was mentioned. Okay, so it may have been me that mentioned it. The fact was that our family lived on a house that backed onto a lake that had turtles. And I had never seen live turtles before! And so I wanted to catch one and play with it.
I reasoned that when I went crawdad fishing (12 years earlier), we caught the crawdads by fastening bacon onto strings tied to sticks. Turtles couldn't be so different. So Rice and I got a broom stick, tied on some string, and brought some hot dogs with us to fasten to the end of the string. We brought a bucket and set off to the lake, full of hope.
It took us about five minutes with our hot dog in the water to figure out that no turtles were going to be interested in what we had to offer. We took our hot dog out of the water and started walking back home. But the woods we had to walk through were full of squirrels. So we decided to see what we could catch. We set the hot dog, still tied to the string attached to our stick, on the ground. A squirrel approached, tentatively picked up the hot dog, and started running as fast as it could. Until it got to the end of the string, at which point, the hot dog stayed still and the squirrel's feet flew out from under it. Upon recovery, the confused squirrel returned to the hot dog and repeated the same process. Rice and I were thrilled to exploit a stupid and helpless creature for our own entertainment.
After a few tries, the squirrel finally wrenched the hot dog free of the string and took off with its prize. And Rice and I set off with a new hot dog to find a new squirrel.
Rogers Rice
2 cups of long grain rice
2 cans of beef consume soup
2 cans of french onion soup
1/2 stick of butter
Combine in a casserole dish and bake at 375 for 45 minutes.
Serve, and enjoy a little piece of Rogers heaven.
(and don't tell Betty Crocker)
To give away a bit of Rice's identity, I'm going to admit that her last name is Rogers. I think it's a common enough last name not to get her in trouble (for animal rights violations) on the Internet. Rice's family has a wonderful recipe called Rogers Rice. It was one of the first things I learned about her and one of the first things that made me love her. And believe me---if you got a taste of Rogers Rice, you would want more, too.
I was getting to know Rice in the days before cell phones or caller ID or something---all I know is that I was able to successfully prank call her twice. The first time was a random announcement that her horse was dead (which was funny because she had no horse). The second time, she received a call from Betty Crocker:
Me: Yes, may I please speak to Rice Rogers?
Rice: This is Rice.
Me: Hello, Ms. Rogers. This is Karen from Betty Crocker Inc. It has come to our attention that you have been preparing and sharing a recipe you call "Rogers Rice." Is that correct?
Rice: Yes, that is correct.
Me: Well, Ms. Rogers, it juts so happens that we at Betty Crocker hold the copyright on that recipe and if you do not stop passing out the recipe, we will have to press charges.
Okay, so she figured out it was me. I thought I was very convincing.
Another random fact you should know about Rice that has nothing to do with squirrel fishing is that she hates dairy. I don't understand it. How can anyone not like cheese or ice cream? One day at a Pie Night, I had brought a lemon merengue pie but still had to prepare the merengue. So I had two little egg whites in a small cup. When Rice asked me what was in the cup, Captain Fabuloso and I quickly informed her that it was a non-dairy drink that we brought for her that she simply had to try. So she tried it and then spat the egg whites back into the cup, and then I got mad at her for ruining my merengue. And then El Senor grabbed the "non-dairy drink" that she had spat in and he drank the whole thing down. And I was relieved that my eggs were unwasted. (Here, I'd insert a joke about my eggs being wasted every month as I hurtle toward spinsterhood, but that might gross you all out more than the idea of El Senor drinking egg whites, and none of you would take me seriously anyway because you'd all say something like, "Oh you have a boyfriend. You can't complain.")
Squirrel Fishing
Alright, alright. This is what you all wanted to hear anyway. Before my mission, Rice moved out to the DC area, where I was also living with my parents. She had no friends and I had no friends, so we'd get together and try to find things to do that were new and interesting. One day, we made an unforgettable trip to Historic Ellicott City. We thought it was going to be fun. Instead, we just hit antique shop after antique shop, and really, you can only take so much of that. Another day, in listing ideas of activities, somehow "turtle fishing" was mentioned. Okay, so it may have been me that mentioned it. The fact was that our family lived on a house that backed onto a lake that had turtles. And I had never seen live turtles before! And so I wanted to catch one and play with it.
I reasoned that when I went crawdad fishing (12 years earlier), we caught the crawdads by fastening bacon onto strings tied to sticks. Turtles couldn't be so different. So Rice and I got a broom stick, tied on some string, and brought some hot dogs with us to fasten to the end of the string. We brought a bucket and set off to the lake, full of hope.
It took us about five minutes with our hot dog in the water to figure out that no turtles were going to be interested in what we had to offer. We took our hot dog out of the water and started walking back home. But the woods we had to walk through were full of squirrels. So we decided to see what we could catch. We set the hot dog, still tied to the string attached to our stick, on the ground. A squirrel approached, tentatively picked up the hot dog, and started running as fast as it could. Until it got to the end of the string, at which point, the hot dog stayed still and the squirrel's feet flew out from under it. Upon recovery, the confused squirrel returned to the hot dog and repeated the same process. Rice and I were thrilled to exploit a stupid and helpless creature for our own entertainment.
After a few tries, the squirrel finally wrenched the hot dog free of the string and took off with its prize. And Rice and I set off with a new hot dog to find a new squirrel.
Rogers Rice
2 cups of long grain rice
2 cans of beef consume soup
2 cans of french onion soup
1/2 stick of butter
Combine in a casserole dish and bake at 375 for 45 minutes.
Serve, and enjoy a little piece of Rogers heaven.
(and don't tell Betty Crocker)
Plugs for Blogs
Some of you (meaning Th., who I congratulate and admire) have noticed that I have some new blogs in my sidebar. I will now shamelessly plug these blogs, and you will visit them. You may even comment if the posts are of interest to you.
The Disavowed
This is a guy who sits in front of me in my American Lit class. I normally don't become friends with people from classes, but this year I made a few exceptions. It all started one day when I found a seat by an outlet where I could sit and plug in my computer. The Disavowed was sitting in front of me, also using the outlet for his computer. We had a conversation about wireless internet (unavailable in our classroom). Two girls sat beside us. One day, the teacher instructed the class to break up into groups---each row would form a group---to discuss what we had read. I disobeyed the teacher and informed the people around me (The Disavowed, who sat in my row, and the girls next to us who sat in the next row) that instead of breaking off into rows where we'd inevitably have to move around to talk to each other, we'd just form our own group, and the front half of our two rows could make another group. It worked out well, and we all somehow managed to bond over the experience.
Now I have always known that The Disavowed had a crush on me. Like, this one time, two weeks ago, he came to class all sheepishly, and asked what my name was, pointing out that we had never had formal introductions. I think that he did it because he was hiding his true love for me. In fact, when I happened to mention my boyfriend once, he was crestfallen. I can understand this. This last week, we had lunch together after our class. It seemed like a spur-of-the-moment thing, but I know that he had it all planned out. Since he knows that I have a tremendously huge crush on my own boyfriend, he asked out one of the other girls who sits with us. They did something together twice this weekend. Again, I know that this is compensation for the fact that he can't have me. He's just trying to get over me by replacing me with someone else. Good luck, The Disavowed. Good luck.
Sophie
Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. I met Sophie because during our freshman year, people mistook me for her. That's a compliment, people. Finally, one person who had mistaken me for her introduced the two of us one day and we became fast friends. Sophie and I lived together during my junior year of college, right before I left on my mission. Among the things that I miss the most about living with Sophie are 1) listening to her sing loudly and at random 2) borrowing her clothes 3) listening to her laughing all by herself in the other room because she's reading a book 4) listening to her run to my room and start reading the funny part of the book aloud to me 5) eating the food that she cooked 6) buying beer for her when she was a minor (I promise that it was only for a recipe) and 7) being inspired by her art and the artwork of her family members (my time living with Sohpie was undoubtedly my most artistic phase).
Sophie is an incredible writer. One of the privileges of living with her was getting to edit her papers. She was an anthropology major, and all of her essays were personal narratives about something or other. And they were all so good. Check out her blog if you're interested in getting to know her better. Also, check out her contest.
M. Paul Bailey
M. Paul Bailey, a.k.a. Viper, has never actually expressed interest in gaining readership (unlike the two that I have heretofore plugged). So I emailed him before posting this to request permission to plug his blog. He told me to "feel free to pimp [his] blog if[I]'d like, but don't
bother working too hard at doing it" because although he'd be happy to have other people read his blog, it's not all that important to him.
I wouldn't have spent much time on this, but because he used the phrase "pimp my blog" I simply have to. One of the best reasons to read MPB's blog is that he updates so very seldomly. It means that reading his blog is very time-friendly. You can give it a good five minutes every month or so. The other best reason to read his blog is that it is always serious. See, I date multi-faceted men, and although Viper is in fact a comedian, he is also a very opinionated person who thinks a lot about the world and what's going on. I was talking to a girl in my ward who went on a date with him last semester and assured me that after one date, she knew that he and she would only ever be friends because their political views were so very different. So if you want to think about serious things, visit his blog. If you want to have a laugh, visit Comedy Sportz. And pay money, because comedy doesn't come for free. (No, seriously. For every joke he makes in my presence, he makes me make out with him for ten minutes.)
(Mom, Dad, that's definitely a joke. Haha!)
The Disavowed
This is a guy who sits in front of me in my American Lit class. I normally don't become friends with people from classes, but this year I made a few exceptions. It all started one day when I found a seat by an outlet where I could sit and plug in my computer. The Disavowed was sitting in front of me, also using the outlet for his computer. We had a conversation about wireless internet (unavailable in our classroom). Two girls sat beside us. One day, the teacher instructed the class to break up into groups---each row would form a group---to discuss what we had read. I disobeyed the teacher and informed the people around me (The Disavowed, who sat in my row, and the girls next to us who sat in the next row) that instead of breaking off into rows where we'd inevitably have to move around to talk to each other, we'd just form our own group, and the front half of our two rows could make another group. It worked out well, and we all somehow managed to bond over the experience.
Now I have always known that The Disavowed had a crush on me. Like, this one time, two weeks ago, he came to class all sheepishly, and asked what my name was, pointing out that we had never had formal introductions. I think that he did it because he was hiding his true love for me. In fact, when I happened to mention my boyfriend once, he was crestfallen. I can understand this. This last week, we had lunch together after our class. It seemed like a spur-of-the-moment thing, but I know that he had it all planned out. Since he knows that I have a tremendously huge crush on my own boyfriend, he asked out one of the other girls who sits with us. They did something together twice this weekend. Again, I know that this is compensation for the fact that he can't have me. He's just trying to get over me by replacing me with someone else. Good luck, The Disavowed. Good luck.
Sophie
Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. I met Sophie because during our freshman year, people mistook me for her. That's a compliment, people. Finally, one person who had mistaken me for her introduced the two of us one day and we became fast friends. Sophie and I lived together during my junior year of college, right before I left on my mission. Among the things that I miss the most about living with Sophie are 1) listening to her sing loudly and at random 2) borrowing her clothes 3) listening to her laughing all by herself in the other room because she's reading a book 4) listening to her run to my room and start reading the funny part of the book aloud to me 5) eating the food that she cooked 6) buying beer for her when she was a minor (I promise that it was only for a recipe) and 7) being inspired by her art and the artwork of her family members (my time living with Sohpie was undoubtedly my most artistic phase).
Sophie is an incredible writer. One of the privileges of living with her was getting to edit her papers. She was an anthropology major, and all of her essays were personal narratives about something or other. And they were all so good. Check out her blog if you're interested in getting to know her better. Also, check out her contest.
M. Paul Bailey
M. Paul Bailey, a.k.a. Viper, has never actually expressed interest in gaining readership (unlike the two that I have heretofore plugged). So I emailed him before posting this to request permission to plug his blog. He told me to "feel free to pimp [his] blog if[I]'d like, but don't
bother working too hard at doing it" because although he'd be happy to have other people read his blog, it's not all that important to him.
I wouldn't have spent much time on this, but because he used the phrase "pimp my blog" I simply have to. One of the best reasons to read MPB's blog is that he updates so very seldomly. It means that reading his blog is very time-friendly. You can give it a good five minutes every month or so. The other best reason to read his blog is that it is always serious. See, I date multi-faceted men, and although Viper is in fact a comedian, he is also a very opinionated person who thinks a lot about the world and what's going on. I was talking to a girl in my ward who went on a date with him last semester and assured me that after one date, she knew that he and she would only ever be friends because their political views were so very different. So if you want to think about serious things, visit his blog. If you want to have a laugh, visit Comedy Sportz. And pay money, because comedy doesn't come for free. (No, seriously. For every joke he makes in my presence, he makes me make out with him for ten minutes.)
(Mom, Dad, that's definitely a joke. Haha!)
My mom is funny.
Last night I had the opportunity to talk to a friend who we'll call Rice, the Squirrel Fisher---or "Rice" for short. I'll explain tomorrow why she's called Rice and what exactly Squirrel Fishing is. For today, I would like to share what she shared with me yesterday.
Rice is my age---she's friends with all the kids in our family, and a few years ago, she moved to D.C. to get her PhD. She's going to cure diabetes. She's quite funny and personable and my parents loved her as soon as they met her. Since she now only lives about 45 minutes away from my parents, my parents remember to invite her to their house for special occasions, like thanksgiving and Easter. This past thanksgiving, my mom called her to invite her, but Rice had to decline the invitation because she had plans. Still, she stayed on the phone with my mom for a full 45 minutes and chatted. She was in her lab at the time, and when she got off the phone, a coworker asked her, "Who was that?" She replied, "Oh, that was El Senor's mom." Her coworker said, "That's just weird."
As you know (or as you may not know because BYU doesn't celebrate this holiday), Easter is this weekend. So my mom called Rice to extend her the Easter invitation. Rice accepted and then the girls chatted.
Mom: So. Got any hot dates this weekend?
Rice: I do, in fact. Do you?
Mom: Yes. I'm dating an American now.
I just thought it was a cute and funny way for my mom to announce that my dad was sworn in as an American citizen this past week. So here's my dad, or the guy my mom's dating, all sworn in.
Rice is my age---she's friends with all the kids in our family, and a few years ago, she moved to D.C. to get her PhD. She's going to cure diabetes. She's quite funny and personable and my parents loved her as soon as they met her. Since she now only lives about 45 minutes away from my parents, my parents remember to invite her to their house for special occasions, like thanksgiving and Easter. This past thanksgiving, my mom called her to invite her, but Rice had to decline the invitation because she had plans. Still, she stayed on the phone with my mom for a full 45 minutes and chatted. She was in her lab at the time, and when she got off the phone, a coworker asked her, "Who was that?" She replied, "Oh, that was El Senor's mom." Her coworker said, "That's just weird."
As you know (or as you may not know because BYU doesn't celebrate this holiday), Easter is this weekend. So my mom called Rice to extend her the Easter invitation. Rice accepted and then the girls chatted.
Mom: So. Got any hot dates this weekend?
Rice: I do, in fact. Do you?
Mom: Yes. I'm dating an American now.
I just thought it was a cute and funny way for my mom to announce that my dad was sworn in as an American citizen this past week. So here's my dad, or the guy my mom's dating, all sworn in.
A New Generation of Thieves
In my recent post on game addiction, I mentioned that my mom read an article about kids returning to the home after they graduate. The article said that guys go home and stay while girls go home and use it as a stepping stone to get out. MPB posted a response in which he suggested that it's the parents' fault that kids do this. It made me think about another article I read recently. The article is about kids who steal from their parents. Feel free not to read it; I just don't have anything else to post today, but I've been meaning to point out this article since MPB's comment.
It's the Kids. Lock Up the China!
APRIL WILKNER literally got caught with her pants down.
She was traveling with her mother in Japan, visiting a spa in Tokyo. The two of them were stuffing their clothes into lockers and slipping on robes when her mother saw the cherry-patterned underwear her daughter was wearing.
"Where did you get those?" Ms. Wilkner's mother said. "Those are mine."
"Huh?" she replied. But it was pointless to deny it. The red cherries were unmistakable.
Ms. Wilkner, 24, a fashion model in Manhattan, had come across the brand-new Brazilian-cut briefs in a basket in her mother and stepfather's home in Providence, R.I. Assuming her mother had accidentally bought sexy underwear instead of her usual granny style, Ms. Wilkner had simply helped herself.
It was not the first time Ms. Wilkner had swiped something from her mother. She often appropriated socks, spices, oatmeal, once even a chest of drawers she found in her mother's bedroom that had yet to be assembled. "That was a pretty good steal," Ms. Wilkner said. "Oh, I took a bookshelf, too. Clocks. I took artwork, a bunch of Monet prints. But my parents have plenty of artwork."
A generation ago, adult children visiting their parents' homes might have left with a Tupperware container of lasagna. Today, many of them stealthily make off with toiletries, groceries, sometimes clothing and even furniture. It is an apparently widespread practice, born of a sense of entitlement among young adults - and usually amusedly tolerated by parents - that gives new meaning to the phrase "home shopping." Like most adults, the pilferers have set up their own households, but they seem not to have given up the expectation that their parents should provide for them in certain ways. They loot their parents' houses to cut costs, or because they would rather not pay for incidentals. Or because they want things with sentimental value.
Sometimes the children ask if they can take things. Often they do not.
Dan P. McAdams, a professor of psychology and human development at Northwestern University, said this kind of filching was one more example of the way grown children were putting off adulthood: living at home longer than they did a generation ago, staying in school longer and getting married later. "A lot of people in their mid and late 20's do not think of themselves as adults," Dr. McAdams said, "even if they make a lot of money."
The result is a period of life that has come to be known among some sociologists and psychologists as emerging adulthood. "It's like a new stage in life," Dr. McAdams said. "They're not teenagers, and they're not really adults."
Stephen Kunken, 34, an actor in New York who is an admitted "pillager" of his parents' possessions, said he rationalized that his parents had too much stuff and that he was both "trimming the fat" and "liberating" things. "I thought: 'These poor things. These are never going to get used. I'm going to liberate them and bring them into the city,' " he said.
Through the years Mr. Kunken has taken briefcases, a slide projector, an electric toothbrush, razors, blank tapes, paper towels, soap and bottles of wine.
His parents did not know their wine was missing until he served it to them at a party at his Brooklyn apartment. "We had our own wine that he stole," his mother, Ginny Kunken, said. "It was very nice that he invited us."
His parents are accustomed to finding things missing. "What have they taken?" said her husband, Fred Kunken, a dentist from Upper Brookville, N.Y., referring to Stephen and his 37-year-old brother, Jeffrey. "What haven't they taken? They've taken just about every bit of my clothing, from my underwear and socks to --"
"Bathing suits," his wife interjected, laughing.
"All of a sudden my razors disappear," Dr. Kunken said. "Shaving cream disappears. It's gotten to the point that if I see them coming, and if it's something I just got that I want to wear, I hide it."
That parents find their grown children's thieving humorous is a reflection of how family dynamics have changed, some experts said. Parents of previous generations maintained an authoritative stance toward their adult children, but now relationships are more equal, more like friendship, said Frank F. Furstenberg, a professor of sociology at the University of Pennsylvania and the chairman of the MacArthur Foundation Research Network on Transitions to Adulthood, which examines the changing nature of early adulthood. "That's been a secular trend throughout the whole 20th century," Dr. Furstenberg said.
Having grown up with a feeling of friendship with their parents, Dr. McAdams said, many young adults may feel comfortable taking their things. And parents, wanting to maintain the camaraderie, look the other way. Some even keep their cupboards full so there is plenty to go around.
Today's empty nests, especially those in affluent neighborhoods, are also generally bigger and better stocked than ever before, Dr. McAdams said. Some are almost like warehouses, especially if the parents shop at discount stores like Sam's Club and BJ's Wholesale Club.
Replacement razors for the Gillette Mach 3 are expensive if you buy them in small packages, Stephen Kunken said. But his father buys them in bulk. "He goes to Costco and has 40, so I'm like, 'I'll take eight,' " Mr. Kunken said.
Ms. Wilkner said her mother hoarded things and had "a wall of toilet paper" in the bathroom. "They're not going to miss six rolls," she said.
Toilet paper is typically the first quarry in a life of petty thievery from parents' homes, many filchers said. During a visit the grown-up child notices an abundance of Charmin in a parent's bathroom, is perhaps reminded of the inferior brand in his or her own apartment, and suddenly decides to tuck a few rolls under an arm and deposit them in a knapsack. Soon the thief is taking other provisions. Toothpaste. Windex. Band-Aids. Electronics and home furnishings are not far behind.
"Ketchup and toilet paper are those things that you just really don't want to pay for," said Nicole Atkins, 26, a musician who lives in Brooklyn, adding that her parents "are generous to let me take their peanut butter and paper towels."
Debbie Jaffe, a 31-year-old actress, takes her mother's camera film. "She always has excess of everything," Ms. Jaffe said. "I took a printer recently. She had an extra."
Naomi Finkelstein, 24, a campus recruiter for a financial institution, said, "My parents are very giving." She has taken bags of marshmallows, batteries and other "little things that I just end up tossing into the bag," as well as groceries that her parents freely hand over.
Some parents balk at the practice of home shopping. They may remember reaching their own independence earlier in life, and how their parents had gone through the Great Depression and were extremely frugal. Taking things from them was out of the question.
"I think there is some resentment older adults might have," Dr. McAdams said, adding that these parents may see their children as "lacking focus."
But these are generally not the parents whose homes get looted. The filchers often say they would never take items their parents truly valued. Many parents say they are amused, or even flattered, by the pilfering. "It means they need us," said Dr. McAdams, a father of two. "It's nice to be needed."
Robin Hoffman of Manhattan has a daughter, 26, who took family photographs, and a son, 24, who took a cushy chair that used to belong to her father. "I'm happy that they want it and that they'll use it," Ms. Hoffman said. "I think it's great."
The phrase "emerging adulthood" does imply that these sticky fingers will eventually become independent. Is there a specific age by which one should finally accept the responsibility of paying one's way? Psychologists and economists point to the early or mid-30's.
"By the early 30's the assistance that kids are receiving from their parents dissipates strongly," said Robert F. Schoeni, an associate professor of economics and public policy at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. "The kids are establishing their careers, they're getting better-paid jobs, getting married."
Ms. Atkins, who has decorated her Brooklyn apartment with shot glasses, candles, Mexican marionettes and boxing gloves from her parents' house in Neptune, N.J., says she will cease her home shopping once she gets married and has a family.
"If I had kids and a husband, and I was still taking stuff from my parents," she said, "that would be really lame."
Police Beat Again
I think I'm going to have to start doing this every week. It's just too good. I was sharing my favorites with Viper yesterday, and he commented on the fact that it's nice to live in a place where the following things make Police Beat. I agree. I'm glad to live in a place where I can read Police Beat and laugh. And laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
TRESPASS
Three male students and one female student were swimming in the Deseret Towers pool at 12:55 a.m. Tuesday.
An employee at Heritage Halls reported Monday that a man who is a former BYU student continues to return to Heritage Halls, creating a disruption and bringing women into the men's residence halls.
Police responded to a report of two males in a female residence in S-Hall of Deseret Towers. Officers were unable to locate the men.
THEFT
A custodian's keys were stolen as she cleaned a women's restroom in the WSC on Friday. The custodian set the keys down when she began to clean the restroom at 7:45 p.m. and found them missing at 8 p.m.
I wonder how many "thefts" at BYU are actually students taking items to the Lost and Found...
A male student's backpack was stolen Friday after being left in the Cannon Center cafeteria. The owner of the backpack returned to the cafeteria three hours after leaving it there and found the bag had disappeared.
Dude. Check the Lost and Found in three weeks. It'll be there.
A professor told police March 29 his cell phone was stolen during his trip to Panama.
And the police officer who's been assigned to retrieve it is THRILLED.
A framed print was stolen from the wall near 3380 WSC. The picture, titled Roundtrip Wyoming by Robert Duman, was valued at $200.
It's a roundtrip. Wherever it's gone---probably Wyoming---it'll be back.
NOISE
Officers responded to a noise complaint Sunday and found a group of students being noisy outside Taylor Hall in Helaman Halls.
Run this by me again---You say that the police responded to a noise complaint and they found what again? Noise?
A group of male students created a noise disturbance Thursday while riding the elevator in Deseret Towers U-Hall, a female residence hall.
Should this have been filed under NOISE or TRESPASSING? Since it's filed under NOISE, I assume that making noise is a worse crime than trespassing.
Police responded to reports of screaming around 10:40 a.m. March 29 from the east side of Lavell Edwards Stadium. Officers found three female students engaging in a screaming contest.
Bwahahahahahaha! This one truly brings tears to my eyes.
COMPUTER
A male student called police Friday after being unable to log on to an on-campus computer.
Ambrosia clearly didn't take all the steps necessary to be reinstated in the BYU computer system. Lesson learned: Don't call IT services. Call the police.
VEHICLE CONCERNS
A female student told police another driver hit her car with his hand March 29 after she took his parking spot. The student was concerned her car might be the target of further vandalism.
Police responded to a report of several males riding their motorcycles on the sidewalk March 28 near Helaman Halls. The motorcyclists were gone on arrival.
Blue Darts
A little under two years ago, a Sunday School teacher accidentally said, "We need to acknowledge our farts" instead of "We need to acknowledge our faults." Ironically, he didn't acknowledge the fact that he just made a mistake and kept on teaching the lesson while Marriedin and/or his wife snickered because he and/or she is/are immature.
I have a hard time with fart humor, unlike some people. I don't know exactly why this is. In fact, I have a very difficult time even saying the word "fart" in front of those who are not my family. You can imagine how difficult this post is for me.
With my family, I have a whole different take on fart humor. In my family's company, I can crack them off with the best of them---fart jokes, I mean, not actual farts (that is a lie).
Last night I found myself in a very awkward situation in which I had the opportunity to acknowledge my fart but chose not to.
See, I was at Comedy Sportz with Viper after his show and we were sitting around with the rest of the guys in the show, and somehow, the conversation turned to blue darting. Stories were shared, laughs were laughed, and I must admit I was laughing, too. But I was laughing most of all because I had a secret. I secret that I couldn't let out. I had to hold it in me!
As everyone shared blue darting stories, Viper, in some horrific effort to include me in the group, asked me, "Have you ever blue darted?" Since everyone else was still laughing at the stories, I just continued laughing and looked away briefly, hoping that the question would be forgotten. When I dared to make eye contact again, he repeated, "Have you ever blue darted?"
I shook my head no. And may I be thrust down to hell for it!
You see, it wasn't so long ago, not so long ago at all, that I was home alone, relishing in the freedom that comes from completing finals. Sophie called and asked if she and a friend could stay the night at my place, which I thought was a great idea, except that in my solitude, I'd been relieving myself of the huge amounts of gas that my body was producing that day, and it must be said, they did not smell lovely in the extreme (you seriously have to understand that it pains me to even write this). I had a dilemma: Either I could start holding in all my farts for the next couple of hours so that the house could regain its normal smell (this was not a good solution for me since I was almost literally rotting inside), or I could light very smelly candles so that the scent could overpower my own scent and the flame could, perhaps, burn up some of the gas.
I took my blow-torch-like lighter and lit a candle in the living room. Then, I realized that I needed to fart. Well, it just so happened that I had the blow torch in hand already, and before I farted, it crossed my mind that I had never seen nor participated in blue darting before. It tends not to be an activity practised at female slumber parties.
I wondered if blue darting was supposed to take place with the pants on or off, but not wanting to ponder too long on it and waste my opportunity, I bent over, held a flame to my rear, and farted.
My pants caught on fire and I immediately stopped, dropped, and rolled. And after the flames were extinguished, I continued to roll on the ground, unable to stop laughing. All alone in my house. I kept wondering what would have happened if I had burned myself and needed to go to the hospital for it...
Now back to last night. I will admit that as soon as I got in the car with Viper afterwards, I confessed to him that I had lied and that I had, in fact, blue darted. The truth his, to him, I can acknowledge my farts. But I am still too prideful to acknowledge my farts to all the men at Comedy Sportz.
(And yet, here I am, acknowledging my farts to the Internet. This is obviously a huge step for me.)
I have a hard time with fart humor, unlike some people. I don't know exactly why this is. In fact, I have a very difficult time even saying the word "fart" in front of those who are not my family. You can imagine how difficult this post is for me.
With my family, I have a whole different take on fart humor. In my family's company, I can crack them off with the best of them---fart jokes, I mean, not actual farts (that is a lie).
Last night I found myself in a very awkward situation in which I had the opportunity to acknowledge my fart but chose not to.
See, I was at Comedy Sportz with Viper after his show and we were sitting around with the rest of the guys in the show, and somehow, the conversation turned to blue darting. Stories were shared, laughs were laughed, and I must admit I was laughing, too. But I was laughing most of all because I had a secret. I secret that I couldn't let out. I had to hold it in me!
As everyone shared blue darting stories, Viper, in some horrific effort to include me in the group, asked me, "Have you ever blue darted?" Since everyone else was still laughing at the stories, I just continued laughing and looked away briefly, hoping that the question would be forgotten. When I dared to make eye contact again, he repeated, "Have you ever blue darted?"
I shook my head no. And may I be thrust down to hell for it!
You see, it wasn't so long ago, not so long ago at all, that I was home alone, relishing in the freedom that comes from completing finals. Sophie called and asked if she and a friend could stay the night at my place, which I thought was a great idea, except that in my solitude, I'd been relieving myself of the huge amounts of gas that my body was producing that day, and it must be said, they did not smell lovely in the extreme (you seriously have to understand that it pains me to even write this). I had a dilemma: Either I could start holding in all my farts for the next couple of hours so that the house could regain its normal smell (this was not a good solution for me since I was almost literally rotting inside), or I could light very smelly candles so that the scent could overpower my own scent and the flame could, perhaps, burn up some of the gas.
I took my blow-torch-like lighter and lit a candle in the living room. Then, I realized that I needed to fart. Well, it just so happened that I had the blow torch in hand already, and before I farted, it crossed my mind that I had never seen nor participated in blue darting before. It tends not to be an activity practised at female slumber parties.
I wondered if blue darting was supposed to take place with the pants on or off, but not wanting to ponder too long on it and waste my opportunity, I bent over, held a flame to my rear, and farted.
My pants caught on fire and I immediately stopped, dropped, and rolled. And after the flames were extinguished, I continued to roll on the ground, unable to stop laughing. All alone in my house. I kept wondering what would have happened if I had burned myself and needed to go to the hospital for it...
Now back to last night. I will admit that as soon as I got in the car with Viper afterwards, I confessed to him that I had lied and that I had, in fact, blue darted. The truth his, to him, I can acknowledge my farts. But I am still too prideful to acknowledge my farts to all the men at Comedy Sportz.
(And yet, here I am, acknowledging my farts to the Internet. This is obviously a huge step for me.)
What Once Was Lost...
I went to the BYU Lost and Found for the fourth time and finally found my computer cord. This is cause for rejoicing. But it also inspires me to write another story about lost and found.
WARNING: This story is about fake boobs. Stupidramblings need read no further!
Years ago, Captain Fabuloso was dating a girl who we'll call Red. She was great, and although I never thought she was a good match for Captain Fabuloso, I did think that she would make a great friend for me. I especially thought so after she got me a job at IS where I still work, five and a half years later. Red had some physical problems for which she sometimes had to take very serious medicine. While she was on this very serious medication, it was as if she was drunk. So one day, Captain Fabuloso took advantage of the situation to extract her most embarrassing moment. As her roommate cried, "No, Red! Don't do it!" Red shared her most embarrassing moment with Captain Fabuloso.
You see, it was all the more embarrassing because Captain Fabuloso had been present for the moment, but unaware of what was going on.
Red was a funny girl. During her whole lifetime (okay, maybe not the whole lifetime), whenever she made a bet with someone, she'd bet lingerie. In this way, she ammassed quite a collection of lingerie that she was saving for Some Day. She kept it in a box she called her Hope Chest and would add, "I only hope I have a chest when it comes time to wear it!"
She didn't have much up top. And so to supplement the little she had, she (or her mother?) purchased two little realistic inserts. They were little flesh-colored jellyish things complete with little nipples. And one evening, when she was going on a date with Captain Fabuloso and friends, she decided to insert her inserts.
The group went to Extreme Sports, a place where gladiator or sumo-like sports were played. I never went. All I know is that the activities there were, well, extreme. At one point, Red looked down and saw that one of her inserts was missing. She informed her roommates and they all started the search.
The men didn't understand why the women were spending so much time in the ball pit. They'd surface and laugh, and claim to be playing in the balls, and then they'd all return to the bottom of the pit, searching frantically for a little jelly insert.
They went to the cashier and asked if they had a lost and found, explaining that they'd lost something. The cashier asked them to describe the item. Red refused, demanding that the cashier simply allow her to look at the lost and found items and she would determine whether or not her lost item was there. Since she was insistent and scary, the cashier handed over the box and after looking she announced that the item was not in the box. She and her roommates continued looking for the item as inconspicuously as possible.
Eventually, a 16-year-old employee approached Red and her roommates, and said very lowly, "I think I've found what you're looking for. Is it a---" and here, he gave them a knowing look.
Red followed him to the counter. The 16-year-old brought her in behind the counter and there, on one of the lower shelves, was her insert, sitting nipple-side up.
"This is it!" Red exclaimed. Taking it, she pointed to her roommate across the room and said, "It's actually hers, but she didn't want to claim it. You know. She's embarrassed."
WARNING: This story is about fake boobs. Stupidramblings need read no further!
Years ago, Captain Fabuloso was dating a girl who we'll call Red. She was great, and although I never thought she was a good match for Captain Fabuloso, I did think that she would make a great friend for me. I especially thought so after she got me a job at IS where I still work, five and a half years later. Red had some physical problems for which she sometimes had to take very serious medicine. While she was on this very serious medication, it was as if she was drunk. So one day, Captain Fabuloso took advantage of the situation to extract her most embarrassing moment. As her roommate cried, "No, Red! Don't do it!" Red shared her most embarrassing moment with Captain Fabuloso.
You see, it was all the more embarrassing because Captain Fabuloso had been present for the moment, but unaware of what was going on.
Red was a funny girl. During her whole lifetime (okay, maybe not the whole lifetime), whenever she made a bet with someone, she'd bet lingerie. In this way, she ammassed quite a collection of lingerie that she was saving for Some Day. She kept it in a box she called her Hope Chest and would add, "I only hope I have a chest when it comes time to wear it!"
She didn't have much up top. And so to supplement the little she had, she (or her mother?) purchased two little realistic inserts. They were little flesh-colored jellyish things complete with little nipples. And one evening, when she was going on a date with Captain Fabuloso and friends, she decided to insert her inserts.
The group went to Extreme Sports, a place where gladiator or sumo-like sports were played. I never went. All I know is that the activities there were, well, extreme. At one point, Red looked down and saw that one of her inserts was missing. She informed her roommates and they all started the search.
The men didn't understand why the women were spending so much time in the ball pit. They'd surface and laugh, and claim to be playing in the balls, and then they'd all return to the bottom of the pit, searching frantically for a little jelly insert.
They went to the cashier and asked if they had a lost and found, explaining that they'd lost something. The cashier asked them to describe the item. Red refused, demanding that the cashier simply allow her to look at the lost and found items and she would determine whether or not her lost item was there. Since she was insistent and scary, the cashier handed over the box and after looking she announced that the item was not in the box. She and her roommates continued looking for the item as inconspicuously as possible.
Eventually, a 16-year-old employee approached Red and her roommates, and said very lowly, "I think I've found what you're looking for. Is it a---" and here, he gave them a knowing look.
Red followed him to the counter. The 16-year-old brought her in behind the counter and there, on one of the lower shelves, was her insert, sitting nipple-side up.
"This is it!" Red exclaimed. Taking it, she pointed to her roommate across the room and said, "It's actually hers, but she didn't want to claim it. You know. She's embarrassed."
Addiction
Sometime this weekend, likely during or shortly after the Priesthood session of conference, my mom and I had a little chat about nothing in particular. During our conversation's meanderings, we started to talk a little bit about finishing college and moving on with life. Mom said that she was reading about the fact that more and more men are finishing up college and moving home with their parents and not moving on with their lives. Women, on the other hand, also have a tendency to move home after college, but the women who do so tend to use it as a step to becoming independent. They take that time to save money and get settled, and then they move out and on with their lives. The men just go home and settle in there, content with not being married and content with not being out on their own. Mom said that it is much like the phenomenon in Failure to Launch.
We discussed why this might be. My mom reminded me that when I was in the Young Women program, my YW president had once taught a lesson about chastity and claimed that strong sexual urges are needed because men are lazy and without the need and constant desire to have sex, they'd never get married. So she (my mom) then suggested that perhaps men are staying at home because in today's society, sex is so casual and abundant that men can have sex without taking on the responsibility of raising a family. This was an interesting theory. [My mom read this post and really wants to make sure you all understand that she said this as a joke. She doesn't want you all to think that she's stupid!] Then I asked, "What about video games? Do you think they play a role? A lot of men can just start playing a video game and that fulfills whatever it is they're looking for in life. They simply can't unplug."
The moment I said it, I clicked on a colorful little bubble and ColorJunction informed me that my game was over. You see, the entire time my mother and I were having this conversation, I was playing an online game. Don't worry---I realized right away that my statement "They simply can't unplug" was ironic.
I've been thinking about games lately. Mostly because as school stress builds up, I'm wasting more and more time playing meaningless online games. Take ColorJunction, for example.
It's a tiny little game that sits on my personalized google homepage. It takes about a minute to play a full round. The problem is that then it takes you another minute to play another round and another minute to play another round, and another... well, you get the picture.
I've also been known to play Curveball, Snake, and Falldown. In fact, I have them all bookmarked. Recently, Viper sent me a link to the online version of a board game that we like to play. The board game is Carcassone. The online version is called Toulouse, because they can't infringe on copyright.
In case all that wasn't enough, once I realized I was playing lots of online games lately, I remembered Snood, the game I was addicted to my freshman and sophomore years of college. Back in those days, I got my mom addicted, too. I'd talk to her on the phone and suddenly start hearing Snood sound effects in the background. Conversations would go something like this:
Cicada: So. I think that he doesn't like me. I'm heartbroken. I mean, it just really hurts, Mom. You know? No, of course you don't know; you were married at my age. The point is, Mom, that I'm really sad and very---Mom? Was that Snood I just heard? Are you playing Snood right now???
So Snood. Yeah. It took me about thirty seconds to get readdicted.
All this leads me to wonder... Am I going to end up living in my parents' basement?
We discussed why this might be. My mom reminded me that when I was in the Young Women program, my YW president had once taught a lesson about chastity and claimed that strong sexual urges are needed because men are lazy and without the need and constant desire to have sex, they'd never get married. So she (my mom) then suggested that perhaps men are staying at home because in today's society, sex is so casual and abundant that men can have sex without taking on the responsibility of raising a family. This was an interesting theory. [My mom read this post and really wants to make sure you all understand that she said this as a joke. She doesn't want you all to think that she's stupid!] Then I asked, "What about video games? Do you think they play a role? A lot of men can just start playing a video game and that fulfills whatever it is they're looking for in life. They simply can't unplug."
The moment I said it, I clicked on a colorful little bubble and ColorJunction informed me that my game was over. You see, the entire time my mother and I were having this conversation, I was playing an online game. Don't worry---I realized right away that my statement "They simply can't unplug" was ironic.
I've been thinking about games lately. Mostly because as school stress builds up, I'm wasting more and more time playing meaningless online games. Take ColorJunction, for example.
It's a tiny little game that sits on my personalized google homepage. It takes about a minute to play a full round. The problem is that then it takes you another minute to play another round and another minute to play another round, and another... well, you get the picture.I've also been known to play Curveball, Snake, and Falldown. In fact, I have them all bookmarked. Recently, Viper sent me a link to the online version of a board game that we like to play. The board game is Carcassone. The online version is called Toulouse, because they can't infringe on copyright.
In case all that wasn't enough, once I realized I was playing lots of online games lately, I remembered Snood, the game I was addicted to my freshman and sophomore years of college. Back in those days, I got my mom addicted, too. I'd talk to her on the phone and suddenly start hearing Snood sound effects in the background. Conversations would go something like this:
Cicada: So. I think that he doesn't like me. I'm heartbroken. I mean, it just really hurts, Mom. You know? No, of course you don't know; you were married at my age. The point is, Mom, that I'm really sad and very---Mom? Was that Snood I just heard? Are you playing Snood right now???
So Snood. Yeah. It took me about thirty seconds to get readdicted.
All this leads me to wonder... Am I going to end up living in my parents' basement?
Police Beat
I heard a long time ago (but whether it was one year ago or several years ago, I can't remember) that Police Beat was taken out of The Daily Universe because people were purposely trying to get into Police Beat. Also because it was so comedic in nature.
Well, today, I happened to stumble across Police Beat on newsnet.byu.edu. And it must be shared. I have highlighted my favorites, but I will include comment on all entries.
911: 9-1-1 Emergency, this is Karen. What's your emergency?
Girls: We are in our dorm room in Helaman Halls and some projectile appears to be being launched at our windows.
911: Okay. Could you describe this projectile?
Girls: Not really---they're just coming at us real fast! Uh... they appear to maybe be wads. Wads of wet paper.
Well, today, I happened to stumble across Police Beat on newsnet.byu.edu. And it must be shared. I have highlighted my favorites, but I will include comment on all entries.
THEFT
1.1 Two jump drives belonging to sister missionaries serving in the HBLL Family History Library were stolen Monday. The two senior sister missionaries left the library around 6:45 p.m. When they returned at 7:15 p.m., the drives had been taken from the computers. The drives were valued at $30 each.
The thief obviously didn't have enough money to buy his or her own. See item 1.3.
1.2 A male student took a tray of Rice Krispie treats from the Cannon Center on Monday, Mar. 27, 2006. After identifying the student, police went to his room, where they found the tray of unopened Rice Krispie treats on the bed of the student's roommate, with a handmade sign stating "Welcome back."
Bwahahahahaha! I know that I used to sneak an apple or a banana out of the Morris Center back in my day, but the whole tray of Rice Krispie treats? That's brilliant. And the handmade sign stating "Welcome back"? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Was there a "P.S., sorry I missed you; they've taken me to jail" added to the end of the note?
1.3 A male student shoplifted a DVD valued at $9.99 from the BYU Bookstore on Thursday, Mar. 23, 2006. After being confronted by police, the student admitted to the theft and said he did not have enough money to pay for the item.
I'm going to admit it---sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I grabbed food in the Twilight Zone (as I often do), left the Twilight Zone to go to another area of the bookstore (as I often do), and left the store without paying? I don't think that anyone would catch me, because they don't know that I didn't already pay for the food. All I'm saying is that if this guy were smarter, he'd have stolen stuff from the Twilight Zone, sold it on the street for below market value, made $9.99, and bought the DVD legitimately. Duh. Food is so much easier to steal than DVDs.
Note: This author in no way endorses criminal behavior. Anything in this post that seemingly encourages illegal actions is simply a joke.
1.4 A video projector valued at $5,000 was stolen from 2074 of the WSC on Wednesday or Thursday.
This reminds me of an exerpt from Police Beat that a guy in one of my classes read earlier this semester where tens of thousands of dollars of equipment was stolen from the HFAC nad reported a year later. So mad props to whoever it is that reported this theivery in a timely manner!
HARASSMENT
2.1 A female student was berated by a male staff member after she parked in a handicapped parking space March 22, 2006. After pulling into the space in Lot 7, the staff member, who had a handicapped-parking permit, stopped his car behind hers and began yelling at her. He apparently did not realize that the student also had a handicapped-parking permit, police said.
What I wonder most here, is at what point did the police get involved in this? The situation is comical enough as it is, but how did the police get involved? Did the fight go on long enough that someone called the police, or did the police happen to walk by? Did either party start to beat the other with crutches? And how did the guy "not realize that the student also had a handicapped-parking permit"? If I were the student, I would have pointed that fact out as soon as the guy started yelling at me. I wish I worked on the police force...
2.2 Two white males harassed a female student on the first floor of the Spencer W. Kimball Tower on March 20, 2006. The men told the student she was violating ordinances against standing in a walkway, talking on a cell phone and wearing an engagement ring, and said they were making a citizen's arrest.
The most important question here is what was the race of every other person mentioned in this week's police beat? Or why does the race of these two boys suddenly become important in this entry? This is also a case where I would like to know when the police became involved. Did the white males actually try to arrest her? If they started to carry her away, I could understand the police being involved. Otherwise...?
LEWDNESS
3.1 Two male students, age 18 and 19, were cited by police for urinating in public near Merrill Hall in Helaman Halls on March 23, 2006.
So the other day, I was driving and I really needed to pee. There were a couple of times when I seriously considered having Viper pull the car over so that I could. Now I'm glad that I didn't. But this brings to mind another story. During my freshman year, my friend Magoo was over at our friend Dirtbag's dorm room in Helaman Halls. It was night. The blinds to the room were open about 10 inches. The girls looked out the window and saw a University police officer staring through the window into the dorm room. The police officer was white and female. So Magoo turned around and mooned the police officer. That's funny. What wasn't funny was the fact that then the police officer went into the dorm room and confronted Magoo about it. Magoo admitted to everything and gave the police officer her information. Consequently, she got into some serious trouble with the honor code office. Now, not that I encourage lying, but if I had been in that situation, I would have claimed that I was exercising the right to change in my dorm room, and I was unaware that my blinds were cracked (forgive the pun) open at the time. While I was changing, a police officer who was peering into my room happened to see my bare butt. That's what I would have done, anyway.
NUISANCE
4.1 Unknown male suspects threw several wet paper wads at dorm windows in David John Hall and Hinckley Hall in Helaman Halls on Tuesday. Two female students, living in Hinckley Hall, reported that their window screen was damaged by the wads.
During my freshman year, I threw wet wads of sticky rice at the outside of the dorms, causing the rice to stick to the DT buildings. Glad I wasn't caught! Again, I'm interested to see how this particular situation all played out. Here, perhaps, is the 911 phone call:
911: 9-1-1 Emergency, this is Karen. What's your emergency?
Girls: We are in our dorm room in Helaman Halls and some projectile appears to be being launched at our windows.
911: Okay. Could you describe this projectile?
Girls: Not really---they're just coming at us real fast! Uh... they appear to maybe be wads. Wads of wet paper.
911: Is anybody hurt?
Girls: No, not yet, but we're really scared! The paper has already damaged our window screens, and we're afraid that it's going to break the glass and hurt us.
911: I'll send someone over immediately. Please don't panic, but we don't take damaged window screens lightly around here.
TRESPASSING
5.1 Visitors attending an event in the Morris Center on Saturday refused to leave after the event ended. Police responded, but the persons were gone by the time police arrived.
I actually have no comment for this one, but if you can think of something funny, add it to the comments!
5.2 Unauthorized persons were playing soccer on the Indoor Practice Field on Saturday. They complied with police requests to leave.
By "unauthorized persons," do you mean "students who aren't athletes were using the multi-million dollar facility" because don't even get me started.
CRIMINAL MISCHIEF
5.3 Police found a wire door securing air conditioning units near the Ballroom in the WSC pried open March 24, 2006.
Dun-dun-Dun! Wreak-wreak-wreak-wreak! [insert any other dramatic music or sound effect]
5.4 Three individuals riding their bikes on a hill near Miller Field fled when police approached them March 23. A 16-year-old juvenile complied with police orders to stop, while an 18-year-old was apprehended by police in the act of fleeing. The 18-year-old was cited for evading arrest and riding his bicycle the wrong way on a roadway.
So was the 18-year-old going the wrong way on a roadway while evading arrest, or before evading arrest? It just serves as a reminder to me to obey traffic laws the next time I evade arrest.Wise Blood
I've made a habit as of late of going to a certain comedy club. Usually I'm alone. This is never so awkward for me as it is for the person who is sitting beside me. As seats beside me sit empty, waiting to be filled, a person will approach me and ask if I'm saving any of the seats. "No," I reply. "None?" they ask. "None," I say.
After an exchange similar to this a couple weeks ago, a high school kid and his date took the seats next to me. After a few moments, the kid turned to me and said, "So. You like to go to these things alone?"
"I am dating one of the guys in the show," I said.
"Ahhh, I see. So how often do you come to the shows?"
"Usually at least once a weekend."
The show started and the boy and his date immediately asked me to point out which one was "mine." I pointed "mine" out. During the evening's performance, they would turn to me to ask me more questions: "Does he look at you like that?" (asked when he was playing a character who was in love with someone else and was giving that someone else loving looks); "Is he funny in real life?" No. Of course he isn't. He's actually quite boring. I only date him for the free tickets to his shows.
Last week, "mine" found me as I was coming into the club, and he seated me up near the front, introducing me as his girlfriend to some people he knew. When he left, a guy sitting in the row behind me leaned forward. "Is he in tonight's show?" he asked. I said that he was and the guy said, "Oh, good. Because he's my favorite." Turning to his date, he added, "He's the one I was telling you about."
I try to bring friends with me as often as I can, but usually, like I said, I go alone. The last two times I've gone, I have brought homework reading with me to keep me busy in line outside waiting to get in, and seated inside waiting for the show to start. Which brings me to my point. Last night, while sitting in the front row, waiting for the show to start, I finished Wise Blood, a book for one of my English classes.
It seemed an odd setting to finish the book. Loud music was blaring in the background. The guy beside me kept jostling me. One guy walked past me so quickly that the book was actually knocked out of my hands. And the book, although it claims to be a comedy, seemed actually quite somber. I am still unsure how I feel about the book on the whole. I know that I enjoyed it, because I didn't have any problem finishing it. This is in stark contrast to the last book I finished, Wicked, which I absolutely hated and which I would leave for months between readings. Like Wicked, I recognize that I didn't care about any of the characters in Wise Blood. I could have been just as happy whether they all died or all lived. I also think that I didn't like the story that much. And yet, like I mentioned, there was something I liked about it.
I'm starting to wonder if the only thing I liked about it was that it gave me a legitimate excuse not to do other homework and an excuse to not talk to the people surrounding me at the comedy club.
After an exchange similar to this a couple weeks ago, a high school kid and his date took the seats next to me. After a few moments, the kid turned to me and said, "So. You like to go to these things alone?"
"I am dating one of the guys in the show," I said.
"Ahhh, I see. So how often do you come to the shows?"
"Usually at least once a weekend."
The show started and the boy and his date immediately asked me to point out which one was "mine." I pointed "mine" out. During the evening's performance, they would turn to me to ask me more questions: "Does he look at you like that?" (asked when he was playing a character who was in love with someone else and was giving that someone else loving looks); "Is he funny in real life?" No. Of course he isn't. He's actually quite boring. I only date him for the free tickets to his shows.
Last week, "mine" found me as I was coming into the club, and he seated me up near the front, introducing me as his girlfriend to some people he knew. When he left, a guy sitting in the row behind me leaned forward. "Is he in tonight's show?" he asked. I said that he was and the guy said, "Oh, good. Because he's my favorite." Turning to his date, he added, "He's the one I was telling you about."
I try to bring friends with me as often as I can, but usually, like I said, I go alone. The last two times I've gone, I have brought homework reading with me to keep me busy in line outside waiting to get in, and seated inside waiting for the show to start. Which brings me to my point. Last night, while sitting in the front row, waiting for the show to start, I finished Wise Blood, a book for one of my English classes.
It seemed an odd setting to finish the book. Loud music was blaring in the background. The guy beside me kept jostling me. One guy walked past me so quickly that the book was actually knocked out of my hands. And the book, although it claims to be a comedy, seemed actually quite somber. I am still unsure how I feel about the book on the whole. I know that I enjoyed it, because I didn't have any problem finishing it. This is in stark contrast to the last book I finished, Wicked, which I absolutely hated and which I would leave for months between readings. Like Wicked, I recognize that I didn't care about any of the characters in Wise Blood. I could have been just as happy whether they all died or all lived. I also think that I didn't like the story that much. And yet, like I mentioned, there was something I liked about it.
I'm starting to wonder if the only thing I liked about it was that it gave me a legitimate excuse not to do other homework and an excuse to not talk to the people surrounding me at the comedy club.
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