Kissing Frogs

Over the past few months, since the release of the movie The Princess and the Frog, I have experienced a distinct feeling of unease about my own relationship with the little amphibians. You see, every time I talked to a little girl about whether they liked the movie or not I got a response along the lines of:
"It was so funny, but I would NEVER kiss a frog! That is sooo gross!!!"
or
"Ya, but why did she kiss the frog if she wasn't a princess? Why would you do that if you didn't have to? Frogs are icky. Only princesses should have to kiss them."
Both answers disturbed me, and one of course prompted the age old lecture that every girl is a princess...of course this led the child to ask 'Then why did the girl turn into a frog instead of the Prince turning into a human like he was supposed to?'
Now riddle me the answer to that one.
Anyways, as I mentioned before, I was beginning to become uncomfortable. So I started asking people my own age. Nonchalantly, of course.
"So hey, uh, have you ever actually kissed a frog?"
I threw the question out in the middle of conversations, in hopes that the answer would be a mild-'Of course! Who hasn't?' and we would continue with the previous subject.
No such luck.
The answer was usually a burst of laughter and then the curiously dubious face 'Have you?'
I suppose you have already guessed what my answer is.
I kiss every frog I meet.
Every. Single. One.
First I have to chase them down of course, but I have had a lot of practice with catching small slippery creatures. I have the usual conversation with them, wonder out loud if they'll actually turn into my handsome Prince this time, then close my eyes and wish.
The frog is usually stunned for a moment or two and then begins to croak loudly and squirm desperately out of my grip. I sigh and let them go.
I have kissed many many frogs in my time. But I have never found my Prince.
Perhaps I am believing in the wrong fairy tale?
Yet Prince Phillip has yet to sweep up behind me and finish my song of dreaming, As much as I would want to I unfortunately did not grow up under the Sea, I'm not to eager to convort with the Beast, I'm not trying to escape the pressures of a Palace life or the bullying of a step family, and I most certainly do not turn into an ogre at night-though my brother might argue that point. So where do I fit in?
I'm thinking perhaps I have been looking in the wrong places. Like Stitch, I've been trying to steal stories that are simply already taken.
I'm thinking perhaps it's time to write my own.

Top 25 Lessons of Nannying

1. ANYTHING can be solved with gummy bears and tootsie rolls. You can have a snit, a fist fight, hurt feelings, general boredom or incooperativeness-and as long as you bring the back up, everyone will go home happy. Even you.

2. The Beatles still rock the world. Try to argue that they're the beginning of the modern downfall of true music and mark the start of horrifying musical commercialism with a seven year old. Go ahead. I dare you.

3. Children will say anything and everything about anyone you both know, just so their opinions are out in the open. And you don't get to be offended on behalf of your friends or relatives. Or even embarassed. Because if they see you react-they WILL pounce.

4. As it turns out, studying history has more than academic benefits. Little boys like WAR stories. Real ones. Detailed ones. And they don't want to read about it. They want you to recite everything you know off the top of your head. Oh-and make it sound good. Boring stories make for a very long bedtime process. Good thing I studied Napoleon's war strategy or I'd be a goner.

5. Entertaining children without electronics is far more difficult than one would originally suspect. Especially when the child refuses to do anything else. Especially when you live in constant rain and can not take the child outside. Where is the Cat in the Hat when you need him?

6. One should make sure the cell phone is hidden is a locked cupboard before any child even knows it exists.

7. Apparently, keys are delicious. So are pennies.

8. One should not assume that just because you have strapped the baby in with five different types of buckles, they are secure. Houdini took lessons from babies. This is especially true if their conniving brothers are present in the room-in which case one should really just give up and feed the baby on the floor.

9. The mothers who are constantly hosting friends are NOT crazy or even necessarily socially assertive. Life is about ten thousand times easier when the friends get the child out of your face and into the playroom, backyard, or bedrooms. Everyone is happier, boredom is generally unmentioned, and you can get quite a lot of other things done while they're distracted. Particularly if the baby is sleeping. Plus there's a BONUS (but only if you're actually the Mom): When you invite other children over to play, your children generally get an invitation to said friends house at a later date. Giving you extra and even more liberating free time.

10. Children like NOISE. A movie in the background, a radio or even playing the drums on your legs will keep things moving and children busy for hours. For some reason, silence makes them listless and crazy--while noise makes the world interesting.

11. Coloring books and utensils are God's gifts to babysitters. Thankyou God.

12. Little girls LOVE it when you sing to them and dance like a crazy person...little boys DON'T.

13. You must be --insert age of child speaking-- years of age to do EVERYTHING.

14. No matter how cool they think you are, or how old you are- you will never be as big or amazing as their oldest brother or sister. Even if they're 12.

15. If you walk into the house of four growing boys and you can't catch a ball-you may as well walk back out. (Thanks for all that training Dad!) Furthermore, if you don't actually know the names and various numbers associated with the players of their favorite sports teams, you must either act well and learn fast, or admit to being a complete and utter loser and failure at life.

16. Mom really is the most beautiful woman on the planet, and Dad is a superhero.

17. Maniacal laughter and the word NOTHING are VERY BAD SIGNS.

18. You think oil's a hot commodity these days? Try walking in with sugar and new movies in a house where they're generally unheard of. The world will be your oyster.

19. Older siblings can be very helpful. Especially when they're being paid.

20. Rocks, flowers, dirt, balls, worms and dogfood are all edible. And I'm not just talking about with the babies.

21. If you think things are going smoother than they should, you're right. You are being tricked. One (or all) of them was supposed to do the dishes. Bed time was half an hour ago. Somebody found a bag of hidden M&M's. There is now a frog or some other sort of lovely little critter in your bag. You are not hearing the baby wake up from her nap because she is perfectly happy emptying her bottle, her diaper, the wipee's, and the batteries from her newest toy onto her freshly washed sheets. You were supposed to serve brussel sprouts with dinner. You read an extra story-it was a large chunk of a chapter book. You forgot to make them brush their teeth or pray. They have found a new way to torture the house pet. Whatever you do-don't go upstairs. It will be worse than you imagine. Trust me.

22. There is no cure for a nine year olds insomnia. Unfortuntely, you can not legally drug other peoples children. Really, you can get in trouble even for drugging your own.

23. The only way to stop the series of questions is to come up with a truly amazing and undefeatable question that has no known answer. The unknown frightens and stumps them.

24. One should never say the words 'I just don't know,' or 'I'm not sure,' or 'Maybe when your mother gets home,' or 'absolutely not,' to a child. Them is fighting words.

25. After all the bumps and the bruises, when your hair hurts from being yanked and pulled, when your arms are tired from holding a cranky baby for hours on end, when your ear holes are three times larger than when you arrived and you are suffering from a headache and lack of nourishment; they will tell you that they love you, climb into your lap for snuggles, give you a sweet baby hug or kiss and say that you're pretty much their amazing older sister-and you'll remember why you love this job so stinking much. That moment is worth all of it. Every time.

Talking with Tarantula's

The Tarantula's name is Killer. He's as big as my fist with more eyes-that probably see much more-than I care to think about. He's covered in thick brown hair and he moves a little slower than frozen molasses. You see, he is very shy. You would be too, if you were his size and lived in a house with four sporty, rambunctious young boys--Who happened to find it entertaining to shake your cage to see if you would move.

He became the newest member of one of the households I work at last week, when the six-turning-seven year old's father presented him as the paramount birthday gift.

As I mopped up the waterfalls pouring from my eyes while I chopped onions at the house this morning, I happened to glance down at my elbow to find him watching me with all those beady little eyes.

"Well," I spoke in nasally tones, trying not to sneeze, "it's nice of you to finally grace us with your presence sir." I nodded at him cordially, "Those boys have been awfully keen on pulling you out of your reticence. Not that I blame you for hiding really, I'd be frightened if someone put their face that close to me as well."

His little hairy body bobbed slowly up and down. I was reminded irrestibly of Harry Potter's first encounter speaking parseltongue to a python in the London zoo. I couldn't resist.

"Can you...understand me?" I asked slowly.

Killer simply stared at me unblinkingly. Can tarantula's blink I wonder? Hmmm...but perhaps that is a question for another time.

"Hmmm." I said. "You know Mr. Killer, the more I see you, the less frightened I become of you, and the more sympathetic I grow. It seems you enjoy a quiet conversation as much as I do. I notice you only come out now-when it's just me humming along here in the kitchen."

At this point the four year old and his playmate came running into the room screaming.

"I'm gonna spank you-I'm gonna Spank YOU!" They bellowed at each other.

My legs became a mighty fortress and the kitchen an endless track. Killer quickly retreated into his coconut home.

I fed the boys their lunch of slightly warmed hot dogs with apples and cheese and sent them back to their upstairs playroom/battlefield.

I turned to the plastic cage next to the sink.

"That was an adventure wasn't it, Mr.Killer? Goodness those boys are silly. I do wish I had that much energy, don't you?"

Killer stuck one leg out of his coconut, and then another.

Eventually he re-emerged from his hidey hole and we spent the afternoon having a lovely conversation about the best methods to cook stew, how to entertain children without electronics, and what Santa might be bringing the boys for Christmas. After all-how do you top a tarantula?

I got to thinking after I left this afternoon-that perhaps I will never be cured of my inexplicable desire to speak to little furry critters. Of course, it could be an even worse sign that I seem to be under the impression that they understand me, and are communicating back to me in whatever various sundry ways they can.

This realization hit me when I was dropping off dinner at a friends house, and I was mid-conversation with a perversely mean cockatu who takes particular issue with human females. What am I doing? I wondered. This bird probably thinks I'm insane. Of course, that thought just proved my issues went even deeper.

I thought back on all the conversations I've had with God's smaller, speech debilitated creatures over the course of my life and it hit me like that crazy flock of sparrows that attacked me behind the outhouse in the middle of Idaho.

I have a problem.

Does this problem stem from feeling that there are not enough humans on whatever brainwave channel I'm using and so I must release myself to the animals? Or am I simply unable to consider that any living creature might not be able to communicate with the world around it?

Now come the deeper questions. Am I right? Am I simply more in tune with nature? Or am I an escapee from an asylum for Disney princesses gone wrong? After all I'm pretty sure the birds in all the movies I've seen sing along with the princess-rather than attack her at every turn.

Did you know I've been attacked by more than 22 different types of birds that I can count? Five of those in flocks?

Perhaps the birds are the more intelligent animals and they can sense whatever it is that is wrong with me?

Head Tenants: Miss Frank

Do you ever start talking and then realize that everyone in the room is giving you far more attention than anyone else has received...and perhaps more than you should be given? Have you realized that your audience reacts with gasps and enthusiastic laughter-to something you actually meant to be a rather serious thought? Have you ever then realized that it is because what you are saying should really not be said in the company to which you are narrating it?

This is a frequent occurance for me. And not quite a pleasant one. But you know, it is not completely my fault.

There is another head tenant, you see. One with whome I am sure some of you are intimately familiar, but who I have failed to mention so far.

Her name is Miss Frank. She has an opinion on everything, and feels absolutely no compunction to silence when that opinion is offensive, misdirected or even downright ridiculous. So, listening to this woman as a third party in most conversations and all lectures and intellectually inspiring speeches, naturally makes me forget that others have not heard her...and consequently when her shoking words come out of my mouth I become the full recipiant of every appalled (and generally highly entertained) listener's rebuttals, sarcastic remarks, teasing and of course, hilaric laughter.

She has most certainly caused some of the most embarrassing scenes in my life.

For example, when she doesn't understand something she hears, she will insist upon knowing its meaning. Even if it sounds like the definition could be something highly inappropriate. Even if I am in a classroom full of people who obviously know what the word means, and are made uncomfortable at its mention. College lectures were one of her most inspired scenes of devastation. However, no experience truly conquers the time she demanded that I know the meaning of the word circumcision, in a classroom full of highschool freshman. And kept demanding, despite the teachers assurances that she could explain to me later, that I draw out an explanation.

Another of her most infamous tricks is to spit out my opinion on a person before I have fully discovered their character. This inevitably leads to horrible regret. But occasionally, very occasionally, it can get me out of sticky situations in quite a jiffy. I once began a friendship with the friend of a roommate online. I would talk to this boy sometimes for several hours a week, and we grew to like each other rather quickly. He became determined to meet me. Which would have cost him quite a pretty penny, since he lived in Missouri and I in Rexburg, Idaho at the time. He started talking very seriously about a relationship. Miss Frank was terrified. This boy was not mormon. A relationship with him could never really be possible. But for a while she held back her opinion. Then one day he sent me a picture of himself. Oh yes. I'm serious. He then asked my frank opinion. Well-he did ask. Miss Frank told him without my permission that he was rather homely and should definitely shave that scraggly young man beard...but that it didn't matter any way as I could not be attracted to him because he could not be my eternal companion and a relationship would be superfluous. The not-really-existant relationship was then permanently terminated. As you can imagine.

She gives me a lot of cause to repent.

Today she out did even herself however, because I didn't even see it coming. I was proud of myself for actually speaking up in Relief Society in fact (where I am usually quiet and shy-feeling as though I am a mouse in a room of spiritual giants) when she opened her obsidious maw and let out the first thing that came to her socially inept mind.

The lesson was beautiful. It was on how we should treat our spouses and children (and for us of the younger generation, it was a consideration of future relationships, and a look into the manner in which our parents have to have picked up some of their favorite punishments in years past). Everyone shared comments about ways they honored their husbands and ways their husbands glorified them, how they maintained peace in their homes with kind, loving children who never fought.

Miss Frank said to me, "You should say something encouraging, so that the others who are sitting here going 'uh, my children fight all the time, does that make me a horrible mother?' maintain some hope for the future and realize that total home peace is really a non-reality in most situations."

"How would I do that?" I asked.

"Well, you turned out alright didn't you? And growing up in our house was not always a picnic, I remember...share some of the craziness and how your parents solved it!"

"Ok!" I answered, excited. "This will be grand!"

I raised my hand. Before I knew what had happened, Miss Frank was talking for me.

"I would just like to say, there were times in my home growing up that were absolute craziness. There was tons of contention." Imagine now the looks of horror on the Relief Society Presidency's faces. "I remember me and Bri used to tie Traci up in chairs." Now hear the entire room errupt in whispers, a few titters, and a loud half-whisper from the front saying 'Poor Traci!' At this comment I began to realize that perhaps Miss Frank was being just a little too frank. "So my dad came up with a wonderful punishment," I continued, smiling, "every time we thought a negative thought about somebody, or said something hurtful, we then had to come up with 10 wonderful compliments to say to that person." This is where I should have stopped, instead of revealing more of my inner home madness. "Then, we had to kiss their feet." The entire room explodes into laughter.

This is when Miss Frank loses her control over my person and the shy Maiden who usually takes over during Relief Society hours resumes her throne. She is, of course, horrified at Miss Franks behavior and freezes with absolute embarassment, turning me red to the hairline.

Luckily the speaker saved me and quickly adressed another person, changing the subject.

Is there any hope for muffling this mortifying woman inside me?

Love At First Flight

The other night around a cozy campfire in a good friends backyard I found myself sitting next to a very charming and attractive young man whom I had never before met. His conversation was enchanting, his stories thrilling, his laughter infectious, and his manner attentive. For several hours I was caught up in his spell and when it finally came time for our departure I was sad to see him go, for he lives pretty far away and I was not sure when I might see him again.

We went our separate ways and as I walked to the car with my younger sister she piped up with a comment along these lines: "Thank goodness, I wanted to leave hours ago but I wasn't about to interupt your flirting."

Shock crossed my face. My what?! "I...I wasn't flirting..." I spluttered, "He was just a very interesting guy and had fantastic stories about his mission that I was greatly interested in, thankyou." I harrumphed my embarrassed self into the drivers seat.

"Whatever." Said she, "you "may not" have been, but he most certainly was. He ignored everyone else who tried to jump into the conversation!"

"That doesn't mean anything..." I replied. It was silent for a few moments. "But he was pretty cute." I winked at her and we both bust up laughing.

Later that night as I dithered and dissected the evening in my head, I had to admit to myself that I had indeed been flirting with the entertaining young gentleman. What does that mean? I thought. I've cut myself off from dating and flirting and all of that. I am preparing for a mission! I don't have time for any of it and I'd only be setting myself and others up for disappointment at this point. No, it's no good. I'll just have to avoid him, or not be as friendly if I see him again, or something...

However, it occured to me later that this reaction is not strictly a result of my preparing for a mission. In fact, it's a bit of a trend I've noticed in my behavior that is slightly horrifying. This trend is that as soon as I discern that I have any attraction for a young, datable man who may be interested in me, I panic. I think of ten thousand reasons why it will never work, why it should never work and why it could never work. Then I pound them out into my behavior and attitudes until it becomes reality and I have chased the boy away. Or at least distanced myself enough to make him believe that I do not have any interest. The problem: I do still like them. Then I harbor these secret crushes as little stunted seedlings of something that could have grown but never did because I poisoned them. See exhibit A:



That's all. This story has no ending because I still have not solved this problem. It's a dillema.

Surrendering Stories

This is a white flag. I am retreating behind it and I will say this once and only once, and strictly in writing. You will understand when you are finished, why I do not often talk about these experiences. These are my comedic, horrific and even somewhat sadly tragic experiences dating (or undating, as I call many of these relationships) at Brigham Young University Idaho.

*For the sake of the privacy of those persons involved in these stories names will be changed to epithets, so given at the top of their own particular tales.

The Eager Beaver

It is my very first day of school. I am far away from home, and my closest friend is a roommate who had arrived on the same night as me, with whom I had had a bonding evening with when we were forced to eat ramen (from cup-of-noodle styrofoam containers, we had no dishes, little food, and NO kitchen-only a small microwave) with pens. I am desperate to gain more companions.
I walk into the classroom quietly, as is my usual habit, in hopes of finding a seat near the front or next to a wall. I look up to find it full of students staring balefully at me. I am late. I look around for the teacher but can find one nowhere. Finally a tall blonde man who looks younger than a few of the students says, "Welcome to English 111, have a seat." Horrified at the immediate attention of the entire class gazing at me as though I were a specimen to disect, or perhaps the next subject of a despised research paper, I search desperately for an empty chair, a friendly smile, Anything.
"Here, come sit next to me." A kindly pair of large blue eyes meet mine with a grin. He pats the empty seat next to him. It is next to a wall. I am wonderfully grateful to this handsome young man with the captivating blue eyes.

...Three Weeks Later...

"Alright, everone take your partners and off you go. You must stay on campus and we will meet back here at twenty after the hour." The Professor dismisses us to find flaws in the structures of the school, about which we will write a persuasive essay. "You'll be my partner right?" says the Eager Beaver, who has already earned the nickname from his constant habit of beginning to flirt with me every moment the professor stops speaking. Not to mention the fact the inadvertently shows up wherever I go, to do the same thing. Already he has found me at the Sunday Night Stadium Singings, a few dances, the grocery store, the library and several times just walking around on campus.
"Sure." I don't mind so very much, I'm kind of flattered with the attention. He's twenty three, an RM, and interested in me, an unglorious little eighteen year old fresh from High School. I sense danger as he leads me towards the gardens (given the title 'Make Out Gardens' or 'The Honey Moon Spot' by BYUI students, about which I had been THOROUGHLY warned) and head him off.
"Actually I think I know the perfect thing, its up near the dorms." I say quickly heading the opposite direction from the gardens. He is slightly crestfallen but follows where I lead.
"So, are you dating anyone yet?" he asks casually. That was direct, I think, but hey what do I know about people in Idaho-or college for that matter? Maybe all conversations here are direct.
"Um, no actually. So the place I'm thinking of, it's a basketball court-"
"Really? Pretty thing like you, I was sure you'd be taken by now." His smile is very charming.
"Haha..ha...thankyou...I just, um..."
He senses my awkwardess. "So you're from Washington, right? How do you like it up there?"
"Oh, Oh I love it," I'm just grateful we are talking about something else, "I love the rain and the tree's and the mountains. I hadn't realized it til I'd been here baking in a desert valley for a while though."
He laughs. "Oh Yeah. I'm from Oregon, I understand." Uh oh. "Probably right close to you actually, do you live near the bottom of Washington or the top?"
"Right on the border actually."
"No way! Near Portland?"
"Directly accross from it. Vancouver."
"Nice! Only about an hour away from me then."
"Oh,... that's cool...anyways I was thinking we could write the paper about these enormous cracks--" We really have only a few moments to get all the way accross campus and back, we should be concentrating on our assignment.
"Do you want to live there after you marry?"
"-and people are always getting their feet caught in them...Oh, uh, I guess...I hadn't really thought about it much actually..."
"I do. I want to take my beautiful wife and give her a home surrounded by tree's in the mountains. Not too close to any town though, I like my privacy."
"Hmmm...that's great, it sounds like a good place to raise a family. Really though, I can see the court from here, do you want to see the-"
"How many children do you want to have?" Woah! Ok buddy, this just got WAY too personal.
"Uh, I guess I haven't really thought much about that either..."
"I want a bunch, six or seven at the least. Preferably more like eleven or twelve."
"Uh huh..."
"As many boys as possible. Do you think you'd like raising sons?"
What the HECK?!
"I, uh, I don't know, maybe someday...I'm going to write down some information about the cracks now ok? You can take notes too if you like."
There is a blissful three minute silence, in which I scribble down descriptions of the cracks in the basketball court like mad. He watches me with admiration.
"You're a good student aren't you?" He asks with proud eyes.
"Well, I sure like to think so...we'd better be getting back, we're nearly out of time."
"Oh ya, ya you're right, we're gonna have to run actually." Looking at his watch.
We take off in a light jog and arrive as the last of the students are coming back in from their explorations.

...Fifteen Minutes Later...

The teacher dismisses us and immediately the Eager Beaver is upon me, raving about my ability to write a killer essay with almost no editorial assistance. Is this a subtle hint that I'll be working mostly alone for this paper? Or maybe a not so subtle hint. Hmmm.
Before I know it we've reached the steps in front of the Smith building. He swings out in front of me and turns to face me while I'm still on the steps so our faces are on the same level (He's about 6'2").
"So, Kristi, I'd really really like to take you out on a date sometime."
"Oh, ok. That'd be fun." I try to smile very nicely. Everyone deserves at least one-that's what I've always been told.
He gives me a big smile and walks away. Just walks away. Not a single detail of when, where, or how he would like to do this. Ok, I guess we'll just work it out later. I head back to my dorm, where my roommates celebrate my acheivement of first apartment date of the semester with cheers and a nighttime trip to taco bell (a tradition in that dorm), which I promptly threw up. I really should have recognized it for a sign...

...Temporary Conclusion...

Never again does the Eager Beaver mention that date. For the rest of that week he looks at me expectantly whenever I enter, as though I am supposed to say something. I don't understand. Was he implying that he would like me to plan a date?
The next week he is somewhat quieter as though frustrated with me for not doing something about the whole situation already. His silences are pointed and he stares at me a lot.
The next week he is nearly silent and I can practically feel him simmering next to me.
The next week, he moves seats. He does everything in his power for the rest of the semester to avoid sitting next to me. I can feel him always, in that overly heated English room, glaring at me from the corner of his eyes, looking away whenever I happen to glance in his direction. Finally the semester ends and in the joy of the Christmas holidays, I forget about the handsome but strange blue eyed boy.

...Hopefully Real Conclusion...

It is my third semester. My roommates are my best friends and I just love them to death.
Normally church is an apartment affair and we go in a big happy group. Today however, I have been asked to come a bit early for an interview of some sort. I approach the door with my head down, thinking about what is to come, and then it opens before me.
I look up to thank the young man holding the door open for me. The Eager Beaver glares at me stonily, his icy gaze challenging me to acknowledge him. I give a small nod, put my head back down and practically run to my appointment.

-A Matter of Weeks Later-

I have had three separate occasions of door-holding incidents matching the first. Really, this is getting ridiculous. Two of my roommates and I are leaving, church has ended and I really just want to get home and get some food into my empty system.
Eager Beaver holds the door open for the lot of us as we exit, staring directly at me. I've had enough. I meet his gaze and hold it. His face changes, softening, and he looks distinctly regretful.
"Hello Kristi." He says it a bit mournfully.
I'm sure I looked at him like he was crazy.
"Hello," I mutter as I walk past.
My roommates wait til the car door has closed behind me to ambush me.
"Who the HECK was that?!"
"Oh that was, well, just a guy I sort of-almost-kind of dated my first semester..." Really, I have no idea how else to explain him.
"Well why in the world aren't you dating him NOW?! He's gorgeous!"
"Um, actually, you know...I have no idea." I turn to look out the car window, dimissing the subject.

Get-Some Boy

Ok, before you start panicking-obviously nothing bad ever happened between me and this boy. I'm still happily VL, thankyou. This nickname, in fact, came from my roommates. They bestowed the title on the boy when he made a habit of locating me whenever we went to the cafeteria (still in my first semester, when I didn't have a kitchen and was forced to go to the cafeteria for nearly every meal) and making absurdly flirtatious and often strange comments, following me around as I gathered my meal from the salad bars. Then inviting me to sit with him or following me to sit among my flock of dorm friends and roommates. These dorm friends and roommates made a bit of a fashion of saying 'Get Some!' whenever anyone we knew was even talking to a member of the opposite sex, often loudly, racously and obnoxiously. Embarrassing the target caught convorting to horrifying degree's. Because they had to say it about him at least once a day however, he earned the title as his own specific epithet within a matter of weeks.
The sad part of this story is that I was simply not interested in him. He was cute, and sweet, a band geek to the core, but just not my type. Ok fine, I will admit it. I could talk circles around him, knew he didn't understand a word and yet he bobbed his head like some kind of cockatu and it drove me crazy.
I told my roommates that I did not want to date him, and to prevent him asking if they could sense it was about to happen, please. They succeeded wildly. Yes, I mean wildly. The poor kid was cut off in the middle of sentences, headed off at corners, goaded into arguments and interrupted with countless 'emergencies'.
Poor guy, he never stood a chance. This is when I first learned that using the roommates as backup was a last-resort, emergency sort of action. Not a reflex or precaution.

The Cafeteria god

I think as freshman we all manage to find some sort of BMOC and crush on him desperately for at least our first few weeks (months in my case). Mine was a boy (or man, whatever) who sat accross from me in the cafeteria, every day that first semester. I know, it's truly terrible that with the Eager Beaver expressing interest at every turn, and Get-Some boy sitting there by my side, I had eyes only for the Cafeteria god.
You who know me well know of my sad obsession with mythology and fairy tales, and my particular attraction to the beautiful roman gods. This is exactly what the boy encapsulated for me. Tall, with gold skin, black curly hair and exquisite brown eyes, he was perfection. I was lost. Taken in by the face of a man I had never even spoken to.

And never would. Because the world is a cruel place, I was born a shy creature. Not a shy spirit, as most my friends will loudly protest, but one of those people who is shy of those they have not met before, particularly if I like them. Therefore, I never worked up the courage to actually go and talk to the boy.
We had one of those eye affairs. Do not laugh at me and roll your eyes. I know you know what I'm talking about. I know you've done it too. Staring at each other across the room, like lovers trapped on either side of the looking glass. Catching each others eyes and looking away in embarassment, then looking back to see if the other is still looking at you. Communicating with your eyes an enchantment you cannot yet put into words.
But as all not-quite-good things, it came to an end. That winter I moved into an apartment, and had no need of going back to the expensive cafeteria at all. I never saw the Cafeteria god again.

The Ex-Roommate's Crush

That first semester, my roommate had a crush. A boy we invited to hang out with us all the time, he joined us for apartment dinners and nights out, homework parties, the works. But we all knew, he was hers. And frankly, none of us were particularly interested anyways.
The next semester, all of my dorm roommates left. The were summer-fall track, and I was fall-winter. I was alone again, and I HATED it. My new roommates were nice, and I thought in time we would become friends, but I wished I had some connection to the past and my loud, hilarious, energetic roommates from before. These new ones were just so quiet.
Then one day I walked into history class and there he was, my old roommate's crush. I plopped myself down beside him with a smile and we picked up the teasing friendship we'd all shared before. I didn't foresee a problem with the fact that it was just the two of us now, we'd been a part of the same silly group and I was sure our friendship could continue just the way it had last semester.
Then one day it came up as we were discussing our own histories in history class, rather than the history of America as we should have been. The 'hypothetical situation' was his method of attack.
"Say you were to date a black guy," he began smoothly, "it could even be, uh (he looks around as though trying to find another black man-not likely, there were maybe about 10 in the University total)... me. What would you think of that? Would your parents be alright with it?"
"Oh, my parents would be fine with anyone if I was in love with them," I watched his eyes twinkle, "but that wouldn't be your problem anyways. Your road blocker would be the fact that my old roommate was-and may still be-in love with you." I felt fine saying it, the fact had been openly known to him and our entire group first semester.
"Oh? Why on earth should that be a problem?" He really looks confused.
"It would be breaking a sacred bond of trust! Sisters, girlfriends, roommates, we don't take off with each other's men...it's like, against the laws of feminism!" I quoted Mean Girls to him, joking around sarcastically the way we always did.
He didn't laugh. "She's not here though. It's not like she can do anything to you. Why shouldn't you be able to date whoever you want?"
I began to sense that he was a little more serious about this than I had suspected. "Er...just because she's not here doesn't mean she wouldn't know. I know it's like a foreign concept to you but girls actually stay in touch, you know?"
"So just don't tell her."
"That's not how it works. Even if I didn't somebody would, and then I'd be in even bigger trouble."
"Why should you have to tell anybody? Aren't they all gone anyways?"
Oh gosh. Now I am in a pickle. He is serious about this. And persistent. What do I do?! I don't want to offend one of the only friends here I have right now!
"It's just against my own personal morals ok?"
Class began and for that day I was safe. For the next few weeks he spent the free time we had in class trying to convince me that it was no sin or betrayal if I wanted to date him. I could never quite figure out how to tell him that I really just didn't.
Finally, it was coming up on Valentine's Day...and the Sweethearts Ball. I had a very serious crush on the Dreamy Premi by now (described below) and thought that if I let it slip that I might be going to the dance with him, my ex-roommate's crush would avoid the subject altogether.
Yeah, like I should be blessed with such luck.
It was a few days before the ball when he broached the subject again.
"So has your friend from your class that you like asked you to the dance yet?"
"Oh, oh no actually...he doesn't, um, date."
"Oh really? I'm sorry. Well, since you don't have a date, maybe you'd like to go with me? Just as friends, like..." the last part was added at my look of exasperation.
I was trapped. There was officially no way I could get out of this without offending him, and so I agreed.
I must now confess to using one of the most hideous, awful, and manipulative tricks a girl knows to avoid a date. It takes a little truth, a little heartache, some tears and a LOT of exaggeration. Hilariously enough, it happened in the gardens.
"I need to talk to you...about the dance." I began slowly, having already evinced a horrible mood and depression all through class. I can hear him stop breathing.
"It's just I don't have a dress, I'm completely broke...I, I just..." This is where I start to cry a little bit and stop walking as though extremely agitated. He stops and looks at me concernedly.
"Kristi, what's really wrong?" He asks in that deep philosophical voice they use when they are being the 'man', you know the one. When they are trying to take care of you, acting like they understand the inner workings of your psyche, like they are the only one in the universe that can possibly delve deep enough to find what is truly wrong with you. Because as we all know, a woman will never just say the truth and tell you what's hurting her, it's something you have to work at.
"At home," my voice breaks, "there's just problems in my family and my best friend is in a lot of pain and I just feel...(sob) like...(sob) I ...should be...(sob with wail) hooome."
Now I've scared him. A tear or two most guys can handle, but break down in full-blown sobs with gushing tears and you will induce a panic like no other.
"I just don't think...I don't feel it's right...I wouldn't be able to enjoy a dance at all right now...I can barely handle being a group of people at all." I cry silently and wait for his answer.
"Oh, it's ok Kristi...I understand if you don't wanna be around a ton of people. Hey, maybe I can get us a pizza and we can watch a movie at one of our apartments or something."
Opps. I guess I did kind of open myself up for that one. I'm going to have to hurt him a little bit. He leaves me no other choice.
"Actually I think...I think I just need to be alone for a while...I'm sorry."
The head droops, the eyes avoid mine, the voice even quavers a little bit as he says, "Oh, I guess thats...thats fine...I'll see you next week then..."
I don't see him next week. As a matter of fact, he quit coming to class altogether. He didn't answer my calls or texts and the one time I ran into him on campus he said, "Oh ya, hey I dropped that class..." and hurried off with some excuse.
Seriously? Seriously! What is it about me that sends guys cowering for the hills?! I can't even manage to keep a guy as a friend for more than a few months. Sheesh.

The History Hangover

This poor sap was in that same history class in which my ex-roommate's crush had held the infamous debate's about the conditions of dating. This guy had constantly jumped in the middle of them and been the crush's life line.
After the crush was gone however, it seems I became fair game.
"So, you and --crush-- aren't going out or anything now are ya? I assume he woulda stayed in the class if you were...?"
"Um, no, no we're definitely not." I try not to talk to this guy too often and usually sit in between the two other girls that are in our group. They are sadly absent this day. Don't be too harsh in judging me please, after all he had helped to destroy what friendship with the crush I had tried to maintain. And to be frank, he looked a little like golem from LOTR and scared the living crap out of me. Even had the voice down pat.
"So are you free?"
"Um, well I mean I guess but I'm really trying to focus on my schoolwork righ-"
He cuts me off. "Cuz I'd love-"
Now I cut him off. "NOW so I don't actually want to date anyone."
"Ah. Huh."
He is not deterred. He spent most of the rest of the semester in that class trying to convince me to date him. I could be as rude as you like, ignore him completely, and he would somehow see it as a sign of encouragement. I assume it ended only because I never saw him again after that semester. I don't particularly mind actually. Sorry.

The Dreamy Premi

For those of you who have read my story, this is the inspiration for Pierre. The golden skin with happy freckles, curling honey hair and deep green-gold eyes that can hold you in a spell forever. Yeah, not kidding. I was head-over-heels before I'd even spoken to him.
We were in a humanities class together, and of all the beautiful girls he could have chosen to sit next to in that class (trust me, all of them were noticing him) he came and sat next to me. You probably could have actually heard me sigh. Kind of pathetic really, but I couldn't help myself.
I introduced myself and we hit it off immediately. It was usually hard to concentrate in that class because we talked straight through it. However, since we had the highest grades in it and always knew the answers ahead of time (product of trying to impress each other or get everything done ahead of time in anticipation of not being able to do anything when we were together? I'm not sure) the professor really just ignored it. The Dreamy Premi had the most tantalizing habit of putting his head so close to my ear when he wanted to whisper a comment or answer to me that I could feel the heat of his breath all the way down my collar. Then I'd turn my head to whisper or look at him in response and he wouldnt move his and I'd be staring right into those never ending green eyes and I'd completely forget what I was thinking. It drove me CRAZY. He'd always move my hair, be brushing my arm or inadvertently leaning his knee against mine. In short, this boy knew how to tease.
And for all of that you would think, Player. But no, not him. He had to have the perfect personality too. Extremely sweet, especially to the mentally challenged girl who sat with us, and completely focused, he never spoke to a soul other than myself and that girl the whole semester. I held the highest grade for the class but he kept a percent or two behind me the whole way. He was smart. He knew how to study. I could talk to him for hours and never get bored.
I was falling fast, I knew I had to find a flaw or I'd be a goner. I could find none. The guy was perfect. Absolutely gloriously perfect.
And then one day we were discussing relationships and I asked if he was dating anyone now and he said, "No," my heart flew through the roof, "I don't want to date anyone until I get back from my mission, it would just be too much heartbreak to leave someone behind."
Crack. Shatter. Splint. Speaking of heart break.

The "Comforter"

Of all the guys I dated at BYUI, this is the one I hold the fondest memories of. Not because I was attatched to him, or even had any sort of crush on him really, but because of what he did for me. This is still my second semester and I was horribly lonely because now I had lost my friend in the ex-roommate's crush and was depressed that I seemed to chase all my guy friends away.
As much as it is talked about in sunday school lessons, sacrament meeting talks and every other kind of spiritual lesson we are given throughout our lives, it is surprising how few people have the courage to try to comfort someone who is visibly upset or depressed. Or even notice them actually.

This guy was one of those outstanding people who did though. He started talking to me and tried to cheer me up at ward functions, then began accompanying me to stadium singing (hundreds of students from BYUI go to the football stadium on sunday evenings and sing hymns together for half an hour) then going on walks, then out to meals and game nights with other couples. He was a fantastic friend and introduced me to many very interesting people.
Then one day I got a horrible phone call from my best friend at home. She told me that the boy that had been her date when we doubled at prom senior year had committed suicide. I took it pretty hard. I haven't ever known someone my age who purposely disposed of themselves, or someone in their right mind. I was sure there was no hope for him and I was horrible depressed. The comforter saw me on campus a few hours after this phone call and he sat with me and let me cry for awhile, then taught me everything he knew about life after death and the promise of eternal families in helping people and the condition of those who take their own lives. He was an immense help and I felt so much better after that talk. I will be forever grateful to him.
We stayed friends for the rest of the semester but lost contact afterwards. I ran into him my last semester and he told me was engaged to get married a week after the semester ended. I was very happy for him, I hope she is as wonderful a girl as he deserves.

The Haunter

Alright, here it is. The story you've all been waiting for. THIS is the true end to my dating random gentlemen. THIS is the experience that scared me beyond all experiences and made me determined to avoid dating until I was safe and could leave on my mission.
I met the Haunter in my third semester, after a long summer break of planning my sister's wedding, in Mandarin Chinese class. We were both partnerless coming in (turns out most people like to take Chinese with a friend or roommate-go figure) and so got paired up together automatically. Other than the fact that he had a drastically receding hairline, wore belts with studs on them with sweatshirts that favored skulls, and didn't seem to be able to stop smiling, he seemed reasonably normal to me. I should have known better than to think that I would ever be paired up with a relatively normal person.
We held our practice sessions in the library in a little alcove where we could hear each other. Thinking about it now, I guess I can see why he thought this was romantic. But it never occured to me then. It didn't even occur to me that he was interested actually. Even when he asked me out after our third practice session (after walking me home as he usually did) it simply did not enter into my oblivious mind. The last time I'd dated someone was the comforter after all, and we'd ended up just being friends. We never really even had any intense moments...(ok there was one, when he was trying to cuddle with me while watching a movie in his apartment and kept putting his arm around me and playing with my hair-but his plan was foiled by the fact that the movie- Legend - made me laugh hysterically instead of making me scared and so every time I laughed I could scoot away from him) and so I wasn't really on the 'find-a-mate' sort of mind track.
For our first date (can I just add that I had to drive because I had a car and he did not...gentlemen, this is just not attractive to a girl who does not already know you and like you. If you are trying to impress a girl and you don't have a car, try going somewhere close and WALKING-then if we are cold you can give us a jacket, wrap arms around us etc, we think that you are more physically active, we have a long time just to talk and it really just adds to the whole experience of the date. Honestly.) he decided that we were going to the Haunted Shack which is actually a pretty awesome haunted house out in the country near Rexburg. It was a brilliant plan. I was terrified. I had to hold on to someone or I was going to get hopelessly terrified and have an anxiety attack, and he was really my only option. The problem was-he didn't want to let go. He held my hand for the duration of the haunted house and out to the car. Fortunately, I needed it back to drive.
"So do you want dinner?" he asks.
"Sure. What did you have in mind?"
"Actually," he says hesitantly, "I thought I'd let you pick. Only, it can't be very expensive cuz I'm kinda broke. In fact, it can't be much more than a hamburger and fries."
Ok, can we just analyze the many problems with saying this to a girl you are trying to impress, particularly on a first date?
#1 Usually, we don't want to pick. If you are worried about us liking dinner, plan ahead and figure out what kind of food we like. Otherwise, we will figure out something to eat wherever you take us-it's much more attractive for you to be decisive, we hate being surpised with the sudden question 'what do you want'. My particular favorite lines from P.S. I Love You: q: 'What do you people (women) want?!" a: "I'll tell you, but it's a sacred, sacred secret. You have to swear not to tell. Alright, are you ready? WE HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA."
#2 'cus I'm kinda broke' ?!?!?! Hello! Not brilliant. Even if you are trying to find a girl who likes you for you and not your wallet, telling her your flat broke and can't even afford to take her to a nice dinner, is just stupid. Men are the providers, we DEPEND on them, esp those of us who someday want to be mormon housewives. We do actually need to know that you will be able to do this.
#3 'a hamburger and fries.' Nice. So you're a fastfood kinda guy huh? Ok, really this isn't going to get you in trouble with every girl you try to date. But you might want to try figuring out whether she is vegetarian, or has eating disorders before you suggest such a heinous thing. Also-as a general rule-fastfood is just not cute. Make a meal together-it's just as cheap, and it will show her a side of you she'll really like-one that's comfortable in the kitchen.
Alright, we'll move on now. Obviously, I didn't go for the fastfood thing.
"Well, I'm not too hungry," I replied, "how about we just go get some ice cream?"
So we stop at Cold Stones.
"Ok, please don't get anything more than a 'like it'." Says the Haunter. I'm not kidding you.
"Alright. I normally just get a little kiddy bowl because I can't finish anything more, so that's fine." I will be nothing if not polite on a date. Making him feel foolish would just be rude right? Ha.
"Oh good." He sighs it with relief. I could have smacked him. Honestly! Is he trying to make me feel fat, greedy or beastly? Because he's doing a pretty good job of all three here. Not how I want to feel on a date. No siree. Not at all.
We eat our ice cream and he tells me about his mission. Which he hated. Which was only 2 hours away from his home. Which he blamed every other person available for his misery in. Also, very not impressive.
Next, we go to his apartment to watch a movie.
"My roommates should be there with us." He says. Ok, well then I think that's fine.
We get there and walk into the dark apartment and there are NO roommates. None.
"Well, I think they'll get here in just a little while, so we'll be ok." says the Haunter.
Uh huh. He turns on some Japanese film with lots of violence that I can't understand a word of and sits closer to me than any male not married to me has any right to be. I scoot into the arm of the couch and he moves closer. So I move to the edge of the seat, poised for flight. I can feel him staring at me and so I pretend total fascination in the movie and do not glance at him once.
Finally, the movie ends. We have been sitting in the dark ALONE the whole time. I stand up very quickly.
"Have you ever dated anyone very seriously?" He asks abrubptly. Uh, rude.
"Um, I don't date very seriously here at all actually. I don't know why, something about concentrating on my studies." I'm being ironic, and trying to make a joke, but he just doesn't see it. His eyes get that look, you know, the glowing one. The one that makes them look like they are about to devour your soul with happiness. Gulp.
"I can fix that." He says. Oh my GOSH. This guy just can not be serious! I just laugh lightly and walk out the door to the car. He follows. Apparently he plans to go to my place and walk home again from there. Cuz the car is mine.
I drive to my place, and he invites himself in. We seriously stand in my living room talking about pretty much nothing for about 2 and a half hours until curfew. There are many awkward silences, which I imagine he must have taken for romantic tension.
Then, as I mention that it's time to say good bye and turn to him, I recognize that terrifying look in his eyes and I realize what's coming. He thinks that after all of that he is going to kiss me. Good grief.
I turn around about as fast as I can to head for the door and kick him out, and his head SMACKS into the back of mine. Ouch. Seriously? Did that really just happen to me?
I choose not to acknowledge it. I walk with cherry red cheeks to the door and open it for him.
"Thanks," say I, "the haunted house was really awesome." I really am not even looking at him as I say this.
"So can we go out again next weekend?"
"Uh..." My roommates are walking in, the pressure is on here, "maybe. Sure, I guess, whatever." I shut the door and he walks away. My roommates burst into a fit of giggles.
"Are you really going to go out with him?" One asks.
"I don't know! He's my partner!!! I guess I have to...what do I do?" Complete panic has commenced.
This is where emergency action becomes appropriate. Because all week long, after every practice, he comes to my apartment, lets himself in and talks my ear off for at least three hours til my fun and crazy red headed roommate comes and scares him away. I could learn much from her.
Together, my roommates and I hatch a plan. Another of my roommate's and her boyfriend agree to accompany me on this next date and I do not give the Haunter a chance to change the plans. Then the red headed roommate (who the Haunter has taken an extreme disliking to) decides to come along solo. I will love her forever for this.

Basically, I ignore him for the whole date. But he doesn't stop trying. We go to a burger shop out in the middle of no where with giant burgers, which I just consider extremely ironic. He does actually pay for my meal but I brought money just in case cuz I thought perhaps it would be too expensive. Then we all go home and need to do different things so I tell him that I'm going to have to take him home. I tell them that I am sure I will get lost (if you know me, you know I can get lost in my own neighborhood for hours, so the story was plausible) and ask my red headed roommate to come with me. It takes a kick from our other roommate for her to get it but she does understand and the three of us set off to take him home. The blessed angel pops her head out of the back seat in between me and the Haunter and talks the whole time. When we arrive he gets out with a glare and disappears into the apartment buildings.
She climbs immediately into the front seat.
"Do you think it worked?" she asks.
"Oh I'm sure. Did you see his face when he got out of the car?" I answer laughing. I am confident I have frightened the guy away permanently. I now have a new partner (wonderfully female) in my chinese class and I think I can escape gracefully.
No Such Luck.
The next monday in class he asks me out again. At least I am ready with an excuse this time.
"I'm going to be out of town, sorry." I say.
"No problem," says he, "there's always next week."
The Haunter asks me out every single monday for the next two months. Finally, I think he gets the hint. He never smiles again. He moves to the other side of the class room and GLARES with every ounce of hatred in his body throughout every class period. Then, he stops coming to class altogether.
Great. Another one. Can I just tell you how many guys have stopped coming to classes because of me throughout my life? ...Never mind. You don't want to know. It depresses even me.
How it happened I just do not know because he had to have failed the first one because he not only stopped coming to class but before that had stopped studying (when we were partners I had to feed him most his lines anyways) and had failed at least 4 performances, so there's no way he passed the class, but he showed up in 102 the next semester. And the glaring continued. Then he started failing performances again. Then he stopped coming. Is anyone else a magnet for these strange and crazy men or do I manage to keep them away from the rest of you?

THE END

After the Haunter I decided I was done. That's it. That is the end. I did not date a single person my last semester and turned down every request. Didn't even tell anyone about them. I don't think I'll date again til after my mission thankyou.

Head Tenants-The Crone

I think you should all know-I have multiple characters living in my head. I don't mean the ones I write stories about, allegorical or humorous. I mean the ones who counsel me constantly (and often unwelcomely) about how to live my life. Yes, as much as I constantly proclaim my strength in independence, the truth is-I am not alone in here.

There is a carefree spirit about seven years old, who is always telling me to go dance in the rain, swim out to the BIG waves, and pretend to throw bits of bread to families of geese. She has gotten me bitten by a giant papa goose (on the bum, may I add), nearly lost in both the middles of lakes as well as titanic waves in the ocean, and several colds plus a nasty case of neumonia. I try to not listen to her much anymore.

You've already heard a little about the mix of teenage spunk with goddess of chaos micheivous character. She's a little like smoke and when she speaks I see laughing eyes coming out of the gloom with a cheshire cat grin and I cannot help but listen.

Then there is a scholarly woman in her late twenties with librarian glasses and a stern expression. Picture a slightly older version of Hermione Granger. She is always lecturing me about the importance of my school work, the dire need to learn all, to be the master of wisdom! She stresses me out frankly, and I think my anxiety problems (that I now have a perscription for btw, how sad is that?) probably come from her.

There is an ageless motherly figure who speaks kindly in gentle tones and sings all the time, and she forces me to stop and stare at babies whenever I see them in the grocery stores or church hallways. Even waving a cute children in zoo's, parks, and public events. Sadly she gets me all sorts of suspicious looks. But since she also manages the sweetest moments in my life I forgive her for those.

I could mention a few more but I think I will skip on down the list now to the character who is both my favorite and most hated head-tenant of the group. The Crone. She is the grandmother of all grandmothers, the ancient power of reasoning and self-protection. She speaks with the might and power of not only my mother but every young women leader I have ever had, every grandmother, every ward matron, every aunt, and even every sister. That is a lot of Spiritual power-in case you were wondering. Naturally, with all that power behind her voice she drowns the cries of the others when she speaks, which she does quite often. In fact, I have yet to figure out a way to shut the old bird up. No offense to all you wonderful people who have inspired the growth of her personality over the years, I am speaking strictly of the arguments that she likes to have with me over every decision I make on a day to day basis.

Ok, let me explain the annoyance factor to you. First there is the way she sounds, which when she is happy is great-sweet toned and beautiful actually-but when she is angry or annoyed with me it is like nails on a chalkboard. It is like cut up glass in a blender, only magnified to the power of the sound of fireworks when you are sitting in the middle of the feild right below the magnificent show of sparks. It is dangerous. She may even be the sole reason I am losing my hearing in my left ear.

Then there is the way she looks (again when she is ANGRY, when she is happy she looks like my beautiful great-grandmother Leola, who was the most gloriously gorgeous person I have ever seen in my life, especially in her old age) which resembles the small nylon made, grimace-smile wearing figurines my mother so loves which are entitled the Relief Society Sisters. I cannot accurately describe to you the humor and horror of these little ladies and so I will include a picture.



Ah. See? There she is. Isn't that just a little frightening? Tell me she wouldn't grab your attention faster than a charging hippopotamus.

Already today she has made that face about how my room looked when I woke up (I was WAY too tired after babysitting last night to tidy up), my lack of desire to eat anything healthy for breakfast when I woke up (I had cheerios with sugar on top and a lovely bag of gummy bears thankyou ;), and my expressed desire to bring some deep golden color to my ghostly white glowing body.

"UV rays are bad for you!" She screeches. "They will make you prematurely old, shrivel up your organs and give you skin cancer! Do you want to look like me?!"

Alright, so she has a point with that last one, but still. You see, my skin doesn't act like the rest of the human race's. Anyone else who had been tanning once a week for three months (it was free with my apartment) would be a lovely brown color and ready for summer beach trips by now. What do I have to show for it though? The scars of two small blisters in the center of my back and almost no color to my arms and legs AT ALL. Really, I tan rather wonderfully-in the blistering heat of the Idaho summer sun on the reflective waters of Bear Lake staying out ALL day for two weeks. In winter and in Washington there is apparently no earthly amount of tanning lotion, watered down sunshine or fake UV rays that can penetrate by determinedly WHITE epidermus. It is entirely frustrating.

"You should glory in your white skin," says she, "particularly if it matches the unearthly tone of your stomach (which has never seen the sun) because it represents the power of your comittment to the truths you have been taught from the cradle! It shows your desire to serve by helping in the home, instead of lounging about on beaches. It is a mark of HONOR."

"This," say I, "is a bunch of bull-pucky. You know as well as I that if I had constant access to a beach I would be out there all day Every day. You know I want my skin to be a lovely shade of golden brown and have worked on vacations previous tirelessly to make it so. You know that if I could make my stomach as golden brown as my arms get out on that lovely lake without trouble I would do it in a heartbeat."

At this she gives a horrified gasp. "Where is that charming young lady I was speaking to in the temple the other night?" She demands haughtily. "I want to talk to the girl who was considering wearing dresses with sleeves to her wrists, skirts to her ankles and necklines without any sort of downward movement after the line of the sleeve meets the line of the dress. Where is the young woman with the standards."

Great. Now I feel like a two-year-old charlatan with devil horns poking out of my obviously overly-hard head. Excuse me, she is now telling me that that loud obnoxious beeping sound I've been trying to block out is the laundry calling for me and I should really stop shirking my responsibilities and go take care of it. Is anyone looking for a head-tenant? Contact me at 1-800-my-crone.

...And Satifaction Brought It Back

There is no cure for curiosity. I have yet to find any sort of twelve-step program to help me rid myself of my obsession with being the back-stage know-it-all. Oh, I don't like to let everyone know that I know it all. That I know their darkest secrets, their middle names, how their pet Willy the goldfish died last week, or any of the odd assortment of interesting facts about people that you pick up when talking to other people about them. You would be shocked the things people will unknowingly divulge to a listening ear that doesn't react like their news is any surprise. Honestly. The best way to get stories out of a person is to pretend like you already know everything they are saying, to not give them any sort of fantastic reaction from their traded bits of fluff that they've pulled from the lives of others. It makes them want to tell bigger stories, greater secrets, more shocking intrigues, and basically just more interesting information. How I came to be aware of this fantastic trade secret is a bit of a sad tale I fear.

Most children dream of becoming something important, someone who is idolized by the others around them, or accomplishes a great deal of good in the world. Doctors, Firemen, Lawyers, Presidents, Senators, Police, Public Performers and Millionaire's. Even Dentists. But because I am my mother's daughter and well, just a bit of an oddball, I had a desire from very early in my life to break out of the norm. I was going to be the worlds most clever international spy. Mind you, this is before the popular Spy movies began dominating the cinematic scene and long before I was ever allowed to watch any movie even alluding to the indomitable James Bond. I began my career training very early. I taught my young friends and cousins my cunning tricks of discovery. We snuck around corners, read secret correspondence (left on countertops), snuck taboo items from their hiding places (generally food), analyzed dust specks and left strings of hair and yarn over drawer openings so we would know when someone unwelcome had entered (a trick I picked up from the very authoritative and credible Mary Kate and Ashley Detective series). I was on my way to insurpassable success.

It was after reading a rather stupendous spy novel in my early teen years that I stumbled upon the secret that would both make and break my sensational lifes-work. Simply talking to people, this book suggested, is the best way to discover the inner workings of their lives. And so the gossip gathering began...

You will never hear me deny it, gossip is poison. It has caused me more problems, more unnecessary strife in my life than I even want to consider. Don't worry, I will not here detail the many incidents of indisgression on my part or that of my compatriots. I have simply to say, the picture of the girls passing black goop from hand to hand in the Mormonad passed around in seminary is a rather extremely accurate visual representation.

After a particularly nasty incident of gossip reaching the wrong ears in High School I was reading the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet on a challenge from a young women's leader whom I am sure was incredibly sick of dealing with the outcomes of mine and my dear young friends' drama. Gossip, I read, is bad. It is destructive and evil and a disciple of Christ will not participate but will draw in those they feel the least charitible towards and learn to love them. Ok, so that's not really what it said, but that's the basic lesson I picked out of it.

Well crap. There went my greatest source of power, my secret weapon, the ability to sow ultimate destruction! I determined then that being a disciple of Christ was simply more important to my life than being able to hold secrets above the heads of my peers and manipulating them to do as I wished. BUT I thought, aren't there characters in the Book of Mormon who accomplished great feats by knowing the minds of their enemies and even their kin, even saving hundreds of lives? The answer: OF COURSE THERE WERE! My dream was reborn! A true spy, I concluded, will hold their secrets, will use the information only for good and will be selective of the sources which they will pass their gathered secrets to.

Okay okay okay, I know-I still have horrible trouble with gossip and you all know it. I'm sorry. But at least you know now, I am working on it ;)

Old habits die hard, and I seem to permanently be the honey that draws in information-holders and screams, vent to me! Tell me all your secrets, let me be your confidante! You will invariably find that no matter where I go, or what kind of social group I associate myself with, I will very quickly become bestest friends with the Gossip. The public know-it-all. The magical person who everyone else comes to to confess all their greatest misdeeds, hidden passions and unbridled desires. The trusted confidante of nearly everyone else. They even oft-times become my own confidante. But I'm not going to lie to you, I love it. I love hearing peoples' stories, I love hearing people analyzing their own lives and the lives of others, I just love the idea of people (though the reality is sometimes a bit unwelcome, I'll admit).

This is probably why I am a history major. Everyone knows History Professors are nothing more than Professional Gossips. They analyze not only the people in their own lives but all the people throughout all time! A History Professor is someone whose curiosity never dies, someone who wheedles people, places and artifacts into telling their stories so that we can cast it in iron and project it to the whole world! We are the sneakiest spies in the world! We fish out the secrets of people and civilizations that have been dead for centuries, we tell the world in hundreds of shows, books, scholarly journals, accounts and diaries, and yet NO ONE EVER REMEMBERS WHO WE ARE!!! For example, How many of you know who Howard Carter, Leopold Van Ranke, Edward Gibbon or even Herodotus are? How many of you just went to look up those names? *insert raise of the right eyebrow*

Anyhow, my point is simple: Historian=Gossip=Awesome High Tech Inter-Civilization Over-Centuries Time-Denying SPY

Our Mantra: Curiosity Killed the Cat, BUT SATISFACTION BROUGHT IT BACK!!!

From Rock-a-Bye Baby to a Goddess of Chaos

Okay, so I was watching Sinbad today with my little sisters Traci and Annie and my brother Johnnie. We had a grand old time of it, laughing at the wily puns and the occasionally racy joke, getting way too into the romance between Sinbad and Marina, and enjoying the full adrenaline rush of the adventure as though we were actually in the story. If you have ever watched a movie with my family, you know this is really standard procedure. What is the point of sitting and watching a movie for two or three hours if you're not going to get ridiculously excited about it and quote lines to each other forever afterwards while rehearsing your favorite scenes? Anywho, Sinbad I have to admit is my very favorite animated picture of all time. Even better than Aladdin. I know, you are shocked. Why though, you ask? Is it for the dashing hero with the irresistable voice of Brad Pitt? Does my deep love of history and mythology make the tale so personal that it is absolutely enthralling? Am I intellectually enchanted by the contorted dichotomy of good vs. evil?

Well, perhaps all of these things combine to make it a marvelous movie, but what I truly love, the reason I can watch this movie ten thousand times over and never get bored, what enthralls and enchants me so thoroughly that I have to stop reading or writing whatever I am doing whenever someone turns it on, is Eris: the Goddess of Chaos. Unless you have known me for too long to ignore the evidence, or you have actually lived with me for any amount of time (though I believe some of my poor roommates at BYUI still believe in my innocence) you probably haven't yet realized that I am a horribly addicted, insanity loving, mind warping trickster. A prankster of the first class, truly, because NO ONE ever blames me. Though my dear sister BriAnne and my best-friend of eight years Chelsea have cried for years that I am the true mastermind behind the terrible pranks and playful tricks they were blamed and punished for during our youth, they have not yet managed to convert anyone other than my parents...who I think love me anyways, and who only believed them after I confessed to inspiring a few rather odd spectacles. The trick is, to get someone else to do the dirty work. You have to find someone brave enough, tricksy enough, and entertaining enough to keep them around long enough for you to inspire them. Eris, you see, is the ultimate example. She frames, she manipulates, she teases, she tortures, she inspires. And she is beautiful, frightening yes, but beautiful. I loved her character from the moment I saw her.

Alright, you say, how is it possible that a little mormon girl raised in a home filled with the spirit, constantly reminded to love one another, can be full of such spite? Well first, I'm not spiteful, honest. I try not to do anything that will hurt another person (though I confess I have definitely managed to do this before) or cost anyone huge amounts of money to repair (also, must confess that I have accidently managed this before) or will damage another person's pschye to haunting and traumatizing levels (ok yes, I confess I have managed this one too-the point is, I didn't do it on purpose). But do I think something must have been done in my youth to twist me into such a strange chaos-loving creature? I'm not sure. Maybe I love it so much because it is what I can never really be, it's my alter-ego so to speak, my closet self. Maybe my mother's love of character and spunk sprouted into something a hint more devious when planted in me. But I think the most likely reason of all (my heart is just the right size, thankyou) are the lullaby's, the fairy-tale's, the cryptic stories and yes, even the Disney movies that I so loved as a child.

Please read the words to the following nursery rhyme/lullaby and then try to tell me it is not one of the creepiest things you have ever heard in your life.

Rock-a-bye baby,
in the treetop,
When the wind blows,
the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks,
the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby,
cradle and all.

Ok people, we are singing this to our children, as they are falling asleep!!! No wonder we all have so many issues!

First of all, Why the HECK is the baby in the tree? Further more, why did the bough break?! We are giving our children a weight complex before they can even talk! THE CRADLE WILL FALL AND DOWN WILL COME BABY CRADLE AND ALL?!?!?! What in the world?! The psychiatrists are all trying to tell us that dreaming about searching for something means there is something missing in your life, dreaming about running means there is a fear in your life you are not confronting, dreaming about falling means you are overwhelmed, insecure, unstable and feel you are not in control of your life. But you know what the truth is? We are all so mentally and emotionally scarred from the lullaby's we were sung as children that we are still having nightmares about it!

So I looked up Rock-a-Bye Baby on wikipedia, wondering if there was some sort of logical explanation to the madness. There is a brief argument that the words we now sing come from an early American who witnessed Native American women tying their children up in slings in tree's and letting the wind rock them to sleep. I garuntee you those women were not singing to their little babies about being shot out of their slings to the ground! This explanation was not satisfying at all. The creep factor was still in. So I read on. The original lyrics, said the history, had nothing to do with babies being knocked out of tree's at all! As a matter of fact they were charming! Though I cannot figure why it should matter to the child one whit that their cradle is green. That's just kind of strange. The original lyrics were as follows:

Rock-a-bye, baby,
thy cradle is green;
Father's a nobleman,
mother's a queen;
And Betty's a lady,
and wears a gold ring;
And Johnny's a drummer,
and drums for the king.

So the barbarism developed! It is recent generations, OUR generations who changed the cute little lullaby into a horror story to be sung to innocent children. Why?! To terrorize us away from the tree's? A method of keeping your kids out of things you don't want to deal with? I know that is the method of the horrifying Grimms Brother's fairy tale's that I simply cannot believe people actually read to their babies!

It is these same fairy tales that Disney tries to spruce up into happy-go-lucky stories with cute little talking animals that somehow always manage to help the often brainless heroine's on their way into trouble. What would Snow White or Sleeping Beauty be without their hordes of dancing forest animals? Where would Ariel be without flouder, scuttle or sebastian? How would Cinderella have managed without her little rodent friends? THIS is what we are telling our daughters to imitate? This is what we compare them to, what we dress them up as for parties, playdates and even, horrifyingly, halloween? Do you know what happens to girls who actually speak to rodents? I do. Want to know why? Because I am one, and the result of speaking to a rodent is no fairy tale, let me tell you.

I do not lie. I even have a recent incident of exposure, though thank heaven I had only one witness. A young man who lived in the men's apartments behind my apartment at University. He stood innocently on his balcony watching the sunset as I whistled my way down the street and walked home through the break between apartment buildings just below him. A squirrel stood off to my left. The bushy little rodent tried to cross the opening at the same time as me, and when we noticed each other we both stopped. I stopped whistling. I did not notice the boy, watching. "Excuse me," said I to the squirrel, "were you trying to pass?" His beady eyes were steady, his tail twitched only once. "Well then, by all means," I finished, "after you." I flourished my hand in the appropriate motion and the squirrel very graciously took me at my word and crossed the opening and scampered up his tree. A startled laugh escaped the boy above me and I looked up with surprise. My cheeks flamed red as he burst out in open laughter and I hurried through the pass myself and briskly shuffled the rest of the way home, the boys laughter ringing behind me. Embarrassment, and not enchantment, is the only thing that resulted from the encounter. So far I have been one of the lucky ones, and no one has actually locked me in cell with all the other nuts.

This may be only a manifestation of their own self-conciousness however, at being just as crazy as I am. Who, after all, could grow up watching E.T. or Alice in Wonderland and not be just a little bit traumatized for the experience? Nightmares still plague me of gigantic pink bunnies with red eyes and claws, aliens with hammer shaped heads poking out of my closet, dressers and bookshelves, and don't even get me started on my fear of going into a bathroom without the light already being on or reaching to the ground next to my bed for an extra blanket when it's cold. Most of the time, I'd rather just shiver. I reach my hand around the corner of the bathroom door at night and flip on the light before I can completely open the door. I honestly pick up a baseball bat or a piece of metal shelving before answering the front door any time after about ten o'clock. Are these things normal? I don't know, because I have a deep seated fear about talking to anyone about them, because I have been raised on conspiracy theories and often wondered as a child if I was really some sort of mythical creature grafted into a human family for my own protection.

With all these terrors and upsetting romodels bouncing around in my head, is it really any wonder that I am inspired by a powerful, cunning and manipulative Goddess of Chaos? At least if she's causing the chaos she has some control over it!